stars burn the brightest when they die

professionally romanticizing things that hurt 18+ only

[quietly-kept]

࣪ ˖ 𖦹°⋆ Pintro .✦ ݁˖

hi! 🩶

i’m berry — you can call me b. twenty-something writer with too many feelings. she/her. ♌︎

.⋆♱ this blog exists for my current hyperfixation jud duplenticy in wake up dead man (occasionally other characters of josh too)

stay a while. grab a beverage of your choice. we’ll take it from here :)

٠࣪⭑ find me on X & tiktok ٠࣪⭑

༝༚༝༚

.✦ ݁˖ main masterlist

.✦ ݁˖ my art #berrydraws

[j-duplenticy]

someone put jud duplenticy in this shirt

[quietly-kept]

Babyboy honeybee 💘

[parasocialrelationships]

"my head is in heaven, my soles are in hell

lets meet in the purgatory of my hips and get well"

[quietly-kept]

siren song

˙⋆✮ This page is usually occupied by Father Jud and all the stories about and with him. But last night, I wrote a poem (I do so quiet regularly, as my prose maybe reveals) that gave me his vibes too. In some universe I can see him writing poems as well.

I am consumed so entirely by you that even in rooms you’re not in, I search for you.

You’re my missing puzzle piece and my siren song at once.

Oh, my love, I can’t be near you without getting hurt. Yet I cannot stay away, because you’ve seeped into every quiet corner of me.

You’re my deepest belonging to this world, and its sweetest poison.

If loving you is my undoing, then let me unravel in your hands.

I’d rather drown with your name on my lips than spend a lifetime wondering what it would’ve felt like to be loved by you.

Thanks for reading 🩶

Want more? main masterlist

tags (tell me if you wanna out or in!) @rhapsodyofdarkness @judasjud @rosetintmworld @likedovesinthewnd @ch3rrybl0ssomtree @poetrypoesblehhh @sidelit @knives-out-boy @soealt @explorerof-theunknown @post-apocalyptic-rebel-leader @strawberrymochi07 @peelfreshapple @sea-eyed-dream @roryheartz @prxncess-gestirn @doomprincesswrld @dumb-blondeee @gojodaddy1029 @deadgir1rotting @rosefiammotta

[romessence]

[4mtns]

[quietly-kept]

milk glass morning

˙⋆✮ jud duplenticy x f!reader

tags: angst, religious imagery, internal conflict, hurt/no comfort, yearning, emotional (and literal) intimacy summary: He prayed for clarity. Every answer led back to you. word count: ~760 ˙⋆✮ archiveofourown

Morning arrives like it always does. For a split second, Jud doesn’t really know where he is, nor why his arm feels so heavy and his limbs even more so.

Through the thin curtains, a breeze moves so lightly it barely touches his skin. The sky is grey, milk glass suspended in the early morning haze. He slowly wakes as colors return one by one, painting the picture last night started.

Your arm draped across him, your hand resting on his chest, an indentation in the shape of your palm visible far more than only on his skin. Your leg is heavy on his thigh and you just lie there, skin against skin, his heartbeat picking up beneath your hand.

You belong there.

This much was certain from the moment he kissed you, then carried you into your bedroom and devoted his soul to you just as much as his body. Not a single second did he waste thinking this was wrong.

Because how could it be?

How could something born from an emotion this pure ever be anything less than righteous?

How would God punish him if this was the very essence of everything He tells them they should do?

Love.

He was frightened to use the word, scared of its power and the trajectory it carried, but somewhere between lingering glances and getting caught in the orbit of your presence, he didn’t have any other word for it.

He had tried, God knows he did, to pray it away. To ask for clarity.

But every path led back to you, as though it had always been inevitable. As though you had been his calling long before he'd chosen his vocation. Long before the stark white collar against his throat became a reminder of the purity he had long lost somewhere after the taste of violence.

Years passed, even if he had never been able to forget you, carrying a part of your heart with him, tucked away beneath duty and composure.

It was all to no use the second you stood in his church, the embodiment of salvation itself, bringing him to his knees.

He had been helpless to the pull tying him to you like an anchor.

“What are you thinking about?” came your voice, barely more than a whisper, bringing him back to the present.

He smiled sheepishly before kissing your hair. “How do you know?”

“You make that face. The one with the furrowed brows.”

He laughed, a soft, helpless sound. “Well…”

He looked straight ahead, watching the lights move across the ceiling before he spoke.

“I’ve been thinking how right this feels, even if it shouldn’t.”

“Do you regret it?”

His head snapped towards you, his storm-blue eyes searching your face. “Do I look like it?”

You mulled over it for a moment before your whole face lit up, brighter and more beautiful than every sunrise he’d ever seen.

“Not really,” you finally said, and he nodded.

“See.” Then he added, “I could never regret you.”

He took your hand, kissing your knuckles before placing it back over his heart.

“You’re right here, always.”

Your eyes shone before you leaned in and kissed him, softer than last night, less desperation, more certainty. He smiled into the kiss, utterly smitten with the sheer luck of being able to kiss you after all this time.

—

He woke in his rectory bed with a pounding heart and an aching body. The peace of the dream didn’t follow him back into reality.

He roared a curse that echoed off the walls, punching the mattress before raking a hand through his unruly hair.

It had been a dream. A beautiful illusion of something he couldn’t have.

Because the truth was, he left. He’d left like a coward before you even had a chance to object. He left because he knew that if he stayed, he would never be able to let go of the only thing that had ever made sense.

So he carried the ghost of you like a wound, one that reminded him that once, before he chose that life, he had been capable of believing he deserved good things.

Like he deserved you.

He pressed his face back into the pillow, eyes squeezed shut. It muffled the sound, but not the ache.

And for the first time since his vocation, he dared to ask the question that had loomed over him ever since you started haunting his dreams again:

When had his calling stopped sounding like God and started sounding like your voice?

Thanks for reading 🩶

Want more? main masterlist

tags (tell me if you wanna out or in!) @rhapsodyofdarkness @judasjud @rosetintmworld @likedovesinthewnd @ch3rrybl0ssomtree @poetrypoesblehhh @sidelit @knives-out-boy @soealt @explorerof-theunknown @post-apocalyptic-rebel-leader @strawberrymochi07 @peelfreshapple @sea-eyed-dream @roryheartz @prxncess-gestirn @doomprincesswrld @dumb-blondeee @gojodaddy1029 @deadgir1rotting @rosefiammotta

[quietly-kept]

Reminded me of him

[quietly-kept]

Jud would adopt a stray cat that keeps showing up at his church and he would be THE most devoted cat dad. He’d also frantically google everything involving cats so he doesn’t do something wrong 🐈‍⬛

[quietly-kept]

milk glass morning

˙⋆✮ jud duplenticy x f!reader

tags: angst, religious imagery, internal conflict, hurt/no comfort, yearning, emotional (and literal) intimacy summary: He prayed for clarity. Every answer led back to you. word count: ~760 ˙⋆✮ archiveofourown

Morning arrives like it always does. For a split second, Jud doesn’t really know where he is, nor why his arm feels so heavy and his limbs even more so.

Through the thin curtains, a breeze moves so lightly it barely touches his skin. The sky is grey, milk glass suspended in the early morning haze. He slowly wakes as colors return one by one, painting the picture last night started.

Your arm draped across him, your hand resting on his chest, an indentation in the shape of your palm visible far more than only on his skin. Your leg is heavy on his thigh and you just lie there, skin against skin, his heartbeat picking up beneath your hand.

You belong there.

This much was certain from the moment he kissed you, then carried you into your bedroom and devoted his soul to you just as much as his body. Not a single second did he waste thinking this was wrong.

Because how could it be?

How could something born from an emotion this pure ever be anything less than righteous?

How would God punish him if this was the very essence of everything He tells them they should do?

Love.

He was frightened to use the word, scared of its power and the trajectory it carried, but somewhere between lingering glances and getting caught in the orbit of your presence, he didn’t have any other word for it.

He had tried, God knows he did, to pray it away. To ask for clarity.

But every path led back to you, as though it had always been inevitable. As though you had been his calling long before he'd chosen his vocation. Long before the stark white collar against his throat became a reminder of the purity he had long lost somewhere after the taste of violence.

Years passed, even if he had never been able to forget you, carrying a part of your heart with him, tucked away beneath duty and composure.

It was all to no use the second you stood in his church, the embodiment of salvation itself, bringing him to his knees.

He had been helpless to the pull tying him to you like an anchor.

“What are you thinking about?” came your voice, barely more than a whisper, bringing him back to the present.

He smiled sheepishly before kissing your hair. “How do you know?”

“You make that face. The one with the furrowed brows.”

He laughed, a soft, helpless sound. “Well…”

He looked straight ahead, watching the lights move across the ceiling before he spoke.

“I’ve been thinking how right this feels, even if it shouldn’t.”

“Do you regret it?”

His head snapped towards you, his storm-blue eyes searching your face. “Do I look like it?”

You mulled over it for a moment before your whole face lit up, brighter and more beautiful than every sunrise he’d ever seen.

“Not really,” you finally said, and he nodded.

“See.” Then he added, “I could never regret you.”

He took your hand, kissing your knuckles before placing it back over his heart.

“You’re right here, always.”

Your eyes shone before you leaned in and kissed him, softer than last night, less desperation, more certainty. He smiled into the kiss, utterly smitten with the sheer luck of being able to kiss you after all this time.

—

He woke in his rectory bed with a pounding heart and an aching body. The peace of the dream didn’t follow him back into reality.

He roared a curse that echoed off the walls, punching the mattress before raking a hand through his unruly hair.

It had been a dream. A beautiful illusion of something he couldn’t have.

Because the truth was, he left. He’d left like a coward before you even had a chance to object. He left because he knew that if he stayed, he would never be able to let go of the only thing that had ever made sense.

So he carried the ghost of you like a wound, one that reminded him that once, before he chose that life, he had been capable of believing he deserved good things.

Like he deserved you.

He pressed his face back into the pillow, eyes squeezed shut. It muffled the sound, but not the ache.

And for the first time since his vocation, he dared to ask the question that had loomed over him ever since you started haunting his dreams again:

When had his calling stopped sounding like God and started sounding like your voice?

Thanks for reading 🩶

Want more? main masterlist

tags (tell me if you wanna out or in!) @rhapsodyofdarkness @judasjud @rosetintmworld @likedovesinthewnd @ch3rrybl0ssomtree @poetrypoesblehhh @sidelit @knives-out-boy @soealt @explorerof-theunknown @post-apocalyptic-rebel-leader @strawberrymochi07 @peelfreshapple @sea-eyed-dream @roryheartz @prxncess-gestirn @doomprincesswrld @dumb-blondeee @gojodaddy1029 @deadgir1rotting @rosefiammotta

[quietly-kept]

milk glass morning

˙⋆✮ jud duplenticy x f!reader

tags: angst, religious imagery, internal conflict, hurt/no comfort, yearning, emotional (and literal) intimacy summary: He prayed for clarity. Every answer led back to you. word count: ~760 ˙⋆✮ archiveofourown

Morning arrives like it always does. For a split second, Jud doesn’t really know where he is, nor why his arm feels so heavy and his limbs even more so.

Through the thin curtains, a breeze moves so lightly it barely touches his skin. The sky is grey, milk glass suspended in the early morning haze. He slowly wakes as colors return one by one, painting the picture last night started.

Your arm draped across him, your hand resting on his chest, an indentation in the shape of your palm visible far more than only on his skin. Your leg is heavy on his thigh and you just lie there, skin against skin, his heartbeat picking up beneath your hand.

You belong there.

This much was certain from the moment he kissed you, then carried you into your bedroom and devoted his soul to you just as much as his body. Not a single second did he waste thinking this was wrong.

Because how could it be?

How could something born from an emotion this pure ever be anything less than righteous?

How would God punish him if this was the very essence of everything He tells them they should do?

Love.

He was frightened to use the word, scared of its power and the trajectory it carried, but somewhere between lingering glances and getting caught in the orbit of your presence, he didn’t have any other word for it.

He had tried, God knows he did, to pray it away. To ask for clarity.

But every path led back to you, as though it had always been inevitable. As though you had been his calling long before he'd chosen his vocation. Long before the stark white collar against his throat became a reminder of the purity he had long lost somewhere after the taste of violence.

Years passed, even if he had never been able to forget you, carrying a part of your heart with him, tucked away beneath duty and composure.

It was all to no use the second you stood in his church, the embodiment of salvation itself, bringing him to his knees.

He had been helpless to the pull tying him to you like an anchor.

“What are you thinking about?” came your voice, barely more than a whisper, bringing him back to the present.

He smiled sheepishly before kissing your hair. “How do you know?”

“You make that face. The one with the furrowed brows.”

He laughed, a soft, helpless sound. “Well…”

He looked straight ahead, watching the lights move across the ceiling before he spoke.

“I’ve been thinking how right this feels, even if it shouldn’t.”

“Do you regret it?”

His head snapped towards you, his storm-blue eyes searching your face. “Do I look like it?”

You mulled over it for a moment before your whole face lit up, brighter and more beautiful than every sunrise he’d ever seen.

“Not really,” you finally said, and he nodded.

“See.” Then he added, “I could never regret you.”

He took your hand, kissing your knuckles before placing it back over his heart.

“You’re right here, always.”

Your eyes shone before you leaned in and kissed him, softer than last night, less desperation, more certainty. He smiled into the kiss, utterly smitten with the sheer luck of being able to kiss you after all this time.

—

He woke in his rectory bed with a pounding heart and an aching body. The peace of the dream didn’t follow him back into reality.

He roared a curse that echoed off the walls, punching the mattress before raking a hand through his unruly hair.

It had been a dream. A beautiful illusion of something he couldn’t have.

Because the truth was, he left. He’d left like a coward before you even had a chance to object. He left because he knew that if he stayed, he would never be able to let go of the only thing that had ever made sense.

So he carried the ghost of you like a wound, one that reminded him that once, before he chose that life, he had been capable of believing he deserved good things.

Like he deserved you.

He pressed his face back into the pillow, eyes squeezed shut. It muffled the sound, but not the ache.

And for the first time since his vocation, he dared to ask the question that had loomed over him ever since you started haunting his dreams again:

When had his calling stopped sounding like God and started sounding like your voice?

Thanks for reading 🩶

Want more? main masterlist

tags (tell me if you wanna out or in!) @rhapsodyofdarkness @judasjud @rosetintmworld @likedovesinthewnd @ch3rrybl0ssomtree @poetrypoesblehhh @sidelit @knives-out-boy @soealt @explorerof-theunknown @post-apocalyptic-rebel-leader @strawberrymochi07 @peelfreshapple @sea-eyed-dream @roryheartz @prxncess-gestirn @doomprincesswrld @dumb-blondeee @gojodaddy1029 @deadgir1rotting @rosefiammotta

[quietly-kept]

milk glass morning

˙⋆✮ jud duplenticy x f!reader

tags: angst, religious imagery, internal conflict, hurt/no comfort, yearning, emotional (and literal) intimacy summary: He prayed for clarity. Every answer led back to you. word count: ~760 ˙⋆✮ archiveofourown

Morning arrives like it always does. For a split second, Jud doesn’t really know where he is, nor why his arm feels so heavy and his limbs even more so.

Through the thin curtains, a breeze moves so lightly it barely touches his skin. The sky is grey, milk glass suspended in the early morning haze. He slowly wakes as colors return one by one, painting the picture last night started.

Your arm draped across him, your hand resting on his chest, an indentation in the shape of your palm visible far more than only on his skin. Your leg is heavy on his thigh and you just lie there, skin against skin, his heartbeat picking up beneath your hand.

You belong there.

This much was certain from the moment he kissed you, then carried you into your bedroom and devoted his soul to you just as much as his body. Not a single second did he waste thinking this was wrong.

Because how could it be?

How could something born from an emotion this pure ever be anything less than righteous?

How would God punish him if this was the very essence of everything He tells them they should do?

Love.

He was frightened to use the word, scared of its power and the trajectory it carried, but somewhere between lingering glances and getting caught in the orbit of your presence, he didn’t have any other word for it.

He had tried, God knows he did, to pray it away. To ask for clarity.

But every path led back to you, as though it had always been inevitable. As though you had been his calling long before he'd chosen his vocation. Long before the stark white collar against his throat became a reminder of the purity he had long lost somewhere after the taste of violence.

Years passed, even if he had never been able to forget you, carrying a part of your heart with him, tucked away beneath duty and composure.

It was all to no use the second you stood in his church, the embodiment of salvation itself, bringing him to his knees.

He had been helpless to the pull tying him to you like an anchor.

“What are you thinking about?” came your voice, barely more than a whisper, bringing him back to the present.

He smiled sheepishly before kissing your hair. “How do you know?”

“You make that face. The one with the furrowed brows.”

He laughed, a soft, helpless sound. “Well…”

He looked straight ahead, watching the lights move across the ceiling before he spoke.

“I’ve been thinking how right this feels, even if it shouldn’t.”

“Do you regret it?”

His head snapped towards you, his storm-blue eyes searching your face. “Do I look like it?”

You mulled over it for a moment before your whole face lit up, brighter and more beautiful than every sunrise he’d ever seen.

“Not really,” you finally said, and he nodded.

“See.” Then he added, “I could never regret you.”

He took your hand, kissing your knuckles before placing it back over his heart.

“You’re right here, always.”

Your eyes shone before you leaned in and kissed him, softer than last night, less desperation, more certainty. He smiled into the kiss, utterly smitten with the sheer luck of being able to kiss you after all this time.

—

He woke in his rectory bed with a pounding heart and an aching body. The peace of the dream didn’t follow him back into reality.

He roared a curse that echoed off the walls, punching the mattress before raking a hand through his unruly hair.

It had been a dream. A beautiful illusion of something he couldn’t have.

Because the truth was, he left. He’d left like a coward before you even had a chance to object. He left because he knew that if he stayed, he would never be able to let go of the only thing that had ever made sense.

So he carried the ghost of you like a wound, one that reminded him that once, before he chose that life, he had been capable of believing he deserved good things.

Like he deserved you.

He pressed his face back into the pillow, eyes squeezed shut. It muffled the sound, but not the ache.

And for the first time since his vocation, he dared to ask the question that had loomed over him ever since you started haunting his dreams again:

When had his calling stopped sounding like God and started sounding like your voice?

Thanks for reading 🩶

Want more? main masterlist

tags (tell me if you wanna out or in!) @rhapsodyofdarkness @judasjud @rosetintmworld @likedovesinthewnd @ch3rrybl0ssomtree @poetrypoesblehhh @sidelit @knives-out-boy @soealt @explorerof-theunknown @post-apocalyptic-rebel-leader @strawberrymochi07 @peelfreshapple @sea-eyed-dream @roryheartz @prxncess-gestirn @doomprincesswrld @dumb-blondeee @gojodaddy1029 @deadgir1rotting @rosefiammotta

[quietly-kept]

milk glass morning

˙⋆✮ jud duplenticy x f!reader

tags: angst, religious imagery, internal conflict, hurt/no comfort, yearning, emotional (and literal) intimacy summary: He prayed for clarity. Every answer led back to you. word count: ~760 ˙⋆✮ archiveofourown

Morning arrives like it always does. For a split second, Jud doesn’t really know where he is, nor why his arm feels so heavy and his limbs even more so.

Through the thin curtains, a breeze moves so lightly it barely touches his skin. The sky is grey, milk glass suspended in the early morning haze. He slowly wakes as colors return one by one, painting the picture last night started.

Your arm draped across him, your hand resting on his chest, an indentation in the shape of your palm visible far more than only on his skin. Your leg is heavy on his thigh and you just lie there, skin against skin, his heartbeat picking up beneath your hand.

You belong there.

This much was certain from the moment he kissed you, then carried you into your bedroom and devoted his soul to you just as much as his body. Not a single second did he waste thinking this was wrong.

Because how could it be?

How could something born from an emotion this pure ever be anything less than righteous?

How would God punish him if this was the very essence of everything He tells them they should do?

Love.

He was frightened to use the word, scared of its power and the trajectory it carried, but somewhere between lingering glances and getting caught in the orbit of your presence, he didn’t have any other word for it.

He had tried, God knows he did, to pray it away. To ask for clarity.

But every path led back to you, as though it had always been inevitable. As though you had been his calling long before he'd chosen his vocation. Long before the stark white collar against his throat became a reminder of the purity he had long lost somewhere after the taste of violence.

Years passed, even if he had never been able to forget you, carrying a part of your heart with him, tucked away beneath duty and composure.

It was all to no use the second you stood in his church, the embodiment of salvation itself, bringing him to his knees.

He had been helpless to the pull tying him to you like an anchor.

“What are you thinking about?” came your voice, barely more than a whisper, bringing him back to the present.

He smiled sheepishly before kissing your hair. “How do you know?”

“You make that face. The one with the furrowed brows.”

He laughed, a soft, helpless sound. “Well…”

He looked straight ahead, watching the lights move across the ceiling before he spoke.

“I’ve been thinking how right this feels, even if it shouldn’t.”

“Do you regret it?”

His head snapped towards you, his storm-blue eyes searching your face. “Do I look like it?”

You mulled over it for a moment before your whole face lit up, brighter and more beautiful than every sunrise he’d ever seen.

“Not really,” you finally said, and he nodded.

“See.” Then he added, “I could never regret you.”

He took your hand, kissing your knuckles before placing it back over his heart.

“You’re right here, always.”

Your eyes shone before you leaned in and kissed him, softer than last night, less desperation, more certainty. He smiled into the kiss, utterly smitten with the sheer luck of being able to kiss you after all this time.

—

He woke in his rectory bed with a pounding heart and an aching body. The peace of the dream didn’t follow him back into reality.

He roared a curse that echoed off the walls, punching the mattress before raking a hand through his unruly hair.

It had been a dream. A beautiful illusion of something he couldn’t have.

Because the truth was, he left. He’d left like a coward before you even had a chance to object. He left because he knew that if he stayed, he would never be able to let go of the only thing that had ever made sense.

So he carried the ghost of you like a wound, one that reminded him that once, before he chose that life, he had been capable of believing he deserved good things.

Like he deserved you.

He pressed his face back into the pillow, eyes squeezed shut. It muffled the sound, but not the ache.

And for the first time since his vocation, he dared to ask the question that had loomed over him ever since you started haunting his dreams again:

When had his calling stopped sounding like God and started sounding like your voice?

Thanks for reading 🩶

Want more? main masterlist

tags (tell me if you wanna out or in!) @rhapsodyofdarkness @judasjud @rosetintmworld @likedovesinthewnd @ch3rrybl0ssomtree @poetrypoesblehhh @sidelit @knives-out-boy @soealt @explorerof-theunknown @post-apocalyptic-rebel-leader @strawberrymochi07 @peelfreshapple @sea-eyed-dream @roryheartz @prxncess-gestirn @doomprincesswrld @dumb-blondeee @gojodaddy1029 @deadgir1rotting @rosefiammotta

[dumb-blondeee]

Imagine being Wicks’ daughter and still spending so much time and energy pissing him off, some of the things you do accidentally become a habit Particularly, your flirting with the new, younger priest.

Jud doesn’t mind it. He’s had girls throw themselves at him countless times. He’s used to the lingering touches and fluttering of eyelashes and slightly explicit comments.

What gets him is the genuine compliments. Sure, you spend a lot of time flirting with the poor man, but he likes it, deep down. Cause you see him as a man, and not just a priest.

“What do you think?” he asked softly, showing you his craft.

The two of you were sitting outside, working quietly together. You on a watercolor painting, and Jud on a small carving. The one he handed you was of a small bird, simple, delicate, and done very well.

“It’s beautiful. You have a real talent, you know,” you say softly, genuinely meaning it.

He waves it off, trying to ignore the slight flush creeping up his cheeks as he smooths out the wood with a small piece of sandpaper. You watch him silently, taking in his care for his work.

“It’s like you were meant for this. Your patience, your appreciation for the world. It’s so admirable.”

Jud blushed much harder at that comment, turning his face from you so you couldn’t see the pink on his face.

“Ah—yeah, yeah. Thanks,” he stammered.

“Are you—are you blushing?”

“No, I don’t know— yes? Whatever—“ he waved his hand again, not letting you see.

But you were a nuisance. So you reached out to tilt his chin back towards you. His eyes refused to meet your gaze, but now you could see it in all its glory: Jud blushing.

“Awww. You’re so cute,” you tease, releasing his face.

Jud brushes a hand over his jaw before picking up the sandpaper again. His face still slightly pink. And you sit there with a smile, watching him for just a moment longer before returning to your painting.

inspired by @quietly-kept

[quietly-kept]

I suffer from a dangerous thing called longing.

It leads me to places

that were meant to stay hidden.

But it’s dark where I am,

so I keep reaching for the light.

[heateron]

josh o'connor in la chimera (2023) dir. alice rohrwacher