eva

You arrive in Chimney Rock on a late Thursday afternoon, the sky the colour of bruised apricot and winter’s shadowed gold. Your car hums quietly down the narrow streets, past slate-roofed cottages and the scent of wood-smoke curling from chimneys. It feels like a place caught between time and confession—a place that will remember you whether you choose to stay or leave. Houston is still a warm ache at the back of your mind, the residue of a life folded neatly into cardboard boxes, but here, you are something else: someone who might still be capable of being quiet, of listening.

Alice at the village shop is the first to notice. She leans across the counter, her hair catching the low sunlight through the window, and says, “You look like you need somewhere to belong.” There’s a pause, the kind that drifts between the spaces of words like incense smoke, and then she adds, “Sunday mass, maybe. Not that you have to… but it helps some people. It might help you.”

You aren’t sure when you stopped going, stopped kneeling at a pew with your small hands folded, the hymnals trembling under your fingertips. Childhood feels like a different skin, one you shed long ago. But the memory of that calm—soft candlelight, the organ deep in your chest, the quiet heartbeat of a congregation humming like bees—is enough to make you nod.

Sunday comes with a chill in the air and the faint metallic tang of frost. You enter the church, its doors dark wood, worn smooth by years of reverent hands. You remember the pews, their polished scent, the way your knees used to press into the cushions, and you slide in as quietly as a shadow.

Then you see him.

He is standing at the pulpit, robes slightly dishevelled in a human, unpractised way, and for a moment you feel unmoored. His eyes pin you in place. Not just in the vague, ceremonial way a speaker’s eyes sweep across a crowd, but with a weight that makes your chest hollow. The words he speaks are sermon-like, yes, speaking of grace and sin and mercy—but there is something private in them, something that feels like it brushes the skin of your soul. You are aware of every breath, every heartbeat; aware that perhaps he is not looking only at you, yet you feel as if the rest of the congregation has dissolved into shadow.

After mass, Alice introduces you.

“This is Father Jud,” she says casually, as though this meeting is no different than introducing a neighbour. Father Jud extends his hand.

It is a simple gesture, but your gaze lingers—the veins on the back of his hand, how his fingers stretch and curl over yours, the subtle pressure of his thumb circling one of your knuckles. There is a flutter there, catching against his wrist, almost painfully delicate, as your pointer finger grazes along his skin. You are aware of the silence that stretches for a breath too long; it is a shared, electric hush.

“Hi,” he says finally, the sound of his voice both soft and gritted, like someone trying to contain a confession. His eyes flicker from polite to something deeper—something almost imperceptible.

You talk. About the weather, about small-town life, about nothing, and everything, in the same conversation. You do not notice when Alice walks away. By the end of it, you find yourself returning the following Sunday, and the Sunday after that, drawn to him in ways that feel like both prayer and transgression.

The sermons begin to feel different.

He speaks of temptation, of restraint, of the sins of the heart, and you catch yourself imagining the words directed at you—not in accusation, but in the quiet, suffocating weight of possibility. The tension coils between you, a taut wire vibrating with things neither of you dare name aloud.

One afternoon, after the congregation has gone and the church is empty but for the dust motes dancing in the slanted light, he finds you lingering.

“You’re an accountant?” Father Jud asks, almost conversational, but you hear the undercurrent of curiosity.

You nod. “Yes, I work remotely. I keep to numbers. They don’t lie.”

He laughs softly, a sound like dry leaves underfoot, and there is an honest, unguarded flicker in his expression.

“The church’s financials are… a mess, honestly, since Martha,” he admits. “I could use some help?”

You feel a warmth spread through your chest. The offer is simple, practical, yet loaded with the subtle intimacy of trust.

“I can help,” you say, your voice steady despite the way your stomach flutters.

“You must be paid,” he insists.

“No,” you reply before thinking, but it is true. “I don’t want payment. I want… guidance. Understanding. Faith, maybe. I’ve forgotten how to—how to believe, Father.”

Jud regards you then, something flickering in his eyes—perhaps relief, perhaps recognition; perhaps the quiet, dangerous gravity of two lost people orbiting close enough to feel the pull of each other’s weight.

And just like that, Sundays take on a new shape.

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The first day you arrive to help Jud with the church’s finances, the air feels heavy with sunlight and dust. You are not sure which makes your chest tighten more: the scent of old wood and candle smoke or the nearness of him, sitting just across from you at the long, worn table in the vestry.

He doesn’t speak immediately. Instead, he watches you as you arrange your laptop, notebooks, pens, and spreadsheets, as though measuring how much of yourself you are willing to offer. There is a quiet devotion in his gaze, one that makes you flush despite yourself.

“Numbers are honest,” you say finally, tapping the spreadsheet open. “They tell a story if you know how to read it.”

Father Jud leans back slightly, the light from the stained glass painting a faint spectrum across his hair and shoulders. “A story,” he murmurs. “I suppose I always preferred parables—truth wrapped in a narrative. Easier to swallow.”

You look at him, tracing the lines of his face in the slanting light, noticing the subtle curve of his jaw, the way his eyes seem to weigh the very air between you.

“Sometimes the truth hurts too much to speak plainly,” you say softly. “Sometimes numbers are easier than confessions, Father.”

He hums, a sound somewhere between agreement and indulgence. Then he leans forward, pointing at a ledger that smells faintly of mildew and candle wax.

“Martha used to handle this,” he says. His voice is quiet, almost reverent, yet it carries the weight of years. “I can’t make sense of it all.”

You reach for the ledger, your fingers brushing his briefly as you slide it across the table. The touch is accidental, almost imperceptible, but both of you pause, that quiet electricity threading through the small gesture. Father Jud’s hand lingers a second longer than necessary, just above yours, and you feel your pulse quicken. You tell yourself it’s just proximity; you tell yourself you’re imagining the warmth of his skin against yours. But the thrum in your chest refuses to be ignored.

The morning stretches into afternoon. You work in silence more than in words, punctuated only by the occasional soft sigh from Jud when a number refuses to balance or when a donation receipt seems to vanish into thin air. You realize you are learning something from him beyond financials—how to sit with uncertainty, how to allow a space to hold you without demanding everything be resolved immediately.

When the church clock chimes three, you push your chair back. Father Jud watches you, his eyes catching the light in a way that makes your stomach twist.

“I don’t suppose you’d like tea?” He asks. The question is casual, but there is something in the tilt of his head, the subtle curve of his lips, that suggests it is a rare invitation.

You nod. “Yes, please, Father.”

You move into the small kitchen area together, and the silence stretches again. You feel it—this current running under your words, your gestures, your breathing. You are acutely aware of the warmth radiating from him as he pours the tea, the faint scent of soap and something faintly like cedar lingering on his sleeves.

“Do you ever wonder about faith, Father?” You ask, almost reluctantly, as you stir sugar into your cup.

Father Jud meets your gaze then, and for a moment the world narrows to the space between you, the steam curling from the mugs, the quiet, unspoken confessions in the air. “Every day,” he says simply. “But faith isn’t always about knowing, is it? Sometimes it’s about standing in the light and the shadow and hoping you are seen. Hoping that your small acts matter.”

You nod, though the lump in your throat tells you words would fail. And in that quiet, you realize that your Sundays have changed—no longer just an act of compliance or habit, but a place where your heart seems to tremble, unguarded, under the weight of something sacred.

You leave that day with the ledger under your arm and a head full of numbers—but your mind lingers on Jud. The memory of the brief touch, the tilt of his head, the way he looks at you as though you are both confessor and penitent in a silent, shared ritual.

By the time you reach the street, the sunlight has softened, painting the village in gold and shadow, and you realize that you are counting the days until Sunday again. Counting the days until the quiet tension of shared spaces, whispered confessions, and the gravity of his gaze draw you back in.

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Sunday arrives again, and the church smells faintly of rain and polished wood. You move through the doors, the echo of your steps swallowed by the cavernous space, and slip into a pew near the back. The congregation murmurs softly around you, but your attention is already caught—drawn—to Father Jud as he steps to the pulpit, robes rustling faintly, hands gripping the edges like a sailor clinging to a mast in a gentle storm, the sun striking his hair with almost painful clarity. He begins softly, almost hesitantly, as though the sermon is a confession he is making to no one but the universe.

“The heart is a restless thing,” he says, voice low, resonant. “It yearns for what it cannot name. It longs for connection, for warmth, for someone to see the cracks beneath the surface—and yet we fear that our desire is sinful, that the very ache in our chest is a temptation to be resisted.”

The words hit you like water against stone. You feel the familiar tightening in your chest, the part of yourself that has been trying to remain polite, detached, unfeeling. Father Jud’s voice trembles slightly—human and fragile, and the echo of it in the nave makes your pulse quicken.

“Loneliness,” he continues, “is a shadow that walks with us. It whispers that we are unworthy, that we are forgotten, that God’s light cannot reach these corners of our hearts. And yet, even in that shadow, the heart beats. Even in that silence, the soul cries for something real.” He takes a breath. You hear pews creak throughout. “We are only human. This loneliness… it is not our cross to bear ourselves. God has given us each other, if for no other reason than to love.”

You feel your cheeks burn. There is a heat settling behind your ribs, trapped between your lungs, and each breath comes heavier than the last.

You shift slightly in your seat, the pew beneath you groaning faintly. It is impossible to look away. His eyes sweep over the congregation. When they linger, just a heartbeat too long, on you, your breath catches somewhere between your throat and your chest. You know he is not intentionally singling you out, yet the words seem spoken directly into the hollowed parts of your chest.

He pauses, voice dropping even lower: “And desire… desire is not shameful. It is a spark, a reminder that we are alive, that we are human. To feel is not sin. To long is not a betrayal. But we are called to wrestle with these feelings, to temper them, to hold them up against the light of faith and conscience.”

Your fingers tighten around the edge of the pew. The words echo inside you, stirring something raw, something that has been simmering under careful layers of practicality and routine. Desire—so simple, yet so impossible. You feel it as both warmth and ache. Loneliness, like a silent hand resting on your shoulder. Faith, fragile and flickering, as if daring you to trust it again.

Father Jud glances down, almost imperceptibly, toward you. His eyes catch yours for a fraction of a second—long enough that the tremor in his throat seems to reach his gaze, long enough that he notices your reaction more than he intends. He looks away quickly, clearing his throat, as if embarrassed by the human truth that has slipped into the sermon, unbidden.

“The grace of God,” he says finally, raising his head, “is not a cage. It is a light. It is the courage to face our desires without fear, to meet our loneliness without despair, to seek connection without shame. And in that light, perhaps we find ourselves… whole.”

The congregation murmurs, a soft ripple of Amen and quiet assent. You feel tears prick at the corner of your eyes—not from guilt, not from shame, but from recognition. From the sudden, aching truth of being seen, even in this vast hall, even in the quiet shadow of confession.

After mass, you linger at your usual spot in the vestry. Jud is nearby, sorting papers, his expression composed, though the tension in his jaw betrays some private struggle. When your eyes meet, he smiles faintly—a shadow of a confession, a ghost of understanding.

“You seemed… affected,” he says quietly, almost as if he is admitting a secret to himself.

“I…” You hesitate, your words failing to capture the storm inside you. “It spoke to me. More than I expected.”

He nods slowly, understanding without prying. The space between you is taut with unspoken truths, desire, and guilt—the shadow of the sermon lingering like incense.

“Sometimes,” he murmurs, “we hear what we need before we are ready to say it aloud.”

And you realize, with a sharp, sinking clarity, that Sundays are no longer merely a place to observe. They are a place to be measured, a place to be challenged, a place where the gravity of Jud’s presence pulls at something unnameable inside you—and that you are powerless to resist.

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The vestry is quiet, the only sound is the soft scrape of your pencil against the ledger and the faint ticking of the wall clock. Outside, the village hums with life, indifferent to the tiny cathedral of your shared solitude. You sit across from Jud at the long table, shoulder nearly brushing his as he leans over a particularly stubborn column of numbers.

“See here, Father?” You murmur, pointing at the entry. “This donation seems to have been misallocated. It’s small, but the ledger won’t balance without it.”

Father Jud leans closer to look, and for a heartbeat the air between you thickens. His shoulder brushes yours, barely there, yet enough to make your pulse stumble. He notices it too—there’s a flicker in his eyes, an almost imperceptible hitch in his breath. He looks up, meeting your gaze, and for a long second, silence stretches like a thin wire between you, straining.

“It’s… complicated,” he says finally, voice low. “Not just the numbers. Sometimes the heart is like this, too—misallocated, messy, and yet we try to make sense of it.”

You feel the weight of his words, the double meaning pressing against your ribcage. Complicated, messy… human. You want to laugh at the coincidence, but it’s hollow, tinged with longing. You remember his sermon, the words about desire and shadows and loneliness, and you realize that all of it—the ledger, the vestry, the quiet—has become a confession without words.

“Sometimes, Father,” you whisper, “I think it’s easier to balance numbers than to balance… myself.”

Father Jud swallows, eyes lowering to the page as if looking at numbers can shield him from the tremor in his chest. “Perhaps,” he murmurs, “but ignoring the imbalance doesn’t make it go away. We wrestle with it, even if it’s uncomfortable, even if it feels forbidden.”

Your fingers brush briefly as you both reach for the same pen. The contact is electric—soft, fleeting, but it ignites something deeper than you expect. You catch his glance, and the faint shadow of guilt and desire flickers across his face, quickly masked by composure.

“And please, call me Jud. I believe we are past the title of ‘Father’ here.”

You want to speak, to confess, but the words stick. Instead, you focus on the numbers, pretending to be practical, while your mind whirls: the brush of his hand, the tilt of his head, the warmth that lingers when he leans close. Every small gesture is amplified, every glance loaded.

“Do you ever feel guilty?” You ask suddenly, voice barely above the whisper of paper turning. “Guilty for wanting something you shouldn’t?”

Jud looks up sharply, eyes darkening, and the weight of the question hangs between you like incense smoke.

“Every day,” he admits. “Faith, duty, conscience, they all pull in one direction. Desire pulls in another. And the heart… the heart is stubborn.”

You nod, understanding more than you should, feeling a kinship in the struggle. “It feels like praying for forgiveness before even doing anything,” you murmur, and he lets out a soft, almost imperceptible sigh.

“Yes,” he says. “And yet, even in guilt, there is honesty. Even in restraint, there is truth. That is the struggle that defines us. That is what makes us human.”

The air between you thickens. You are acutely aware of him, aware of your own pulse, aware of the quiet intimacy of shared space and unspoken confession. There is longing here, yes, and the ache of proximity without release, but there is also trust—something rarer than passion, something that hums under the skin like a slow hymn.

For a long moment, neither of you moves, both caught in the gravity of awareness. You realise that this—the slow, deliberate unravelling, this moral and emotional tightrope, this shared acknowledgement of what you both feel but dare not name aloud—is a descent you had not previously seen the precipice of, but here you both are: one foot off the ledge, precarious, your faith aligned in the other; praying that, if you were to jump, that whatever is below is far enough for more than a mere moment.

Jud clears his throat, gathering papers with deliberate care. “We should continue this tomorrow,” he says, voice steady but low, carrying an undercurrent of restraint. “There’s much to reconcile.”

You nod, heart thrumming, knowing that the reconciliation is not just of numbers—it is of hearts, of desire, of conscience. And as you leave the vestry, the sunlight falling across the threshold like absolution, you feel it: the tension, the pull, the quiet knowledge that neither of you will emerge unscathed from the slow-burning fire you’ve begun to tend.

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The pub smells of smoke and spilled ale, the low murmur of conversation vibrating in the dim light. You’re here with Alice and her sister, laughing over some small joke, but the laughter dies in your throat when you see him—Jud—sitting alone at the far end of the bar.

It’s been three Sundays. Three Sundays you missed because the flu had pinned you to your apartment, and in all that time you’ve thought of him often, of his voice, of the tension that lingers in quiet moments. But seeing him here—slouched, pallid, eyes shadowed beneath dark circles—it’s almost too much. The sharp scent of beer and fried food did little to mask the weariness hanging over the man at the bar’s end. The hanging bar lights carve sharp angles across his face, and his hands—those usually steady, gentle hands—were clenched around a pint glass with a white-knuckled grip that seemed a breath away from shattering it.

Your steps falter. Hesitation holds you rooted in place, until his head lifts, and his gaze finds you. Even across the room, even with the dim light, his eyes darken at the sight of you. It’s a look heavy with something unspoken, something that makes your chest tighten.

The man before you now was a stranger carved from a life you do not know.

“Jud,” you murmur as you approach, voice gentle, careful.

He doesn’t smile. His jaw tightens. “You’re out.”

“I… yes. Alice’s sister is visiting. Jud, are you—”

He turned back to his glass, lifting it. You saw the tremor in his wrist. “Don’t.”

“Maybe you should let me get you some water. Don’t—”

“No.” The word is flat, final. He downs the rest of the pint in one motion, cutting you off, before rising unsteadily. He slams the glass down, the sound a sharp crack on the polished wood, and stands up so quickly his stool screeches. He’s moving, striding for the door without a backward glance.

You give Alice a frantic, apologetic look over your shoulder, and go after him. The pub door swung shut behind you, swallowing the noise and warmth, leaving you in the cold, biting air of the cobblestone street. His broad back is already twenty-some paces ahead, a dark shape moving with a drunkard’s unsteady determination toward the winding road that leads to the church.

“Jud! Wait!” You call, hurrying after him, but the wind catches your words and they scatter before reaching his ears. Panic presses against your ribs. You break into a run, your shoes slipping on the damp stones. The trees that line the road ahead are skeletal fingers against the night sky.

Finally, you catch up on the long, wiry road that leads back toward the church. He’s moving quickly, recklessly, and in your hurry you trip over a stray root. You stumble into his back, and he turns sharply—startled, eyes wide—grabbing your arms to steady you, his reflexes slowed by drink.

He tries to heave you upright, but his own footing gives way. For a terrifying, weightless second, the world tilts, and then your back meets the rough, unforgiving bark of an ancient oak, and his body follows, pinning you there.

The air leaves your lungs in a soft huff.

The tree presses behind you, its bark rough against your coat. For a moment he leans too close, catching himself with your shoulders, his breath uneven, unsteady. You feel the tension in his body, the weight of his exhaustion, the closeness of him, and your own heart lurches. You steady him with your hands on his arms, grounding him and yourself at the same time.

He’s pressed against you from chest to thigh, a solid wall of tense muscle and heat. You can feel the rapid, unsteady thrum of his heart against your own. His breath, warm and laced with beer, washes over your face. He exhales, leaning slightly back, trying to right himself, his forehead nearly brushing yours.

You don’t struggle—you couldn’t, even if you wanted to. The heat of him is shocking, a brand through your clothes. 

His eyes, so dark and clouded, are inches from yours—you can see the flecks of amber in the brown, a faint scar on his eyebrow you’ve not noticed before, and the utter exhaustion that has carved new lines beside his mouth. The familiar, clean scent of his soap is there, underneath the alcohol and the cold sweat.

“You shouldn’t have followed me,” he murmurs, his voice a gravelly scrape. It isn’t anger now; it’s something else, something thick and desperate.

“And you shouldn’t be out here like this,” you shoot back. 

One of his hands loosens its grip on your arm. It doesn’t let go; it slides down, his fingers tracing a path over the sleeve of your coat, over the curve of your elbow, until his palm settles heavily on your waist. The touch burns through the layers of fabric.

Jud’s gaze drops to your mouth.

The night presses around you like a heavy veil, frost and shadow thick on the cobblestones, but all sense of cold is swallowed by the heat radiating from him. He leans against you beneath the skeletal branches, the world outside this moment shrunk to a crucible of breath and confession. His hand rests against your waist like a trembling penitent at the altar, guilty, seeking absolution he cannot name.

“Jud,” you murmur, voice trembling like candlelight in a vast, dark cathedral. “You shouldn’t be out here—”

“I—I’ve been sinning in thought. Every day.” He interrupts, voice rough, gravelled by ale and confession. His amber-specked eyes are shadows beneath the faint gleam of bar light, storm-dark and searching. 

The words strike you, sharp as a psalm against the silence. His hand shifts, tracing the curve of your waist like the brush of a rosary bead across consecrated skin. “I’ve—I’ve wondered what your lips taste like. If your chap stick would cling to mine… if it would be sacrilege, but I can’t—”

“You’ve been… what?” You breathe, your chest pressed against his, caught between fear and longing.

“Thinking,” he admits, a shuddering whisper. “Praying, and cursing myself. I had to go—” He hiccups, leaning further into you as he does, “—four towns over to a church, to confess… impure thoughts of you. Every word felt like fire against my tongue. Every prayer, every Hail Mary… I imagined you instead.”

The weight of his guilt hangs between you, a shroud and a torch all at once. His lips, trembling, hover near yours, a chalice brimming with forbidden desire.

“I…” He falters, eyes closing briefly as if willing his sin to vanish. “I should be damned… but I can’t stop. I can’t—”

His thumb begins to move against your waist—a small, unconscious circle.

The air thins, sacred and profane entwined. You feel his pulse, even through the layers of his shirt and jacket, fast and uneven, as though each beat is a penitent’s plea. You reach for him, your hands steadying him, grounding him, the warmth of human touch a small grace.

He leans in, shivering, the confession tumbling over him like incense smoke. “I’ve wanted to taste you,” he admits, voice breaking. “I’ve imagined your lips pressed to mine and every—every time I prayed, I thought of it instead of God.”

The world narrows to that instant: the cold bark of the oak behind you, the weight of his body and the fervour in his gaze, and the trees that stand like brittle sentinels. Each gust of wind makes them tremble; it passes through their twisted limbs, and they seem to wail—a chorus of hollow moans and rattling whispers. The sound is raw and mournful, like the earth itself is exhaling grief, each tree a fragile bone straining against the invisible fingers of the storm. Perhaps this is the earth’s way to scream for the both of you to stop while you still can.

You can feel the gravity pulling you both, a sacred pull towards surrender.

He sways closer, lips barely brushing yours in tentative sin, the kiss a whisper of temptation, a prayer muttered in tongues.

It isn’t gentle. It is hungry, searching; a claim and a question all at once. The taste of beer is there, but underneath it is just Jud—a taste you realised you’d somehow always known. His lips move over yours with a desperation that mirrors the grip on your waist. You open for him and his tongue sweeps in, hot and demanding. The kiss deepens, turning languid and devastating. Your fingers slide into his hair, the strands soft and thick between them, holding him to you as you kiss him back with a matching fervour you didn’t know you possessed. The kiss is fervent, a rite, a confession without words, sacred and profane entwined.

When you finally part, foreheads touching, breath mingling, his eyes glisten like stained glass in candlelight, fragile and raw. “I—I’ve been praying to resist this,” he murmurs, shame and longing threading every syllable, “and yet… you are all I see in the prayers I cannot pray.”

You draw a shuddering breath, the crisp night air between you thick with unspoken sins. His eyes, shadowed and haunted, hold yours, waiting for judgement that you do not intend to give. And in that suspended moment, your own voice finds a tremulous, sacred courage.

“Jud,” you whisper, fingers pressed against the curve of his shoulder, “I haven’t been innocent either.”

He blinks, startled, like a penitent unaccustomed to absolution. “What—”

“I’ve been… lusting after you,” you admit, your voice low, reverent and trembling like a chant in a deserted chapel. “Since I first saw you at the pulpit, that first Sunday mass. You stood there: light falling over your face, hands steady, voice carrying over the congregation like a benediction, and I… I couldn’t stop noticing. Every word you spoke, every glance you cast, it felt like a prayer directed straight at me, even though it couldn’t have been.”

His breath hitches. His hand tightens slightly at your waist, as though your words have branded him. “You… you’ve been thinking—”

“Yes,” you confess, swallowing hard. “Every Sunday, every time I walk past the altar, every time you lean over me to try to understand the numbers, I imagined this. You against me. Your hands, your mouth… I’ve imagined what it would feel like to be pressed against you, to taste you, even when I tried to pray instead. I hold no faith in God but I’ve prayed to stop myself, Jud!”

Your chest rises with the confession, raw and shivering, and his eyes glisten like sacred relics caught in candlelight. The distance between your lips collapses under the weight of shared sin.

“I couldn’t stop thinking of you,” you continue, voice trembling like incense smoke. “I’ve wanted this, you, for months. Every prayer I whispered, every psalm I muttered, was filled with thoughts of you. I’ve wanted to touch you, taste you… and now…”

You trail off, the air around you thick with desire and sacred guilt. The world narrows to the pulse of his heart beneath your fingers, the warmth of him, the scent of his skin mingling with cold night air, and the sacred, stolen moment hanging between confession and surrender.

Jud sways closer, trembling, as if your words have unlocked some penitent longing deep inside him. His forehead presses back to yours, and his lips brush yours in a tentative, sin-soaked benediction—tasting, testing, confessing in return. The kiss is hesitant, sacred and profane entwined; a confession in itself, an offering of desire and absolution simultaneously.

His hand, still on your waist, slides upward slowly—reverent and desperate, as if blessing you, claiming you, and punishing himself all at once. You respond instinctively, pressing closer, tasting him, feeling him. When you part, breathing ragged, foreheads touching, the confession hangs in the space between you like incense smoke. 

“We can’t,” he groans, the words muffled against your neck. “Not here. Not like this.”

“Then where?” You breathe. The question is bold, reckless. You should be pulling away, not pressing Jud’s desires on to match your own.

“The rectory. It’s empty.”

The word hangs between you like a struck bell.

Jud says it like a penance and a plea all at once; his breath ghosts your ear, warm and unsteady. For a moment neither of you move. The oak looms behind you, ancient witness; the wind threads through its bare limbs like a litany you both know by heart. Somewhere in the distance, a church bell marks the hour—slow, solemn, counting down not time but resolve.

“We shouldn’t.” You whisper, even as your body betrays you—leaning into him, drawn by the gravity of his warmth. The lie tastes thin in your mouth.

“I know.” His forehead presses to yours again; his eyes close as if bracing for judgement. “I know every reason. I’ve rehearsed them like scripture.” His thumb stills at your waist, trembling. He does not pull away. He never does. “Say no,” he murmurs, hoarse. “And I will listen.”

You do not say it.

Instead, you lift your hand and rest it over his heart, feeling it hammer beneath wool and bone—wild, alive, human.

“I could never.”

A shudder runs through him, sharp as a kneel on stone. He exhales your name like a prayer he has tried to forget. When he straightens, it is with care—gentle, deliberate—as though the night itself were an altar and you both must approach barefoot.

The walk is quiet. Too quiet. Gravel crunches beneath your shoes like whispered confessions; the rectory’s windows glow faintly ahead, a pale sanctuary against the dark. Jud keeps a measured distance, hands clasped at his sides, shoulders drawn tight—desire leashed by habit, by doctrine, by fear. You match his pace, every step a conscious choice, every breath an amen you do not speak aloud.

Inside, the door closes with a soft finality. The air smells of old wood and dust and extinguished candles—peaceful, severe. He reaches for the lamp but hesitates, fingers hovering. You nod once. The light blooms, low and warm, casting halos where it can and shadows where it must.

“This is wrong,” he says, quietly; not to you, not to God—just to the room.

“Then let it be honest,” you answer.

He turns to you then, fully; the weight of the day falls from his face, leaving only the man—tired, wanting, undone. He does not touch you yet. He searches your eyes as if seeking permission he has already been given, as if absolution might still arrive and save him from himself.

When he finally steps closer, it is with reverence. His hand rises and stops a breath from your cheek, waiting. You lean into it, closing the last inch; his palm cups your face, warm and steady now, and his thumb traces the line beneath your eye like a blessing. The kiss he gives you is slow—deliberate, restrained—more vow than hunger. It deepens only when you answer it, when you open your mouth and breathe him in, when your fingers curl into his coat and hold.

He breaks away first, resting his forehead against yours, eyes shut tight. Seconds pass as the wind howls its lament through the trees, bending the dark limbs until they creak and knock together like old bones. The rectory groans around you in answer—wood contracting, a shutter tapping somewhere down the side of the house. It smells faintly of damp stone and extinguished candles, of old paper and cold.

He doesn’t pull away. Instead, he leans in as if the house itself is the only thing keeping him upright. His breath fogs between you, caught and released in shallow measures. From here, you can hear the woods clearly—the rush and hiss of them, alive and watchful, hemming the rectory in on all sides.

“If I fall,” he murmurs, “it will be with my eyes open.”

The room seems to exhale. Somewhere, a clock ticks on, patient and impartial. Jud’s hands slide to your waist again—firmer now, as if accepting a weight long carried. He presses his mouth to your temple, your jaw, the corner of your lips. Each touch is a counted step, and each pause a silent prayer. You feel the struggle in him, the hesitance braided with want; you feel, too, the consent—steady, chosen, renewed with every breath.

When he draws you closer, chest to chest, it is not to consume but to remain. The guilt does not vanish; it kneels beside you both, watching. And still you stay, wrapped in the low light and the hush of a borrowed holy place, knowing that whatever comes next will be neither clean nor damned, but wholly, devastatingly human.

Jud sinks to his knees as if the floor itself has called him there.

It is not hurried. It is not hungry. It is reverent—deliberate in the way of ritual, of something learned and unlearned a thousand times. His hands find the hem of your coat and pause; he bows his head, lips moving in a murmur you barely catch. A prayer—fractured, half-remembered—slips free of him like breath in winter.

“God forgive me,” he whispers, though he does not stop.

He eases the fabric from your shoulders, inch by careful inch, as though unveiling something sacred rather than undressing you. Each layer removed feels less like theft and more like offering; his eyes follow the newly bared lines of you with a stunned, aching focus. He does not rush past anything. He sees—the slope of shoulder, the soft hollow at your throat, the places where life has written itself into your skin.

His hands tremble as he works, and every time skin meets air his breath catches, a quiet, broken sound. He murmurs again—Latin this time, maybe, or something only prayer-shaped—his words brushing your legs as he lowers himself further, forehead briefly pressing to your knee.

When there is nothing left between you and the lamp lit room, he stills.

You stand bare before him, heart loud in your ears, the silence dense with incense and want. Jud looks up at you like this—kneeling, undone—and something in his face breaks open. Not desire alone; not guilt alone. Awe.

He leans forward and presses a kiss to your hip, soft and wet, as though sealing a vow. Then another. And another, following the pale, silvered paths along your waist, your stretch marks kissed with a care so tender it aches in your marrow. His breath shudders with every touch; his lips linger as if memorising scripture written in flesh.

“Beautiful,” he breathes, the word barely surviving the tremor in him. It sounds forbidden in his mouth.

Your hand slips beneath his chin, fingers warm and steady. You lift his face gently—no command in it, only invitation. His eyes are bright, glassed with feeling, lashes dark against flushed skin. You guide him to his feet and he rises obediently, as though answering a bell only you can hear.

You place your palm over his heart.

It is racing, wild beneath wool and bone, so human it nearly hurts. Your other hand lifts, thumb brushing the edge of his clerical collar. The gesture is small, devastating.

Jud inhales sharply.

“No,” he says at once—and then, just as quickly, “I will.” His hands come up, shaking, and he undoes it himself. The collar slips free like a shed skin, like a relic finally laid down. He stares at it for a moment in his palm, then sets it aside with a care that feels like grief and relief entwined.

When he looks back at you, he is no longer kneeling, yet he has never looked more devout.

Jud exhales like a man stepping out of a storm.

His hands go to his collarless shirt first, fingers fumbling with buttons he has undone a thousand times without thought, and now cannot seem to master. The fabric parts; his chest is revealed inch by careful inch, skin pale and warm under the lamplight. He shrugs the shirt from his shoulders, then the undershirt follows, pulled free with a shaky breath, as though each layer costs him something sacred.

You watch him as Jud undresses, and you realise how little of him you have ever truly seen.

His trousers come next, folded with an almost unconscious neatness before being abandoned altogether; socks peeled away, toes curling against the floor as if grounding himself in the moment. He stands before you stripped of everything but the last thin barrier, shoulders rising and falling, breath uneven.

You feel it then, something quiet but absolute.

Faith.

Not the kind taught from a pulpit—the kind that arrives unannounced, unearned. Looking at him like this, undone and luminous, you cannot believe he is accidental. The lines of him feel authored, shaped, as though some patient, attentive deity had lingered over him longer than necessary—refining, perfecting, leaving fingerprints in muscle and bone. If God exists, you think distantly, this is He signs His work.

His fingers hook into the waistband of his boxers and stop there, knuckles whitening. He looks at you then, really looks, and the expression on his face steals the air from your lungs. This is not the man at the altar; not the careful voice that carries scripture across pews. This is something feral and frightened and undone—desire stripped of discipline, faith slipping through his fingers like spilled wine.

His lips part. No sound comes.

But you understand him.

You step closer. Close enough that his breath ghosts your mouth; close enough that his hands twitch at his sides, uncertain whether to reach or to pray. You rest your hands over his, steadying them, and he bows his head—not in shame, but surrender.

“Please,” he finally manages, the word barely there.

You finish it for him.

The fabric slides away, and with it the last of his restraint. He shudders, eyes closing as if bracing for lightning—or grace. When he opens them again, they are dark with need, bright with something that looks terribly like devotion.

Jud reaches for you then, no longer hesitant, hands warm and sure at your waist, pulling you into him as his mouth finds yours. The kiss is immediate and consuming, tongues sliding together, lips spit-slick and desperate. Any remaining prayer dissolves on his tongue; whatever faith he has left pours into the way he holds you, the way he kisses you like a vow he intends to keep.

He guides you backward without breaking the kiss, steps measured, purposeful, until the backs of your knees meet the edge of the bed. He follows you down, hovering over you, breath mingling with yours, eyes searching your face as if asking one last, silent question.

You answer by pulling him closer.

And as he lowers himself with a reverent inevitability—mouth still claiming yours, hands mapping you like scripture—Jud leaves the altar behind and places his devotion wholly, tremblingly, in you.

Your hand finds him between you—warm, solid, unmistakably there—and the reaction is immediate. His breath leaves him in a broken sound, a word torn loose from somewhere deep and unguarded.

“Fuck.”

It is soft. Startled.

You freeze for half a heartbeat, stunned by it. You’ve never heard him curse. For a fleeting moment you wonder who he was before the cloth—before the vows, before God claimed him by the throat and taught him how to kneel. What kind of man he might have been,how much of him was always waiting to surface, and how much of this is you drawing him out, unmaking him.

His eyes close; his head tips back. Whatever you are doing—whatever you are undoing—it is too much, too fast. His hand comes down over yours, firm but gentle, stopping you before the edge overtakes him.

“Wait,” he breathes—ragged, pleading—not refusal, only restraint.

He shifts then, sliding down the bed with a purpose that steals your breath. His forehead presses to your hip bone, reverent as prayer. His mouth ghosts over your skin; his breath is hot, devout, shaking. You open your mouth to beg, already forming his name like a litany, but he silences you.

You thread your fingers through the dark, dense hair at the nape of his neck; your touch a command, a prayer whispered against the nape of his soul. He responds without hesitation. His mouth descends—not a kiss at first, but a reverent, devout press of warm lips to the tender, downy skin of your inner thigh. His breath is holy fire, impossible and intimate; the weight of him against you coils tension into a tight, electric spiral in your belly.

The first touch of him there is complete. It draws a sound from you that feels older than language; your back arches, eyes rolling heavenward as sensation blooms and breaks all at once. Jud groans into you like a man receiving sacrament after famine.

He moves inward slowly, inch by inch; each brush of his stubble against your sensitive flesh is a lesson in sacred temptation. The damp heat of his exhalation traces the fine curls at your core, and the anticipation sharpens like the ringing of a cathedral bell.

When he finds the heart of you, his tongue opens a liturgy—broad, slow, worshipful strokes that ascend from bottom to top. A raw, guttural sound tears from your throat, a confession and a plea; your back arches, hips rising of their own accord, an altar offered in surrender.

He groans into you, a vibration that resonates through your marrow; his hands cup the curves of your body as if they were sacred relics, steadying, holding, claiming. The man whose words once measured sin from the pulpit now speaks a different gospel, one wet, urgent, and burning.

He maps you with devotion, tracing each fold and swell with a scholar’s reverence, until he finds the tight, eager bud of your desire. He circles it once, twice—a feather-light orbit, teasing, coaxing, until your legs jerk in pure, sacramental response. He pulls back only to blow a cool stream of air over the slick temple of your heat; your whimper is a broken hymn.

“Father, please,” you gasp, the syllable dissolving into a moan, and he returns. This time, there is no gentling; he takes more of you in, licking long, deliberate strokes that claim every hypersensitive inch. Broad, languid passes curl your toes; quick, sharp flicks strike the apex of your nerve, stealing the breath from your lungs. His nose nudges you, cheeks hollow as he sucks gently; the world narrows to the rhythm of his devotion—the wet, slick symphony of worship, the tightening coil of divine pleasure deep in your belly.

You float untethered; the only anchor is Jud’s mouth, his hands on your hips, the low, continuous moans from his chest vibrating through you like church bells. Through half-closed eyes, you glimpse the image of sacrilege and rapture: his face buried between your thighs, brow furrowed in sacred concentration, lips glistening with your offering.

He worships you with his mouth like communion taken on trembling knees. Every breath, every movement, is intent with meaning, as though this is where he has chosen to kneel now.

The tension swells, a wave cresting toward inevitability; every muscle bows in preparation. A high, thin sound escapes you, warning and prayer intertwined.

Jud does not relent. If anything, he drinks you deeper, tongue tracing faster, suction surer; he is a pilgrim in a desert, and you, his only spring.

It breaks. White-hot, blinding ecstasy detonates, crashing through you in pulsing waves; a ragged cry rips from your throat, raw, untempered. Your body convulses, back arching, heels digging into the bed. He holds you through it, mouth fastened to you, absorbing each shiver, each throb as if it were sacramental blood—your release, his absolution.

When the storm softens, when the fire dulls to smoldering ash, his tongue becomes gentle, soft kitten-licks coaxing shivers from your spent flesh. Jud’s forehead rests against your trembling thigh; his breath is harsh, uneven, holy and human.

Slowly, the world rightens—the rain tapping at the windows, the mingling scents of sweat, sex, and old books; the lingering roughness of stubble against your skin.

You feel him rising, shifting, weight settling over you. His kisses descend like absolution, tasting yourself on his tongue—profane and righteous.

You wrap your legs around him, drawing him closer, desperate for more. The ruddy tip of his cock nudges against your entrance, slick with your wetness and his spit.

Jud stills, eyes searching yours with a wordless plea. You answer by wrapping your legs around him, drawing him closer; the tip presses, promises unspoken, heat building.

A broken sound leaves him: “I can’t… I shouldn’t…”

And yet, instinctively, he sinks into you—just an inch, and the world shatters. The clutch of your body, hot and tight, steals his breath; a groan tears from his chest, raw and animal, of relief, of ruin, of sin made sacred.

Frozen there, buried shallow, sweat tracing his temple and neck, faith and vows and identity tangled with your heat, he is unmade and remade in the pulse of your offering. His voice, a worshipful whisper, brushes against your lips, trembling with the confession of your shared transgression.

Your name is all he speaks.

The first stretch is exquisite—holy, almost painful in its intensity; your walls clench around him, gripping, worshipping, marking him as sacred. A low groan rumbles from his chest, guttural, animal, and it vibrates through you, matching the quickening rhythm of your pulse. He is hard, hot, full, filling you as if he were a sacrament, your flesh the chalice, your need the wine.

You are tethered only by Jud, by the slick, warm clasp of your flesh; every movement, every shiver, every quiver is a litany of need. His tongue, lips, hands—all devotion, all sin, all worship. He is unmade, remade, shattered and redeemed in your offering.

He moves again, slow at first, savouring, reverent, each shallow thrust a blessing and a sin; the friction, the heat, the tight, wet grip of you around him makes him gasp, his teeth catching his lower lip. Every inch in, every rock of his hips draws a response from your body: your back arches, hips lifting, hands clutching him, nails grazing skin, hearts hammering in tandem.

The rhythm builds. He begins to move deeper, longer, harder—each thrust a sermon, each groan a hymn; the world narrows to slick, pulsing heat, shared breath, and the intoxicating scent of your union. You dig your nails into his shoulders, thighs clenching, toes curling; the sensation is unbearable, divine, and you are utterly undone under the press of him.

Jud’s hands roam your body as he drives into you, worshipping your breasts, your stomach, the curve of your hips; he finds the sensitive swell of your clit with each thrust, brushing, rubbing, sending sparks that make you cry out, plead, moan. Your voices mingle, wet, desperate, low and high—a litany of need and surrender.

“Say it again,” he pleads, tongue laving at the arch of your throat.

You know what he means.

“Father. Please.”

He thrusts faster, harder, every movement wild, sacred, profane; you respond in kind, moving against him, pulling him deeper, whispering his name like a prayer. The pressure coils, rising, twisting, a storm gathering in your belly. Every nerve is alight, every muscle trembling; the world is only this—his body, yours, the heat, the friction, the worship of one another in sin and sanctity combined.

And then, it shatters.

Your orgasm hits first: white-hot, vision bleaching through, body arching, hips lifting, every shiver a verse in the psalm of your release. Jud groans into you, deeper, harder, and his own peak crashes down—thick, pulsing, quaking, every thrust trembling as Jud buries himself fully; desperate, ravaged, redeemed in the clasp of your body. You feel him shudder, grip you, and ride through it together—your cries, your moans, your gasps blending into a single, wet, sacred chorus.

He holds you close, rocking you through the aftershocks, his chest heaving against yours, sweat mingling, bodies slick and glistening, limbs entwined like prayer beads. Every soft lick, every tender kiss, every whispered name is both confession and absolution. Your body trembles, spent, sacred in the shared ruin and rapture of it.

Slowly, the world returns—the rain tapping against the windows like church bells, the air thick with the scent of sex, heat, and devotion. His forehead rests against yours; eyes half-lidded, pupils wide, both shattered and exalted. You are the altar; he is the pilgrim; together, you are sin and sanctity entwined, a living, breathing sacrament.

And in the quiet aftermath, slick, trembling, spent, you realize the communion is not over—every touch, every sigh, every heartbeat remains a prayer; every brush of lips, every lingering glance, a promise of devotion and desire yet to come.

You lie together, bodies slick and warm, limbs tangled like prayer beads strung across the altar of the bed. His chest rises and falls against yours; every inhale, every exhale a hymn, a confession carried on the heat of your shared flesh. You can feel the pulse of him beneath you—soft now, almost gentle, still heavy with need, still tethered to you.

His hands roam over you slowly, reverent, worshipful; tracing the curve of your hips, the swell of your breasts, fingers brushing over the slick remnants of your climax. Each touch sends sparks curling through your spent body, and you shiver, a litany of sensation, every nerve a bell tolling in the cathedral of your skin.

You feel Jud move lower, tracing the slick path between your thighs with the tip of a finger, soft, slow, circling, coaxing more shivers from you. You arch, legs parting, offering again, the last vestiges of your climax still thrumming, and he takes it like sacrament—gentle, reverent, worshipful. Every lick, every brush, every press of skin to skin is a prayer, and you answer with gasps, whimpers, the soft sound of your body confessing in shivers and trembles.

He lifts his head, eyes wide and luminous in the dim light, pupils blown, breathing ragged; worship and need mingled there like incense.

“Do you feel me?” He whispers—a vow, a confession, a prayer in one. You nod, breathless, chest heaving, and he smiles—a broken, redeemed smile—pressing his forehead to yours.

Your hands roam him in return, lingering over the hard planes of his body, tracing the muscles that shook with devotion, mapping the sinews of his surrender. You kiss him softly, tasting yourself on his lips, salty, warm, the flavour of shared sin and grace. Every touch is sacred; every sigh, a benediction.

Time stretches, elastic, endless; the rain taps against the windows like holy psalms, the air thick with your heat, your scent, your shared confession. You move together in slow, fluid intimacy, caressing, teasing, exploring—no rush, no need, only the worship of one another in this quiet, sacred aftermath.

“Okay,” you say, face hot.

When you turn to look at him, he’s staring intensely. Licking his lips.

“Let’s get you home, alright?”

His hand squeezes your thigh again. “‘s a great idea.”

You have to pull his shoes on for him while he gently pats your head, leaning against Robin’s front door. She’s half awake and half asleep, stumbling towards you.

“Make sure he’s safe,” she says, poking her finger a little to hard into your chest.

“I promise. He’s going right to bed.”

Steve snorts. “Yeah, we are!”

You and Robin both scoff. You wrap your arm through Steve’s to support him as you walk onto her porch. Robin bids you farewell, and you turn to guide Steve towards his car. You already have his keys.

He giggles beside you, squeezing your arm in his.

“Has too much today, huh?” you ask, approaching the passenger door.

“Not too much of you.”

“Aren’t you sweet.”

“Y’gonna do somethin’ ‘bout it?” Then he gasps and spins around. “Think I left my beer on the shelf by the —“

You turn him back around. “Uh-uh, baby, we’re not taking it home.”

He nods slowly. “Right. We have beer at home.”

You do not have beer at home, but you still say, “Right.”

“Y’so smart, baby.”

You smile at him, opening the door, leading him into his seat.

You press a kiss to his cheek and pull away before his lips could chase yours.

“You’re such a charmer, Steve.”

He smiles up at you, eyes and face glowing.

You love him.

You shut his door gently and make your way into the driver’s side. The moment you shut it, Steve’s big hands reach for your face. He cups your cheeks and pulls you in, pressing his mouth to yours.

You let him kiss you. He tastes like beer and cigarettes and very strongly of mint, like he might have snuck one while you were lacing up his shoes.

You appreciate the effort.

He giggles against your lips with his forehead pressed against yours. You giggle, too, because his joy is simply infectious.

“Wanna fuck you,” he murmurs, “right here.”

You really almost let him, but you know better, and so you pull away and slide the keys into the ignition.

He’s devastated.

“Huh?” he asks. “What? Why not?”

“It’s one in the morning and you’re going to have a killer headache tomorrow. You need to sleep.”

Like a petulant child, he scoffs, throwing his head back and stomping a foot.

“But you love car sex.”

You laugh, pulling out onto the road. “You’re drunk, sweetheart.”

“‘s that the problem?” he asks, sitting up and leaning over the console. “That I’m drunk? Baby, I w- I want you to fuck me so bad. Y’not taking advantage of me - or - or —“

“Stevie,” you sigh. “You need to sleep.”

He sighs louder than you and slinks down in his seat.

“Don’t know what you do t’me,” he says, playing with his nails. Acting all pitiful. “Breakin’ my heart, honey. Leavin’ me over here all alone aching for you.”

You laugh again. “You won’t die, I promise.”

He groans, his head lolling to the side to look at you. “You’re really gonna make me handle it myself?”

Your stomach tenses. “If you can’t wait until the morning, then yes.”

Steve sighs. Several times. About two minutes pass and you think he actually may have dropped it, but then you hear him unzipping his jeans.

“Jesus, Steve,” you say incredulously.

You focus on the road ahead of you, even when Steve moans breathlessly.

But then he says, so sweetly, “Please look at me.”

You look over, intending to give him a quick peek. But he’s palming himself, looking at you intensely. Lying low in his seat, biting his bottom lip, eyes raking across you. Drinking all of you in.

You look back at the road, a bit speechless. “Oh my god.”

“What?” he breathes. “You’re so goddamn pretty, y’know? Couldn’t help myself.”

You steal another glance.

You could crash the car. He looks wrecked. His body blushes, from his cheeks down to his chest. One hand palms himself through his underwear and the other sits on his thigh.

Steve smirks, all smug, pretty brown eyes hooded.

“Wanna see? How hard y’get me?”

You try to remind yourself that you’re ten minutes from home. Just ten minutes. You can stay strong.

“No.”

He groans. “Fine. Whatever. Have fun lookin’ at the road.”

You do still watch out of the corner of your eye. Of course you’re intrigued.

Steve lifts his palm to his mouth and spits.

You whimper.

it’s impossible to focus on driving when he starts gasping. Pathetic little whimpers, all breathy, slurring something under his breath. You can see the movement of his arm in your periphery. Up and down, nice and slow.

And you hear it, too - how wet he is. Each schlick that accompanies every stroke. His breath hitches, he sighs prettily, trying to hold back little whimpers.

Then he moans.

You imagine him, blissed out, his thumb swiping along the slick, ruddy head of his shaft.

Your jaw clenches.

“Fuck,” Steve sighs.

It’s real vulgar of him. He sounds fuck drunk when he says it, too.

“Could be you.” His voice is thick with lust. “Could be stretchin’ you out right now.”

You clear your throat and shift in your seat, clit aching. “Whatever.”

“You want it. Think I don’t see how your thighs’re clenched?”

“Steve, shut up.”

“Oh, I love it when you talk mean.”

“Stop it,” you say, biting your cheek. You tap the clock on his dashboard. “We’re seven minutes to home, which means you have seven minutes to cum. I’m not helping you when we get back.”

“Shit,” he murmurs, and doubles down his efforts. Spits again, right down onto his cock, groaning before continuing to jerk himself.

You’re in a frenzy. He sounds so good. You feel so empty knowing his fat, heavy cock is in his hand and not inside of you. You’re almost jealous of it, in fact. Your teeth dig into your cheek, and even though you could turn the radio up to tune him out, you don’t. You love hearing him.

Steve gets louder. You see his hips bucking. His free hand reaches for you and grips tightly onto your thigh.

“unh!”

You look at him now. You can’t not.

His eyes are squeezed shut, mouth open in pleasure. His pink lips are spit-slick and he whines. He opens his eyes, revealing stars inside of them while he stares intently at you.

He slurs something you can’t decipher. The car swerves and you gasp, quickly looking back to the road. Steve doesn’t seem to notice - his hips buck into his fist and he squeezes your thigh harder.

“Need you’,” he begs. “‘m so close, need — touch me, please.”

He kills you. You’re two minutes away from home and your resolve is cracking. Actually, it’s past cracked.

“Please,” he repeats, desperate. “Only — can only cum if you… oh, shit, need it so bad.”

You exhale shakily before moving your hand blindly over to his lap. He takes your hand, spits on it messily, then guides it to his shaft.

You wrap your hand around it and stroke him. Slow and firm. He whines, white-knuckling the handle of the passenger side door, his other hand in his hair. You take another glance when he groans and you see that he’s pulling on his sun-kissed strands.

“Oh my God,” you repeat. You don’t know what else to say.

His hand rests over yours, keeping it steady, before rutting himself into your fist. He cries out, back arching, feet planted firmly onto the floor.

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck wanna fuck you so bad, pull over, ohmygod please pull over, wanna cum inside of your pussy, wanna feel it, shit!”

You’re speeding, the tires of Steve’s car screeching as you pull into the driveway, awkwardly putting it into park with your left hand. You don’t unbuckle yourself before leaning towards him and kissing him.

He can’t even keep his goddamn mouth shut while you do. He’s moaning filthily, licking into your mouth, panting heavily. You feel his cock twitching, his warm hand making yours move against it slickly. Your Steve-senses are good enough to know when he’s coming, and you’re quick to take your other hand and over it above his tip so that he doesn’t make a mess.

But he still does. He comes with a loud cry, panting in your mouth, eyes squeezed shut and a string of unknown expletives flying off of his lips. You feel his warm, sticky cum hit your palm and you can hear how wet it makes your fist as he fucks himself through it. He cums for a while, whimpering and whining through it before his hips and hand still, letting yours go.

Steve leans back, panting and sweating. His hair looks like hell, and he looks beautiful all wrecked like this. The car smells like sex and sweat and, well, your hand is covered in him.

“Look at this mess,” you say, sort of incredulous.

He grabs you by the collar of your shirt and pulls you into him, even though you’re messy, even though you can’t prop yourself up on your elbows.

“Just mad it isn’t in you,” he asserts, cockiness coming back. “C’mere ‘nd I’ll fuck some into you, angel.”

“Steve,” you warn, uneasy as he pulls you towards his lap.

“Get it on me, don’t care,” he rasps.

You hover over him. His cock isn’t even softening, even after all it gave. Steve’s hands move to your hips, quick to shove your pants down towards your knees.

“But sleep,” you say weakly, hands still held up awkwardly, his cum cooling on your fingers.