tumblr dot com
noise dept.
Today's Document
Origami Around
#extradirty
h
sheepfilms
Claire Keane
wallacepolsom
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
Aqua Utopia｜海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
occasionally subtle
Monterey Bay Aquarium
Product Placement
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
RMH
titsay
Cosmic Funnies
$LAYYYTER
Sweet Seals For You, Always
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from Germany
seen from Belarus
seen from Singapore
seen from Australia
seen from Argentina
seen from France
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from Poland
seen from Malaysia
seen from Malaysia
seen from Malaysia
seen from Australia
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from Belarus
seen from Hong Kong SAR China
@drowning-in-paragraphs
Football masterlist
Jude Bellingham
does it scare you that in less than 3 months it’ll be 2014
im gonna be real with you hotboyproblems it scares me somuch
Supercopa de España (2024)
Tumblr suggesting Barça content like do you not know who I am?
Shakira's ex????? Cmon tumblr get your head out of your ass...
I loved not again<333 would you think about making a part 2!?
IT TAKES A MESSAGE
a/n: I hope you like this part too!
jude bellingham x exgf!reader
warnings: okey this one has a (little bit of) angst.
summary: After months of holding strong, resisting the temptation of breaking the promise you two swore you’d keep, one hand gripping your phone, and other holding a glass of tequila, is just what you needed to silence the voice of reason. You told yourself not to press send, but the moment your thumb hovered over the screen, your resolve crumbled. And now, here he is, standing beside you so real that regret is nowhere to be found. You shouldn’t have sent that message, but maybe, just maybe, this is exactly where you were meant to end up.
PART 1: NOT AGAIN
The music in the bar was loud, but not loud enough to drown out the sound of your own thoughts. The dim lights cast everything in a haze, but that didn’t help either. You swirled the drink in your hand—a cheap tequila you didn’t even like—staring into the amber liquid as if it held some kind of answer.
Tonight wasn’t supposed to go this way.
You had a date. A proper one. A guy from your coworker’s circle—smart, funny, attractive enough. He’d suggested dinner at a cozy little place uptown, and you’d agreed, hoping for another fresh start.
But when the time came, you couldn’t do it. You’d stood outside the restaurant for fifteen minutes, staring at the entrance, your heart pounding. The idea of smiling politely, of pretending to care about someone who wasn’t him, had made you chest ache in the worst way.
So, you walked away and felt like shit.
The cab dropped you off at a bar you’d never been to, somewhere far from home, far from familiarity. You told yourself you’d just have one drink. Maybe two. But as the hours passed and the alcohol dulled the edges of your misery, you found yourself slipping.
Your phone was heavy in your hand.
You shouldn’t. You’d promised yourself you wouldn’t. For months, you’d kept your promise—no texts, no calls, no accidentally running into each other.
It had been a long time. Months. You’d blocked him everywhere, and he’d done the same. You hadn’t seen him, hadn’t heard his voice. You should’ve been proud.
Instead, you felt hollow.
The tequila burned you throat as you took another sip, your finger hovering over his name in your contacts. You’d unblocked him just minutes ago, telling yourself it didn’t mean anything.
But it did.
And then you did the unthinkable.
“I hate you.”
Your thumb hit send before you could stop yourself.
The moment the message left your phone, panic set in. Your stomach twisted, your heart raced, and you cursed yourself under your breath.
What the hell were you thinking?
You stared at the screen, breath catching in your throat. Maybe he wouldn’t reply. Maybe he’d hadn’t blocked you or he had changed his number, or maybe he’d—
Your phone buzzed.
“What did I do now?”
Your breath caught. The sight of his name on your screen sent a jolt through your chest. The words stung with their casualness, as if no time had passed. You stared at the message, your heart pounding, your hands trembling. You could leave it. Ignore him. Pretend it never happened. But that wasn’t who you were.
“Existing. Leaving. Coming back.”
The three dots appeared, disappeared, and then reappeared.
“You drunk?”
Your lips pressed into a thin line. Tipsy wasn’t drunk. You wanted to throw your phone across the bar. Instead, you typed back:
“No.”
Another reply, almost instant.
“Where are you?”
You hesitated, chewing on your lip. The smarter version of yourself—the one who’d spent months trying to move on—screamed not to answer. But the other part of you, the one that had sent the first text, the one drowning in whiskey and regret, won out.
“Blue lights. Why?”
He left you on read and thirty minutes later, he walked into the bar. You didn’t look up immediately. You felt him before you saw him, even in the dim light, he was unmistakable—tall, sharp jaw, the leather jacket fitting perfectly... You hated how your pulse quickened.
He spotted you immediately, his dark eyes locking onto yours as he crossed the room, approaching you slowly, his hands shoved into his jacket pockets. His dark curls were now longer than you remembered, he had a beard now, and the faint scruff on his jaw made him look rougher, more tired. Your stomach twisted, and you hated the flicker of relief that coursed through you.
“You look like shit,” he said, sliding onto the stool next to you. It was a lie, of course—a flimsy one at that. The sight of you, even in the light light of this rundown bar, hit him like a sucker punch. Months without you, and now here you were, disheveled but infuriatingly magnetic. His pulse quickened, and he shifted uncomfortably as the denim of his jeans grew uncomfortably tight.
“Wow. Thanks,” you muttered, staring into your glass. You didn’t look up, but the faintest twitch at the corner of your lips betrayed a flicker of amusement—or maybe irritation. It was hard to tell with you, and Jude hated how much he loved that about you.
The bartender gave him a questioning glance, but Jude held up a hand. “Just water,” he said, before turning back to you. “How many have you had?”
“I’m fine, Jude,” you snapped, hating how small his concern made you feel.
“Sure, you are,” he said, his tone softer now. “So, what’s this about?”
You looked away, refusing to meet his gaze. The truth sat heavy in your chest, too raw to voice.
“Don’t do that,” he said, leaning in slightly. “Don’t shut me out after summoning me like a bloody genie.”
You let out a bitter laugh. “I didn’t summon you.”
“No? What would you call unblocking me to send that?” He gestured at your phone, his voice quieter, less biting.
“You had me unblocked too.” you tried to avoid his questioning, but he did not bite.
“What is going on, Y/N?”
The whiskey burned its way down your throat as you struggled to meet Jude’s gaze. His presence was suffocating and grounding all at once, the familiar pull of him as inescapable as gravity. He didn’t say a word as he reached over, his fingers brushing yours as he slid the glass from your hand. His movements were calm but firm, the unspoken message clear. You glared at him, but he didn’t flinch, setting the drink out of your reach with deliberate care.
Then, you took a deep breath, the words clawing at your throat, desperate to be spoken yet terrifying to release. You didn’t look at him as you said it.
“I had a date,” you admitted, the syllables falling like a fragile confession.
The air between you shifted instantly. Jude froze, his body going rigid as the words landed. For a moment, his expression was unreadable, his face schooled into a careful neutrality. But the tell was there—his jaw tightened just a fraction, and his fingers twitched, curling slightly against the counter as if trying to grasp something solid in the room.
“A date,” Jude blinked, his brows knitting together as the words sank in. The faintest flicker of something crossed his face—hurt, maybe anger—but he quickly masked it. “And you left him to come here?” he asked, his tone carefully neutral.
You shook your head, a bitter laugh escaping your lips. “I didn’t even make it inside. I just… couldn’t do it. It felt wrong.”
His jaw tightened, and he looked away, his fingers tapping lightly against the counter. The muscles in his shoulders tensed under his jacket, and you could tell he was biting back a hundred different responses.
Wrong. The word echoed in his mind, carving into him like glass. He didn’t want to care about what you’d done or who you’d almost been with, but the thought of you sitting across from some stranger, smiling in that way that made the world feel brighter, or laughing at someones stupid jokes, was unbearable.
“What do you want me to say to that?” he asked finally, his voice low and rough.
You shrugged, staring into your hands. “I don’t know. Nothing, maybe. I just… I couldn’t stop thinking about you, and I hate that. I hate you for still being in my head.”
Jude exhaled sharply, running a hand through his curls. He wanted to say something cutting, something to push you away before you dug any deeper into the fragile balance he’d spent months trying to maintain. But he couldn’t.
Because the truth was, you’d never left his head either.
“You’re drunk,” he said finally, his tone gentler than before.
“I’m not drunk,” you shot back, your voice sharper now. “I’m fine.”
He raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Right. That’s why you’re here, texting me that you hate me instead of… what’s his name? The guy you were supposed to be with tonight?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does to me.”
His voice was firm, but not harsh. There was something else there, hidden beneath his words—a need to understand, to place blame somewhere, anywhere, that wasn’t on himself.
You shook your head, refusing to meet his gaze. “I’m not doing this, Jude.”
A charged silence stretched between you, heavy and suffocating. His hand brushed yours on the bar, a fleeting touch that sent shivers down your spine. His voice, when it came, was quieter.
“You deserve better than this,” he said, his words softer but no less piercing.
A bitter laugh escaped your lips before you could stop it. “Coming from you, that’s rich.”
His lips twitched, almost into a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He studied you for another moment, as if debating whether to push further, before letting out a resigned sigh. “Come on,” he said, standing and holding out his hand. “Let’s get you home.”
You stared at his hand for a beat too long before taking it. His grip was warm, steadying, and you hated how it made you feel grounded.
The night air was crisp as you stepped out of the bar, the coolness biting against your flushed skin. Jude walked beside you, his hand hovering near your back but never quite touching. It was a strange kind of intimacy—protective, yet distant.
The cab he hailed arrived quickly. He opened the door for you, his hand brushing yours again as he guided you inside. He slid in next to you, his presence filling the small space.
You leaned back against the seat, your head buzzing not just from the alcohol but from the sheer weight of the evening. The silence between you was deafening, filled with words neither of you dared to say.
The driver glanced at you in the rearview mirror but didn’t comment. Jude gave your address, his voice low and steady, and the car lurched forward.
The streetlights cast fleeting shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth. You caught yourself staring and quickly looked away, focusing on the city lights blurring past the window.
“You’re quiet,” he said, breaking the silence.
“I don’t have anything to say,” you replied, your tone sharper than intended.
“Since when?” His voice held a hint of amusement, but it was tempered by something softer, almost tender.
You didn’t answer, crossing your arms over your chest and sinking further into your seat.
When the cab pulled up in front of your building, Jude paid the driver without hesitation. You opened your mouth to protest, but the look he gave you stopped you cold—firm, unyielding.
“Let’s get you inside,” he said, stepping out and waiting for you to follow.
The short walk to your door felt longer than it should have. You fumbled with your keys, your hands unsteady, and he reached out, gently guiding them into the lock. The small action made your chest ache, a reminder of how easily he could slip into the role of protector, of something more.
The door clicked open, and you stepped inside, the familiar scent of your apartment wrapping around you. Jude hesitated in the doorway, his hand resting on the frame as if he wasn’t sure he should follow.
“Are you coming in?” you asked, your voice quieter now, almost hesitant.
He didn’t answer right away, his dark eyes scanning your face. Then, with a sigh, he stepped inside, closing the door behind him.
The tension in the air was palpable as you set your purse on the counter and turned to face him. He stood near the door, his hands shoved into his pockets, watching you with an intensity that made your skin prickle.
You turned to face him, suddenly unsure of what to say. “You don’t have to stay.”
“I know,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “But I’m not leaving you like this.”
The space between you felt smaller. The air felt warmer. And when you turned to face him, his eyes met yours with a mix of frustration and something softer, something that made your chest ache.
“Jude…”
His name slipped from your lips like a plea, and before you could stop yourself, you were closing the distance between you, your hands fisting in the leather of his jacket as you pressed your lips to his.
For a moment, he froze, his body stiff beneath your touch. Then his hands were on your waist, pulling you closer and the kiss deepened, your bodies pressing together, the heat between you building like a tidal wave. But, suddenly, his hands came up, caressing your arms till they gripped your shoulders firmly but gently as he pushed you back.
“No,” he said, his voice rough, breath uneven after the short kiss.
Your chest tightened, your lips missing the warmth of his. “You don’t want me anymore?”
His eyes darkened, his grip on your shoulders tightening slightly. “That’s not... Don’t. Don’t do that.”
“Why not?” you asked, hating how your voice cracked.
“Because you’re upset. You’re tipsy. And you’re not thinking straight,” he said, his tone softer now. “And if we do this, you are not going to like it.”
“I always like it with you.”
His eyes softened for a moment, the weight of your words sinking in. A small, suppressed smile tugged at the corner of his lips and a “Me too”. Instead, he let out a breath, his hands still resting on your shoulders, steady and grounding. “Y/N, I’m not going to let you regret this in the morning,” he replied softly, shaking his head slightly.
His words settled over you like a cold weight, and you hated how right he was.
“You should…, you should get some sleep,” he said, stepping toward the door.
“Jude?” you called, your voice barely above a whisper. He froze, his hand gripping the doorknob so tightly his knuckles turned white. His shoulders stiffened, his heart thundering in his chest as he begged silently—prayed—that you wouldn’t say something to make this even harder.
“I hate you,” you said, and though the words spilled from your lips, they were hollow, stripped of the venom they once carried. Your smile followed, soft and heartbreakingly familiar, the kind that struck him like a blade, carving through the walls he so desperately tried to keep up. He felt his resolve shatter. You didn’t mean it. God, you didn’t mean it.
Slowly, he turned to face you, his gaze locking onto yours, raw and aching. He lingered, looking at every detail of your face, so he could sleep tonight. “I know,” he murmured, his voice trembling as his smile returned—a shadow of itself, fragile and fleeting. “I hate you too.”
And then, he left, closing the door behind him, carrying the weight of everything that was unsaid, but known.
PUSH AND PULL
a/n: Hey! Sorry it's been a long time, but rn I have a lot of exams… While I finish them, here's something I've written before.
jude bellingham x gf!reader
warnings: they fight but happy ending! long af
summary: In love, mess is inevitable—especially when you're as stubborn as Jude and you. A fight breaks out, and with it, comes chaos. But instead of facing it like adults, you both become kids again, unable to stop poking at each other and pushing each other's buttons. Whether it's a teasing remark, a too-close-for-comfort touch, or a pointed silence, you both dance around your feelings, caught in the tension of unspoken frustration. However, when the stubborness between you becomes unbearable, one kiss shatters the walls you’ve both carefully built.
The flat was a battlefield of silence. Not the peaceful kind, but the sharp-edged, suffocating kind, where every creak of the floorboards sounded like an accusation. Jude sat sprawled on the couch, legs wide, one hand gripping the remote. The TV played highlights from some old match, but you could tell from the way his eyes lingered on the screen without focus that he wasn’t watching.
You also sat on the couch, cross-legged, your laptop balanced on your thighs. With the television humming faintly in the background, you pretended to be engrossed in your laptop, fingers brushing aimlessly over the keys. Your hair fell over one shoulder, hiding the way you glanced at him every so often, wondering if he would break the silence. He did not. What he did, was catching you once, his dark eyes locking with yours for a brief moment, before you both looked away as if burned.
The tension in the room was suffocating, as if the air itself refused to move. Neither of you dared to take the first step to break the silence, which stretched between you like an invisible wall. The funniest part was that, in a house so vast, the two of you had ended up in the same room, sharing the same couch, barely a few inches apart. It was almost ridiculous. Tho, you didn’t react. Not outwardly, at least. Internally, you rolled your eyes so hard it hurt.
The fight from last night sat heavily between you. It was the kind of argument that left no room for winners, only wounds. You weren’t even sure how it started. He neither. A jab here, a poorly timed comment there, and before you knew it, the words turned sharp, biting into places neither of you wanted exposed. And now, all that was left was this: icy silence and the simmering frustration of two people who loved each other too much to let go but were too proud to make the first move.
Jude turned up the volume on the TV—just a notch higher than necessary. A small, petty move, but you caught it. You gritted your teeth and opened another tab on your laptop, pretending to type while your jaw clenched.
He leaned back, draping an arm casually across the back of the couch, his shirt hitching up just enough to reveal a sliver of skin. A silver of his abs. You noticed—of course, you noticed—but you stubbornly refused to let your gaze linger. He was doing it on purpose, you were sure of it. The smug bastard.
To be fair, you weren’t entirely innocent either. You’d been wandering around the house all day without a bra, and you were well aware of how his eyes occasionally darted toward you before he quickly looked away. It wasn’t overt, nothing you could call him out on, but you could feel his awareness of you, just as you were hyper-aware of him.
In retaliation, you slammed your laptop shut, regardless of the tabs you had open. The noise echoed through the room, over the loud volume of the TV, and for a moment, Jude’s eyes met yours. There was a challenge in his gaze, a slight arch of his eyebrow, but he didn’t say anything. Then, as if nothing, you opened the device again.
After a while, your boyfriend, decided that now the couch was not as comfortable as it was minutes before and went to the kitchen. In there, Jude’s movements were deliberate, exaggerated in a way that felt almost taunting. He opened the fridge with more force than necessary, the door creaking loudly, and lingered there for what felt like forever before finally pulling out a bottle of water. He unscrewed the cap with unnecessary force, the crack of the seal piercing the silence.
“You could’ve done that quieter,” you muttered, not looking up from your screen.
He snorted, the sound low and derisive. “You’ve been so sensitive later.”
Your jaw tightened, but you didn’t respond. Instead, you tapped harder on your keyboard, the clatter of the keys a pointed counter to his earlier disruption. It was petty, childish even, but you couldn’t help yourself. If he was going to be difficult, you could be too. You knew he hated that, and when you turned back, you caught the briefest twitch of his lips, as if he was holding back a smirk.
The audacity of him almost made you snap again.
The minutes dragged on, and the uneasy rhythm of your coexistence continued. Jude eventually moved to the living room, sprawling across the other end of the couch. His long legs stretched out, nudging your thigh as he adjusted his position. It wasn’t accidental—you could tell by the faint smirk that tugged at his lips when you glared at him.
“Can you not?” you snapped, shifting slightly away from him. Honestly, even when you were angry, you still liked the warmth of his contact, but you knew that pulling away would bother him.
“What? I’m just sitting,” he said, his tone infuriatingly casual. But then he moved his leg again, deliberately pressing it against yours, skin against warm skin. This time, you didn’t move, choosing instead to act as if you didn’t notice at all.
“Sitting doesn’t involve invading someone else’s space.”
He didn’t respond, but the smirk on his face only deepened, as if he found your irritation amusing. Leaning further back into the couch, he made himself completely comfortable, clearly unbothered.
You turned your focus back to your laptop, though you weren’t sure why you bothered. It wasn’t like you were getting any actual work done.
When he grabbed the remote and started flipping through channels, the sound of the TV growing louder with each change, you shot him another glare. He didn’t acknowledge it, his gaze fixed on the screen as if he couldn’t feel the weight of your annoyance.
“Are you trying to be obnoxious, or does it just come naturally?” you asked, your voice sharp.
He finally turned to look at you, annoyed, raising an eyebrow. “You’re one to talk.”
The air between you crackled with unspoken tension, but neither of you said anything more. Instead, you both retreated into the silence, your mutual frustration simmering just below the surface.
By early afternoon, the passive-aggressive dance had reached new heights. You were in the kitchen, making yourself a coffee when he got up moments later, brushing past you as he headed to the sink. You could have moved, made it easier for him, but you didn’t. Neither did he. Your shoulders bumped, and you felt a spark of irritation—at him, at yourself, at the situation.
“Excuse me,” he said finally, his tone clipped but low, his breath brushing your temple as he reached over you for a glass. You stepped aside, not because you wanted to but because your pride wouldn’t let you linger there like some lovesick fool.
He filled the glass with water, the sound of it cascading against the sink somehow louder than necessary. His presence so close to you was suffocating, but you refused to move too far. He stood there for a moment with heavy eye contact after taking a sip, leaning against the counter like he was waiting for you to react.
You didn’t.
Instead, you grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl and bit into it, appearing uninterested. You saw him glance at you from the corner of his eye, and for a fleeting second, you thought you saw amusement flicker across his face. It vanished as quickly as it appeared.
The rest of the afternoon passed in much the same way—sharp glances, clipped words, and small actions that seemed designed to provoke the other. When Jude left his empty glass on the coffee table instead of taking it to the sink, you picked it up with exaggerated care, your movements pointedly loud as you placed it in the dishwasher. When you adjusted the thermostat without asking, he changed it back moments later, the beep of the controls echoing like a challenge.
This repeated a few times.
Neither of you said what you really wanted to say. The words hovered in the air, unspoken but undeniable, like a ghost haunting the space between you.
As the night deepened, the tension between you became almost unbearable, thick and suffocating in the dimly lit room. You lay curled up on the bed, your fingers mindlessly scrolling through your phone, the glow of the screen illuminating your face. At the other end of the mattress, Jude sat hunched over his own device, the faint light from his screen carving sharp shadows across his features. His face was drawn tight, his brows furrowed in a way that made the lines of worry and frustration painfully obvious. You couldn’t help but wonder if you looked the same—tired, distant, and weighed down by the silence hanging between you.
You despised this chasm that had grown between you, the quiet hostility that lingered unspoken in the air. The silence wasn’t a comfortable one—it was filled with an unrelenting tension, an undercurrent of anger and hurt that felt alien and wrong. This wasn’t what you had envisioned. It wasn’t what you wanted. You loved him, even now, even through the haze of pain and frustration that churned within you. That love was still there, steady and unwavering, but it felt harder to reach, buried beneath the heavy layers of everything left unsaid.
Jude shifted slightly, his movement breaking the stillness. His fingers brushed against your arm, light as a whisper, a touch so brief it was almost nothing—but it wasn’t nothing. The contact jolted through you, surprising in its warmth and its ability to remind you of what once felt so natural. For a moment, you both froze. The touch lingered, suspended in time, carrying more weight than such a small gesture should. Then, just as suddenly as it had come, he pulled his hand away, retreating back to his side of the bed.
The silence returned, heavier than before.
The bed had grown colder as the hours ticked on, the tension between you and Jude acting like an invisible barrier, keeping you both firmly planted on opposite ends of the mattress. Sleep came to you first, though not peacefully—it was the restless kind, with the occasional shuffle and murmured sigh as your body sought the warmth that your pride kept you from asking for.
Jude stayed awake longer, his phone abandoned on the nightstand. His gaze flickered toward your sleeping form, the soft rise and fall of your shoulders pulling at something deep inside him. Even in sleep, there was a tightness to the set of your jaw, a lingering sign of the frustration that had consumed the day. He wanted to reach out, to smooth the lines away with his thumb, to press a kiss to the crown of your head like he always did when you argued. But the memory of your sharp words, and his own stubbornness, kept him still.
Eventually, exhaustion claimed him, and he drifted off into a restless slumber.
Next morning, the dim light of morning crept through the cracks in the blinds, casting soft stripes across the room. Jude stirred first, his body stiff and warm under the tangled sheets. He blinked, disoriented for a moment, until he became acutely aware of two things: the faint scent of your shampoo and the fact that his arm was draped securely around your waist.
His heart thudded once, heavy and slow, as the realization hit. Sometime during the night, you two had moved closer, the invisible wall of your argument forgotten in sleep. Your back was pressed against his chest, your legs loosely intertwined, his nose buried in the crown of your hair. It felt impossibly natural, like the way you used to fit before the fight. His hold on you was firm but careful, as if even his sleeping self knew you were something precious, something not to let go of.
Jude’s lips twitched into the faintest of smiles before his pride crept in, whispering to him that this was just a fluke. He wasn’t supposed to be happy about this, was he? You were still angry—still caught in the push and pull of your unresolved tension. But damn it, holding you like this felt good. Really good. It felt right. He allowed himself one more selfish second to savor the moment before you stirred.
Your soft murmur pulled him from his thoughts. You shifted slightly, pressing closer to his chest, your body melting into his as if seeking his warmth even in sleep. His heart ached, and a wave of affection so fierce it startled him coursed through his chest. He wanted to kiss you, to tell you he was sorry for the things he said, the things he didn’t say. But pride anchored him in place, so instead, he lay there, pretending he didn’t feel anything at all.
You woke to the steady rhythm of his breathing and the unmistakable weight of his arm around you. For a moment, still caught in the haze of sleep, you sighed contentedly, nestling closer to the warmth behind you. It felt safe, familiar, and so achingly right that it made your chest tighten.
But then, reality crashed in like a bucket of cold water. You froze, eyes flying open, as you realized exactly where you were—and who you were with. The fight, the tension, the stubborn refusal to bridge the gap between you—it all came rushing back, drowning out the soft thrum of happiness that lingered from waking in his arms.
Still, you didn’t move immediately. Instead, you let yourself linger for just a moment longer, feeling the solidness of him behind you, the warmth of his breath against your neck. Your heart ached with love, raw and unrelenting, a stark contrast to the frustration still simmering beneath the surface. How could you feel both so intensely at once?
You wanted to turn around, to meet his gaze and let the love you felt show on your face. But the pride that had fueled your argument held you still. You couldn’t be the first to crack—not after last night. So, you did what you always did: you pushed the feelings down, buried them under a layer of indifference, and carefully shifted away.
You swung your legs out of bed, avoiding Jude’s gaze as you reached for your robe. He remained lounging on his side, his dark eyes tracking your movements.
“Morning,” he mumbled, his voice rough with sleep. It wasn’t quite warm, but it lacked the sharp edge from yesterday.
“Morning,” you replied, fastening the belt of your robe with deliberate nonchalance.
As you padded to the kitchen to start the coffee, Jude followed, his footsteps soft but noticeable. He leaned casually against the counter as you worked, his arms crossed over his chest. The silence between you hung heavy but was no longer suffocating—just thick with the remnants of stubborn pride.
“You’re not going to make me a cup too?” he asked, arching a brow when you filled a single mug. A smirk tugged at his lips.
Yep, that early in the morning.
You turned, lips also twitching. “Last I checked, you have two hands and know where the mugs are.”
That smirk persisted, and for the first time in what felt like forever, it wasn’t mocking—it was teasing. “Wow. So generous this morning.”
You shrugged, raising your mug to your lips. “What can I say? I’m full of surprises.”
Jude shook his head, stepping forward to grab his own cup. You moved to lean against the counter opposite him, your mug cradled in both hands. He stood closer than necessary, the distance between you shrinking inch by inch as the minutes passed.
“You were hogging the blanket last night,” he stated suddenly, breaking the quiet.
You blinked, caught off guard. “Excuse me? I was hogging the blanket? You’re the human furnace who takes up three-quarters of the bed.”
He scoffed, setting his mug down. “Three-quarters? Dramatic much? You sleep like a starfish.”
A laugh escaped before you could stop it—a real, unguarded laugh that felt like a balm to the tension still clinging to the edges of the morning. Jude’s lips quirked into a grin, the kind that softened the sharp lines of his face and made your heart skip despite yourself. You rolled your eyes, trying to maintain some semblance of composure.
The teasing was lighthearted, a refreshing shift from the icy tension of the previous day. But underneath it, the stubbornness remained—a silent promise that neither of you would be the first to openly admit you wanted peace.
Jude leaned against the counter, his coffee in hand, watching you with that maddening smirk. It wasn’t just his expression; it was the way he stood, as if the entire kitchen belonged to him, as if he were perfectly at ease and you were the one who had to figure out how to navigate the unspoken rules of this little game.
“You’re staring,” you pointed out, raising an eyebrow as you sipped your coffee calmly.
He shrugged, utterly unbothered. “Can you blame me? You’re kind of hard to miss.”
“Oh, please,” you retorted, setting your mug down and crossing your arms. “I’m not in the mood for your cheesy one-liners. They are not working.”
“It wasn’t a one-liner. It was an observation,” he replied smoothly, taking a step closer. His dark eyes sparkled with mischief as he added, “And besides, it’s not my fault you look cute when you’re grumpy.”
Your jaw tightened, but the corners of your lips betrayed you, twitching upward for just a moment before you caught yourself. “I know you miss me, but this is not the way of fixing things.”
“Miss you?” he shot back, leaning closer, his proximity making your heart stutter. “I woke up with you cuddling against me so…”
You rolled your eyes and turned away, feigning nonchalance as you began to tidy the already clean counter. “That’s not how... forget it,”
The morning passed in a steady rhythm of petty jabs and fleeting touches that neither of you could resist. When you walked past him to grab something from the pantry, his hand brushed lightly against your lower back—just enough to make your skin tingle. You shot him a look over your shoulder, but he was already looking elsewhere, as if the contact had been incidental. You knew better.
Later, as you stood by the sink rinsing your mug, Jude joined you, crowding your space under the guise of washing his hands. The sink was large enough for both of you, but he leaned in anyway, his arm brushing against yours, his warmth seeping into your skin.
“Do you mind?” you asked, tilting your head to glare at him.
“Not at all,” he replied with a grin, his voice laced with mock innocence.
You huffed, turning to move away, but his hand darted out to catch yours. The suddenness of it made you freeze, and for a moment, you just stared at each other, the air thickening between you. Jude’s thumb brushed against the back of your hand, a simple, unassuming touch that sent shivers racing up your arm.
But just as quickly, he released you, his smirk returning as if to mask the moment of vulnerability. “Don’t trip over your own stubbornness,” he said, stepping back.
You bristled, turning sharply to face him. “Me? Stubborn? That’s rich coming from you.”
The tension that had been simmering all morning suddenly flared, sharp and electric. That was what you both needed. “You’ve been impossible since yesterday,” he shot back, his voice rising just enough to match yours. “I’m not the one slamming laptops shut and stomping around like a child.”
Your eyes narrowed, and you took a step closer, your chest brushing against his as you jabbed a finger at his chest. “And I’m not the one deliberately trying to piss the other off!”
Jude tilted his head, his smirk fading into something darker, more serious. “Oh, you think I’m the one pushing buttons here? Newsflash, love—you’ve been just as bad.”
“Love?” you repeated, your voice dripping with incredulity. “Don’t you dare—”
Before you could finish your sentence, Jude’s hands moved, quick and decisive. One slid to the small of your back, the other cupped your ass firmly, and in one smooth motion, he pulled you against him and lifted you off the ground. A startled gasp escaped your lips, but it was swallowed almost immediately as his mouth crashed against yours.
Finally, you thought to yourself, something you would never say out-loud.
The kiss was hot and demanding, a clash of teeth and tongues that mirrored the intensity of your earlier fight. Jude’s lips moved against yours with a ferocity that left no room for argument, his grip on you possessive and unyielding. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, your hands finding purchase in his neck as you pulled him closer.
For a moment, you forgot everything—the fight, the pride, the stubbornness. All that existed was the heat of his mouth on yours, the solidness of his body pressed against you, and the way his hands gripped you like he never wanted to let go. It was messy and desperate and so painfully raw that it left you breathless.
When he finally pulled back, his lips were red and swollen, his breathing uneven as he stared at you with a mix of frustration and something deeper, something softer. “You argue too much,” he said, his voice rough and low.
You blinked at him, your chest heaving as you tried to process what had just happened. “And you—”
“No no, shhh,” he interrupted, his mouth crashing against yours again. This time, the kiss was slower, more deliberate, but no less intense. It was an apology, a truce, and a declaration all rolled into one.
When he pulled back this time, his hands lingered, one sliding up to cup your cheek while the other stayed firmly at your waist. His thumb brushed lightly across your skin, and the intensity in his gaze made your breath catch. His chest was heaving, just like yours, as if the kiss had stolen the air from both of you.
You stared at him, the heat of his touch grounding you even as your heart raced. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the silence thick with everything that had just been said without words.
Finally, you broke it, your voice soft but steady. “I’m sorry,” you murmured, meeting his gaze. “For… being difficult. For letting it drag on like this.”
Jude raised a brow, his expression caught somewhere between surprise and amusement. “Oh, so you can apologize,” he teased, though the smirk on his face softened at the edges.
You rolled your eyes, but your lips twitched despite yourself. “Juuude, don’t ruin the moment,” you warned, your tone light.
“I’m not,” he said, his voice gentler now. “Keep going, come on, I want to hear you say how wrong you were.”
Your laugh slipped out before you could stop it, and you swatted lightly at his chest. “Don’t push it.” But then your smile faded, replaced by something softer, more vulnerable. “I really am sorry, baby.”
His teasing faded as he looked at you, the sincerity in your voice settling over him like a balm. “Yeah, well,” he began, his hand sliding from your cheek to the back of your neck, pulling you just a little closer. “I’m sorry too. For being a stubborn ass. And for… picking fights when I should’ve just talked to you.”
You tilted your head slightly, your hands sliding up to rest on his shoulders. “We’re a real pair, aren’t we?”
His thumb traced circles against your hip, his touch impossibly warm. “We’re kind of great, though,” he whispered, his voice almost teasing. “When we’re not driving each other crazy.”
You let out another soft laugh, his breath warm against your lips. “You’re not wrong.”
The air between you shifted, the playfulness giving way to something deeper. Your lips hovered over his, your breaths mingling as the tension built again, electric and magnetic. You kissed him this time, slow but deliberate, pouring every ounce of affection and apology into it. His grip on your waist and ass tightened, pulling you flush against him, and you could feel the way his heartbeat echoed yours, fast and unsteady.
When you finally broke apart, his lips were slightly swollen, his eyes dark and half-lidded as he gazed down at you. “You’re a tease, you know that?” he muttered, his voice husky.
You smirked, the heat still thrumming through your veins. “Only for you.”
“Lucky me,” he murmured, his tone both teasing and sincere. Then, without warning, he bent slightly, sliding his hands down to your thighs and hoisting you up effortlessly. A surprised laugh escaped you, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he carried you out of the kitchen.
“Jude—what are you doing?” you asked, though your tone betrayed more excitement than protest.
“Making up properly,” he replied, his voice low and rough in a way that sent a shiver down your spine. “No more interruptions.”
You didn’t argue. Instead, you leaned into him, your hands threading through his hair as he kissed you again, his lips stealing every thought from your mind. Whatever tension had lingered between you melted away completely, leaving only warmth, laughter, and the undeniable pull of each other.
My shaylas 🙁💔
how cuteeeeeeeeeeee
mis dos
this one hurts
Take the pain away.
jude bellingham x fem!reader
wc: 2.2k
+18!! mdni
(content warning: unrequited feelings, cheating [unrelated to jude x reader], toxic relationship [also not jude x reader], smut, fingering, unprotected sex [have safe sex pls])
it's been a while since i wrote a jude smut, but you ask and i shall deliver. we have been waiting for this one. heavily inspired by "fuck the pain away (lost tapes 2022)" by tory lanez.
why does he always look so good
This is everything
Feliz año 2025 a todos!!! 💐💘🍀
I loved not again<333 would you think about making a part 2!?
IT TAKES A MESSAGE
a/n: I hope you like this part too!
jude bellingham x exgf!reader
warnings: okey this one has a (little bit of) angst.
summary: After months of holding strong, resisting the temptation of breaking the promise you two swore you’d keep, one hand gripping your phone, and other holding a glass of tequila, is just what you needed to silence the voice of reason. You told yourself not to press send, but the moment your thumb hovered over the screen, your resolve crumbled. And now, here he is, standing beside you so real that regret is nowhere to be found. You shouldn’t have sent that message, but maybe, just maybe, this is exactly where you were meant to end up.
PART 1: NOT AGAIN
The music in the bar was loud, but not loud enough to drown out the sound of your own thoughts. The dim lights cast everything in a haze, but that didn’t help either. You swirled the drink in your hand—a cheap tequila you didn’t even like—staring into the amber liquid as if it held some kind of answer.
Tonight wasn’t supposed to go this way.
You had a date. A proper one. A guy from your coworker’s circle—smart, funny, attractive enough. He’d suggested dinner at a cozy little place uptown, and you’d agreed, hoping for another fresh start.
But when the time came, you couldn’t do it. You’d stood outside the restaurant for fifteen minutes, staring at the entrance, your heart pounding. The idea of smiling politely, of pretending to care about someone who wasn’t him, had made you chest ache in the worst way.
So, you walked away and felt like shit.
The cab dropped you off at a bar you’d never been to, somewhere far from home, far from familiarity. You told yourself you’d just have one drink. Maybe two. But as the hours passed and the alcohol dulled the edges of your misery, you found yourself slipping.
Your phone was heavy in your hand.
You shouldn’t. You’d promised yourself you wouldn’t. For months, you’d kept your promise—no texts, no calls, no accidentally running into each other.
It had been a long time. Months. You’d blocked him everywhere, and he’d done the same. You hadn’t seen him, hadn’t heard his voice. You should’ve been proud.
Instead, you felt hollow.
The tequila burned you throat as you took another sip, your finger hovering over his name in your contacts. You’d unblocked him just minutes ago, telling yourself it didn’t mean anything.
But it did.
And then you did the unthinkable.
“I hate you.”
Your thumb hit send before you could stop yourself.
The moment the message left your phone, panic set in. Your stomach twisted, your heart raced, and you cursed yourself under your breath.
What the hell were you thinking?
You stared at the screen, breath catching in your throat. Maybe he wouldn’t reply. Maybe he’d hadn’t blocked you or he had changed his number, or maybe he’d—
Your phone buzzed.
“What did I do now?”
Your breath caught. The sight of his name on your screen sent a jolt through your chest. The words stung with their casualness, as if no time had passed. You stared at the message, your heart pounding, your hands trembling. You could leave it. Ignore him. Pretend it never happened. But that wasn’t who you were.
“Existing. Leaving. Coming back.”
The three dots appeared, disappeared, and then reappeared.
“You drunk?”
Your lips pressed into a thin line. Tipsy wasn’t drunk. You wanted to throw your phone across the bar. Instead, you typed back:
“No.”
Another reply, almost instant.
“Where are you?”
You hesitated, chewing on your lip. The smarter version of yourself—the one who’d spent months trying to move on—screamed not to answer. But the other part of you, the one that had sent the first text, the one drowning in whiskey and regret, won out.
“Blue lights. Why?”
He left you on read and thirty minutes later, he walked into the bar. You didn’t look up immediately. You felt him before you saw him, even in the dim light, he was unmistakable—tall, sharp jaw, the leather jacket fitting perfectly... You hated how your pulse quickened.
He spotted you immediately, his dark eyes locking onto yours as he crossed the room, approaching you slowly, his hands shoved into his jacket pockets. His dark curls were now longer than you remembered, he had a beard now, and the faint scruff on his jaw made him look rougher, more tired. Your stomach twisted, and you hated the flicker of relief that coursed through you.
“You look like shit,” he said, sliding onto the stool next to you. It was a lie, of course—a flimsy one at that. The sight of you, even in the light light of this rundown bar, hit him like a sucker punch. Months without you, and now here you were, disheveled but infuriatingly magnetic. His pulse quickened, and he shifted uncomfortably as the denim of his jeans grew uncomfortably tight.
“Wow. Thanks,” you muttered, staring into your glass. You didn’t look up, but the faintest twitch at the corner of your lips betrayed a flicker of amusement—or maybe irritation. It was hard to tell with you, and Jude hated how much he loved that about you.
The bartender gave him a questioning glance, but Jude held up a hand. “Just water,” he said, before turning back to you. “How many have you had?”
“I’m fine, Jude,” you snapped, hating how small his concern made you feel.
“Sure, you are,” he said, his tone softer now. “So, what’s this about?”
You looked away, refusing to meet his gaze. The truth sat heavy in your chest, too raw to voice.
“Don’t do that,” he said, leaning in slightly. “Don’t shut me out after summoning me like a bloody genie.”
You let out a bitter laugh. “I didn’t summon you.”
“No? What would you call unblocking me to send that?” He gestured at your phone, his voice quieter, less biting.
“You had me unblocked too.” you tried to avoid his questioning, but he did not bite.
“What is going on, Y/N?”
The whiskey burned its way down your throat as you struggled to meet Jude’s gaze. His presence was suffocating and grounding all at once, the familiar pull of him as inescapable as gravity. He didn’t say a word as he reached over, his fingers brushing yours as he slid the glass from your hand. His movements were calm but firm, the unspoken message clear. You glared at him, but he didn’t flinch, setting the drink out of your reach with deliberate care.
Then, you took a deep breath, the words clawing at your throat, desperate to be spoken yet terrifying to release. You didn’t look at him as you said it.
“I had a date,” you admitted, the syllables falling like a fragile confession.
The air between you shifted instantly. Jude froze, his body going rigid as the words landed. For a moment, his expression was unreadable, his face schooled into a careful neutrality. But the tell was there—his jaw tightened just a fraction, and his fingers twitched, curling slightly against the counter as if trying to grasp something solid in the room.
“A date,” Jude blinked, his brows knitting together as the words sank in. The faintest flicker of something crossed his face—hurt, maybe anger—but he quickly masked it. “And you left him to come here?” he asked, his tone carefully neutral.
You shook your head, a bitter laugh escaping your lips. “I didn’t even make it inside. I just… couldn’t do it. It felt wrong.”
His jaw tightened, and he looked away, his fingers tapping lightly against the counter. The muscles in his shoulders tensed under his jacket, and you could tell he was biting back a hundred different responses.
Wrong. The word echoed in his mind, carving into him like glass. He didn’t want to care about what you’d done or who you’d almost been with, but the thought of you sitting across from some stranger, smiling in that way that made the world feel brighter, or laughing at someones stupid jokes, was unbearable.
“What do you want me to say to that?” he asked finally, his voice low and rough.
You shrugged, staring into your hands. “I don’t know. Nothing, maybe. I just… I couldn’t stop thinking about you, and I hate that. I hate you for still being in my head.”
Jude exhaled sharply, running a hand through his curls. He wanted to say something cutting, something to push you away before you dug any deeper into the fragile balance he’d spent months trying to maintain. But he couldn’t.
Because the truth was, you’d never left his head either.
“You’re drunk,” he said finally, his tone gentler than before.
“I’m not drunk,” you shot back, your voice sharper now. “I’m fine.”
He raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Right. That’s why you’re here, texting me that you hate me instead of… what’s his name? The guy you were supposed to be with tonight?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does to me.”
His voice was firm, but not harsh. There was something else there, hidden beneath his words—a need to understand, to place blame somewhere, anywhere, that wasn’t on himself.
You shook your head, refusing to meet his gaze. “I’m not doing this, Jude.”
A charged silence stretched between you, heavy and suffocating. His hand brushed yours on the bar, a fleeting touch that sent shivers down your spine. His voice, when it came, was quieter.
“You deserve better than this,” he said, his words softer but no less piercing.
A bitter laugh escaped your lips before you could stop it. “Coming from you, that’s rich.”
His lips twitched, almost into a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He studied you for another moment, as if debating whether to push further, before letting out a resigned sigh. “Come on,” he said, standing and holding out his hand. “Let’s get you home.”
You stared at his hand for a beat too long before taking it. His grip was warm, steadying, and you hated how it made you feel grounded.
The night air was crisp as you stepped out of the bar, the coolness biting against your flushed skin. Jude walked beside you, his hand hovering near your back but never quite touching. It was a strange kind of intimacy—protective, yet distant.
The cab he hailed arrived quickly. He opened the door for you, his hand brushing yours again as he guided you inside. He slid in next to you, his presence filling the small space.
You leaned back against the seat, your head buzzing not just from the alcohol but from the sheer weight of the evening. The silence between you was deafening, filled with words neither of you dared to say.
The driver glanced at you in the rearview mirror but didn’t comment. Jude gave your address, his voice low and steady, and the car lurched forward.
The streetlights cast fleeting shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth. You caught yourself staring and quickly looked away, focusing on the city lights blurring past the window.
“You’re quiet,” he said, breaking the silence.
“I don’t have anything to say,” you replied, your tone sharper than intended.
“Since when?” His voice held a hint of amusement, but it was tempered by something softer, almost tender.
You didn’t answer, crossing your arms over your chest and sinking further into your seat.
When the cab pulled up in front of your building, Jude paid the driver without hesitation. You opened your mouth to protest, but the look he gave you stopped you cold—firm, unyielding.
“Let’s get you inside,” he said, stepping out and waiting for you to follow.
The short walk to your door felt longer than it should have. You fumbled with your keys, your hands unsteady, and he reached out, gently guiding them into the lock. The small action made your chest ache, a reminder of how easily he could slip into the role of protector, of something more.
The door clicked open, and you stepped inside, the familiar scent of your apartment wrapping around you. Jude hesitated in the doorway, his hand resting on the frame as if he wasn’t sure he should follow.
“Are you coming in?” you asked, your voice quieter now, almost hesitant.
He didn’t answer right away, his dark eyes scanning your face. Then, with a sigh, he stepped inside, closing the door behind him.
The tension in the air was palpable as you set your purse on the counter and turned to face him. He stood near the door, his hands shoved into his pockets, watching you with an intensity that made your skin prickle.
You turned to face him, suddenly unsure of what to say. “You don’t have to stay.”
“I know,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “But I’m not leaving you like this.”
The space between you felt smaller. The air felt warmer. And when you turned to face him, his eyes met yours with a mix of frustration and something softer, something that made your chest ache.
“Jude…”
His name slipped from your lips like a plea, and before you could stop yourself, you were closing the distance between you, your hands fisting in the leather of his jacket as you pressed your lips to his.
For a moment, he froze, his body stiff beneath your touch. Then his hands were on your waist, pulling you closer and the kiss deepened, your bodies pressing together, the heat between you building like a tidal wave. But, suddenly, his hands came up, caressing your arms till they gripped your shoulders firmly but gently as he pushed you back.
“No,” he said, his voice rough, breath uneven after the short kiss.
Your chest tightened, your lips missing the warmth of his. “You don’t want me anymore?”
His eyes darkened, his grip on your shoulders tightening slightly. “That’s not... Don’t. Don’t do that.”
“Why not?” you asked, hating how your voice cracked.
“Because you’re upset. You’re tipsy. And you’re not thinking straight,” he said, his tone softer now. “And if we do this, you are not going to like it.”
“I always like it with you.”
His eyes softened for a moment, the weight of your words sinking in. A small, suppressed smile tugged at the corner of his lips and a “Me too”. Instead, he let out a breath, his hands still resting on your shoulders, steady and grounding. “Y/N, I’m not going to let you regret this in the morning,” he replied softly, shaking his head slightly.
His words settled over you like a cold weight, and you hated how right he was.
“You should…, you should get some sleep,” he said, stepping toward the door.
“Jude?” you called, your voice barely above a whisper. He froze, his hand gripping the doorknob so tightly his knuckles turned white. His shoulders stiffened, his heart thundering in his chest as he begged silently—prayed—that you wouldn’t say something to make this even harder.
“I hate you,” you said, and though the words spilled from your lips, they were hollow, stripped of the venom they once carried. Your smile followed, soft and heartbreakingly familiar, the kind that struck him like a blade, carving through the walls he so desperately tried to keep up. He felt his resolve shatter. You didn’t mean it. God, you didn’t mean it.
Slowly, he turned to face you, his gaze locking onto yours, raw and aching. He lingered, looking at every detail of your face, so he could sleep tonight. “I know,” he murmured, his voice trembling as his smile returned—a shadow of itself, fragile and fleeting. “I hate you too.”
And then, he left, closing the door behind him, carrying the weight of everything that was unsaid, but known.
NOT AGAIN
jude bellingham x exgf!reader
warnings: english is not my first language!
summary: Jude and you are stuck in an unending cycle and every time you swear it’s over, you both end up right back where you started—burning through the same old patterns, unable (and honestly, unwilling) to break free. The marks left on each other’s skin are proof of the nights you can’t forget, even though you both pretend you’re done, neither is ready to fully let go. This time is no different.
PART 2: IT TAKES A MESSAGE
The room smelled faintly of him—of Jude—and the realization hit like a freight train. The sharp tang of his cologne lingered in the air, mingling with the lingering scent of sweat, skin, and sex. The sheets beneath you were a tangled mess, still warm, sticking to your legs in places that made you shudder with realization. The ache between your thighs was a sharp, humiliating reminder of just how far you’d gone. Again.
Not again.
The curtains were drawn, allowing thin rays of morning sunlight to stream in, highlighting the chaos of a night neither of you wanted to acknowledge. Your eyes fluttered open, and a quick glance around was enough to reveal the evidence of chaos: your white dress was slung over the back of a chair, dangerously close to sliding off. His jeans were crumpled on the floor, one leg caught under the bedframe. A lone heel of hers lay on its side near the door, the other God-knows-where. A broken wine glass lay near the edge of the nightstand, its contents dried into a dark stain on the wood.
A low groan came from your left, and you didn’t have to look to know it was him. Jude’s familiar weight pressed into the mattress, his bare skin radiating warmth against your side. Just for comfirmation, you turned your head ever so slightly. There he was.
Your ex boyfriend, shirtless, turned as if shielding himself from the glaring truth of morning. His dark curls were tousled in a way that used to make your heart race but now only made your stomach churn with regret.
Lies.
There he was, stretched out on his stomach, the sheet barely covering his hips, his back on full display. You’d left marks—angry red lines trailing from his shoulders to his lower back, faint bruises blooming on his biceps where your fingers had dug in and now you understood the ache between your legs.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you muttered, louder than intended.
Jude stirred, his curls an unruly mess against the pillow, and his eyes cracked open, squinting at you like the sunlight offended him. “Good morning to you too,” he grumbled, voice still thick with sleep.
You sat up abruptly, clutching the sheet to your chest like armor. The motion pulled the fabric tight, revealing fresh bruises along your collarbone and a particularly dark one on your shoulder where his mouth had claimed you. You’ll discover them later. Now, you yanked the sheet higher, as if that could erase the evidence of your nakedness surrender. “We have to stop doing this.”
Jude let out a short, humorless laugh, rolling onto his back with a wince. His dark eyes locked onto yours, and for a moment, something flickered in his gaze—regret, maybe. But it was gone as quickly as it came. “No shit. You think I planned this?”
You glared at him, but your cheeks betrayed you with a flush. “You literally showed up at my door last night.” you shot. “What was I supposed to do?”
“Not open it?” he suggested, though there was no bite in his tone. “Especially not dressed the way you were”
You glared again at him, but he didn’t flinch. Instead, he propped himself up on one elbow, the sheet sliding dangerously lower on his hips. Your eyes betrayed you for a split second, flicking downward, and his smirk was immediate.
“You’re unbelievable,” you muttered, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed.
“Am I?” His voice was lazy, almost smug and continued in laying your bed.
You ignored him, scanning the room for your underwear. It wasn’t on the chair, the bed, or even near the door. Your cheeks flushed as you realized it might still be—
“Looking for these?” Jude’s voice interrupted your thoughts, and you turned to see him dangling the lacy scrap from one long finger, a crooked grin on his face.
“Give me that,” you snapped, snatching it from him and shoving it on hastily.
Jude sat up fully now, the sheet forgotten as he leaned back against the headboard, his chest on full display. More marks—faint purple bruises and red nail trails—dotted his skin, and the sight of them made your stomach flip in a way you hated. He looked down himself and unashamedly: “You really outdid yourself this time.”
“Well, don’t you dare complain. You were the one provoking it.” You replied avoiding his gaze.
He snorted but shook his head.
“This has to stop,” you said firmly, though the words felt hollow.
Jude looked at you, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and exasperation. “You’re welcome, by the way. I was definitely aiming for ‘good morning, Jude, thanks for rocking my world again.’”
Again.
Your cheeks flamed. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
His gaze flicked to your bare shoulder, where the faint bruise was forming—a mark of his lips. “Yeah, okay.”
Your glare could’ve melted steel. Instead of retaliating, you were careful to keep the sheet wrapped around you. You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of looking at you, not after…
"This is the last time, then."
“Yeah, because that’s what we said the last time.” Jude swung his legs over the side of the bed, scrubbing a hand over his face. “And the time before that. And—”
“Okay, I get it.” you cut him off abruptly. The sheet slipped, and you scrambled to keep it in place, earning a raised eyebrow from him.
“You’re acting like I haven’t seen it all before.”
“Good for you, Jude,” you shot back, your words tinged with sarcasm.
“Good indeed,” he replied, his gaze lingering a little longer than necessary, a playful yet knowing look in his eyes.
You busied yourself with finding your clothes, each piece a reminder of the tangled web you two couldn’t seem to escape.
The sound of his phone buzzing broke the silence. Jude glanced at it briefly, his jaw tightening before he flipped it face down. Wow, okay. You didn’t ask who it was. You didn’t care. At least, that’s what you told yourself but in reality, your heart thudded at that action of his.
You pulled your dress over your head, the fabric clinging in all the wrong places. It was wrinkled, evidence of how hastily he’d peeled it off you the night before. Your fingers fumbled with the zipper, frustration bubbling over as it refused to cooperate.
Jude stood, fully unashamed in his boxers, and crossed the room to her. “Here,” he said, reaching for the zipper.
“I’ve got it,” you snapped, stepping back, but he caught your wrist gently.
“Just let me help.”
The intimacy of the moment made your chest ache, even as you stood rigid, refusing to look at him. His hands were steady, his fingers brushing the bare skin of your back as he tugged the zipper into place. You hated how easily he could disarm you and he hated how much he wanted to.
“There,” he said softly, his voice far too close to tender.
“Thanks,” you muttered, pulling away and slipping on your shoes.
He watched you with an intensity that made you skin prickle. You could feel his gaze tracing every inch of you, and you hated how it made you want to stay. To forget the world outside and crawl back into that bed with him.
“Why do we keep doing this?” you asked, your voice quieter now, almost vulnerable.
He sighed, pulling on his trousers. “Because we don’t know how to do anything else.”
The words hung in the air, heavy and uncomfortably true.
You’d never been good at being a couple—fighting over stupid things, the jealousy, struggling to meet each other halfway. But being apart? That was proving to be even harder.
You turned to face him, arms crossed over your chest. “We’re terrible at this.”
“At what?” He met your gaze, his dark eyes searching yours.
“At being exes.”
A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah, well, we weren’t exactly a shining example of a couple either.”
You hated how he could disarm you like that, with a quip and a lopsided smile. Jude hated how much he wanted to pull you back into bed, no, into his arms, even as every rational part of him screamed to leave.
“Maybe…” you hesitated, chewing on your bottom lip.
“Maybe what?” he prompted, his tone softer now.
“Maybe we should actually try to stay away from each other.”
“Yeah,” he said, running a hand through his curls. “Yeah, we should.”
But the way his eyes lingered on you, the way his fingers brushed yours as they reached for the same piece of clothing—it all said otherwise.
You dressed in silence, the tension between you palpable. As he slipped on his jacket, you glanced at him one last time.
"Jude?"
"Yes?"
“Don’t text me,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied, but there was no conviction in his tone. “And we are mutually blocked from everywhere...” he wanted to say.
Jude left without looking back, the cool morning air hitting him like a wake-up call. The walk of shame felt all too familiar, and yet, he couldn’t shake the sinking feeling that it wouldn’t be the last time.
Because no matter how many doors you closed, there always seemed to be a crack left open, just wide enough for one of them to step through.
the bellingham bros + lollipops 🍭💗
I'M (NOT) FINE!
a/n: requests are open!
jude bellingham x gf!reader
warnings: fluff fluff fluff
summary: You absolutely loathe being sick—the sniffles, the coughs, the shivering... And Jude? He hates seeing you in that state even more. So, what's the solution? Simple: pretend you're fine. You put on your best “everything's okay” face, a face that could fool everyone... except Jude. Yikes. With his signature mix of teasing and tenderness, he refuses to let you suffer alone. He'll keep pushing, pestering, and caring for you until you finally admit you're not as fine as you want to be. And in the end, it’s his care and persistence that makes you feel a little less miserable.
You should’ve known better than to let Jude stay up so late watching Netflix with you the night before. Or maybe it was you who needed to rethink staying up until 2 a.m., curled under a blanket with a bowl of popcorn between you two as he whispered silly commentary into your ear.
Today was different, though. As the morning crept in through your bedroom window, an unusual weight seemed to settle behind your eyes. Your throat felt like sandpaper, and a tickling cough bubbled up every time you tried to swallow. But you refused to acknowledge it.
Outside, the wind rattled the windows, hinting at the kind of day that makes you want to burrow into blankets and disappear. Jude sat at the kitchen counter, scrolling absently on his phone, his focus darting to the ticking clock as he waited for you.
He hadnt miss that you’d been odd this morning—quiet and sluggish, the kind of quiet he noticed instantly. You weren’t the type to miss a chance to tease him over breakfast or steal sips of his coffee, so when you shuffled past him earlier, mumbling something about needing first a long shower, it planted a seed of worry.
He didn’t like when things felt off. Especially not with you.
When you finally emerged from the bathroom, hair damp and face freshly washed, you looked almost fine. Almost. Your usually bright eyes were shadowed with exhaustion, your cheeks were a bit pale and you were wrapped up in a hoodie far too big for you. One of his, of course.
Jude’s cheerful voice rang through the apartment as you shuffled into the kitchen, pulling your sleeves over your hands. “Babe, what do you want for breakfast?”
“Just toast,” you mumbled quickly. Your voice cracked on the last word, and you froze. Oh no. Jude turned to look at you, brow furrowing ever so slightly.
“Feeling all right, love?” he asked, his brow creased as he leaned back in his chair, studying you.
You smiled—quick, small, practiced. “Yeah. Fine.”
You walked straight for the kettle to pour yourself some tea, deliberately avoiding him. You could feel his gaze on you, like a silent interrogation. Your boyfriend lingered near the counter as you plopped two slices of bread into the toaster, biting the inside of his cheek like he always did when he didn’t believe you. He didn’t say anything, though—not yet.
Jude Bellingham was many things, you thought to yourself, but oblivious wasn’t one of them.
Unfortunately for you, that made this whole charade harder.
“Didn’t look like you slept well,” he said, pushing the conversation gently.
“I slept fine,” you replied too quickly, taking a sip of hot tea and keeping your eyes on the mug.
“Well, you look... I don’t know a bit tired.”
“I am tired. You made us stay up late.” You shot him a pointed look, hoping the deflection would work. It almost did. Almost. “But really, I slept fine.”
Liar. Liar.
He frowned, but before he could press further, you turned, flashing him a look that you hoped was convincing. “I promise, Jude. Don’t start getting all dramatic.”
“What? Dramatic?” He placed a hand to his chest, feigning offense, but his eyes never lost that sharp edge. “I’ll let it slide this time. But you’re not fooling me, you know. You’ve got that thing going on.”
“What thing?”
“That thing where you’re trying to act normal, but you’re just a little bit too normal.”
You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “You sound insane.”
He sounded just right.
“I sound attentive,” he countered, grinning, though his voice was still soft.
You turned back to your tea, gripping the handle a little harder than necessary. In truth, you could feel the early signs of sickness creeping in—your throat tickled, your head felt heavy, and warmth pulsed at your temples like a faint drumbeat. It wasn’t bad yet, but you knew it would be soon.
And that was exactly why you couldn’t let Jude in on it.
He was attentive—almost painfully so—and you knew he’d go straight into overprotective mode the moment he suspected something was wrong. He’d fuss. He’d worry. He’d probably cancel his plans and hover over you for hours like a mother hen.
You didn’t want him to cancel his plans. And you really didn’t want to be the reason he stressed.
So, when he looked away to grab his phone, you took the opportunity to stifle the cough that clawed at your throat, turning your head quickly and clearing it in a way you hoped sounded natural. A master plan.
But when you turned back, Jude was staring. Staring into you, frowning a little and questioning you with his eyes.
“What was that?”
“What was what?”
“That sound. Did you just cough?”
You blinked, feigning innocence. “No? I don’t think so.”
His brow furrowed, lips parting slightly as if to call you out, but you were already ahead of him, changing the subject. “Are you still meeting the guys later?”
He eyed you skeptically for a beat longer, before reluctantly sighing. “Yeah. We are supposed to meet at nine.”
“Good.” You smiled sweetly, though it was mostly a distraction. “Don’t let me keep you from it.”
The shift in his expression was subtle, but you caught it anyway—something in the way his jaw tightened, the way his eyes lingered a second too long on you. Jude had spent enough time with you to know your tells, and he wasn’t stupid.
He let it slide, again. For now.
The hours went on, and your act grew harder to keep up.
Jude had been in and out of the living room while you lounged on the couch, buried under a blanket and claiming you just wanted to “relax.” You were also clutching a steaming cup of tea that Jude had made for you. You hadn’t even asked for it, which was a sign he was already onto you. You scrolled your phone lazily, trying to appear normal, but you could feel him watching you.
He plopped onto the couch beside you, spreading his long and fit legs across the coffee table. “You’re acting weird.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yeah, you are.”
“You’re imagining things.”
He shot you a look. “You’re wearing two hoodies, a blanket, and you’re sipping tea in 26-degree weather. It’s summer.”
You opened your mouth to argue, but then came the moment you’d been dreading. You were mid-scroll when an itch seized your throat. You tried to suppress it—tried to swallow it down and breathe through your nose—but it was no use. The cough escaped, sharp and sudden, your body shaking slightly with the force of it.
Jude whipped his head toward you so fast you thought he might get whiplash.
“Got you.”
You froze. Slowly, you looked up to see Jude next to you, arms crossed and an annoyingly smug look on his face.
“I knew it,” he said, shaking his head.
You sighed, sinking lower into the couch. “It’s just a tickle. Don’t start.”
“Don’t start? No no no. Babe, you’ve been hiding that all day, haven’t you?”
“I haven’t been hiding anything,” you mumbled, avoiding his gaze.
“Alright, that’s it,” he said, scooting closer. “Let me feel your forehead.”
“No!” you blurted, immediately shrinking back into the cushions. “Don’t touch me. I—uh, I haven’t washed my face. Gross, right?”
He rolled his eyes. “Like I care.”
“Jude, I swear—”
“Stop being stubborn and come here.”
You hugged the blanket tighter, as if it could protect you. “I’m not coming, Jude.”
“You’re so damn stubborn,” he shot back, though his voice was tinged with affection. “Let me feel your forehead.”
You recoiled slightly, eyes narrowing. “I don’t have a fever.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“Then let me feel your forehead,” he moved closer to you.
You squirmed away from him, practically sliding down the couch as he reached for you. He only managed to grab your ankle, pinning you in place.
“This isn’t fair! You’re bigger than me!” you yelped, trying not to laugh at how ridiculous the two of you must look—him holding onto your leg while you squirmed like a fish out of water.
“I don’t care. You’re not getting away from me.”
You gasped for air as you finally gave up and collapsed back onto the sofa. Jude grinned in victory, his palm landing gently on your forehead before you could protest further. His grin faded as quickly as it appeared.
For a second, you both stared each other down, and in that moment, you realized how ridiculous this little standoff had become. He looked at you like he couldn’t decide whether to be exasperated or amused, his head tilting slightly.
“Y/N, you’re burning up.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Think again then cause you are.”
“Maybe I’m just hot,” you tried to joke weakly, but he wasn’t having it. His lips set into a thin line.
“Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t feeling well?” he demanded softly. His tone wasn’t angry—just disappointed. Somehow, that was worse.
You bit the inside of your cheek, your resolve wavering. “Because I don’t want you to worry.”
His expression softened instantly, and your heart sank.
“Babe,” he said, crouching down in front of you so he could look you in the eyes. “You know that’s not possible, right? I’m always going to worry about you. You’re not invincible, no matter how much you try to act like it.”
You swallowed hard, guilt and affection swirling in your chest. You didn’t want to admit it, but part of you was relieved that he’d seen through you.
“I just didn’t want you to cancel your plans,” you muttered.
Jude rolled his eyes fondly. “You think I care about plans more than you?”
You didn’t answer, because the look in his eyes told you he already knew what you were thinking.
“Come on,” he said finally, standing up and offering you his hand. “We’re taking your temperature.”
You groaned, throwing your head back dramatically. “Jude—”
“You’re done arguing.”
“Jude, I don’t need the thermometer,” you grumbled, but he was already standing up, mumbling something about how he would decide that. You slumped back against the couch with a sigh, pulling the blanket higher around your face.
“Up.”
You shot him a glare, but took his hand anyway, letting him pull you off the couch. You knew you’d lost this round, but as you followed him into the kitchen, you caught the small smile tugging at his lips.
And you couldn’t help but smile, too.
Ten minutes after, you both stared at the thermometer, you chewing the inside of your left cheek nervously, while Jude crossed his arms over his chest, his brow furrowing deeper by the second.
“38.9,” he read aloud, his tone flat but edged with concern.
“It’s not that bad,” you muttered, trying to wave it off, but the tightness in your chest and the dizziness that followed the cough made the words feel hollow.
His eyes snapped to yours, sharp and unyielding. “Not that bad? That’s literally a high fever.”
“Barely,” you quipped, attempting a half-hearted shrug, though the effort made your head feel heavier, and your limbs suddenly felt like lead. You had no choice but to lean against the counter for support.
“Y/N…”
“Jude, I’m fine,” you argued, turning to put the thermometer back on the counter like it didn’t just confirm his worst suspicions. “I don’t need a doctor, and I definitely don’t need you hovering over me.”
His lips parted, words on the tip of his tongue clearly sharp, but he held them back. Instead, he took a deep breath, his frustration melting into something softer, his gaze still filled with concern. Jude wasn’t having it. He stood up suddenly, towering over the couch where you moved and where now curled up. “That’s it. You’re going to bed.”
Your head whipped around, eyes narrowing. “I’m not going to bed.”
“Yes, you are,” he said firmly, already reaching for your hand to pull you up. “You need to lie down properly, not camp out here on the couch like you’re hiding from something.”
“Jude, no.” You tugged your hand away, shaking your head. “I’m fine here. I like the couch. It’s cozy.”
He raised a brow, clearly unconvinced. “The bed is cozier.”
“I don’t want to go to bed yet,” you said stubbornly, sinking deeper into the cushions as though you could become one with the furniture.
“You’ll feel better if you rest properly,” he argued, his tone soft but insistent. “And the sooner you rest, the sooner you’ll get better. That’s logic. You can’t fight logic.”
“I’m not fighting logic. I just don’t want to go,” you insisted, pouting slightly for effect. “The bed is boring. I’ll just lay there staring at the ceiling, and then you’ll make me drink disgusting medicine. No thanks.”
Jude exhaled sharply, rubbing his forehead in that way he always did when he was losing patience. You knew exactly how far you could push him, but it didn’t feel good to see that frustrated look in his eyes. You hated making him worry, but part of you didn’t want to be stuck in bed just yet, even if you could feel the exhaustion weighing you down.
“Jude, please,” you said, your tone softening, almost pleading. “I don’t want to be stuck in bed. I’ll rest here, I promise. Let’s just watch something, yeah?”
You offered him an innocent smile, though it quickly wavered when you felt another cough building. You turned away, covering your mouth as you hacked into the blanket. Jude’s hands twitched at his sides, but he didn’t press the issue—at least, not yet.
When you finally caught your breath, you glanced up at him warily, half-expecting him to scoop you up and carry you to bed despite your protests. He looked like he wanted to, but instead, he sighed again and sat back down on the edge of the couch.
He sighed deeply, clearly torn. His jaw worked as he considered your plea, the tension in his shoulders refusing to ease. Finally, he relented with a short nod, though his eyes still carried a hint of warning. “Fine. But only because I know you’ll sulk if I make you move.”
You flashed him a weak smile, already pulling the blanket tighter around yourself.
“But the second you look worse, you’re going to bed,” he added firmly.
You opened your mouth to say something, probably to complain, but another coughing fit cut you off—deep and rattling, like your body was staging a mutiny. Jude was on his feet in seconds, disappearing into the kitchen as you tried to catch your breath.
When he returned, he was holding a fresh glass of water and a bottle of cold medicine. “Here,” he said firmly, handing you the water first.
“Thanks,” you muttered, your voice hoarse. But when he held out the medicine, you grimaced. “Do I have to? I mean, maybe in a couple hours this will wear off...”
“Do you want to get better, or do you want to keep hacking like a 90-year-old chain smoker?”
“You’re so mean,” you groaned, narrowing your eyes at him.
“And you have high fever. Take the damn medicine.” He was loosing his patience, but it returned every time you smiled at him.
Reluctantly, you unscrewed the cap and took the tiniest possible sip, immediately pulling a face. “This is disgusting.”
Jude snorted. “Medicine’s not supposed to taste like candy.”
“It should,” you muttered with a dramatic pout, glaring at the medicine bottle like it had personally wronged you.
Jude rolled his eyes, fighting back a grin as he took the glass from your hands. “Well, when you invent miracle medicine that tastes like chocolate, let me know. Until then, take it properly.”
You groaned but relented, though your face twisted in disgust. “I swear this stuff is just punishment in a bottle.”
“You are such a dramatic,” he countered, leaning back against the couch and crossing his arms with a smug expression.
“I’ll get you back for this,” you threatened weakly, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself.
Jude’s grin widened. “I’m counting on it.” He settled back down beside you, his hand finding its way to your back, rubbing slow circles that felt unexpectedly soothing. With a sigh, he grabbed the remote and flicked through channels, trying to find something to watch since you were clearly avoiding the idea of going to bed—much to his dismay.
The movie started playing, but you weren’t really watching it. You were fighting the drowsiness creeping in, but your body seemed to have other ideas. The fever had started to set in fully, and it made every movement feel sluggish and lethargic. You burrowed deeper into the blanket, your skin hot and clammy, and instinctively you leaned into Jude’s side, seeking the cool comfort of his presence to counter the warmth suffocating you.
He didn’t miss it. His arm immediately instinctively curled around your shoulders, pulling you closer to him, as if he could offer some comfort against the fever that seemed to consume you. You shifted, nestling your head against his chest, feeling his steady heartbeat. His hand gently brushed against your arm, the coolness of his skin providing a brief relief from the heat radiating off yours. You closed your eyes, too tired to keep up the act, but you could still hear the sound of the movie playing softly in the background.
He could feel your body trembling, your warmth pressing against him in a way that only made his concern grow. “Baby, you're shivering,” he murmured softly, his voice low and filled with worry. His hand moved to your forehead once again, his fingers cool against your skin as he traced the lines of your face, his thumb brushing over your cheek.
You didn’t have the energy to argue, too tired to offer your usual deflections. Instead, you let out a soft sigh, closing your eyes as the weight of your body seemed to pull you deeper into the couch. Your breath was slow but labored, each inhale a bit more shallow than the last.
Jude didn’t miss the way your body seemed to sink into him, the way you let yourself fall into his arms without resistance. The quiet, unspoken admission that you needed him, even when you refused to admit it aloud.
“And you are burning up,” he said, his voice low and gentle.
“I know, it’s okay,” you mumbled, though your teeth had begun to chatter slightly, betraying your words. You buried your face against his shirt, feeling the slight chill of his body against yours.
He shook his head, tightening his arm around your shoulders. “It’s not really okay, love,” he whispered, voice full of concern. The touch of his hand against the back of your neck, cool and soothing, sent a wave of comfort through you, but it didn’t stop the shivering.
You tried to smile up at him, but it was weak. “I’m fine here, Jude. Honestly.”
He wasn’t convinced. He could feel the heat radiating off your body, and the way you were leaning into him for that extra bit of coolness only confirmed what he already knew.
He stared down at you, a mixture of tenderness and frustration swirling in his gaze. “You’re not fooling anyone, you know,” he whispered, brushing a lock of hair away from your face. His hand lingered, fingers tracing the curve of your jaw with a softness that contrasted with the firm set of his jaw.
You tried to smile, but the effort was half-hearted, your lips barely lifting.
“Right. That’s enough,” he said suddenly, untangling himself from the blanket and standing up.
“Juuude,” you protested weakly, trying to clutch at the soft fabric as if it could somehow shield you from the inevitable.
“Don’t even start,” he interrupted, shaking his head with a small but stern smile. “I let you win with the couch thing before, but now? Non-negotiable.”
You glared at him half-heartedly, the fever clouding your ability to stay upset. “You’re so smug.”
“And you’re so stubborn,” he countered with a grin, brushing a stray lock of hair from your forehead, his touch lingering just a moment longer than necessary.
His hands rested gently on your knees, his gaze steady as he met your eyes. “Come on, love,” he said, his voice quiet but insistent. “Let me take you to bed. You’ll sleep better, and I’ll stay with you. Okay?”
You hesitated, staring up at him through fever-fogged eyes. There was something so comforting in his touch, in the way his thumb brushed over the inside of your knee as if he could ease the discomfort from your body with just a gesture.
“Can’t we just stay here a little longer?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper, vulnerable and tired. You were falling asleep in the couch.
Jude’s heart ached at the sound of it, but his resolve didn’t falter. He reached down, gently cupping the back of your head and pulling you up to your feet. “No more fighting, baby.”
Before you could protest further, he lifted you effortlessly into his arms, one arm supporting your back, the other under your legs. You instinctively wrapped your arms around his neck, leaning against him as if your body could draw strength from his.
“Jude!” you gasped in surprise.
“Shh,” he soothed, walking you toward the bedroom with gentle steps. “You’re not getting out of this. I’m taking care of you.”
You pressed your cheek against his shoulder as he carefully laid you down on the bed, tucking you under the covers with the same tender care he always showed. As he reached for the blanket, smoothing it over your shivering form, you closed your eyes, feeling a sense of safety that you didn’t want to admit you’d needed.
“Promise me you'll rest,” he said after a long moment, his voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking any louder might disturb the fragile quiet between you.
He brushed his hand across your forehead, feeling how much warmer you were now that you were lying down. His fingers lingered, caressing your skin in slow, soothing motions. He let out a quiet sigh, looking down at you with a softness in his eyes.
You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you let out a quiet breath, feeling the warmth of his hand caressing you. It felt so comforting that you couldn't resist, your body finally surrendering to the heaviness of your fatigue.
“Promise me,” he repeated softly, his fingers tracing idle patterns along your back.
“I promise,” you mumbled, your voice thick with the weight of exhaustion.
“I’ll always take care of you,” he replied, his voice low and tender. He leaned down and kissed your forehead lightly, the feeling of his lips against your skin almost a promise.
You felt your eyelids grow heavier, and the warmth of his presence slowly lulled you into a deep, feverish sleep. Jude stayed beside you, his hand resting protectively on your back as he settled beside you, never once breaking contact.
And as you drifted off, you felt a quiet sense of gratitude wash over you. You were sick, yes, but you were also cared for in a way that made everything feel a little more bearable. With him so close, it was hard to stay awake, and soon, your breathing evened out into the deep rhythm of sleep.
Wtf are these 3 gonna do with a printer😭
