#im so sorry jude | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

saleeba · 6 months

Text

fool ; jude bellingham

summary ♡ betting on the phenomenon of unrequited feelings, you and jude have never dared to make the first move with the other until a reunion forces new questions to be answered.

pairing ♡ jude bellingham x fem!reader

content ♡ 18+, smut, friends to lovers, alcohol consumption, cursing, kissing, both jude & reader are pining idiots, fingering, p in v sex, marking, missionary, unprotected sex (jude pulls out but still pls practise safe sex!!)

a/n ♡ she's baaaack :D but first☝🏽alexa play fool by nct 127 !!!! the lyric "you’re a goddess but i’m a fool, what should i do?" was written for this fic in particular i just know it was :] anyway hehe this fic is based off this request so tysmm to anon for sending such an exciting prompt !! i hope yous enjoy 🫶🏽💗 WAIT P.S this isn’t proofread bc i lowkey am not rocking with it so i didn’t wanna put myself thru having to read it again & again … im sorry for any mistakes :’)

you had just gotten off work to a stream of relentless texts from your best friends’ groupchat — phone pinging off the rails whilst you were on shift, muffled buzzes from your bag making you wonder what on earth was worth blowing up in that whatsapp group on a random friday afternoon.

on the train back home, you tap open the green app, anticipating yourself easily spending the entire journey catching up on the three hundred-plus texts from your closest mates. you decide to start right from the beginning of the influx, thumb scrolling nonstop and eyes blurring from the rapid movement until they focus back on the screen where you stop, finally having reached the destination of the first text that set it all off.

it was from none other than jude bellingham, and you were nearly embarrassed by the way your face instantly lit up upon reading his message. the groupchat’s golden boy had popped up after weeks of minimal contact, asking if he could take everyone for a night out tomorrow to make up for it, stating that he finally has some small gaps of free time between hectic pre-season schedules to allow him to do so.

it honestly warmed your heart that the first thing he wants away from football is to see you all. you’d been a band of good friends since the first year of secondary school, contact not necessarily strained as you all had a lot of love for each other but rather unspokenly reduced after leaving school two years ago and falling into busy university or career ventures.

instead of scrolling through to read and react to the plethora of follow-up texts after his, you ignore them and jump straight to typing your reply to his invitation, casting aside that nagging voice asking you: doesn’t that seem too desperate?

no, right? i’m just accepting his invitation, getting straight to the point, the convo ended half an hour ago anyway. you’re arguing with yourself now, feeling the need to give unnecessary excuses to nonexistent accusations. if you were to be honest with yourself, you were always self-conscious of the way you behaved around jude, even now debating on whether to add your signature heart emoji or if it’d come across as you trying too hard given your feelings for him; albeit them being feelings that no one knows about, not even him. you made sure for it to be that way.

with a mental note to get over yourself, you send an affirmative ‘i’m up for it!’, signature heart included, and quickly shut off your phone. heart beating so rapidly, you scolded yourself for getting so worked up over a mere reply and for definitely not getting over yourself. god knows how you’re going to handle seeing him in person.

a sudden double buzz from your device does nothing to calm you down, instead dampening your hands with sweat when you grab it and see a pair of messages from him.

jude 🌟: heyy i’m so glad you can make it tomorrow :)

jude 🌟: can’t wait to see you!! ❤❤

he had messaged you separately for some reason and he had included two hearts… the overthinking starts for you again, without even beginning to think about what to reply this time, and you question why he couldn’t have just replied to you in the groupchat or why he couldn’t have just left the end of the messages with a ‘x’ like he usually does or why he would even say what he said in the last message. mind frantic and unable to clear itself, you thank yourself for having your read receipts turned off so you can have your mini meltdown without worrying about jude knowing you’d seen his messages multiple minutes ago. god, you were down so bad.

you force yourself to open the messages app and send the most casual reply you can type.

you: can’t wait to see you too! ❤

you try to keep it short, sweet and nonchalant even if your fingers are itching to type more – more about how much you had missed him, more about what he was planning to wear tomorrow night so that maybe you could match your own outfit with him, more about your true, unfiltered feelings for him. it’s pathetic really; you hadn’t seen him in two years and the first thing you wanted to do was throw yourself at him, spilling all the secrets you’d been holding close for so many years. you leave it at that, put your phone on do not disturb mode and head on home, waiting for the long hours of friday evening to pass and saturday night to arrive.

***

and so saturday night rolls around and you just about finish touching up your makeup and smoothing out your dark blue dress before the doorbell rings, and you’re whisked away to the club by a couple of your girlfriends.

as soon as you step your high heels into the building, you’re met with the sight of flowing booze and the noise of noughties r&b beats bouncing around the brightly lit walls. dragged by the hands of your friends, you find yourself standing next to a booth at the back of the club, the rest of the group now welcoming you latecomers with a loud cheer.

“finally, girls. you took your time!” one of your male friends remarks, ushering you all to sit down.

“oh god, what have we missed?” you beam, trying to scan the group amongst the strobing lights to catch a glimpse of the person you were really there for.

“nah, you’re just in time because… first round’s on mister madrid!”

the callout breaks your friend group into a raucous holler as your gaze fixes onto the six foot-one footballer who stands up with an amused grin and a sigh of feigned defeat. your heart quickens and your smile turns into a state of near disbelief over how good jude looks right now – graphic white t-shirt hugging his biceps in all the right places and hanging over a pair of smart-casual black trousers.

“yeah, yeah, anything for my groupies,” he winks at no one in particular but your brain almost convinces you that he was looking at you while doing it. you send a shy smile his way just in case but what he says next has your mouth running dry. “help us out, will ya, y/n?”

you hesitate for a second too long for your liking, stumbling over your words while your friends peer at you. “uh… uh-huh, yeah, of course.” you answer as quick as you can, standing up on your feet slowly as to not trip over your now-shaking legs and send yourself flying into jude, and to avoid embarrassing yourself more than you think you already have.

he responds with a grateful smile and you follow him to the bar where he places an order for a round of drinks and some shots to be delivered to the group by the two of you. there’s an odd unfamiliarity to the silence between you both and you realise that you aren’t normally this quiet around jude, and neither is he around you; you would always joke that he’d be eligible to talk for england if he wasn’t already playing football for them. he’d retort with a comment about how his ears could almost fall off with the amount of chatting you do, and you’d dryly reply with a ‘well, they’re too big for your head anyway. look at the size of them!’ the pair of you were always as thick as thieves in the eyes of everyone else. which is why you didn’t expect it to be like this, especially after two years of not seeing each other – there was so much you wanted to catch up on from his world and so much you wanted to share from yours. you decidedly gain some courage and take the initiative to spark some conversation, get something going at least.

“soo, how have you been, then?” you’re both facing the bar, your head barely tilting in jude’s direction to indicate that yes, it is him that you’re talking to and not some random like he assumes you are with the way you’re positioned away from him, eyes just about turning to steal a glance of his figure but not to hold eye contact. “how’s la vida española?”

jude finds amusement in your sudden flaunt of the spanish language, a smile breaking out on his face, unseen to you since he’s still facing the same direction that you are, preoccupying his eyes with the myriad of bottles on the shelves while his mind searches for an apt reply.

“yeah, it’s been great, i think i wanna stay there forever,” jude laughs, his fingers tapping on the black surface of the bar. you can’t help the selfish feeling of your heart dropping at his confession. “i miss you, though, y’know… a lot.”

this one confession forces your whole body to turn itself towards him, eyes now chasing after his to seek some form of sincerity, to see if he was just messing about or if he really meant what he just said. he shifts his head to face you now, a bashful look painted onto his features. the expectant silence says it all really; of course i mean it.

you gulp and decide to break the quietness with a sarcastic, jesting “ugh…”, jude’s face dropping at what he thinks is genuine disgust from you. you realise your attempt to denounce the awkwardness has backfired.

“oh my god, you dickhead, i’m joking,” how is it that mere moments ago you were shaking at the sheer real-life presence of him but now you’d transformed into having this confident playfulness? and all of it without a drop of alcohol in your system as well – you’re quietly proud of yourself. “i missed you too, jude… a lot.” you coyly repeat his words.

upon your turn of the confession, the bartender sets down your drink orders and the two of you wordlessly carry the trays over to where your friends are situated, the silence way more comfortable now that you’re both basking in assurance, unbeknown to the other that your hearts were racing at a hundred miles per hour.

***

not even two hours and an innumerable amount of shots later, you’re all a drunken mess; definitely not a surprise to a single one of you. what is a surprise is the way you’re strewn across jude, right leg wrapped around his left, head on his chest, swirling and sipping from what’s clearly an empty glass to any sober, sane person. you grumble and mutter a complaint about the lack of liquor in the booth, taking it upon yourself to head to the bar and order another round for everyone.

“i’ll come with you,” jude announces over the pounding of the music, standing up so quickly that his next five steps are staggered and he has to cling onto your arm to steady himself. “i’m fine, i’m okay.” he assures nobody that asked.

the two of you stumble your way into the path of the bar, determined to drink until the sun comes up and forget every strand of stress until the hangovers come knocking. jude’s soft grip on your arm has you being led in the opposite direction all of a sudden, though.

“uhm, where are we going?” you question, head still turned to where the bar is located, about to ask him if he was so hammered he couldn’t walk in a simple straight line to get to where you’d planned to go. “jude?”

he’s silent, save for humming his way to his desired destination, and you question if he even knows where he’s leading you. before you make the choice of going along with him or leaving his clearly confused self to go cop your next cocktail, you find yourself in the disabled toilets, pushed up against the sink with the door not even shut properly, gasping at how rough jude is handling your body compared to his soft touches from before, and how close his face is to yours, warm breath fanning the skin of your lips. you weren’t strictly against it all but how the hell have you ended up like this? The alcohol and the questions come at you fast, dizzying your brain but you can’t help but feel so keenly anticipative.

“i’m sorry, i just…” he pulls away from you, eyes fluttering closed so he can re-evaluate his actions, exhaling through his nose as if he was letting go of all doubts before continuing. “am i okay to do this?” he places his hands on your waist, pushing himself back into your space, his full lips more or less about to take yours. you have to refrain from letting the effects of alcohol take over your tongue and uttering back with a breathy ‘you can do whatever you want to me’.

instead, you answer with an earnest, eager nod, inviting his lips to finally do that one thing you had been dreaming of for so long, to kiss yours so silly that they’re left with the imprint of him. and jude does just that.

his mouth takes in yours so determinedly, shyness and hesitation now long-dissolved feelings for you both as your hands find home around the back of his neck, pushing his head further onto you, feeling the need to taste him more and more until you’re both consumed by each other.

it’s a messy makeout, noses bumping and teeth clashing, but it’s oh so hot, the way he gasps into your mouth from breathlessness and pleasure, running and gripping his large hands over the material adorning your waist and hips as the need to rip it off you nearly overtakes him. to you, he’s so utterly intoxicating that a gallon of alcohol would pale in comparison to how dizzy his skin on yours makes you feel.

you release a moan at the meagre thought of jude all over your body, and he takes the opportunity to slip his tongue over yours, filthy noises of wetness and carnality from the both of you reaching high pitch as jude somehow simultaneously pushes you against the sink and pulls you against his chest, his manhandling of you getting you even more hot and bothered before you’re both interrupted by the hub of people passing by and huddling right outside the bathroom, their self-occupied shouts and cheers dragging you out of the bubble that the two of you had wrapped yourselves in, almost sobering you up on the spot.

you push jude out of your way, gentle but abrupt, and give him a look of apologetic regret. “i-i’m sorry,” you say, jitterily walking past him and exiting the room without a second glance or word, heading straight to the booth where your friends are hollering and hurraying, occupied with shot-drinking contests.

your girlfriends offer to go home with you when you lie and tell them you’re not feeling very well, but you decline them, instead telling them to have fun on your behalf and letting them know that you’ll try to text them once you get home safely. you can tell they’re confused by your shaken state and the absence of jude but you grab your bag and make your exit before the interrogation can even begin to brew.

you manage to grab a taxi back home, surprised by how competent you are despite the alcohol in your bloodstream and confusion in your brain. on the way there, you can’t stop the bouncing of your knee nor the racing of your psyche, asking yourself how and why whatever went down with jude went down like that. you curse at yourself for being so impulsive in starting and finishing the whole ordeal with him in the way that you did – you don’t know if it’s the empty, depressive drunk thoughts or just clarity from the whole jude thing that makes you feel like there’s no coming back from this at all. you feel like crawling into your bed and never coming out from it ever again.

the taxi driver has to call for your attention multiple times until you reach earth again and pay him the journey’s fee. you go skulking all the way up to your front door, only letting out a breath that you feel like you’ve been holding since the beginning of the night once the door shuts behind you.

the rest of the night is quiet and orderly for you, telling yourself to not invite any more chaos into your brain and to simply drink some water and to go to sleep. waking up tomorrow morning is going to be painful in more ways than one.

***

you spend the rest of the weekend nursing a ferocious hangover and a frazzled heart, only contacting your friends to tell them that you got home fine and to joke that you probably need a century or two for this hangover to be gone. you thank the high heavens that they don't bring up the topic of you and jude

you try not to think too much about jude, you really do, but sunday night has a couple of taps landing you on the instagram app and you learn that he’s already back in spain, pictures of him in training sliding across your phone screen on his story along with selfies with his teammates. usually, you tap that small red heart at the bottom and hope that he sees it amongst his millions and millions of notifications, a tiny ritual of yours that now has you feeling so pathetic that you don’t dare to do it anymore.

running a hand over your weary face, you set your phone down and opt to nap the night away, finding comfort in the non-intrusion from your friends and the no contact from jude, hoping to keep yourself busy and distracted with whatever the work week brings.

a ring from the doorbell rips through your flat just as you’re organising your pillows, forcing you to stop what you’re doing and ponder who could be at the door on a sunday while the clock ticks some minutes past one o’clock. you don’t recollect ordering any food nor are you expecting a delivery, especially not this late.

trudging your way to the front door, you open it to find jude bellingham standing there and you feel an instant pang of regret, wishing you had peeked through the window to see who it could be, wishing you had pretended to not be in, wishing the ground would open up right now and swallow you whole – anything to escape the confrontation that you’re now having to face. your face heats up with embarrassment and nerves but you manage to rupture the silence before your mouth can turn dry.

“j-jude, hi,” you try and keep your greeting as polite and cordial as you can, even when all you really want to do is to chase him off your doorstep. “what are you doing here?”

your query has jude visibly gulping, hands fiddling with each other as he attempts to hold eye contact with you, his vision a bit blurry from exhaustion. “y/n… sorry, can i come in?”

you oblige, holding the door open wide before you guide him to the living room and invite him to sit down on the plushness of your sofa, settling yourself on the opposite end of it. you silently prompt him to say what he came here to say with a nod of your head.

“uhm, i’m sorry for turning up unannounced, and so late…” ever the courteous. “i had to sneak away from the lads and catch the last flight to here so it was all a bit down to the wire.” he lets out a small, uneasy laugh.

you cut off his rambling with a curt “what do you want, jude?” you don’t mean for it to sound so rude but you still hold the attitude of wanting to get this over and done with, already feeling annoyance at yourself for even letting him into your home.

“right, yeah, i actually wanted to talk about what happened on saturday,” he goes back to fiddling with this thumbs, eyebrows furrowed but he avoids looking at you this time. not that you can blame him because your own vision shifts to anywhere but his direction. “i’m so sorry for making you uncomfortable a-and please tell me if this is inappropriate, but i haven’t stopped thinking about last night, i haven't stopped thinking about you, i-i’m sorry, i know this is all so silly and you probably don’t even feel the same bu-”

you stop him right there, this time with good reason as you can’t bear holding back your real emotions, not when he’s practically given you the green light to spill the contents of your heart.

“no, jude, i didn’t feel uncomfortable at all,” you assure him, gaze now on the footballer in front of you and you almost can’t believe the words leaving your mouth right now. “i wanted it to happen, i’m glad it happened, you know, i think i’ve had dreams about it happening,” you try and offset any tension with a timid chuckle before turning quite pensive. “i really like you, jude, i have for a long time… god, sorry, this is so embarrassing.” you return to making light of the situation you’ve put yourself in, the timidness sinking back in as quick as the relief lifts you up.

jude moves closer to your now-cowering body, knees touching as your heartbeat surges with worry and self-consciousness all wrapped up into a tight, miserable ball. he puts his sweat-dampened hands into yours and squeezes in silent assurance before raising them up to his lips and laying a chaste kiss on the heated skin.

he can’t help but break out into a sweet smile, eyes threatening to crinkle at the edges. your face is still sketched with tension and now confusion has joined the mix.

“i can’t tell you how long i’ve waited to hear that from you, how much i needed to hear it,” your eyes meet his, widening in surprise a little. “i’m a fool for not telling you sooner… i like you, y/n, i really like you.” he repeats your own words back at you, leaning in with a smattering of amusement dancing in his vision.

“can i kiss you?” the question leaves your lips faster than you can even process it in your brain.

jude wastes no time in replying with a firm pressing of his mouth on yours, deepening it within seconds, the need to cement his feelings for you being told through the way he cradles your head in his hand, leaning you back onto the arm of the sofa to further intensify the kiss. your lips move along with his, the soft weight of his body pressed against yours making you whine into his mouth in ecstasy.

he lifts off of you with a puckering of his swollen lips, the both of you taking the chance to draw in some air and attempt to regulate your breathing pattern.

“please take me to the bedroom,” you beg, breathless from the sheer sight of his dark eyes and pretty pout. there’s no fight nor denial from jude as he picks you up and prompts you to wrap your legs around his waist, quickening his pace once you point in the direction of your room.

he lays you down on the bed so gently, lips latching onto yours once again before they travel down your jaw and over the warm skin of your neck. the light touch of his fluttering eyelashes married with the pressure of his soft lips has your head spinning, hands tentatively laid on top of your sheets since you don’t trust yourself to not grab his head and bring it back to your lips. his fingers tinker with the waistband of your pyjama trousers, stretching it off your skin before he asks permission to peel them down your legs.

once they’re cast away in some corner of your bedroom, jude divides your legs by the underside of your knees, tucking himself into the now available space between them, turning onto his side and resting on his left forearm. he leaves a small kiss over your covered cunt and you try your best to not just clamp his head in between your thighs and smother him with your growing wetness here and now.

“need to get you ready, baby,” the sudden mention of the petname has you throbbing, squirming even more when he traces a line from your clit down to where there’s a small damp spot forming on the dark material of your underwear.

“jude, please,” you whine out, lifting your hips in a desperate bid to get the boy to strip your lower half completely.

he shushes you in his own charming way, making sure to comply with your demand by getting up onto his knees and discarding your soaked panties in a matter of seconds, the cold air generated by his large hands whipping them off you hits your exposed pussy, making you hiss through gritted teeth.

jude returns to the gap between your spread legs, sitting back but still on his knees, his higher position causing you to shift onto resting your body weight on the palms of your hands in order to peer at his actions – which start with him re-tracing that same teasing line from your aching clit to your hole with his thumb, the feeling now so intense on your unclothed skin. he hums in what sounds to be satisfaction when you throw your head back in pleasure, taking it in his favour to slip his index finger into the tightness of your pussy.

you release a guttural groan at the feeling of finally having some part of him inside you; you of course don’t want this to be the only part but you’re still so very grateful, so fucking grateful he’s now rubbing at your clit in delicious rounds, thumb tracing circle after circle while his fingers form a pair, pistoning in and out of you so easily due to the way your cunt douses itself with every move of jude’s.

“fuck, baby,” jude moans at the sight of his soaked digits every time they barely pull out of that pretty pussy, his thumb torturing your sensitive bud increasingly so, the cries and whimpers spilling from your lips an incentive for him. “feel so good and tight around my fingers, can’t imagine how you’ll feel around my dick.”

his words have you absolutely reeling, writhing against his hand to try and chase that moment of release.

“please, jude, i’m so close,” you’re warning and demanding at the same time, almost begging him to not stop or even think about moving his fingers out of you. “god, please, i need it,”

jude suddenly retracts both of his hands, leaving you bare and empty. “no way, baby, need to have you cumming on my cock or not cumming at all,” he comments with a shake of his head, denying you the opportunity of leaking your cum over his hand. upon seeing your bewildered face, he makes up for it by putting on a show of licking your juices clean off his fingers, the digits popped inside his mouth and dragged right back out with a low moan, him praising the way you taste.

“move up the bed for me, angel,” he orders, watching you while he stands up and unclothes himself as quick as he can. you scoot backwards, legs still spread open like they’ve been locked in that position, before pulling your oversized t-shirt off of you, chest void of a restricting bra . “good girl,” he praises, crawling up to hover his body over your laying one, cock in hand as your legs come to wrap around him. “are you still okay with this? we can stop at any point, okay?”

the sincerity of his voice has you melting. some would remark that the bar is in hell for you but the truth is that you hadn’t been with anyone like this for more months than you could count on your hands. you've been touch-starved and lacking words of affirmation for so long, and you needed something to be only about you for once.

“i’m more than okay with this,” you smile up at him, nodding to make your approval fully known. “and yes, i know i can stop you if i need to.”

jude reciprocates the same smile before leaning in and smothering your lips with his, pushing his cock into your tight wetness, so tight that your pussy almost pushes him back out, not used to being penetrated by something so thick.

“oh my god!” the feeling of tightness/fullness has you both gasping out the same thing at the same time, erupting into quiet giggles when the two of you realise your matching reactions.

jude’s mouth finds its way back home in the embrace of your lips and you swear this is heaven, the way his cock slides in and out of your sopping cunt, set at such a perfect pace, the slight friction causing you to grow even wetter – the filth of it all contrasts so well with the sweetness of his muffled moans and tender kisses on your neck, moving down onto your collarbones and tits.

a particularly harsh thrust of his cock has your back arching, chest pushed up to his heated face, and he takes this golden opportunity to wrap his lips around your erect nipple, spending a good while sucking and tugging on the skin around it. you’re amazed at how his cock doesn’t relent inside you, the speed still so quick and consistent even when he’s so occupied in painting splotches on your tits with his mouth.

“there,” he pants out, pulling his head back and marvelling at his own creation. “now, there’s no doubt that you’re really mine.” the smile he gives you is a killer.

you whine at his declaration of you belonging to him, scratching at his shoulders and calling out his name to indicate that it’s all too much for you, that you’re so, so close to cumming on his cock and really giving him what he wants rather than pleasing yourself. you figure that’s you gone now; you’re more willing to put the boy above your own needs because you’re down that fucking bad for him.

“fuck, jude, i’m gonna cum!” you sob, your moans becoming more frequent and higher pitched, legs starting to shake from the intoxicating mix of exhaustion and delight. you’re frantically chanting “please, please, please” into his mouth which parts to swallow your whimpering, wet lips kissing your trembling ones.

“go on, baby, cum for me, cum all over this cock,” he groans out, eyes squeezing shut when the feeling of your pussy clamping down tightly on his thickness proves too much to handle, face finding refuge in the crook of your neck. he knows you don’t need his permission, he would’ve let you orgasm as many times as you wanted to, would’ve let you use him like your own personal sex toy, but the words were only there to keep you going when his hips felt like faltering – he needed you cumming on his cock like he promised before, and he wasn’t about to fuck it up himself.

a final scream rips from your throat as you cum hard around jude, pussy clenching and pulsating around his cock so sporadically you thought you were having two orgasms at once. jude can’t handle it anymore, pulling out with a myriad of moans as he pumps his shaft with a hand, decorating the expanse of your lower abdomen with warm, white liquid. you’re still squirming, slowly trying to wheeze out the remaining whimpers from your lungs which you’re finding hard to do with the way jude pants and moans above you, the boy so spent he can’t help but breathe like he hasn’t had access to air for the past hour.

he flops down by your side, arms and legs sprawled like a starfish, chest rising and falling as he attempts to recuperate from the mindblowing sex you two just had. the image is so unserious that you can’t stifle your giggles but you decide to take another step of courage to lay on your side resting your head on his shoulder, fingers stroking his abs and playing with the curly hairs of his happy trail.

the room is quiet now with the scent of sex wafting through your nostrils on occasion but it’s the most comfortable silence you’ve experienced with jude, the feeling of his hot skin on yours so soothing to you.

after a period of panting, jude clears his throat and your ears prick up at the presence of sound. he turns his head towards you and you lift yourself up and off him out of instinct – you want full attention on him.

“i don’t want this to be a one-time kinda thing, y’know,” he proclaims, biting his lip from saying too much in one go.

“what, is this your way of saying you want round two already?” you joke, nose crinkling at the way he rolls his eyes playfully.

“shut up,” he delivers a poke to your side. “i mean, well, i don’t want either one of us to see this as a spur-of-the-moment thing, i just…” you look at him expectantly, silently telling him to continue. “i want you to be my girlfriend, y/n.”

you’re nearly knocked back by his words, wondering if they’re real or if you’re simply just hearing things. you thought dialogue like that, coming from him, was only reserved for your imagination, kept secret and only spoken to you in late-night mental scenarios that would comfort you on your way to slumberland.

you let out a laugh that’s an odd mix of relief and disbelief, quickly replying “yes, yes, of course” to his awaiting face, which releases a look of relief itself before jude captures your lips with such passion you’re both knocked back onto the plush pillows, giggling into each other’s mouths until your hands find themselves running down the defined muscles of his abdomen and over his hardening cock.

#girlies i’ve never had alcohol in my life so i hope the way i wrote reader & jude being drunk was ok !!! 🫶🏽#then again i’ve never had sex in my life and i write extensively about it so u know . 😭😭😭#guys imagine if before every smut fic i wrote a disclaimer like ‘guys i-i’ve never had sex before but i hope i did okay with this 🥺🥺' LMAO #ALSO omg im sorry abt the inconsistencies in tone + tempo i legit wrote this over a 5 month period + came back to it at times when i didnt #feel like writing + i was just tryna get to the good bit iykwim ( ͡ ° ͜ʖ ͡ °)#˗ˏˋ 📝 ˎˊ˗#˗ˏˋ 💬 ˎˊ˗#jude bellingham #jude bellingham smut #jude bellingham imagine #jude bellingham x fem!reader #jude bellingham x reader #jude bellingham x you #jude bellingham x y/n #football imagine #footballer smut #footballer imagine

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unicyclehippo · 1 year

Note

wn prompt blood

for @possibilistfanfiction , joan of arc themed fic for you!

most of the time, you don't remember your dreams. they're hazy, forgettable for the most part. sometimes, a couple of bright details will linger, like that time you didn't put sunscreen under the straps of your swimsuit and went red there on either side. the next morning, the sunburn had been warm and itchy and you'd scratched at it all the next day. your dreams are like that. (your curiosity is like that, just on the edge of painful.)

sometimes, you dream of beatrice. it doesn't happen often and usually it isn't that exciting. once, she's a seagull, and dream-you had looked at it and went, oh there she is. once, she's a face in a crowd. once, she's a big old church. that had made you laugh, even in your dream, because like. yeah. thanks subconscious, you get it, she's a nun. when you wake up, you tell beatrice, breathless, as she makes you run and run and run. you were a seagull. you were walking down the street. you were a church. sometimes you save it for your recovery water-break, because you want to see the way embarrassment breaks across her face, hot and pink, when you say i dreamed about you last night.

what was i this time? she asked, once. a frog?

no, don't you get it? whatever you look like, you're beatrice. you're always beatrice.

tonight, you dream of beatrice and she's an angel. she's beatrice and she isn't. it's her face. it's her pyjamas, her legs lean and long, her hair loose around her shoulders, her stride as she walks toward you. but it's not her.

she stops in front of you.

you're in a dark room. it's super-dense and burning hot, like what you imagine being at the core of the earth would feel like - crust, mantle, outer core like the heaviest weighted blankets ever. beatrice is standing in front of you, so fucking pretty, and then she reaches out for you and you know, you know it's not her, because beatrice doesn't touch you when she wants to. and there's nothing here to teach you, nothing to learn, so she never would. she sits two inches from you on the couch, she sleeps with a pillow between you in the bed, she doesn't touch you when she slips past you to get to the fridge when you're washing dishes in the sink. she doesn't touch you because she wants to and you know this even though you've never spoken about it, never brought it up, because you're intimately familiar with not touching the things you want and while you don't understand what is stopping beatrice, exactly, you think it has something to do with hunger. you're hungry all the time; you want to eat the world, would, if you could. but she's a nun, and they don't get to want things, they take vows of chastity and poverty or whatever, and you don't know if there's a vow specifically about hunger but you wouldn't be surprised. eve and her apple, jesus and his fig tree. the day you came to life, you ate strawberries, a lot of them, as fast as you could. juice spilling down your chin. the day beatrice swore to protect you and took off her habit, her veil, she hadn't eaten anything at all.

you're in a dark room. it's super-dense and burning hot and beatrice reaches out her hands and you take them, even though it isn't beatrice (it looks like her, you want it to be her) and she pulls herself toward you and your heart is beating so fast fluttering at the base of your throat like you swallowed a bird (a swallow, ha!) and it's struggling, beating frantically to escape, and you don't know what to do. beatrice is a nun. beatrice is touching you. her hands are so warm. you've felt them before, burning against your skin when she takes you down (take me apart please, sister beatrice) onto the practice mat day after day after day. her hands are burning hot. her hands are gentle but they don't move normally, they move up your arms and the heat follows, like you're pushing your hands into liquid flame. up your arms. over your shoulders.

she brings you in for a hug.

an embrace. the thought is a little shaky, a little embarrassed even in your own mind. you've never been embraced before.

your faces are so close.

beatrice, you think.

she doesn't smile, doesn't blink. she stares into your eyes, warm and thoughtful and deeply sad, and that is beatrice, but you can't tell where she ends and where whatever this is begins. it's not beatrice. it's just wearing her face.

the swallow in your throat didn't escape in time. it stabs its beak into you and you're numb from the neck down, you're dead from the neck down. there's blood in your throat, hot and holy; you don't want it to be either of those things, you don't want it at all, you don't want to be bleeding, it's in your mouth and you're burning hot but you're frozen in her arms. you can't move.

'beatrice,' you whimper.

she leans in and in and in and you didn't want the blood but if she kisses you it might be fucking worth it. her lips don't touch you; she leans sideways, going in for the hug? she's so close, the heat of her stings. your cheek, your ear. she pauses. you're burning up. she leans in. her lips touch the skin behind your ear. you burn.

the apartment is small. two single beds squashed against opposite walls. you wake up with blood on your lips, with a scream on your lips, with the smell of something burning high up in your nose. pressing your hand to your mouth so you don't throw up. you're sweating. the window by your bed groans when you shove it open, careful to press on the wood because if you shove at it, if you shove at the glass it'll break under your trembling, too-strong fingers, it'll shatter and cut and you don't want to hurt, you don't want to bleed, you just want to shove your head out the window and breathe.

elbows on the windowsill, head hanging over the edge, you do. you breathe. choke on feathers. cough once around the feeling. every bit of you hurts like it's been stretched out. like a growth spurt, the pain of growing into yourself; like the rack, like someone did this to you, pulled you to pieces and put you back together with nothing but the hurt to say it was done at all.

it's barely dawn. here, in the valley, pre-dawn is grey and green, all caves and growing things. it's startlingly beautiful, like everything else you've seen. you love being here. knee-high grass, apple trees, history. there are parts of town that you avoid; there's a red shimmer to them that you thought might be wraiths but over time, you figured out that it was history, blood on blood on blood, and there's something to the echo of it, the layering, that is terrifying. there's something to the rebuilding of it that is daunting, lovely, humbling. could you do that? see your house burn down, see your family struck down, and build on the same place? what about your broken back? what about your death, your resurrection? was that the same?

this morning, you hear church bells in the distance. turn toward the spire, the bells, the road that cuts up and out of the valley. you are going to leave this place. not today but soon.

beatrice is asleep still. you pull back from the window, shuffle to the end of your tiny bed and lean over, patting around for the socks that you kicked off sometime during the night. the floorboards are freezing, even in the balmy summer.

stepping into the bathroom, you close the door before turning on the light so it doesn't wake beatrice.

you don't lock the door, ever.

the first time you showered here, you'd slipped getting out of the tub. the side of it was slick with soap and you were still clumsy - are still clumsy - still figuring out how high to lift your leg to step over things. beatrice is accustomed to it, your imperfect depth perception, the way you stumble when walking down the street, over your feet, over the uneven pavement; she's not accustomed to hearing the thump of your dumb ass falling out of the bathtub and knocking yourself out when your skull slams into the bathroom counter. you got a concussion, a headache, and a new rule. don't lock the door anymore, beatrice had said when you crawled to the door and unlocked it for her, to stop her from trying to break it down. (don't scare me like that again, she hadn't said but you'd heard her, loud and clear.)

you lock it this morning. it clicks shut. the sound shakes down your spine. when you stretch, you can hear it in your ears, the click.

the mirror is brilliantly clear in the cool morning. you press up close enough to it that your breath puffs out, fogs the glass. it shows you a girl, long hair blonde at the ends, in the curls where the sun has burned it. she's scared, eyes wide. little curls of hair are plastered to her forehead, her neck, where it's sweat-damp.

'you're okay,' you tell her, whisper it. touch the mirror clumsily, touch her cheek. leaning your forehead to the cold glass, you kiss her. when you pull back, the imprint of your lips remains like a fingerprint on the glass. when you pull back, you see that she doesn't believe you.

that makes sense. the dream stings when you think about it. your skin stings. it should be pink all over, burned bright. your neck - your neck. you haven't let yourself think about it. you look at the girl in the mirror and she looks back and nods.

'it's not real,' the girl in the mirror says, and you don't believe her.

lifting a hand, you touch your cheek, drag your fingers back to your ear, press your hair back as you turn. there, behind your ear, your skin is a burning bright red. a circle, a kiss of flame, like the press of pursed lips. the pain eases. you watch as it heals; it doesn't fade, not entirely, but the red goes from flame to blood to scab to sting. you could pass it off as a scar from the car accident, you could pass it off as a birthmark. you could do these things, if beatrice hadn't dressed you in a habit, hadn't collected up your hair and tucked it away into a nun's wimple - veil? whatever. if she hadn't had her hands on you, directing you, training you. if she hadn't helped you brush your hair and gather it up in a very neat ponytail. if she hadn't hugged you, fingers on the back of your neck. if she didn't watch you like she was trying to memorise you, mostly because it's her job.

you let your hair fall back into place. it covers the mark, mostly, when it's loose like this and it doesn't hurt anymore. if anything, it tickles; the skin feels sensitive and warm, feels more alive than the rest of you. that feeling fades too.

you flush the toilet. you wash your hands. you climb back into bed.

from the other side of the room, beatrice says, 'time?' sleepy, sad.

you laugh. it had been the best day of your life, finding out that beatrice liked sleep more than prayer, more than breakfast, more than anything. when she's curled into bed, blankets bundled around her, pillow pressing lines into her skin, you don't see a nun, you don't see god's weapon; you see a girl, sleepy and warm, you see someone who is dozingly selfish, who allows herself the small comfort of the snooze button. fondness light on your tongue, you look over at her, at the grumpy misery of rousing, and tell her, 'you can sleep more, bea. i just had to pee.'

'thank god,' she mutters and shoves her face into her pillow.

the thing in your dream had not been beatrice. it looked like her, it walked like her, it had seemed like her, a little beyond skin deep. you think of being mad but you're not. it makes sense. you can't think of a single thing it might have looked like except her.

an angel came to you in your dreams, and it looked like beatrice.

days pass. everything carries on the same way it has for the last few weeks. you work your shifts at the tiny cafe, bad at making coffee but good at making people smile. also, surprisingly good at math. you get to use a lot of puns, get to flirt with a lot of the customers. after work, you meet beatrice for training, running up and down stairs until your lungs burn. then sparring. you're improving, fast.

the news plays stories of a crisis, a virus. boils. hospitals filled with pain and hurt. the news shows images of him. you see men on their knees, you see people stretching out their hands to touch the hem of his white robes, you see the little army falling into step behind him and you ask beatrice to teach you how to use the sword.

'i'm ready.'

'you're angry. you can't afford to be angry.'

'the halo is powered by my emotions, right? i promise you, the anger helps.'

beatrice holds onto the sword. there's a sliver of blue where she's pulled it from the sheathe, just a little. divinium has never felt like anything before and you don't feel anything now when blue light washes through the room but you hear, behind your ear, a sigh.

'we must control our emotions, ava, or they will control us. anger is not what will win this war. remember what sister melanie wrote, remember what the rest of the warrior nuns wrote. you must move past these feelings.'

'fine. teach me how to do it, then. but i will need the sword too. isn't that what we're doing? isn't that why we're hiding? so i can train? that's the only thing that can hurt him, bea. i need to know.'

she teaches you. of course she does. but she watches you like she can see through you, like your skin is glass and she can see through to the scared girl with her skin on fire, with a bellyful of fire.

it happens like this.

three days after the dream, you are walking home smelling of coffee grounds, sneakers gritty with them. there's a sting on the inside of your wrists where you caught the steam wand because you were distracted, too busy making a joke at the pretty boy waiting for his drink, and the halo healed it instantly to a glossy red but it itches. you scratch at it.

across the street, there's a couple. a girl and a guy. they're walking together. his arm hangs around her shoulders. a wraith hangs around his. there's a kiss behind your ear, there's a voice and the voice is the kiss and it's also the light glinting off the knife as he adjusts it in the pocket of his jacket and it's the knowledge that cracks between your shoulder blades like a glowstick that he will hurt her, that she'll be found in this alley tomorrow by police, that she'll bleed out overnight.

your feet stick to the pavement.

beatrice likes this town. you like this town. you don't want to leave.

what happens, you ask the angel, if i do nothing?

the angel doesn't answer. it knows what you know. you can't do nothing.

you follow them. you follow them because there's a voice searing into your head that tells you to, because there's heat in your spine like a molten rod keeping you upright, keeping you walking. but mostly, you follow them because coming back to life has been a fucking joy—the beach, the sun, the sand, running, becoming, fucking, eating, drinking, dancing, singing, laughing—and that stops, it stops when someone stabs you. it stops when adriel presses you back against rock and sinks his hand into you, tries to kill you. you follow them because there's a girl who is about to be killed and it doesn't have to happen.

beatrice will be mad. she will forgive you.

the alley opens into a little square space between the buildings. there's one of those big dumpsters and a cluster of wooden pallets. there's a couple leaning up against the wall; they look like lovers and for a second you wonder if you were wrong, seeing the way he has her pressed up against the bricks, the way her head tilts back, the length of her neck arched, eager, her hands on his shoulders, fingernails biting into the leather of his jacket. but then you hear it—'no!'—and see it—light, the glint of it, the knife—and you race forward. grab him by the back of his jacket and wrench him away.

he crashes into the dumpster, unmoving.

'oh my god, oh my god,' the girl says. 'oh my god, he has a knife,'

which you should really take off him, but she's shaking and you feel strong, vibrant, brave, lovely. you feel like a knight, in your coffee-stained sneakers and your ugly little polo shirt that beatrice picked out of the thrift store for you. you feel like a knight, saving her life.

'i know. can you walk?'

'i - yeah, i - oh my god, he was going to kill me,' she says, and sags against the bricks, and you catch her before she falls.

'can you run? he won't stay down forever.'

'i think you knocked him out.' then, her eyes catch on something over your shoulder and go wide, terrified. 'his eyes are black, why are his eyes black?'

she shrieks when he lurches toward you both; you push her behind you and kick him in the nuts, staggering him for a split second, and walk the both of you back to the alley, telling her to go, to run away.

'why are his eyes black? what the fuck do you want, luc! what is wrong with you?'

'luc? that's his name? it's a long story but basically he's possessed.' ooh beatrice is going to kill you for this. 'i'll fix it. it's not his fault, i'll fix it.'

'possessed? what do we - do i call the cops?' she shrieks again, wraps her arms around you as you duck and pick up a two by four, jab it at him in a poor imitation of the sword fighting beatrice has been drilling into you.

'just run, just go. i'll fix it,' you tell her again, and you must sound confident because she turns and runs.

this isn't like the first time. you are not newly alive, you are not weak, you are not confused. you are afraid, still. the wraith throws himself at you; you twist free - thank you, bea - and punch him in the face. knuckles crack against his cheekbone, an awful sound. the two by four breaks across his shoulders. you hit him until there's red spilling out of him; only then do you stop, because you've done it, the wraith is seeping out, but you don't have a divinium knife, you don't have anything that can help.

the angel kissed you in your dream, it told you everything you needed to know in that moment and every moment folded into one; the angel is the kiss, is the sky and the sun rising over the valley, is the centuries of blood in the dirt, is the wine and the tang and the knife and the light. it didn't say anything at all. it told you everything.

burn.

he stands, wrathful, wraithful. drives his shoulder into your stomach and pins you against the wall; the corner of the brickwork slams along the full length of your spine. you are held there; you cannot move. in another life, you are pinned to a wooden post. ropes itch around your wrists. in another life, he kills you there.

burn, the angel told you.

the halo ignites. the alley fills with light.

when you get home, it is with red knuckles and a tear in your ugly polo shirt. beatrice is waiting for you in her training clothes.

'i used the halo,' you tell her. 'i'm sorry.'

she was ready for this, because she's ready for almost anything, but she's not happy. the apartment is packed up quickly. you shove all your clothes into one bag—your shirts with hers, your pants with hers, your underwear with hers—and finally the guilt catches up with you because yes, it would have fucking killed you to walk away from the alley without helping but now you have to run and you are dragging beatrice with you.

there are church bells in the distance and know this is the day you were thinking of. looking out the window over your bed, you see the church and its spire, the road that cuts up and out of the valley. behind you, the phone rings. beatrice snatches it up and holds it to her cheek.

'we have to leave,' she tells someone on the other end of the line. mother superion, probably. 'ava used the halo.'

they have questions for you.

you used the halo? yes.

there was a fight? yes. a wraith. a girl was going to die.

did it get away? no. you destroyed it.

how? without divinium? the halo burned it up.

how? i don't know.

why?

'why, ava?' beatrice asks, bitterly frustrated.

you are done with packing. drop the bag onto the floor at the end of the bed and sink down onto it. it creaks under your weight. you stare down at your hands; they are healing, slowly. your stomach aches where he slammed into you, and inside too, guts churning unhappily under beatrice's disappointed stare. your shoulder blades burn as the halo works.

your back doesn't hurt; the halo healed that first, like it knew that you would fall apart, like it knew you wouldn't be able to make it home if your back hurt like that.

beatrice is waiting for you to say something like, i saw the wraith and i had to do something. something like, i've had enough of running. something like that. you could tell her that. it's true, mostly, but she squints at you, suspicious and unnerved, and you know it isn't true enough.

'i had a dream.' the words come out rough and untidy. you had shoved them deep down and now you are flailing to find them again, one at a time. 'three nights ago. an angel. it came to me, i guess, i think. and today i heard it again. or, today was what it had been talking about.'

beatrice frowned. she was standing across the room, in the corner, because she had tucked herself away there with all her anger neatly packed away and hadn't moved since.

'an angel came to you. spoke to you?'

'sort of.'

'sort of,' she repeated. the words would have been sharply spoken, if beatrice weren't so careful about their placement. the sharp edges didn't come anywhere near you but you knew they were there. 'what does that mean? why didn't you mention this before? you know i am trying to help.'

'i know, i know that. but i don't believe in angels, i don't believe in god. so, yeah, i didn't fucking mention it because it's insane and i'm freaking out a bit.'

'ava.' beatrice says your name so softly, so kindly. you suspect she's forgotten that she's holding the phone to her cheek, that her mother superion can hear her. 'it was just a dream.'

words can deceive. when you talk, you translate, and it has to be a little bit of a lie every single time because nothing that is said is ever what it is. the space between those two things are filled with faith, a certain amount of trust, that strains when the distance between what is said and what is (could be) grows greater. i am ava, you say to anyone in the world, and they will believe you, little faith required. i spoke with an angel, an angel spoke to me, an angel wore your face and came to me in the night and pressed its holy lips against my skin. how much faith would be required to accept that?

words are not enough.

so you take her by the hand and lift it to your cheek. something flickers in her eyes—you wonder, briefly, if she had the same dream, if she had been in your dream worn by an angel, or if she's just had this thought all by herself, unholy, human—and slide her fingers to the spot behind your ear. beatrice's eyes go wide, then narrow. she pulls you forward. twists your head to the side and lifts your hair out of the way.

'you've been wearing your hair down,' she says, steel on her tongue; arrow, fire-starter. you burn. 'you've been hiding this from me.'

you drive away.

well, beatrice drives away. she rents a car with an ID you've never seen her use—secrets upon secrets upon good intentions—and you leave. past the church, up the road out of the valley. you shiver as the town disappears behind you, feel ghostly fingers against your spine.

she drives to a little town a few hours away.

you buy new clothes, leave the car where the rental agency will pick it up again.

beatrice takes you to the station and buys tickets for the next train. this town, this afternoon, is wet and blue. beatrice drags you into the bathroom and the dull light drips through a small window up near the roof and you are reminded of when you dropped the sword into the river and it had sunk to the bed. the light spilled out when you reached for it, like the sword was cutting a hole between worlds, and divinity spilled out cold and blue into the water. you need to look different, both you, just in case. you paste bleach into her dark hair to lighten it. she cuts your hair as neatly as she can within the confines of a time limit and a cramped bathroom. when she's done, your hair falls just beneath your ears. curls a little.

beatrice stares at you like she's seen a ghost.

'what? did you fuck it up?'

she frowns, because you swore, because she doesn't fuck anything up. 'no.'

'bea.'

'we don't know much about joan of arc.' beatrice reaches out a hand toward you, a little helpless, a lot awed; she flinches back before she touches you. 'most historical documents agree that she was a great speaker. either she had a lovely voice or that she was compelling.' her eyes trace the line of your hair, the line she had drawn. your eyes trace the line between you, the one she doesn't cross. 'she had dark hair cut short. and a mark behind her ear.'

'she died.'

beatrice nods. 'burned at the stake. for heresy.'

you don't want to die. ever since the dream, you've been tasting blood. you haven't told beatrice that and you won't. something is coming and you're scared.

'heresy, huh?' you grin at her. 'sounds like my kind of girl.'

beatrice washes the bleach out of her hair. you help her, sink your fingers into her hair—the line between you is diminished, beatrice allows you to cross it sometimes, when you need to. she still doesn't touch you—and wash her clean. it's the same sink where she cut your hair, changed you. does it feel like a baptism for her? you don't believe in that sort of thing but she does and when she lifts her head out of the sink, you know that something has changed.

you're sitting on the floor of the bathroom, back against the cool tiles, and watching her dry her hair, her ears, with one of the tea-towels you'd randomly shoved into the bag while you were packing. your hair is short and it tickles your neck. you scratch at the mark behind your ear and blurt out, finally,

'it looked like you. the angel, i mean.'

beatrice stares down at you.

'oh. angels are Asian?'

you burst out laughing. 'maybe? but i mean it literally looked like you. like you. like,' you wave a hand at her. 'it was you, i mean.' you feel hot all over. nothing to do with an angel.

'oh,' she says again.

beatrice drags her fingers through her hair. you watch carefully. you've seen her plenty of times now without her veil (wimple?), seen her after a shower, rubbing the wet out of her hair with a big, fluffy towel. you have always looked away. now, she's using a teatowel that you hate—it never seems to dry the dishes, just moves the water around, and you'll be glad to chuck it out now that a little of the bleach has stained the corner of it—and you can't look away from her careful hands, the way she gently squeezes the towel around her hair, working down to the tips.

'i'm sorry for not telling you.'

'i understand why you didn't.'

'do you?'

'you thought i wouldn't believe you. that an angel spoke to you.'

she says it so carefully but wonder spills out from the words anyway. she believes, she has faith. it fills the space between the words, bright and blue and lovely.

'no. after - after him,' you say, because beatrice has asked you never to speak his name in public, 'i think we're all a little more open minded about things like that existing.'

'then why?'

the tiles are cool when you rest your head back against the wall. you stare at her—gentle hands, the slope of her neck exposed, all her hair gathered to the other side, the way she holds herself, more relaxed now that you have a plan but set, prepared to leap into action if the door slams open, if they find you here. the black sweatpants she found here in town, the comfy slouch of her sweater. travelling clothes, new clothes. when she squeezes water out of her hair, a droplet falls to the cuff of her new sweater; you wonder if the bleach has all washed away, or if the sweater will stain. there's a chain around her neck; the OCS cross hangs heavy at the end of it, hidden beneath her clothes. the only thing you can see that reminds you of sister beatrice.

'mostly, i wasn't sure how you'd take it. if i said, i dreamed about you last night.' you've said those exact words to her before. you have never said them like this. she doesn't need to ask what she was—seagull, frog, face in the crowd, church—she was herself, she was more than what she lets you see of herself. beatrice's cheeks pink. you smile at her, a bit wobbly. 'and i didn't want to listen. i don't want to listen. to it. to an angel. when has that ever been a good thing for the person listening? when has it ever ended well? i just - i want to be normal.' the last time you said that, mary kicked you off a cliff. you broke so many bones that you couldn't move for a long time, and your vision stayed fuzzy well into the next day. you brace for a lecture—not everything is about you—or worse, another kick, a knife to the back, unworthy, but beatrice only looks at you. 'i don't want to die.'

the towel hits the floor with a wet slap.

beatrice kneels. she lowers herself to the floor, to her knees, to your side. she clasps your wrist. her fingers are cold, slippery with water. you shiver, twist, so that you are holding her hand. so that she is holding yours.

'i won't let that happen.' her mouth goes flat, eyes determined, and with her other hand she touches your cheek, turns your head. moves your hair away from the mark; for a long time, she stares at the mark. you wonder if she knows what you haven't said. you kissed me. you pressed your lips to my skin and i burned and burned and burn. she must, she must. she presses her thumb to your skin—cold thumb, hot brand—and you jerk toward her, a broken, hot sound in the back of your throat. you cannot stop yourself; you didn't know until it happened that you were capable of such a noise.

beatrice's eyes go wide. she doesn't take her hand away. she presses again and this time you are prepared. cheeks hot, you look away—stare resolutely at the pipes beneath the sink, the curve of the metal, the ugly break in the wall where the pipes disappear. beatrice swipes her thumb over the mark and then takes her hand away. it is heresy, you think, when she says,

'i don't want you to die either.'

#omg this took so long jude im so sorry but here it is!!#warrior nun #tagging my stories #prompt fill #avatrice

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