Chapter 12: The Midnight Debate
The rectory living room was a pool of shadow and flickering blue light. Some forgotten vampire movie played on the old television, the volume low, a mere whisper of synthetic screams and dramatic music. It was a backdrop, nothing more.
Jud was sprawled on the worn couch, his head pillowed on a frayed armrest, Paul a heavy, welcome weight atop him. They were both naked from the waist down, Paul’s trousers and Jud’s briefs tangled around their ankles like fallen flags. Paul moved inside him with a slow, deep, almost lazy rhythm, each languid thrust drawing a soft, contented sigh from Jud’s lips.
Jud’s hands traced the hard planes of Paul’s back, his fingertips skating over old scars and the tense muscles of his shoulders. The movie’s light played across Paul’s face, highlighting the weary sadness that was always there, now softened by a gentle, sated focus.
“You know,” Jud murmured, his voice a low, teasing purr, “I think Dracula had the right idea. All that brooding in a castle. The cape. Very dramatic. Theatrical.”
Paul’s hips hitched, a slightly harder thrust that made Jud gasp. A smirk touched Paul’s lips. “Oh, so you want a cape now? Is that it? I’ll get you one. Red velvet. With a fur collar.”
“Fuck yes,” Jud giggled, the sound bright and easy in the dark room. He lifted his hips, meeting the next stroke with a deliberate roll. “And fangs. I want proper fangs. Then I could bite you back. Make you scream.”
Paul growled, a low, rumbling vibration Jud felt in his own chest. He dipped his head and nipped at the curve of Jud’s throat, not breaking the skin, just a possessive scrape of teeth. “You’re already biting me, you little menace. Every damn day. With that mouth of yours.”
Jud’s giggle dissolved into a sharp moan as Paul’s rhythm stuttered, becoming less lazy, more purposeful. The thick length of him dragged against a spot that made Jud’s toes curl. “Oh my fucking God.”
“Language, honey,” Paul chided, but his voice was thick with his own rising pleasure.
“Sorry, baby,” Jud breathed, his eyes fluttering shut. “Oh my fucking—”
“Jud!” Paul laughed, the exasperation entirely fond. He sealed Jud’s mouth with a deep, consuming kiss, swallowing his next blasphemy. Jud kissed back, all teeth and tongue and playful resistance, his hands fisting in Paul’s hair.
When they broke apart, gasping, Paul resumed his thrusts, now faster, harder. The couch springs groaned in protest. Jud was a writhing, wanton creature beneath him, his large breasts shifting with each driving impact, his body accepting every inch with a wet, eager heat.
“You’re impossible,” Paul grunted, his forehead dropping to Jud’s.
“And you love it,” Jud countered, grinning wildly.
“I do,” Paul admitted, the raw truth of it flashing in his ancient eyes. “Christ, I do.”
He felt the familiar, thrilling pressure building at his base, the beginning of the knot. He pushed deeper, wanting to be sealed inside this beautiful, impossible man forever. But Jud, sensing the shift, did something unexpected. He clenched his inner muscles, a fierce, milking contraction, and then pushed Paul out, his slick cunt making a soft, wet sound of protest.
Paul slid free, his swollen cock gleaming in the TV light. He blinked, stunned. “Judah. Are you pushing out my dick? For what possible reason?”
Jud’s face was a masterpiece of faux-innocence and sheer mischief. He bit his lip, trying not to laugh. “The cape. You buy the cape, or no more sex. Those are my terms.”
Paul stared at him. A wave of such profound, delighted affection washed over him that for a second he couldn’t speak. This was Jud. Not the haunted, guilt-ridden priest, but the real man: playful, argumentative, giggling, embracing his body and his pleasure with a dorky, glorious defiance.
“I don’t like this negotiation, pal,” Paul said, trying to sound stern. He shifted, trying to press back in, but Jud arched away, laughter finally breaking free.
“The terms are non-negotiable! Velvet. Fangs. The whole deal.”
“Or what? You’ll lie there all desperate and wet and gorgeous?” Paul grabbed Jud’s hips, pulling him back down the couch. Jud shrieked with laughter, kicking weakly.
“Yes! A protest! A sex strike!”
“You’re a terrible negotiator,” Paul said, and in one swift move he flipped Jud onto his stomach, pressed his face into the musty couch cushions, and drove back into him from behind.
Jud’s shriek melted into a gutteral, blissed-out moan. “Oh, okay, fine! Fuck! Cape later!”
“Cape later,” Paul agreed, pounding into him, the slap of skin on skin drowning out the movie’s soundtrack. He leaned over, blanketing Jud’s back, one hand coming around to cup the heavy weight of his breast, thumb circling a peaked nipple. “My impossible angel. My beautiful, fucking handful.”
Jud was beyond words, reduced to a series of choked, happy sobs as Paul’s knot began its inexorable swell, stretching him, locking them together. Paul came with a shout muffled in Jud’s shoulder, his release hot and endless, and Jud followed, his own climax wracking through him, his cunt convulsing around Paul’s throbbing length.
They collapsed, a stuck-together, sweating, laughing heap. Paul managed to roll them slightly to the side, his knot still firmly lodged, his arms wrapped possessively around Jud’s chest.
On screen, the movie vampire disintegrated into dust. The credits began to roll.
“I’ll order the cape tomorrow,” Paul whispered into the sweaty nape of Jud’s neck.
Jud’s body shook with silent laughter. “You better.”
Later, much later, after they’d awkwardly waddled to the bedroom and finally parted, they lay in the dark. The old house creaked around them. It was near three in the morning.
“Do you think Joe Miller knows his wife is smuggling contraband coffee from the mainland?” Jud whispered, his head on Paul’s chest.
“Of course he knows. He’s the one who built the false panel in the boat hull.” Paul traced idle patterns on Jud’s arm. “She thinks she’s so clever.”
“She is clever.”
“Mmm. But he’s cleverer. Lets her have her fun.” Paul paused. “She left a whole basket of muffins on the rectory step today. Blueberry. Still warm.”
Jud smiled in the dark. “She’s a good woman.”
“They’re good people,” Paul said softly, and the wonder in his voice was new. “Most of them.”
Jud knew he wasn’t just talking about the muffins. He’d seen it too. The averted but knowing smiles from the Flynn girls. The way Warren Flynn had clapped him on the back after Mass, his hand lingering just a moment too long, not with judgement, but with a gruff, unspoken solidarity. The fact that no one, not even the children, stared at the way his cassock pulled across his chest anymore. Bev’s was the only frost that remained, a solitary patch of winter in a gradual, slow-thawing spring.
They had no idea how unsubtle they were. Holding hands under the table during Bible study. The way Paul’s hand would find the small of Jud’s back when they walked, a proprietary touch that was also a steadying anchor. The shared glances during sermons that spoke of private jokes and nights spent wrapped around each other.
The island saw. And instead of casting stones, it was slowly, quietly, bringing them casseroles and mended socks and warm blueberry muffins.
Jud shifted, turning to kiss Paul’s chest, right over the silent, unbeating heart that held all of his own. “We’re lovesick fools.”
Paul’s arms tightened around him. “Yes,” he said, his voice full of a quiet, awe-struck joy. “We really, really are.”