It’s purely out of provocation, but Beth grabs the opportunity by the neck as Jude’s confession– a begrudging one, a plaguing vision that she doesn’t suspect haunts him well into the night ( as nor do her own, of course ) –wrinkles her nose in unadulterated disgust. Ironic, given her own invasive thoughts had winked at her from the shadows of her childhood bedroom, the one she lingers in nowadays in a sorry attempt to reconstruct a life quite quickly thrown away.
“Yeah?” she smirks, elbow denting the mattress as she props herself up onto it, laying on her side. Her high ponytail flops to the left when she cocks her head in that direction, all playfulness melting into an exaggeration of utter carnal bliss as her brows draw up, her mouth falls open and her eyes widen, as though incredulous in the face of just how much pleasure Jude can provoke, “fuck, oh, oh, oh my god!! You’re so fucking nasty!! Yeah!!” A fleeting taunt, the expression disappears, replaced by a cheeky glint in the depths of her eyes. “Something like that?” Zibby snorts.
Then there’s water landing with a light splat on her face, almost as if Jude were telling her to cool it, as if she’d been the one to start with the meaningless advances. Before she can even think to complain, Jude’s pinned her into place; Beth’s quick to retaliate. He’s giving her all the more reason to revolt– really, it’s all on him; Beth doesn’t feel one bit bad about an attempted elbow jab straight into his balls. She misses, bouncing the bone off of his hip instead, so they both pay the price with the resulting dull throb
“Jesus!”
Flushed and a little dishevelled, Beth blinks only to find that they’ve finally settled. She’s halfway on his chest, her own jumping as her breaths hiccup out of her in jackrabbit pants. The arm he’d used to torment her lays easily around her shoulders now, welcoming and warm. Solid, like it knows its place is right here, holding her to him. Beth doesn’t think anything of it: They’ve grown used to sharing this casual closeness. Needing it, even.
“Right, you’re the one with the big fat crush on— act like a what?”
Brows furrowed in utter confusion, Beth cranes her neck back enough to shoot the look up at Jude.
expecting the unexpected with beth should be something jude’s accustomed to by now ; they split from the script, take the reigns, and improvise, dancing somewhere between amateurs and seasoned professionals when they play at deconstructing the parts they’ve been given, rewriting the scenes as they go. he should expect it when zibby lies back on the bed, melts into a performance of morbid desire, eyebrows hitched up in the outline of a mountain range. he wishes her eyes were closed — that way, when his tongue instinctively darts out to wet his lips, he could convince himself she hadn’t seen. “such a fucking drama queen,” jude dismisses, partly an attempt to convince himself that he isn’t rattled by her little brechtian performance. that he hadn’t felt the urge to slide his tongue along the indent between her eyebrows. what he really wants to call her is brat. “fuck off, zibs.” he tries to push it from his thoughts, but he’s still thinking about it in the bathroom, and when he returns to her side, and when the tussle between them ensues. the shape of her face, contorted by lust ( however artificial it might be ) only slips from his mind when her elbow clangs against his hip bone, pain enough to jolt him back into himself, a split reality jude a la everything everywhere all at once off in a parallel universe still thinking of banging zibby while this jude is content to simply exist beside her.
draped across his chest, the new found weight of her against him is not uncomfortable, but it feels like another unsaid weight exists between them, in the space where their skin touches. it’s just beth. still, when he looks down at her, flushed, dishevelled, panting and partially on top of him, he can’t help but think of other ways he’d get her to that point. jesus. his head’s really in the gutter today. jude tries to remember the last time he rubbed one out and draws up a blank. certainly not this morning, when he was ready to go and duncan the three-legged-dog they had brick to thank for came bounding in to slobber on his pillow. total mood kill. yeah, he’ll blame this itchy restlessness on the fact that he’s not had a wank and not read into it too much. it’s beth, for fuck sake. it would be like shagging soggy or lance. “ wait, what — who do i have a crush on ?” distraction had got in the way of conversation, but he latches onto that like a fish to a maggot, aware of his hand where it rests at the top of her sternum. an inch lower would be dangerous, but his hand’s likely to fall, and he’d rather avoid them both feeling awkward from another accidental tit graze. he shifts his hand to wrap over her shoulder, attempts to get his arm comfy, and then drops it to fall on her stomach instead. safer territory. “nah... you’re fuckin' with me, zibs.” jude scans her face for confirmation of his theory. “you don’t know skepta? you don’t know fuckin’ skepta feat. JME? act like a wasteman, that’s not me? sex any girl... that’s not me? lips any girl, nah that’s not me?” free arm cutting shapes as he raps his way through, it’s a miracle jude doesn’t laugh. “are you for real? that shit’s a banger. alexa ! play act like a wasteman.” it’s a habit they’ve gotten into shouting at home despite not even owning the technology. jude can’t remember how it began. presumably, it started as a joke and now has just become a routine acknowledgement of an absolute tune. somewhere in the house, a mechanical voice responds playing results for skepta featuring j-m-e, that’s not me. “ hoooooly fucking shit, no way !” jude’s excitement is palpable, thrumming through his body, laughter bouncing in his chest. “ you have an alexa!? zibs, you didn’t tell me you was rich. ”
