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Longing for Lilith - Part I

A moment of weakness and God's sense of humor leads Jud to mistakenly assume he is talking to a phone sex operator named Lilith when he calls you, an unsuspecting artist. The awkward encounter surprisingly develops into a close friendship. However, nothing is as innocent as Jud would like to believe, and soon he is not only at God's mercy, but also at yours, body and soul.

Part I | Part II | Part III | Masterlist

Pairing: Jud Duplenticy x reader (female)

Word count: 6.8k

Warnings: romcom logic and shenanigans, reader uses the artistic alias „Lilith“, mentions of sex work, breach of the celibacy vow, religious guilt, sexual themes, (consensual) voyeurism, (mutual) masturbation, phone sex, angst with happy ending in Part III

Note: Unfortunately, I am not immune to the hot priest propaganda. My deeper thoughts and feelings about wake up dead man are shared with my friends, while tumblr is responsible for the thirst. A warning in advance: I did a bit of research, but I myself have a complicated relationship with faith and was not raised catholic, nor do I live in the usa. Since I don't want to offend anyone's beliefs, please read the warnings carefully before continuing. And as always: English is not my native language or the one I primarily use. Hope you enjoy it anyway! :)

Even before the first dial tone rang out, regret crept upon Jud. This was a mistake.

Not only was he about to breach his vow of celibacy (again) but now he also involved a stranger in his sin. Nervously, he fiddled with the hem of the white bedspread. Jud sat fully clothed in the small chamber that he had been assigned after his arrival in Albany, only the warm light of a single night lamp tracing the outlines of the room. No matter how minor the offense seemed compared to a physical sexual encounter, and no matter how much he longed for that kind of human contact, this clearly crossed all lines. He lowered the phone, about to hang up, when the ringing abruptly ended and a gentle voice responded.

“Hello?”

Jude almost choked on his own heartbeat. Instinctively, he answered.

“Yes! Uh...Hello. I, erm -” He cleared his throat, arranged the words in his mouth before speaking them. “I'm calling about the ad on your website, but I've reconsidered and no longer need...your services.”

“Oh, that's a shame,” you said. “Could you possibly tell me what changed your mind, if that's not uncomfortable for you to share?“

The simple design of the website had indicated a rather professional company. No erotic photos of women in compromising poses or ambiguous wording, just the elegantly curved font announcing that you would find the perfect voice for every fantasy here. Jud hadn't been sure what to expect, but certainly not this. Your composure took him aback so much that he just replied honestly.

“Well, I'm a priest, so - you know…”

You laughed a little. The sound made him flinch.

“Now I understand,” you said. “It's because of the alias I work under, isn't it? Lilith.”

Lilith. Of all the phone sex workers in this country, he had to wind up with one that used a pointedly biblical name. Jud couldn‘t recall seeing a stage name or a list of performers, only a number you were supposed to call to be transferred to the right person. But he ended up with Lilith. It seemed like a divine warning to him, or at least bitter irony. A sign to hang up immediately.

When he didn't respond, you continued:

“That initially deters some devout clients, especially clerics, from engaging me. But their concerns usually subside once they talk to me personally and get a sample of my work. Regardless of their beliefs, I try to create a comfortable environment for all my clients during our collaboration.”

“Some of your clients are clergy?,” he asked, once again drawn in by your casual manner of speaking, allowing this strange encounter to continue unnecessarily. Jud wrinkled his brow. How could a collaboration respect a person’s faith when its goal was to infringe upon one of its disciplines?

“It has actually become my main source of income, although I never planned it that way,” you replied. “So there's no need to be nervous, you're in safe hands.”

By the sound of your voice, he could tell you were smiling. Something about the way you said it reminded Jud of how he spoke to congregants when they sought his guidance. A kind of recognition, a shared understanding filled him. He believed you. The tension in his chest eased a little. Nevertheless:

“I'm sure you're very professional, but I regret calling at all. This...This just isn't right,” he said.

“Hmm, if you tell me what your concerns are, maybe I can address them directly?”

Jud shifted his weight, the narrow bed beneath him groaning disapprovingly.

“I had no intention of using your services at first,” Jud began hesitantly.

Even before you had taken the call, the moment of temptation had passed, but something must have driven him here in the first place. Surprisingly, you had managed to steady him in this moment of weakness. Perhaps it was a good thing that he ended up with you of all people today. Who was to say that another priest could advise him better in his situation, understand his desire for intimacy more than a sex worker? Maybe it was worth a try.

“I haven't been a priest that long yet,” he explained. “In a previous life, I was a boxer and lived on the streets for a while.”

“Holy shit - Sorry! Sorry. I didn't expect that. The transition must have been quite challenging.”

A small smile crossed Jud's face.

“Yes, it is,” he admitted. “Some things are easier to get used to than others. I love what I do for the people, it fuels me, makes me who I am. But I also struggle with myself sometimes, have to convince myself that some things no longer belong in my life.” He hesitated briefly, his words faltering. “Like...intimacy with another person. Sexuality in general, you know?”

“Are you talking about...celibacy?” Your voice suddenly sounded stiffer, slower, as if you couldn't quite follow him. The warmth was still there, but it wasn't radiating as strongly anymore.

“Yes, I assumed that your other clients from clergy seek out this service for similar reasons. It’s not just that you miss, um, the act itself, it’s also about the connection with another person.“

There was dead silence on the other end of the line. His hands began to sweat. Had he said something wrong?

“Wait a minute - what kind of service are you looking for exactly?”

An uneasy feeling rose in the pit of his stomach, just like in training, right before he had to step into the ring.

“Well, I think the website said something about voices for every fantasy...or, uh, something like that.”

Another beat of silence. Then:

“Are you talking about phone sex?”

Phone sex. Hearing the term so plainly and bluntly from someone else’s mouth felt like the cold shower Jud needed. The accumulated weight of regret he had felt briefly at the beginning came rushing back, hitting him like a cold wave.

“Well, erm...yes? I - I think so,” he stammered. “I stumbled across your website, but it was a stupid idea and that’s why I didn’t want to…ah. Yes.”

You paused for a moment. The quiet stretched on for an eternity. Then, finally, you said:

“The only thing you’ll find on my website are photos of stained glass windows.”

Jud didn't understand, your words came through to him over the phone, but they formed no sense in his mind.

“I'm an artist, not a sex worker. When you mentioned an ad, I thought you wanted to place an order for a restoration or redesign of windows, like other churches,” you explained calmly.

Artist. Not sex worker. Slowly, the realization sunk in. And to Jud's horror, you confirmed exactly what he had just figured out.

“I think you have the wrong num -“

He hung up before you could finish the sentence.

In the following days, Jud Duplenticy experienced what was essentially a hell on earth designed specifically for him. The confession did not lighten his conscience by even the weight of a single feather. Not only did he have to confess his impure thoughts, he also had to explain the misunderstanding and relive it all over again. He knew that Bishop Langstrom did not condemn him (which was why he had asked him to take his confession), but the smirk that his Excellency suppressed after they had finished their conversation didn't escape Jud‘s notice. Again and again, he picked up his phone, ready to tap your number in his call list to apologize, and each time he lost the courage to do so, sinking into a new spiral of shame.

It was only about a week later that Jud managed to find a moment of peace. He had offered his help in tending the gardens during his lunch break. In a secluded part of the grounds, he dug through the damp earth, weeding the flower beds. The midday sun warmed his skin below the rolled-up shirt sleeves, fresh air and silence soothed his soul. Unfortunately, the latter did not last long, as a mechanical ringing sounded through the garden, shattering the idyll.

“Hello?”

Jud's voice came through muffled from the phone he'd wedged between his shoulder and head, pulling off one gardening glove, the other still between his teeth, which he'd taken off to answer the call.

“Hi, it's me,” you said on the other end. When Jud didn't react, you added: “The artist slash presumed sex worker.”

With a soft plop, the glove fell from Jud's open mouth into the flower bed. He managed a weak greeting in response to yours, but then fell silent immediately. Now he severely regretted not having found the guts to reach out to you when he had a rehearsed apology ready. This call caught him completely off guard.

"I've been thinking about our conversation the other night for a few days now and came to the conclusion that, in true priestly fashion, you're probably beating yourself up over this silly mix-up. So I've decided to offer you the only way out I can: I forgive you."

Jud had expected just about anything: anger, accusations, questions, laughter. Unsolicited forgiveness had not been part of the scenarios his guilt-ridden brain had come up with in great detail.

“Why?” he asked.

“I'm no expert, but forgiveness is one of the virtues taught by the Church, isn't it? Besides, I wasn't offended. Looking back, I find it quite funny, to be honest.”

“Well, I couldn't really laugh about it.”

“A priest trying to hire a woman named Lilith for an erotic encounter, come on! That sounds like the beginning of a bad joke that people crack after three beers at the local bar.“

You laughed and the sound spread through Jud like the warmth of the sun, from the roots of his hair to his toes. He couldn't suppress a small smile.

“Thanks,” he said.

“It was easy,” you replied, now more serious again, “You seemed like you just needed someone to talk to, to be honest. If you want…”

You left the end of the sentence hanging in the air, a sincere offer.

“Oh, no! That's very kind, but I um...no,” Jud declined, even though a small part of him wanted to accept. The part of his soul whose desire for honesty was stronger than his sense of embarrassment.

“Okay.”

You paused. Jud's fingers rubbed nervously over the leather of his gloves. He was unsure how to end this call. Or whether he even really wanted to.

“Can I ask you a question?” you asked, resolving the matter for him.

Jud straightened up, reverting to his natural demeanor as a priest. Always ready to help, to serve.

“Of course.”

“What makes a boxer follow the path to priesthood?”

Over the next few months something strange happened, even weirder than the mix-up and the forgiveness that followed: somehow, against all odds, you became friends.

After Jud had answered some of your questions in the garden - his life story had undoubtedly piqued your interest - he called you again a few days later. It bothered him that he never formally apologized to you, he claimed, and another conversation ensued. After that, you called him one evening requesting further explanation of some Bible passages that a client wanted to see incorporated into a piece. Although you were accepting more and more commissions for churches, your own relationship with faith remained complicated, which was why you valued a second opinion.

A quick google search led Jud later to your website (the right one this time) and he studied the photos of your artwork in detail. A selection of beautiful stained-glass windows that you had designed or restored for various churches and some other buildings, as well as private customers. He liked how you used color to create mood and the symbolism (whether colors or individual elements) that you skillfully employed; sometimes subtle, sometimes provocative. He hovered the cursor over a tab labeled about me for a while before clicking on it. Relief washed over him when no headshot appeared next to your biography. He didn’t want to know what you looked like. Or rather, he did want to know, and that was precisely where the cross was buried.

Your friendship rested on two simple principles: anonymity and honesty. Since you had been brought together by chance (your version) or divine providence (Jud's version), but only communicated over calls, you never met in real life. Neither of you would recognize the other even if you were standing right in front of each other, giving you the comfort of talking freely. It was easy opening up to someone when you didn't have to look them in the eye, and each of you had qualities that further enhanced this ease. You liked Jud's empathetic nature, how he remained true to his beliefs in forgiveness and love no matter what, his warmth. He liked your wit and open mind, the curiosity driving you to explore the world and people around you without prejudice.

In his brief search to satisfy a certain need, Jud had instead found a loyal friend. However, the harmlessness of this relationship, which he had ascribed it due to the impossibility of ever getting physically close to you, lulled him into a false sense of security. It clouded his perception, made him believe in its innocence, even though he awaited your calls with increasing anticipation and worried about you disproportionately often. The longer he talked to you, the more he nurtured an affection for you that shouldn't grow any further if he didn't want to risk stoking the fire he tried to extinguish.

This dilemma reached its climax on a seemingly random Tuesday evening.

Jud sat on his bed, bathed in the dim light of the meager bedside lamp. For the past hour, he had drunk chamomile tea, read a few pages of a book, and closed it again after five minutes. He had done some breathing exercises, stretched, prayed the rosary a second time, flipped through a church magazine without even registering what he was looking at, and then rearranged and cleaned his entire room. None of these activities showed the desired effect. His thoughts circled incessantly, he was both tired and restless, and yes, that was the biggest problem, also a little bit turned on.

He reached for his phone on the bedside table, read the displayed time, and sighed. It was a stupid idea. You were probably already asleep and there was no guarantee that talking to you would take his mind elsewhere.

His fingertips drummed on the black plastic.

Then he unlocked the display again and tapped on your number at the top of the recent calls list.

It took a while for you to pick up, much longer than usual.

“Jud?”

Your voice sounded distant, a little husky and somehow... a bit out of breath?

“Hello! Hi. Do you have a moment?”

“Well... I, um -” You cleared your throat. There was muffled rustling in the background. “I guess?“

Jud frowned. Something was wrong. You normally had no trouble finding words, always the direct one out of you two. Sometimes a little too direct, even though he liked that about you. On the other hand, was there anything he didn't like about you?

“Is everything okay?” he asked concerned.

“Oh, yes! I was just, um...lying in bed.”

The guilt set in immediately. Of course you were lying in bed, he shouldn’t have called you so late in the evening.

“Oh! I’m so sorry. Did I wake you?”

“No, no! I was just... well, I - um... actually, uh.” You stopped, exhaling sharply through your nose, annoyed with yourself. Then you took a deep breath and whispered quietly but clearly, this time without stuttering:

“Actually, I was just masturbating.”

Your statement reached Jud's ears, but it took him a moment to comprehend what you had just revealed to him. It wasn't unusual for people to share details about their sex lives with him during confession. But this wasn't confession and he wasn't your priest.

“Oh. OH. Sorry, should I - um - should I hang up?”

Jud ran his hand over his face and pinched his eyes shut. So much for the idea that talking to you would distract him. Involuntarily, an image rose in his mind of unfamiliar hands digging into a sheet, caressing naked skin. The husky tone in your voice - did it always sound like that when you touched yourself? He banged the back of his head against the headboard, a futile attempt to knock these indecent thoughts out of him.

“It's okay,” you said, a slight smile on your lips, back to your usual temperament. “To be honest, it reminds me a bit of how we met, only with reversed roles in a way.“

“Please don't remind me, I have no idea what came over me that evening,” he groaned, his eyes still covered. The mixture of desire and shame that had risen within him now shifted almost entirely to shame.

“Oh for sure! You were so nervous and completely clueless.”

Your giggle echoed through the line. The sound loosened the knot in his throat a little, enough that he dared to open his eyes again.

„Hey, you can't blame me for that! I mean, how is something like that even supposed work?"

“Well, you can give each other instructions on what to do,” you answered his question, although it was meant to be rhetorical, “but you can also just listen and let the other person describe what they’re doing to themselves.”

The last sentence lingered suggestive in the air. Your playful tone had given way to tense silence. Nervously, Jud listened to the static crackling on the other end, letting your words resonate within him. Describing what you did to yourself, turning the other person into an uninvolved, almost innocent audience. Sharing your own pleasure without the other person having to break any disciplines. He swallowed hard, heat creeping up his neck.

“So, like you describing to me what you were doing before I called,” he murmured.

“Yes,” you said. Your voice now soft - not shy, but rather full of anticipation.

A test, it struck him.

This is a test, and the only right thing to do now would be to say goodbye and hang up. He had to put an end to this temptation before he crossed a line that could not be undone. Something that would not only weighed on his faith, but could also sever your delicately woven bond of friendship. He had to hang up.

Instead, he heard himself whisper:

“For example?”

His heart raced so fast he could hear the blood rushing in his ears. A thick silence settled over the room, pressing down on his lungs. No air to breathe, only your voice keeping him alive.

“For example,” you began, barely a whisper, “I took off everything except my underwear and T-shirt, slipped under the covers...” You paused briefly, unsure whether you should continue, if you were allowed to continue. When he didn't dissuade you, you proceeded: “Let my hands wander over my body.”

“Where?” he murmured.

The question left his mind as easily as a raindrop falling. Gravity, attraction. Simply Unstoppable.

“My neck... my breasts - hmm, my stomach. Moving lower -”

Your voice trailed off. Jud imagined fingers gliding over your bare body, lower and lower until -

“Jud... I -” you mumbled. Your voice trembled slightly, your breathing quickened.

“Don’t stop.”

The plea just slipped out. He waited in awe for your heavy breathing, the moan you tried to suppress as you slid your fingers under the waistband of your panties.

“Keep going,” he begged. “Please.”

Jud closed his eyes, concentrating on the lustful sounds coming from you, pressing the phone against his ear as close as possible to not miss a single one of your sighs.

It was obscene, it was human, it was breathtaking.

You gave yourself fully to your desire while Jud listened. Sounds of pleasure, gasps and quiet moans, shaky breathing poured through the phone. He breathed harder, in harmony with you, but unlike you, he fought the urge to touch himself. If he broke his celibacy now, he would have to make a confession tomorrow and this intimate moment between you would be destroyed. He wanted to be a part of your pleasure, hear you moan as you tipped over the edge, and seal this sound away inside him forever.

You grew louder, your breathing hastened, until you reached your climax with a tembling oh god. A shattering sound that washed over him like a powerful wave, knocking him off his feet and spitting him out again. Sweat dampened Jud‘s clerical collar without him having lifted a single finger.

The very next morning, less than five hours later, he went to confession. Jud omitted the part of the story where a phone call with you had escalated into a voyeuristic-erotic experience and told the priest in the confessional a version in which he had been tempted and given in to unchaste thoughts. The man granted him absolution, comforted him by saying that all clergymen struggled with such thoughts and needs from time to time, congratulated him for his fortitude in not going further, and advised him to focus on his calling. Which Jud did.

Unfortunately, when he ignored your calls, he could neither lie to God nor to himself that he was doing so for a noble reason. The truth was simple: he was scared. Dealing with the guilt of struggling to keep his vow of chastity was something he had to work out between himself and God. But the fact that he had broken the innocence of your friendship by using you for his desires weighed heavy on him. He knew he had to fix the situation, but it took him a few days to gather the courage he needed.

This time he called you first. Jud had prepared the words beforehand and sought refuge in the most secluded part of the garden, the place he felt safest beyond the walls of his room (which stirred up too many memories of you). Sheltered beneath the green of trees, he felt liberated and, above all, unobserved enough to openly address this delicate matter.

The first dial tone hadn't even faded before you picked up.

The next few minutes were a jumble of apologies, clarifications, and forgiveness. Clear words alternated with guilty stutters and relieved, albeit still timid, laughter. Nothing had changed regarding your friendship; you didn't consider him a perverted priest and he didn't accuse you of seducing him into sin. None of your fears turned into bitter reality. The clear air and relief of his conscience towards you made Jud a little light-headed. The two of you joked that the purpose of your first encounter had been fulfilled after all, just differently than expected.

“That was by far the dumbest thing I’ve ever done,” you muttered, your tone not entirely convincing.

“Yes, so dumb,” Jud echoed.

The leaves above him rustled, raindrops began to fall on the small awning above him, but he hardly noticed. In his mind, scenes from that very night played out, one that would never be repeated. A stupid fantasy, indeed. You, completely vulnerable and eager to open yourself up to him, to make him the sole audience for your desire, touching yourself and - suddenly, his mouth felt dry, his pants a little tighter. The rising wind offered no relief from the heat growing within him.

“Jud?”

When you started speaking again, your voice was rough and quiet, carefully testing the waters.

“Yes?”

“Do you want to...do it again?”

It was embarrassing how quickly the pleading yes escaped his lips.

Going forward, two things changed. Firstly, Jud went to confession more often than before. Not so often that it was noteworthy, but often enough that a small portion of shame and guilt almost became part of his priest's robe. Secondly, he stopped ignoring your calls on days that followed erotically charged conversations.

You were still friends who confided in each other about all the major and minor aspects of your lives. You still shared stories, reflected on your problems together, analyzed doubts and dreams, laughed over silly jokes, and recommended music, books, or movies to each other. Sometimes, however, Jud just listened to you touching yourself. The only moments when he felt this kind of intimate connection without breaking his vow of celibacy in a physical way. It was pure martyrdom, pure indulgence. Surprisingly, apart from the vow, nothing about it felt like the sinful seduction, which one might ascribe to the arrangement when viewed from an outsider's perspective. You were simply two people sharing every aspect of their lives, including their sexuality. Natural. Human.

But one evening, Jud pushed it too far.

He probably shouldn't have answered your call in the first place. Last week, you mentioned in passing that a friend had given you some expensive black lingerie, an attempt to bribe you into accompanying her to a new bar in the neighboring town. According to her, the amount of time you spent working on your current project in a church had apparently led you to believe that you, too, had to remain celibate. The thought of you, dressed in sexy lingerie (temptation), flirting with a stranger (anger) kept Jud's mind spinning and his emotions in turmoil.

Your phone call had actually started quite harmless, you spoke about your difficulties with the project in question and the conflicts within the church administration regarding your artistic vision. But one topic led to another and you ended up talking about former relationships, which, to your surprise, Jud had a few of. Perhaps it was less a surprise and more envy. Jealousy towards the people he had freely given himself to when that opportunity still existed.

“I'm sure you had no shortage of suitors, but phone sex was obviously not part of the package,” you teased him, alluding to how you met, in order to distract yourself from this nagging feeling.

“Not really,” Jud replied. “One of my exes wanted to try it once, but I was terrible. How do you start a conversation like that without sounding unnatural or creepy?

He grimaced at the memory.

“Well, a safe bet would be to start by asking what the other person is wearing,” you answered his question much more honestly than you intended. When you realized in what risky direction you had steered the conversation, you added: “But that would be a waste of time with you. I bet you’re lying in bed wearing full black priest’s getup again.”

Jud glanced down at himself. Black socks. Black trousers. Black button-down. His belt (also black) rested on the nightstand, and the sleeves of his shirt were casually rolled up. Bull's-eye. Only the white clerical collar stood out.

“Well then, what are you wearing?”

Before Jud noticed what his question implied - that he had basically hit on you with a standard opening line for phone sex - it was already too late. Nervous, he chewed on his bottom lip.

“Coincidentally, the perfect outfit for an erotic phone call,” you said a little more hushed. “I'm getting changed right now and am basically just in underwear.“

A single question lit up in his mind. But he couldn't possibly ask that. He had to say something else, anything else, a harmless compliment or a distraction, just not the question that was most pressing on his tongue right now.

“What color?” he whispered.

“Black.”

Black. Of all things. The expensive underwear you were supposed to wear when you met other men at your local bar (with a devil theme, how ironic), flirting with them, maybe even taking them home with you. But you didn't wear it for other people. You wore it while calling him. Was it so wrong of Jud to get carried away for a moment and believe you were wearing it for him?

A slight pause, then your voice, with a hint of promise and vulnerability, capturing his full attention: “Jud, what do you want me to do?”

A million possibilities rushed through his mind. I want you to get dressed and make some tea so we can end this day on a calm note. I want you to hang up and go out with your friends instead of spending your Saturday night on the phone with a priest. I want you to stop telling me all these things about your life that make me want to be a part of it. I want to stop thinking about you all the time. That's what he should have said.

But that would have been a lie and priests don't lie.

“I want you to take it off,” he murmured.

The events flowed into each other like the unstoppable waves of the sea, following their natural rhythm. Jud couldn't say exactly how it had come about, all he could hear now was your voice clouded with lust. Today you appeared more agitated than usual, repeatedly pushing yourself to the edge only to stop or slow down again. You had already come once and felt more sensitive than before, but that hadn’t satisfied you yet. It was the sweetest torture for Jud. His arousal was almost painful, his trousers uncomfortably tight.

“Oh god, I'm so wet,” you moaned into his ear, earning a stifled groan from him.

He needed relief, however small, or he would give in. With trembling fingers, he pushed up his shirt a little and unbuttoned his trousers, making room for his arousal. His knuckles accidentally brushed against it, a feather-light touch that, against the backdrop of your heavy breathing, sent a shiver through him.

“It feels so - so good,“ you mumbled.

Yes, it did. It had been ages since anyone had touched him like that, since he had touched himself that way. When he closed his eyes, he could imagine your hand teasing his skin. Before Jud managed to gather his thoughts again, his hand reached down, gliding up a single long stroke. Pure pleasure shot through him. A low groan he had held for far to long poured from the back of his throat. Your reaction followed immediately, your breathing quickened, having picked up the pace, whimpering and begging for release. Hearing how his own arousal stirred you felt overwhelming. When you moaned his name, something you had never dared before as it felt too intimate, all restraint was lost.

He was at your mercy, body and soul.

The last remnants of control Jud believed himself capable of exercising vanished. Hearing his name on your lips this way fundamentally rewired his brain. The hand he imagined was yours slid over his length, sweat dripped down his neck, trickling over his tattoo. Fueled by each other's sounds, you pushed each other further, getting closer to heaven. There was only the touch, the heat, the breathy moans of the other. It felt so good that Jud swore he could see stars. His brows were furrowed in concentration, he was so close to reaching fulfillment already that he could almost taste it.

Just a little more. A single touch from you. Please.

“I want you so much,“ he blurted out.

Your answer was a rambled mess of affirming words and some profanity. Your breathing quickened, Jud knew you were just as close as he. But then you managed to utter a husky, barely audible sentence:

“You have me.”

That was all it took to push him over the edge. A jolt shot through his body and twitching, whining, he spilled over himself. Your climax poured out of the phone shortly after, a divine sound leaving Jud temporarily in a cloud of pure bliss before abruptly pulling him back to reality. His pulse pounded in his ears, his breathing still somewhat irregular, attempting to calm itself. Slowly yet uncomfortably quickly, Jud realized what had just happened.

He had sex with you.

Not in the conventional way, he hadn't been anywhere near you physically. But you had felt sexual desire for the other, turned each other on and brought each other to climax. You had called out his name and he - he had admitted wanting you. He wanted to sleep with you and if you had been there in the same room at that moment, by God, he would have done it.

The revelation hit him like an uppercut, with brutal force: it had never been just about friendship or desire.

It was about you.

The real danger didn't lie in seeing you, in fantasies of physical intimacy, against which he thought himself safe due to the harmless nature of a phone call. Far more disastrous was the bond formed between your souls, an attachment he should have severed from the very first moment. Selfishly, he had repeatedly found excuses to maintain - no - to strengthen a relationship that would forever remain beyond reality.

And at that moment, he understood that this was precisely why he had to end it. In his heart, he believed God would never punish him for a feeling of true affection, that his love was enough for both his mission to serve God, the world, and you. However, he also recognized the commitment he had made to God and the Church, accepting principles that conflicted with his desire of loving freely. He was accountable not only to Christ, but to the Church as an institution, and even if He approved of this connection, it would still be impossible in the eyes of the later. A game of hide-and-seek for a relationship that only took place over the phone - neither he nor you deserved that. Delaying the inevitable end of this relationship would just be unfair to you.

This time it felt like a punch in the gut. He had to hurt you in order to protect you from longer suffering, but you would feel used, without him being able to soothe that pain. The thought was agonizing.

Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.

“Jud?” Your voice reached him only faintly. “Are you okay?”

“I, um - I'm so sorry, but I have to go. Sleep well, okay?”

You took a breath, about to reply, but he hung up.

Coward.

The next morning, Jud's fist struck the Deacon's face.

The gossip indicated at least some agreement that this confrontation had been in the making for a long time; everyone knew that Deacon Clark was a prick, but Jud knew his reaction would have been not as drastic on any other day. Before entering the gym, where he was about to give his statement on the incident, he sent you a text message. It was quite detailed and well written: warm tone, understanding, explaining the difficulty of the situation without resorting to blame or clichés, rounded off with honest wishes for your happy future. Yet the essence could be reduced to a single sentence: Whatever we had is over.

When Bishop Langstrom informed him of the committee's decision, it seemed like a sign. The task Jud was given, the relocation - as if God was telling him to take a new path and lay the past to rest. He should devote himself to his work, refocus on the calling he had taken the priesthood for. Not question some rules attached to the title and long for an unattainable bond.

As it turned out, Our Lady of Perpetual Fortitude had some trials of her own in store for him, and Jud faced them even more eagerly in light of his recent failings. He wasn't going to stray from his path again. With shame, he thought of this good intention as he stood in front of shattered glass from the window he'd smashed the previous night after getting pretty toasty.

“Rowdy teenagers, riots,” Martha grumbled as she swept the shards into a bucket.

“Should we, um, call someone about the repair?"

Guilty, Jud scratched his dark curls.

“With Easter so close, no contractors will take on new jobs, but I’ve contacted someone in town who’s just returned from a long work trip and might be able to lend a hand at short notice,“ Martha replied. “Even though it makes me sick to ask that harlot for help.“

Before Jud could follow up on what she meant by that, the church doors burst open with a crash and a gentle, albeit somewhat teasing voice echoed from the stone walls, filling the whole building.

“Would you look at that, Martha? I crossed over the church’s threshold and didn’t burst into flames.”

You strode toward Martha, swinging your arms in a broad gesture inviting her to examine your unharmed body. Jud noticed the vigor in your step, the playful sparkle in your eyes - if not for the thousand other things going through his mind at that moment, he might have admitted how attractive he found you.

“Yes, yes,” Martha growled as Jud helped her to her feet. Annoyed, she brushed off her black skirt.

Meanwhile, you had walked over to the broken window and greeting Jud with a friendly nod, before inspecting the damage with raised eyebrows.

“Well, I don't know what you expect me to do here, but there's no way I can fix this in a day. Especially not with my amateur knowledge of installation and the materials I have in my shed.”

Something about you evoked an association in Jud that he couldn't quite put his finger on. His brain was working overtime, but to no avail.

“So you're not a contractor?,” he asked.

“Lilith is an artist,” Martha answered in your stead, emphasizing the last word with a condescending intonation. Although the whole sentence had a single condescending emphasis.

She stepped up to you, eager to negotiate the possibility of repair with you, completely oblivious to the fact that she had just pulled the rug out from under Father Jud. He had quite a bit of trouble controlling his heart and utterly shocked expression. It felt as if God had tilted the axis of the earth out of alignment, and no one noticed but him.

“Lilith?” he choked out.

“Just a creative alias that kind of stuck, don’t worry,” you called back over your shoulder, then carried on discussing realistic work output with Martha. You argued a little about the ratio of time, effort, and your abilities until Martha eventually gave in to your reasoning and abandoned her ideas as unfeasible, since you completely agreed with Samson's earlier assessment of the situation. He would have to seal the window with tape or boards until a professional company could install a replacement.

Jud couldn't hear a single word. Your request not to worry fell on deaf ears, because at that very moment he realized what he had only suspected before.

Your alias from when you started painting glas, which had somehow gained traction (Lillith), your work for churches that you never offered to your local church because there was some tension with the Monsignor (Wicks), your favorite bar with the devil theme (Nikolai's bar il diavolo), your home town you only moved back to because you inherited a house (Chimney Rock). The pieces of this puzzle that was your life, which Jud had so often wished to solve, all fell into place. But he didn't like the picture they formed one bit.

It was the worst case scenario.

After breaking off contact, he had hoped - prayed - that he would never cross paths with you again, and even if he did, that he wouldn't recognize you. He had hoped that - as awful as it sounded - even in such a scenario, he simply wasn't attracted to your looks, that your presence in person was different, that the fantasy would lose all its appeal and the spell would be broken.

But you were here, in Our Lady of Perpetual Fortitude, in his church, right in front of him, and he knew it. He knew it was you, and looking at you for the first time now, you were just as you always had been:

Created to fall in love with.

It would be so easy for Jud to reach out and touch your face, to hold you in his arms, as he had so often longed to do. No. He couldn't. That was why he had came here in the first place.

But why did God send him to Chimney Rock, reminding him of his mission, and then deliver you into this very church? The sunlight pouring through the broken window enveloped you in an almost golden glow, as if to say:

Here she is, I have sent her to you once again.

If you enjoyed reading this, I would be ⭒delighted⭒ if you would let me know by leaving a heart, reblog or comment! c:

Taglist: @eliosberry

Want to find out what happens next? Read Part II here!

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