#me editing this for clarity what are words
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This could be a random thing to say at a random time but I think harry is gonna end up with someone non-famous who is younger than him. I am not disliking the older women he dated(I am a dark haylor tbh) but something tells me this.Anyway I really hope he finds someone who loves him the way he does. Like in every serious relationship he had he loved the girl more than she did him. Taylor moved on from him within 3 months when it took him 2 albums and 2.5 years. Camille also moved on quick I think while he pinned so bad in FL. He was Olivia's getaway car. I want him to be loved.
now i'll answer this, please don't feel bad! i just got distracted by the other thing (there was so much going on back in the 2012-2015 era!). obviously we have no way of knowing what may happen in the future, but it must be so difficult to find a balance between your public and private life when you have such a spotlight on you, and a safe place where you can keep away from intrusion as much as possible with a serious relationship (as taylor has expressed in both interviews and lyrics many times herself). it can be double-edged for sure, people in the industry tend to date other people in the industry because of their commonalities and because they can understand some of the unique pressures, but then at times that increases the glare. others find more stable connections with people outside of it all. it just depends on what works and what's right. (taylor and joe, ed and cherry). there's definitely nothing wrong with harry dating older, but who knows what that might look like or what he might decide in the future. maybe he enjoys that maturity, maybe he'll eventually look for a closer peer.
i don't know if we can fairly give any measurement to those loves, there are so many reasons things fall apart between people, but he seems to have such a big heart and romantic soul, and i hope he finds that lasting love too. he deserves to have that and to build whatever life he wishes to have. i hope that for anyone who wants it!
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incredibly interested in buddy worshipping a "nameless god of rage" actually.
because she's not nameless. her name is ankarna, apparently. adaine found it. adaine abernant, elven oracle, read it aloud to the cosmos and destroyed the oblivati mori.
but buddy does not follow ankarna. buddy follows a nameless god.
the rat grinders do not know the name of the god they follow. they do not know the cause in which they fight for. we were warned by pok, episode 13, that if someone began worshipping ankarna, it would be unsafe. but the rat grinders do not follow ankarna. they follow someone unnamed.
i wonder what would happen if the rat grinders learned her name.
#edited for clarity#dimension 20#fantasy high#fhjy#fhjy spoilers#the rat grinders#buddy dawn#sorry this is something that's been on my mind since last episode. the name ankarna is KNOWN do jace/the rat grinders not know it?#what happens if they do?#brennan's word choice tends to be important and this STOOD OUT to me#castles rambles
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maybe im stupid but while i definitely agree that luffy would have complex feelings and be upset or perhaps briefly guilty over what really went down at thriller bark, i really dont think he would feel that way about the death pact thing like. that one isnt about him.
thriller bark was obviously self sacrifice and taking away the crew's agency in who dies for them and whatever else, but the death pact is about sanji. its an absolute last resort and its trusting zoro to do what the others would not be able to do, after every possible attempt to save him has been exhausted.
sanji knows that his crew wont let him go without a fight, he finally is secure in the knowledge that he is loved and valued, and he trusts that they will do everything possible to help him if he did ever succumb to the germa enhancements.
but he knows it might not be possible. and he knows zoro will know the line as well, and will stop sanji doing something unforgivable.
obviously theres still glaring issues of his self sacrificial streak and his belief that if anyone should suffer it should be him, and all of that, of course. but its not quite the same, right?
i just dont think luffy would presume autonomy over anyone like that to say no youre not Allowed to do this, or like this is a Betrayal of my captaincy bc you didnt tell me. his crew are all free people, luffys problem has always been when they do things they dont want bc they think they have no other choice. the death pact is about when there truly IS no other choice.
does that make sense
#idk to me i guess it felt more about like#zoro has often sort of played that. idk how to word it. not exactly anchor not exactly balance. but the counterpoint for luffy at times#he pushes him or pulls him back or reminds him of his role yknow and i feel like what sanji is asking of him is the same#its not like 'hey if i act a bit weird kill me' its like 'i trust you will know when i have gone beyond the brink-#-and i trust you wont let me do something i would not be able to forgive myself for'#i guess i more read it like sanji just giving zoro permission yknow. dont hesitate. i already told you. dont hesitate.#edit: also i feel there is a level of absolution to it in a way#like sanji has enough awareness and foresight to think of this possibility and know that someone might have to take him out#the death pact means zoro can shoulder that burden without it weighing him down. it gives him clarity of purpose which is just vital yknow#especially to zoro. as long as he and sanji are on the same page he can do this task and he would never feel guilty over it and thats just.#it makes all the difference in the world#and luffy would see that too. he would recognise it immediately
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I'm about halfway to two thirds through You Feel It Just Below the Ribs, and asdjasdlkajsadjal
The reveals, the implications, I can't even - mentally I'm rolling on the floor frothing at the mouth. I want to go back and listen to season 3 and season 1 all over again, holy shiiiiit
#viv18chatter#within the wires#you feel it just below the ribs#bless my library for having such a great collection#did not expect to find a book written for an alternative history podcast in its repertoire#but have it they did! all three versions I might add - physical digital and audio#anyways point is shit is really coming out now and I am loving the fictional tea#both from the ''actual'' autobiography and the side implications of the footnotes and interludes#well in between wanting to shake the fictional authors of said footnotes and interludes lol#''edited for clarity'' edited HOW? Was the writing smudged or otherwise unclear and you made your best guess?#did you change words around that YOU thought didn't make sense?#TELL ME WHAT WAS EDITED DAMMIT#and that's not even getting into the VERY opinionated footnotes and interludes#I know it would be expensive and tricky to make#but man I would love if the authors were able to make a special edition of this book#that looked like the actual manuscript#or like ... the one that was released in-universe that was being beta'd by the publishers - so we see the handwritten pages with smudges#the faded typewriter pages#with the publishers notes etc all over it#oooh stretch goal of the internal communications while going over the manuscript would prbably be a fun aside too#sometimes I wonder if there weren't multiple people making footnotes (though only one making the interludes I think)#because sometimes they vary quite wildly in tone#that could just be situational of course#but still#interesting thoughts
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My writing process includes some days where I don't write but do writing related work. I plan as I go because that is the best way to keep writing flexible and free, not bound so tightly to a rigid track that it kills allcreativity. Sppntaneity is essential to creation. You need to have rook rook surprising developments your characters add at the last minute. These are some of the funnest parts of writing ans they can lead you in new, fresh directions, providing something better thqn you could have planned ahead of time, because there is no real life in a planning document. Life is where the characters are moving and speaking, and such a dynamic environment creates a woeld for imagination to thrive.
I have my writing process which works for me: I have a rough plan, a path, often a striking image at the heart of the novel im working toward. I have to find the right place to start, then each scene sparks ideas for the next scene so I rarely get stuck writing, rarely get writers block or stare at a blank page. Before I write thr next section, I always edit what I wrote the previous writing session, and i write down notes in my notebook then type them up in an organized way: notes which are directly related to the plot I put in order in my writing document; other notes like for chatscter or setting I put in my reference document. Rereading my own writing always sparks new ideas. Another way i don't get stuck is I leave a cliffhanger sentence. The last sentence that I write for the day is open ended. Sometimes it is not even a completed sentence. Plus perhaps some notes for starting next time. Since it doesn't stop where things are resolved, it leaves space for ideas to spark the next day.
So my writing process includes days I don't necessarily write. Some days I only research, some days I only plan, especially in the beginning, some days I only edit. I don't worry if I get words in because any writing task moves me forward. And on days I write, I consider 1 word a triumph, but I never write just one, because writing one word, even if it's a nonsense word I will delete later, sparks other words. And suddenly I have 300... or perhaps 3000 words.
Another thing which helps get words in is always writing for fun. Writing what I like. Even if it's a lot of "work" it doesn't seem like it bc it's also fun.
One reason it's fun, the main reason really, is that my self absorbs into the character im writing. I become that person and see what they see, feel what they feel. My writing is always better the more successful I am at this, the more I disappear and the more the character emerges, eclipsing my own wants and desires. Then I just have to write what they experience-- and the more clearly I feel what they feel, the more clearly and freshly I can write it.
They say you should write every day, but sometimes a functional writing process looks like writing 1k in a sitting because you're getting a head of yourself, writing 500 words because you had a chapter to wrap up, writing 50 words because you felt too sad to write, writing no words because the state of the world overcame you for a few days, writing 1.5k because sometimes ennui turns into fury and purpose, and then 700 the next day because you remembered that there was a cool scene you wanted to get around to and—
#Writing#My writing process#This works for me#Help writing be fun#Helps me get words down#I developed this just by writing#I think my 1st crazy novel helped#Not editing...helped words flow#Helped me have a writing habit#Where it was just fun not work#Later it helped me to post online#Bc I could see what I wrote#And adjust accordinly#Not editing at all I think only helps for your 1st novel#Or so#Editing while you go is good otherwise#Helps it not become a sprawling disconnected mess#What comes before must be connected deeply to what comes after#Idk how anyone can remember what they wrote unless they reread it#Helps it be deeply connected and not make forgetful mistakes by editing#Another thing which helps clarity is diagram of the scene#The staging-- the setting#I just found that recently#Better you visualize the better you write
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i’m here speaking on behalf of mahmoud. (@ma7moudgaza2)
i talk to mahmoud every day, and honestly? the situation he’s in terrifies me. i could not imagine what he’s going through, and the fact that he has no escape haunts me.
to those of you reading this who need to hear it;
i understand that activism burns a lot of people out. it’s stressful to fight. it’s terrifying to be in palestine, in congo, in sudan right now. it’s exhausting to help fight, day after day after day. but you need to keep helping. sit down for a second of you need it, and then stand up, dust off your clothes, and keep on walking.
the world will not be rebuilt in a day. but we keep fighting nonetheless.
back to the post:
i had to edit a lot of what mahmoud said, for both conciseness and clarity. but here is the exact copy.
“Oh Lord...” was the last word I said before going to sleep, and it came out of me with a flame of burning and fear. I prayed and sat in my tent, looked up at the sky through the cracks of the tent, and recalled what had happened during the year. My tears flowed, my head began to hurt, and suffocation was killing my chest. I usually turn on the internet after dinner, but tonight I didn't want to. I wanted to go out, but where should I go? for whom?
Imagine yourself in my place. Around 20 members of my family, I remembered my beautiful memories and the news of my friends’ death. My body shook and I sat on the floor, and the screams of my mother and sisters filled the place. I wanted to sleep and didn't want to wake up. I remembered how I walked with 10 children from north to south. The responsibilities I carry are greater than I can handle. I remembered searching for a home for my family, standing in line to get food, and how upset the people closest to us were.
I woke up to my mother’s voice asking me: “What’s wrong with you, Mahmoud?” I went out, but I felt strange and I came back and sat at the tent door feeling suffocated. I reassured myself of returning, but I remembered that our house had been bombed, and there was nothing left. I put the pillow on my head and said, “Lord, you are hers.” I woke up today and we were afraid, but thank God, nothing happened. I wasn't going to work, but I was encouraged. I'm really suffocated and I have nothing. The only thing left is the money from the fundraising campaign you launched. I was hesitant to ask for help, but now I have no choice.
I ask you for help. $10 could save me and my family. If you can't, participate in the campaign. You are the only hope.
if mahmoud’s story doesn’t speak to you, i don’t know what i can say that can.
#free palestine#palestine#gaza#free gaza#gaza genocide#gaza strip#fundraiser#gofundme#vetted#verified#ma7moudgaza2
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About You
how to help gaza
pairing: colin bridgerton x f!reader, brief benedict bridgerton x reader action
description: finally ready to get off the marriage mart, your family arranges a marriage to a bridgerton. but not the one you have always desired.
word count: 2.4k words
author’s note: hiiii folks. this is part one so more coming soon. I wrote it in an hour after I watched pt1 of season 3. I only edited it a couple times. plus there’s a lack of colin content on this website. so i’m here, filling the void ❤️
You had waited for this night your whole life. The night you would be proposed to.
Your mother had ensured you wore your finest gown, a soft purple dress with beautiful sparkles and embellishments. She even gifted you a necklace your grandmother had worn the night of her engagement.
It was a huge moment for everyone involved. But you could not help but feel a pit in your stomach. You wanted to call them nerves, but it was more so you knew you were making a mistake.
When you arrive at Lady Danbury’s estate, you and your parents step out of a horse-drawn carriage and into a beautifully decorated ball. The candles lined the entrance, and red and white roses encapsulated the entire space.
You did the typical introductions and curtsies. You thanked Lady Danbury for throwing such a captivating event for your special moment. She smiled and told you that it had to be mesmerizing for such anticipation. You felt light-headed thinking of all the eyes that would be on you tonight.
You found your way to the ballroom, where ladies and gentlemen alike were already dancing. You find your way around the room, instantly finding a group of ladies you had made acquaintance with before. The four of you chat and they all share that they cannot wait to watch the Bridgerton boy propose to you in front of the masses.
It makes you sick to your stomach.
You excuse yourself to find some lemonade on one of the many tables. You would prefer some champagne, but alcohol does not make it right for you. It does not allow any clarity. So, you stand alone, trying to collect your thoughts and not freak out too much before anything happens.
“There’s my gem.”
His voice is deeper when it’s right in one of your ringlet curls. It also doesn’t help that he’s saying it for your ears only, making the comment even more sensual.
Colin Bridgerton was terrible at being just your friend. He was always too close to you, always searching you out in a crowd, and constantly waiting around for you at social events.
He had been doing it for years before he disappeared on a world tour. You knew your time on the marriage mart was over when your mother and father, a Duke and Duchess, pulled aside Violet Bridgerton and begged her to pawn one of her sons off onto you. And while she would have easily convinced Colin, he was in Italy learning about The Pantheon and had stated he had no intentions marrying.
So, Benedict would have to do.
You turn to face the taller gentleman, ensuring your posture was fixed to that of a Lady.
“Mister Bridgerton, what do I owe the pleasure?” You falter to formalities, rather than your normal banter with him. You knew people would be watching you like a hawk, as tonight was the night Benedict was going to try to secure a proposal.
“I have not seen you in a year and suddenly you speaking to me as if I am a stranger,” His voice is confident, but his eyes read the same insecure boy you remember.
You let out a sly chuckle, “Well, we practically are at this point, are we not? You are the Ton’s most eligible bachelor as soon as you returned from your tour and I feel like the man gracing me with his presence is not the man I once knew.”
He seems taken aback by your comments, his face dropping a bit.
“I’ve been hearing whispers amongst the Ton that you’re getting a proposal,” He halts, taking a sip of the lemonade slid between his fingers, “From my brother?”
You hear the jealousy laced in his voice, but you try your best not to call him out on it. You turn around, still shoulder-to-shoulder with the man. “One can only hope, Mister Bridgerton. It would only be my pleasure to join the family.”
“As Benedict’s missus?”
You want to scream at him, but your trained politeness is engrained deep within every fiber of your being.
“Well, I have you know, that it was arranged by your Mama and my parents. It is simply a way to join our families. You know my Mama and yours have always taken to one another. I did not know you would have such an issue with it.”
Before he can say more, you spot Benedict across the ballroom chatting with Eloise and Francesca. He meets your eyes and gives you a curt nod and smirk. You nod back, knowing that he would approach you once the conversation concludes. You had this whole act down to a science.
Because that’s what it was for you. An act. A way to make your parents get off your back. It was no love match, it was only practical. Benedict was a gentleman, into the arts, comfortable with moving away from the city. He was everything you needed, just not what you wanted.
“I leave for a bit of time and suddenly my own brother is courting my best friend,” Colin groans, shifting in his spot. You return your gaze back to him, trying to understand why tonight had to be the night that he fought for you. The term best friend had a bite to it, as well. While you were a lady, you had already shared a kiss with a few boys, including Colin. While you two were underage and not able to make such distinct decisions on marriage, you knew that the feelings you had for him were shared.
What was so frustrating was that he could never actually confess such feelings. You could see it in his eyes when you glanced his way, but the words never slipped his lips. He only shot flirtations at you and then there was no action as a follow-up. It made your mind race and spin. You started to believe that it was not flirtations at all and it was all just teasing.
“I think you are missing out on the key point in your conjecture, Colin,” You lick your lips, moving only a bit closer to him so no one can hear your words, “You left me. I stayed here and pondered what another season would be like without you. And of course, at the very end of such an event, you decide to be cruel.”
“How am I being cruel, Miss? I am simply stating that you are choosing someone I care about for expedience and not for love.”
“You are being cruel by approaching me and acting like you are even half aware of the circumstances you are speaking of.”
He chuckles, trying not to entertain your comments. “I am well aware that you have always wanted a love match. You know that is not what you are getting with Benedict, Gem.”
Your throat tightens because you know he is right. You have dreamed of a love match since you were a precocious child, enduring all the teasing him and Eloise about it.
And you knew deep down that the love match you wanted was with him.
The damn nickname he gave you years ago continues to get a rise. You can feel your face get flushed, the heat rising all the way down your neck and chest.
“Who said I needed a love match, Mister Bridgerton?!”
You never meant to be loud, but as soon as the words leave your mouth, you realize everyone staring your way. You had seriously messed up.
Colin did not even look away from your completely shell-shocked expression. He was not focused on the glares and whispers, he only cared that the woman he was in love with was about to marry his brother. He could not let that happen.
The feeling of embarrassment made every part of your body jittery. You decided that the exit seemed like the best option, so you made your way past everyone and ran to the back garden of the Danbury estate. The flowers that lined the railings made the tears in your vision sparkle like fireworks.
You try your best to suppress the useless waterworks, but the emotions get the best of you. You felt humiliated that you had to explain your motives to a man who hardly knew you anymore. What does he know?
You find a corner to hide in, making sure your face is hidden away from the exit. When you hear footsteps approach, you pray it’s not a Bridgerton. Sadly, you’re disappointed.
“What did Colin say to you?”
You remove your cream glove, ensuring no tear touches such an expensive fabric. You needed to collect yourself a bit before turning to face Benedict. So you dab your eyes with your fingertips and spin to face him. He looks concerned, his hand reaching for yours.
“I am so sorry, Lord Bridgerton. He got the better of me and he still knows how best to irritate me,” your eyes well up again with tears, “I do apologize for not being more put together.”
He squeezes your hand reassuringly, “Do not apologize. I expected him to be a bit tormented by the whole situation.”
You furrow your brows, quizzically. “What ever do you mean?”
“Well, he told my Mama last season that he did not want to marry because you were courting Lord Jacques. That is why he left early for his travels.”
The revelation makes your heart skip a beat, “Why would him marrying have anything to do with me?”
You try to play dumb so maybe you could get more out of the man, but instead of answering you, he just shakes his head. His focus drops, and as soon as you lose fixation on his actions, you notice Colin loitering around the exit. You drop Benedict’s hand and sidestep to get the man in your line of vision.
“You have never been good at hide and seek, Mister Bridgerton,” You say with spite, “Step into the light.”
His slow meander only makes you more angry.
“Now, why is my brother alone with my best friend in the garden? Seems like a scandal waiting to happen.”
Benedict snickers, “Seems like we were never alone, brother. You appear to be around every waiting corner.”
You cross your arms, annoyed with both men and sick of the mortification. You could not help but appreciate Benedict’s snarky nature, it has always thrown Colin off his game. You clear your throat, bringing their eyes to you.
“I wish to understand why you lied to me about leaving early last season.”
Colin’s disposition changes as soon as you say it. Last season, Colin left abruptly and wrote you saying it was because of a learning opportunity in Vienna. You took his word for it, but based on what Benedict had just told you, that was a lie.
“Pardon m-”
“Colin, why did you lie about leaving the season early?”
“Gem, I really do not know where you got this information.”
“Oh, give me a break, Colin. You told me and Anthony that you did not wish to marry unless a girl like her came around. When you realized she was interested in another, you left.”
Colin races forward, grabbing onto the man to your left. He tugs his vest coat and brings him inches from his own face. The action rattles you, but you remain composed.
“I told you that in confidence!”
“And you are making her upset with your mind games! If you had just said what your heart’s truth was, you would be the one celebrated tonight. Instead, you stand by and fume over a woman you can no longer have.”
Colin clenches his teeth, “Who said I can no longer?”
Your stomach flips, unsure of how Colin could be so possessive of you. Benedict seems shocked as well because he nudges the man off of him and glances over at you. You realize that this is Colin’s way of confessing his intentions, but you cannot believe that he has to say it on the night of your engagement.
“You are brazen to concur such a thing.”
Colin finally looks at you, taking note of your shaky voice. “So, you are going to marry him?”
The unsettle in your heart has never gone away ever since you were told about the arrangement. You knew that your heart was telling you to run the other way, but you did not want to let down your family. You had taken kindly to Benedict, promenading almost every other day to get to know one another.
“I have not been asked yet, so I am not quit-”
Colin steps forward taking your hand, “What if I asked you first? Would you accept me? My hand, I mean?”
Benedict steps forward, touching his shoulder. “What are you doing?”
“Gem, will you marry me?”
A tear slips past your lashes, your heart just about exploding within your chest. Colin’s eyes are desperate, pleading with you. You are not sure what to say, every possible word escaping you.
You realize you are panting, the breath leaving your lips labored in panic. You flick your sights over to Benedict, who is stunned but not trying to get Colin to retract his query. You revert your gaze back to Colin’s deep blue eyes.
“Why now?”
He takes a deep breath, “Because I am absolutely useless with my emotions and I have only humiliated myself when I express them. I did not think you would ever consider my hand and had I known that you thought kindly of me I would have told you the first moment you debuted. But I cowered in silence, hoping the emotions I have felt since I was a child would subside. But I have searched every corner of this world and I did not find one lady that made me feel the same emotions I feel when I even just look your way. I hate that it took me so long to realize that you are the only woman I will ever really… love.”
The confession is exactly what you need to change your mind. Because you felt the exact same way. All this time you have been running from the emotions you felt every moment Colin stared in your direction. You thought them immature and vain. But every time you watched him dance with another, the fire within you would burn. You were sick of loving him from far away.
“The Ton believes me to be promised to Benedict. The embarrassment he will suffer if I accept your proposal could be deafening-”
“Do not worry about me, Miss,” Benedict says, pacing with his hands on his hips, “I could never fully live with myself coming between two lovers. I only waiting for him to realize what we have all been subjected to the last 3 years.”
Colin smirks at him, “And what’s that?”
“The torture of loving someone and not giving in to temptation.”
#colin bridgerton#bridgerton#colin bridgerton x reader#colin bridgerton x female reader#colin bridgerton smut#netflix#gracieheartspedro#colin bridgerton one shot#penelope featherington#benedict bridgerton#anthony bridgerton
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Big Spoon
Non-Idol Choi San x (F)Reader
Summary: Who knew he'd wake up bleary-eyed to find her a mess, one that was out of her control and his - or so he thought.
Genre: Fluffish
Warnings: None (just mentions of sad puppies)
Word Count: 1.3 k
Est.Read Time: 10 min
Rating: PG-13
Networks: @cromernet @k-labels @san-network
Banner: @cafekitsune
"What are you doing?" He sat up, squinting at his lover who was sitting with her headphones on, blasting God knows what at 2 am. Good lord, no wonder the bed seemed so lonely and-
"Why are you awake?" She snapped at him, causing him to flinch, his little pout and amusing bed hair had her mentally scolding herself for the outburst, he was sitting there half asleep, half awake, though completely ready to get to the bottom of this mystery. She took a deep breath before biting her lip and mumbling, "S-sorry, I didn't mean to sound mean, client called and Hongjoong needed more photos so I uh...got up to do it now so I won't have to do it later- just because that lady's rich. " Turning the chair to face him she winced slightly, hoping he wouldn't notice it, though how would it be Choi San if he didn't?
"What's wrong?" He asked pushing the covers off as he sat at the edge of the bed, feet planted on the cold floor. The moment of clarity allowed him to notice the small hot water bottle on her lap, and the cup of green tea in front of her beside a giant flask and a tissue box- "Were you crying?" He cooed, getting up to go closer only for her to whine and roll her chair back, keeping her distance.
"Hey, come on." He pouted before jumping at her causing her to gasp, only to realise he had held onto the armrests of her chair, locking her in place, "What happened?"
"I-it...nothing." She mumbled, averting her gaze, in no real mood for anything at the moment, she just wanted to finish editing these photos and- "Does it hurt here?" He asked, gently placing his palm against her belly, causing her to whine and try to push it away, only for him to shake his head and remove his hand, instead using it to cup her cheek, "Let me guess, you got the call, they asked you for something that makes no sense, and shark week hit mid brooding session?"
Her eyes widened by the end of his little monologue, as she nodded, staring at him in awe like a little girl who had just met a fairy, well, he was a fairy, a rather feline-looking fairy she could call her own. Elegant, yet endearing, soft and warm yet as solid as a rock, smart yet, just a little dumb- either way, he was her pretty, cute, little fairy- though if he heard this analogy he'd probably be throwing a fit for days, claiming he was anything BUT A FAIRY- he was, as he'd like to call himself and his bros (minus Wooyoung because frankly she had realised he was the only sensible one in the lot) A KING!
"How did you know?" Her lips quirked upwards when he leaned closer to place a soft kiss atop her head, a gesture that would oddly make her all putty in his hands.
"Because I'm the world's best boyfriend." His voice boomed across the quiet room causing her to cover her ears due to heightened sensitivity, before frowning up at him
"The world's best boyfriend missed one thing though."
His shoulders deflated at the statement, and he flopped backwards on the bed dramatically, his back landing with a loud huff, "And what is that?"
"I was crying cause- " her breath hitched as the memories resurfaced, "Some dogs go through depression and this puppy did too- I was watching the video and it was so sad...Sannie" she whined, calling him out for God knows but the flashing images of the puppy and the stupid client's appeal just bothered her even more, the cherry on top was the excruciating pain that was a constant reminder of how the world is too cruel to women.
Not a moment later she was gently pulled out of her chair, engulfed in a warm embrace as his familiar scent enveloped her senses, work left behind, as she felt the soft, warm pillow- nope that was his arm, "My head's heavy," with a small mumble she tried to move, but he clicked his tongue and pulled her closer, resting his chin on her head, "And my heart is heavy....my poor baby is in so much physical and emotional pain and I can't do anything about it-"
"We're never getting a puppy."
"I- um...okay?" He mused, giving her a gentle squeeze, of course, that one video of the sad puppies would make her come up with this verdict, possibly fuelled by her hormones. Making her laugh right now probably wasn't the easiest task, which is why he resorted to asking her the real question, though gentle toned and carefully curated, using his other hand to rub soothing circles on her back as he approached the topic, "I thought you sent the client all they asked for, did they want something out of the contract?"
With a loud huff she began, only to pause for a moment when another cramp hit, her fingers gripping his shirt as she took a deep breath before speaking (venting), "Apparently some of the guests, who refused to take solos then, now want their solo pics because the others who did get their solos taken got good results- like flattery will get you nowhere, I can't pull out your solo pics from my as-ah shit, " she hissed, trying to move, "I need my heating pad." He was quicker than her, jumping over her, letting out a hearty laugh when he heard her squeak and let out a few vulgar words. As quick and agile as a cat he hopped back on the bed, turning her on her back as he placed it on her lower belly, "There, all better?"
Nodding she placed her hands on the pad, pressing it against her skin before sighing, continuing, "Anyway, someone was like oh can you like crop us out and put us somewhere to turn it into our logo- you mean cut you out and paste the image, spend time blending, shading, fixing the highlights- no, because its not in the contract and I'm not being paid more for this."
"I...wow..." he mumbled, running his fingers through her hair soothingly as he sat beside her, looking down at her only to notice her trembling power lip and glossy eyes, "What's...wrong...baby, you don't have to do anything that wasn't under your contract." He hummed, tracing his fingertips over the slightly warmer skin of her forehead absentmindedly, "You want me to talk to -"
"That puppy was so sad, he looked like he wanted to cry and..." Turning to her side, as she closed her eyes, the rush of emotions getting a bit to strong, the tears leaking through her clenched eyes, hugging herself. This was stupid, she had ruined his sleep, woke him up in the middle of the night, snapped at him, told him stories that were irrelevant and then ended up crying about a video on puppies.
"I like being the big spoon."
Oh- that's why she felt so warm, and-
"How is laying on top of me the bigger spoon, you're crushing me."
"I'm protecting you from the bad vibes. Told you Hongjoong as a boss sucks, man's a capitalist monster."
With a sigh she relaxed in his hold, the added weight actually helping with the pain, both, physical and psychological.
"To sleep, you should stop thinking, leave your worries, for tomorrow's you." He sighed, giving her another squeeze, though he didn't recieve any response to his wise words, he could get them printed, "You asleep?" He whispered peeking over her shoulder only to smile, two hours, they'd been awake for two hours, listening to God knows what she was going through, biological and induced. Either way, he was glad that she had the world's best boyfriend, he'd probably boast about this tomorrow to her, when she's in a better mood, when she's well rested and probably complaining once again, about how Hongjoong finding the dumbest, but richest clients. Need not worry, she'd always have someone loyal, sincere and the best big spoon out there- all her's.
Taglist: @edenesth @yessa-vie @the-kpop-simp @mlysalt @spooo00oky
#cromernet#k labels#san network#choi san x you#choi san x reader#choi san fluff#ateez scenarios#ateez fanfiction#ateez x you#san x you#san x reader#hongjoong#seonghwa#yeosang#yunho#mingi#wooyoung#jongho#ateez fluff#ateez x reader#ateezedit#ateez fanfic#ateez imagines#ateez#san x y/n#san fanfic#ateez fic#atz scenarios#atz x reader#atz imagines
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Colby brock hate sex makeup sex smut after argument?🎀🎀🎀
Warnings: SMUT18+, strong language, swearing, dominant!Colby, rough actions, choking, rough unprotected sex, pet names cute and dirty, creampie, biting, hair pulling, breeding kink? Pregnancy talk? filth
I’ve gotten a TON of this request, so if you sent in the anon about feeling like I’ve been ignoring you, I’m sorry!! I hope this makes up for it. Ily 🖤
Enjoy! | not edited
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Arguing. That’s what you’ve been doing with your boyfriend, or ex? You aren’t sure at this point, for the last three hours.
Screaming and bitching back and forth between one another. Claims being made that aren’t true. Anger driving both of your minds without any clarity whatsoever.
“Can I just fu-“
“See! See.” Colby motions to you, cutting you off, “I can’t even fuck spe-“ You groan and he groans louder as you as you yell over him, “You should know by now that Jake doesn’t know shit when he’s shit fucking faced.”
Colby stands there, anger painting his face as he stays silent. You lift your arms and let them fall, slapping against your thighs as you sigh, “To add, two other girls had the same dress as me, so it could have been an-y-bo-dy.”
Colby stares at you for a few more seconds, “if you cut me off, one more fuckin’ time.” He blows air through his nose, “You’re not gonna like it, y/n.”
Government name. Someone’s is trouble.
You were tempted. Majorly tempted, but Colby was pretty pissed. You weren’t sure why at you, because you were literally with Tara the whole night. Not one person touched you in anyway Colby does.
You stare back at him, pretending to zip your lips and toss the key behind you. You motion for him to take the floor and you cross your arms.
“I ju-“ Colby shakes his head, spinning around to turn away from you as he laughs, “Jesus Christ.” He drops his hands to his sides, turning back towards you, “You drive me in-fucking-sane.”
He steps towards you, “I know.. I know, you’re telling me the truth, I just..” You innocently bite your lip, nodding your head as you look up at him. He looks down at you and licks his lips, “Just the thought of another man touching you..” he pauses, reaching out to brush your cheek with his thumb, “Literally drives me to the brink of insanity.”
You purse your lips, waiting for your turn to speak but he smirks, nodding his head, “I know what I’m gonna do.” You tilt your head and Colby nods, “Go to the bedroom and get undressed for me, sweetheart.”
Colby pats your ass as he walks by you, giving you a smirk as he walks up the steps and into the bathroom. You follow in his direction, but make your way into the bedroom, doing as he said.
You take a deep breath before taking off your t-shirt and sweats, dropping them into a pile at the end of the bed. You slowly crawl up, turning to sit down in the middle at the top.
A few minutes later, Colby comes in and there’s a towel around his waist. You can see that his cock is growing harder the longer he looks at you, so you give him a smirk.
“Good girl.” He smirks, watching your face drop as soon as the words slip off his tongue, “That’s what I thought.” He mumbles as he closes the door and walks over to you, stopping at the end of the bed, “Lay down.”
He watches as you move to lay down, eyes staying on him until he pulls his towel off, letting it lay with your clothes. Your eyes watch as he crawls up towards you, moving all the way up to pin your hands down by your head, “If you so much as say one word, I’m stopping.” He tilts his head, “and I don’t think you want me to stop, do you?”
You shake your head, biting down on your lip as his eyes stay on yours, “Since I’m so pissed right now, is it okay if I use that pussy of yours?” You nod and he smirks, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to your lips. You soak up the gentleness of his kiss now, because you know it’s straight roughness from here on out.
“I promise I’ll make it up to you after, I’m just so pissed at anyone that isn’t you right now.” He taps your hip, “Roll over for me.” You roll over onto your stomach and hold yourself up on your elbows.
When you’re least expecting it, a sharp sting is smacked onto your right ass cheek, causing you to yelp. You look back at Colby and he bites his lower lip, massaging the print of his hand on your skin.
He lifts his hand and you watch, whimpering out as his other hand comes down to deliver the same mark onto your opposite cheek. “Fuck.” Colby groans, making your ass jiggle with his hands, “I can’t blame anyone for wanting to touch you.”
Colby moves and is now straddling your thighs, “You’re so fucking beautiful.” He drags his hand up your back and your brace yourself for him to rip at your hair, but he doesn’t, instead he lifts your hips a little and you can feel spit sliding down to be collected by the head of his cock.
“Pussy is fucking..” he groans as he slides in, gripping your hips as he pulls you all the way onto him, “Sluttiest fucking pussy for me.” You let out a moan, heavily fighting back the urge to moan out his name. Colby pulls out, but not all the way, and digs his fingertips deeper as he rails back in.
He slides a hand up, fingers tangling around as much hair he can get. He gives your upper body a yank, lifting you up onto the flat of your hands with a whimper, his cock still railing into you from behind. Colby leans down, planting kissing up your shoulder until he reaches your ear, “Who are you?”
He pushes his cock all the way into you, holding it there as he breathes against your neck. He lifts his head, tone whimperish, “Who. Are. You?” He starts to thrust and you grip the sheets, crying out, “Yours, baby! Fuck, I-I’m yours!”
“That’s right.” Colby turns your head, planting sloppy kissing to what he can reach of your lips, “I don’t want anyone else feeling this pussy.” He groans out, “Who’s pussy is this?”
“Yours!” You whimper out squeezing his cock and he groans, “My little slut gonna cum for me, huh? I can feel that pussy squeezing me.” You nod as much as you can with his grip still on your hair, “Y-yes. P-pl-please.”
Colby’s thrust remain strong, hard and rough. He moans, “Have you been a good girl? A good little whore for me?” The whine you let out gets cut short by his hand sliding around your neck, squeezing, “Ye-s. I’ve been a good little whore.” Colby tilts your head back, “Do you deserve it?” You moan loudly as you feel your orgasm teetering on the edge, “Fuck.” You cry out, “I deserve your cock, baby, please please please.”
Colby sits up, pulling out to roll you onto your back, quickly resuming the thrusts he left off with. Your back arches and your eyes roll back as the pleasures starts to mix with a growing ache, “F-Fuck, Colby!” You squeeze his cock and your legs wrap tightly around his waist.
His hands have your wrist pinned down by your head, but if you had your hands on him, you know you’d be leaving red lines up and down his back, “F-Fuck.” Colby continues his pace, quickly causing a feeling of overstimulation to slowly flood in.
His thrust weren’t caring, the grip on your wrist and what he had on your hips weren’t either. You just hope they don’t bruise, but at the same time, you kind of wanted them.
Colby’s thrusts quickly grow sloppy and he leans down, lips connecting to your lips, “Can I cum in this pussy? Mark it as mine, sweetheart?” Half dazed, you nod and gasp as you feel his cock twitch inside of you. You moan out quietly as Colby leans down, “Maybe this’ll put a baby in you so people know that you’re mine.”
You close your eyes as you feel Colby’s cock slip out of you and your legs fall to the right when he moves from in between them.
You lay there for a few minutes, eyes closed until you feel the bed dip down beside you. You turn your head, slowly opening your eyes, “Are you still mad?” Colby presses his lips to yours and hums, “No. I know you wouldn’t ever do anything. You were right, I let my anger get the best of me. I’m sorry.”
You reach up, laying a hand on his cheek, “I think we both lost our cool for like three hours.” He sighs, smiling, “Are you okay? You good?” He looks over your body and back to your face. You take a deep breathe, “I think I want to go for a bath, and when we get back..” you smile up at him, poking his cheek, “You’re going to do what you promised me you were going to do.”
He turns his head to kiss the palm of your head, “Deal.”
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I originally wrote this back in 2019 in response to someone saying:
So, let me get this straight... the entire religion (of Judaism) is built around legal loopholes? Is that what I’m gathering here? (Feel free to correct me!)
And it remains relevant to people (gentiles) who characterize Judaism as rules lawyering or all about loopholes or worse, who imply we are trying to be "sneaky" or "pull one over on God."
My answer:
the religion is built around living in an ethical society per our contract (covenant) with G-d. but you can’t just have a bunch of words without putting them to use, & understanding them in practice, you know? the fulfillment of the covenant is a living discussion.
it’s not legal loopholes, because a loophole is often an inadequacy in the law that gets taken advantage of, but these are all built-in, part of our understanding. In this case, we have a contract (covenant), and we’re going to put it to use in every way possible, explore every inch of it, turn it inside out, and apply it to real life examples, define the parameters, argue those definitions, and then survey the conclusions.
I can say “you need to say the evening shema (a prayer) in the evening” but we can’t just say that, we need to explore a bunch of related things, like:
when in the evening does this happen? is there a difference between twilight and evening? if we say the evening prayer can be said from the time the priests partake of teruma, then when is that? if it’s the first watch of the evening, how many watches are there? if you were out all night for a wedding, but it’s not yet dawn, is it too late to recite the evening prayer? — IN SEVERAL THOUSAND YEARS, KE$HA WILL WRITE TIK TOK, AND WE’LL NEED TO KNOW WHAT TO DO IN CASE OF PARTYING UNTIL YOU SEE SUNLIGHT!
— when do they (the priests) ritually bathe in preparation for this [taking of teruma]? what about when poor people who cannot afford extra candles - do we consider how early they eat an evening meal in order to make sure they can afford the light [when we define evening]?
why did we discuss evening prayer before morning prayer? why does torah give us night before day? when is bedtime for most people? can we say the evening prayer until dawn? if yes, people might put off the prayer until dawn, which could lead to laziness or mistakes.
Also, when is dawn? but more prudently at the moment, when is evening? evening is when the stars are visible, but...how many stars? also, if you are lying alone in a dark house and can’t see the sky, how do you determine if it is too early or too late for your evening shema?
and that whole discussion is from the beginning of the Talmud, in its hyper-condensed form. That is what we do.
It’s not a series of loopholes and ways to weasel out of doing something. It's an intentional exploration of how something is done right, what doing it means, how we can accomplish it.
nothing gets taken for granted, everything is questioned, debated, discussed until it is understood enough to be applicable. and there may be lots of ways to understand.
if someone sees this line of thinking and goes “ah, loopholes to get out of it/wiggle away from it,” then you are mistaking lacework for loopholes.
....and if Kesha sees sunlight, it is now too late for her to say her bedtime shema. she should recite morning shema instead.
(note I think per anon my original phrasing was lacework, not loopholes, but maybe I edited for clarity later? Very possible, I'm a chronic editor.)
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These Destined Ends
Part 7
Summary: Jessica fulfilled the wishes of the Bene Gesserits to produce a daughter. You’re now burdened with the task of not only marrying the na-Baron, but also bearing his child — the Kwisatz Haderach. Will you take your fate into your own hands? Or will it always belong to those who control you?
Pairings: Feyd-Rautha x F!Reader
Word Count: 6.7k
Warnings: depictions of killing/death, a blood oath, oral sex f receiving, fingering, edging, dirty talk, p in v, no protection, breeding/pregnancy kink, creampie kind of
A/N: I hear wedding bells🎉 This took me a hot second to write up and edit, but it's also a little bit longer than I usually post. I hope you enjoy💕
Sleep evades you. The day of your wedding slips in uninvited, a wash of sunlight to chase away the shadows from your room. The bed is empty. Feyd-Rautha hasn’t returned or, at least, hasn’t visited you since.
You convince yourself that you don’t care.
But still your thoughts stray traitorously to him — where he is, what he’s doing, what he’s thinking and if it’s of you.
You stare out at the Grand Arena. It’s more or less attached to the Harkonnen fortress and, to your understanding, typically reserved for political rallies. It’s the only place large enough to host a wedding where the entire planet is invited, though, plus the added benefits of its close proximity.
A platform has been erected and already citizens are filing into their stadium-style seats despite the early hour. They will wait all day to sit front row at the marriage between House Atreides and House Harkonnen. A historic event, you realize with detached clarity. To be remembered for generations to come.
This does nothing to quell your roiling stomach.
You turn at the sound of your bedroom doors opening, hope lifting stupidly in your chest. Because it is not Feyd-Rautha who enters, but Lady Jessica.
She looks more radiant than ever, though you suspect this partially has to do with the time apart that you’ve spent.
“Mother?”
Perhaps your lack of rest has warped your vision.
Jessica smiles softly, confirming both your deepest fear and most shameful want. “Daughter.”
For the first time in your life, you run to her. She embraces you, cradling your face into her neck. She smells like home and the memory of Caladan has you blinking back tears. “Why are you here?”
“Did you really think we would miss your wedding?” Jessica brushes your hair back. “They are treating you well? You haven’t responded to any of our correspondences.”
“They are treating me well,” you tell her. You can’t help but think of Feyd-Rautha’s lips on your skin, between your legs, but quickly dismiss it. “And I haven’t received any correspondences.”
“Mm, as I suspected. Your father thought that you might be too busy to write but I knew better.”
“He’s here, too?”
“Of course.” Your mother presses something cold and metallic into your palm, curls your fingers around it. “I wanted to give you this.”
You frown. After closer inspection, you realize that it’s a necklace. Simple, elegant, with a thin silver chain and delicate pendant. “What is this?”
“I wore it when I first met your father. Although we are not married, our relationship has obviously grown past that of an arranged partnership. I can only hope you find similar happiness.” She pauses then, examining you. “I know you are aware that your birth was…orchestrated. But that does not change our love for you. You are our greatest treasure, Y/N.”
Your mood falters, slipping from between your fingers and shattering on the ground like glass. “This is a fertility necklace.”
“Yes,” Jessica says, dipping her chin.
You have the overwhelming sense to grind the necklace under your heel. The tears in your eyes now belong there for an entirely different reason.
“I thought you came here today to support me but instead you’re just carrying out your Bene Gesserit schemes,” you hiss. A dry laugh rattles in your throat. “I’m such a fool! You don’t care for me. You only care about what I can provide. My whole life, everything has been for them. Everything.”
Jessica’s jaw clenches. “That’s not true.”
Aggravated, you spin on her, teeth bared. “Then tell me you came here today of your volition.”
Jessica holds your gaze but does not reply.
“I knew it,” you all but snarl at her.
“I thought these past few months would’ve opened your eyes to your potential, the importance of your duty,” Jessica snarls back, matching your viciousness. “But still you are blind to the truth. You blatantly refuse to accept a plan that has been in effect for centuries. Ten thousand years of deliberate planning and you act as if you are here as punishment. You are living proof of the Bene Gesserit’s power, Y/N.”
Chest heaving, you shutter your raging emotions. “Leave me.”
“That’s no way to speak to your mother.”
“I speak to you not as a daughter,” you retort, “but as the na-Baroness of House Harkonnen. And seeing that you are nothing but a concubine to the Duke, I demand that you leave.”
You know that with The Voice, Jessica could force you to bend to her will, to do any inexplicable amount of things. But she does not. She stands there, wavering, before striding back from which she came from without another word.
You hide the fertility necklace in the pot of a synthetic plant, and no one is the wiser when they come to prepare you. For the servants this is a joyous occasion and you do not want to dampen their enthusiasm. You mask your growing unease, laughing and joking with the girls as they recreate you into the image of na-Baroness.
“You look stunning,” Asha tells you privately. There’s quite some time before the ceremony starts, and she’s pulled you into a quiet corner of the room. “The na-Baron isn’t going to know what to do with himself.”
Oh, you very much doubt that. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror.
Your wedding dress is a subtle combination of both Atreides and Harkonnen culture, a blend of elegance and functionality.
The dress itself is made from a lightweight, flexible material that mimics the look of metallic plates. Featuring overlapping panels that creates a segmented, scale-like effect, the bodice gives the illusion of Harkonnen armor. But the skirt, full and flowing, is entirely Atreides — layers of fabric cascading to the floor. Small, metallic accents line the hem that shimmer with your every step.
And, completing the look, a headpiece that forms a sort of M over your forehead and down your cheeks, adorn with jewels.
You bite down on the inside of your cheek. “Have you seen him today? The na-Baron.”
“No, I haven’t. Why?”
“No reason.”
Asha’s mouth quirks teasingly. “Are you nervous?”
“No,” you say, too quickly, “well, yes. But not because of him, because of the ceremony. This will be my first time in front of Giedi Prime.”
“They will adore you,” Asha says. She waves a hand flippantly. “And if not, then your husband will have their heads.”
You grin. “I suppose that’s comforting.”
“Of course it is.” She squeezes your hand.
Your moment with Asha passes as you’re both pulled back into the revelries — spice-laden champagne, food that looks suspiciously like harvested organs, and the pounding, ear-splitting music that’s popular among the Harkonnens. By the time you’re called for the ceremony, your mood has lifted significantly, almost enough to make you forget that you’re the reason for celebration. It’s a sobering reminder.
Your heart threatens to burst from your chest. From inside the walls of the fortress, the roar of the crowd crests and falls like a tidal wave sent to sweep you away. The corridor is alive with mumbled conversation. A procession will precede you to the altar — noblemen and the likes, your parents, who you avoid — along with your betrothed, who is nowhere in sight. The gathered members of your bridal party shift and part, panic seizing you with white-knuckled fingers as the Baron maneuvers toward you.
He greets you with a saying repeated to you many times that day, one that after several iterations you’ve come to understand means, “May your death be swift in battle”.
How it relates to marriage, you are too nervous to inquire about.
“What a wonderful day,” he muses in a rasping lilt. “It would be a pity for someone to ruin it.”
“Indeed,” you reply, eyes narrowing.
“You understand the importance of the ceremony, don’t you?” You don’t respond, sensing that he will tell you nevertheless. “This is just one more step for Feyd-Rautha toward taking my place as Baron. How the ceremony goes will influence his standing with his people.”
You suppress the urge to roll your eyes. Of course this was just another political move. What did he think you would do, riot in the middle of the ceremony? You retort, “I understand.”
“Welcome to the family, Y/N.”
The chill that brushes down your spine, seeping into your bones, is deterred by the sudden clash of a gong. War drums erupt in tumultuous exalt. The very sound of them resonates deep within you, invoking a primal response of adrenaline, as if your body is preparing you for battle.
Which, you suppose is fitting.
And who else to be summoned by the promise of war then Feyd-Rautha.
He enters the room as he always does, commanding the attention of everyone in it. The effect is only amplified today, though, in his polished ceremonial armor and resolute intensity, a heady combination of brutality and valiancy.
Gazing at him us purifying fire, searing you from the inside out, and you take your time charting the unholy beauty of his face, gazing back at you with terrifying reverence.
In that moment, you possess no past or future — there is only him. An eternal now.
And then he steps past you and into the black sun, exultant, thrusting the knife above his head.
A championing cheer follows, impossibly louder than the thunder of the drums. Feyd-Rautha lingers and something in your chest expands at the sight of him dwelling in their approval, their admiration, somehow transcendent of any humanity he manages to have.
He truly is a god.
From your secretive position, you peer at him as he strides down the aisle to the platform where the officiant is waiting for him. At the top of the stairs, he turns and faces his people. In an act that surprises you, everyone who isn’t already on their feet rises, and in sync pound their fists to their chests. One two three.
Their utter devotion to him is staggering.
Feyd-Rautha raises his chin, simultaneously moved and expectant of this. He then takes his place at the altar.
Which means it’s your turn.
You loathe having to follow such a devastating display of power and love. There’s no telling how Giedi Prime will react to you, after all, considering that you are technically the enemy. Asha’s words come to you, emboldening you, and you lift your gaze. You will not falter.
A shushed quiet falls over the arena as you stride out, then enormous applause. You can only imagine what you look like to them, your people, but the only one who matters looks upon you with such unwavering devoutness that it nearly brings you to your knees. As you climb the steps to the altar, Feyd-Rautha’s hands clench into fists, a gesture you interpret as a sign of restraint.
Oh, if only he could touch you with those hands.
The officiant, a representative of the Imperium, begins to recite the traditional Harkonnen wedding script. A translator repeats the words to you, but you let the harsh language wash over you as you focus instead on the row of guests at the base of the altar. Your parents — looking fiercely protective, Leto smiling somewhat reluctantly; Jessica maintaining her cool demeanor — the Baron, emotionless, and beside him Rabban.
Did he wish it was him on the stage?
He catches you staring and flashes you a sickening smile. You look pointedly away, a fist forming in your stomach.
The beginning of the ceremony is tediously long and drenched in tradition, most of which you don’t understand even with the translator’s help. Marriage is not generally a romantic affair for Harkonnens, and the proof can be found in their strangely clinical rites. Again it’s impressed upon you that you are preparing for battle, one in which you would reside besides the most fearsome of its participants.
A pause on the officiant’s part draws you back to the present. You know what comes next, and the thought repulses you — Harkonnens of the Imperial House do not get married with the weight of enemies on their shoulders, pursuing a clean slate of sorts. You watch as a row of prisoners are led before the altar, hooded and bound and forced to their knees by a Harkonnen guard. You shiver despite the insurmountable heat.
You are familiar with war, with combat, the knife-thin edge upon which each fight balances. Life or death. But you can hardly stomach the idea of executing a helpless opponent, even if they are an enemy of your House.
Your throat thickens as Feyd-Rautha is bestowed a ceremonial blade.
Each hood of the prisoner is removed except for one, a man at the end who wavers to stay upright. Feyd-Rautha ignores this man, starting at the opposite end. His grin is apparent as he slashes through the throats of the prisoners, the blade his brush and the bodies his canvas, painting them both with ink-colored blood.
When Feyd-Rautha makes it to the still-hooded man, he pauses, shoulders heaving with the exertion of his wicked precision. Rivulets of blood stream down his armor. He says something unintelligible to the man, then removes his hood.
Your blood runs cold as you recognize him.
Ze’ev.
Now that you know who it is, you inspect him closer. There’s hardly any traces of the man you briefly knew. He is emaciated, bones lining his scarred flesh, clearly beaten within an inch of his life. After your encounter with Feyd-Rautha, you know that Harkonnens heal quickly, and the scars on his body indicate to you that he had been torn open again and again.
Feyd-Rautha turns. When he approaches you, his face is full of such naked adoration that it causes you to take a step back. He offers you the bloodied blade.
“For you,” he rasps.
You whisper fiercely, “What are you doing?”
“He is a gift, for you. On the day of our wedding.”
Every fiber of your being is screaming at you to refuse him. But to do so would be to decline your husband, shame him in front of his people — bile rises in your throat as you accept the blade, your fingers wrapping around the handle.
You breeze past him, refusing to meet his eye.
Ze’ev trembles as you advance on him. Though from his delicate condition or fear, you can’t be sure. His lips form a sneer. “You won’t do it.”
“It’s nice to see you, too,” you say dryly. “I thought you were dead.”
“I should be. Your husband certainly brought me to the brink of it and back, telling me that he was saving me. For you.” Ze’ev spits at your feet then, a dark and bloody glob.
On Arrakis, this would’ve been a sign of respect.
But this wasn’t Arrakis.
You raise your arm in an upward swing, then across your body with exuberance, his blood hissing as it splatters the ground. Splatters you.
The crowd applauds your demonstration, and the sound of their approval echoes in your ears as you take the stage once more, the prisoners’ bodies carted away quickly. You feel numb. Bewildered.
But also deliciously righteous.
You face the man who put you in this position, who put the blade in your hand as a gift without considering the consequences. And he smiles because he knows — he knows that you are delighted, that the freckles of drying blood elicit an indisputable, terrifying delirium in you.
He coaxed this from you, what was better left in the dark.
And you don’t know if you should thank him.
The officiant switches to the common tongue. “The time has come to bind these lives together in the sight of their people. As na-Baron and na-Baroness, they pledge their loyalty and protection to one another, their flesh and blood now shared in duty and alliance.”
A second blade is brought out on a satin cushion.
“na-Baron Feyd-Rautha, do you swear to protect and defend na-Baroness Y/N, to uphold her honor and safeguard her well-being, as your duty demands?”
“I swear.”
“na-Baroness Y/N, do you swear to protect and defend na-Baron Feyd-Rautha, to uphold his honor and safeguard his well-being, as your duty demands?”
You dip your chin. “I swear.”
“Then, as symbol of your shared duty and alliance, I ask you to exchange your blood.”
Feyd-Rautha takes the blade and, with surprising gentleness, turns your palm over and kisses it before gliding the tip of the blade over it. Your blood wells, bright red.
You take his own hand — large, scarred and calloused — and repeat the action.
Before he can heal, the officiant wraps a white cloth around your now joined hands, red blood mingling with black.
“You are my body, an extension of myself,” Feyd-Rautha rasps.
You tense. This isn’t part of the ceremony.
Feyd-Rautha, one hand still clasped in yours, uses the other to beat his chest. One two three. You watch as the crowd responds in kind: the same gesture, reverberating throughout Giedi Prime.
It’s incredibly intoxicating, to be the focus of such a powerful gesture. You let it wash over your skin and infiltrate your bloodstream, alter something inside you, rearranging your very cells into what it takes to be a fearless ruler. You would do anything to garner such a response again.
The officiant waits until the last thump can be heard before he declares, “May your bond be as unbreakable as the strongest fortress. United by duty and alliance, I present to you — the na-Baron and na-Baroness!”
Having spent so much time dreading the ceremony, you never stopped to think about what would happen after it. Currently you sit atop the dais in the throne room, accepting an endless line of Harkonnens who want to congratulate you on your feat of an arranged marriage. Your palm that the blade cut stings with every hand you shake.
After what seems like a small eternity, it’s time for you to join the nobles at the reception. Memories of the last time you sat at the table trickle in through your exhaustion — which you promptly shove away.
The feast passes in a blur. You don’t have the appetite for any of it, but hopefully do a convincing job of moving your food around on your plate.
And then: it’s time for your first dance.
Reluctantly you let Feyd-Rautha sweep you into the center of the room, the usual security you feel in his presence succumbing to your own fears. He holds you tight against him. His tone is clipped, political, plush lips on the shell of your ear, “You had never killed before.”
Ah, your first words as husband and wife.
“No I had never killed before,” you snap at him. “Not everyone goes around just slaughtering whoever they feel like.”
Feyd-Rautha is a surprisingly agile dancer, though you figure that it isn’t all that removed from fighting. “I didn’t intend to upset you.”
“Perhaps, but you did.” Your throat thickens. “What I did is irreversible.”
“You told me you wanted him to pay for what he did.”
“I-I did. I just didn’t think —”
“If you let someone who crosses you live, then others will try,” Feyd-Rautha says, incensed. “You must strangle the serpent while it’s a hatchling, for once it grows, it will seek you out while you lay in your bed and slip around your neck.”
You can’t suppress your shudder. What a lovely metaphor. Apparently Giedi Prime has loads of fun phrases alluding to death.
“You could’ve told me,” you mutter in lieu of a response.
“It was a gift.”
You bite down on the inside of your cheek. Was that all it was? Another part of your game?
“Most people give jewelry as gifts,” you retort.
Feyd-Rautha’s lips twitch. “I am not most people.”
“I know.” To prove your point, you coast your fingers over his side where the dagger went in.
He pulls you tighter against him. “I would have you right here in front of everyone if you’d let me.”
You can’t help but smirk. “I know.”
He opens his mouth to continue but he’s interrupted — by Rabban, nonetheless. “na-Baron, I request a dance with my sister in-law.”
Feyd-Rautha’s grip on you tightens. “No.”
“Yes,” you say, loosening his fingers from around your waist. “It won’t be long.”
Feyd-Rautha stares after you unhappily as his brother leads you away. Other couples have now taken to the floor in an elaborate dance that you don’t know. It doesn’t matter anyway, seeing that Rabban just drags you after him for each step.
“I suppose congratulations are in order,” he says finally.
“You suppose?”
“If it was up to me, Feyd-Rautha would be the one extending his congratulations.” Rabban’s small, dark eyes examine you. “Though the Bene Gesserits have chosen well for a Harkonnen bride. You are a formidable force.”
“Thank you,” you reply, sensing more.
“There are…things…in order that will happen because you will not submit to me,” Rabban says.
Your jaw sets. “Like what?”
“You’ve made your choice.” There’s a twinge of pity in his voice. Not for him. For you? “I thought I should forewarn you.”
“Rabban, what are you talking about? You never said anything about —”
“The day of the Crucible. I told you my wishes and you denied me them.”
“You said nothing that would warrant a warning. I thought you just envious of your brother for obtaining something else that you can’t have.”
“Envious? No. More deserving? Perhaps.”
Behind Rabban, a soldier materializes from the crowd. Sardaukar. You stiffen — it hadn’t come to your attention that anyone from the Imperium had attended your wedding.
“Excuse my interruption,” the soldier says. “I wanted to congratulate you on your union on behalf of the Emperor. He extends his deepest apologies that he isn’t t able to be here himself.”
You nod curtly.
The soldier’s gaze slides to Rabban. “May I have a word with you?”
Begrudgingly, Rabban releases you with a final look. You watch his retreating form, mind reeling with confusion. What did the Sardaukar want with Rabban? And why did the soldier look so familiar to you? Idly, you wonder if the violent nature of the Sardaukar soldiers remind you of the Harkonnens.
No, that isn’t it. That soldier had been here before, at the dinner a few weeks before. He had been the one to call the Baron away, you recall. But he had been dressed as a Harkonnen soldier then, not a soldier of the Imperial army.
The revelation creeps over you uneasily.
Before you can give it much thought, however, someone whisks you away into the next dance. A protest forms on your tongue before you realize it’s Asha — cheeks pink and beaming at you.
“Asha!” You can’t help but laugh, partly out of relief. “I thought you were another terrible admirer.”
“I am an admirer,” she says, “though I would hardly consider myself terrible.”
“Terrible for taking so long to get to me.”
“My apologies, but the na-Baroness is in high demand.” You settle into a comfortable rhythm as the music plays and Asha leads you in the unfamiliar dance. After some time, she grows uncharacteristically serious. “I know your feelings for the na-Baron are…complicated…but your ceremony was beautiful.”
You raise a brow. “Really?”
“The way he saluted you…” Asha trails off, waving her hand as if to ward off tears. This reaction spurns your curiosity.
Trying not to sound too interested, you ask, “What does it even mean?”
A slightly dreamy expression crosses Asha’s face. “Generally it’s reserved for military generals as a sign of respect, something that soldiers do to show their loyalty.”
“So when he did it to me…?”
“He was signaling that he sees you as someone superior to himself, someone to respect. That he is your willing soldier.” Asha grins. “Everyone has been talking about it.”
“Oh.” It’s all you can think to say. “Should I have done it back?”
Asha shakes her head. “Definitely not. It would’ve been an insult to him. His judgement. You did the right thing.”
You’re not sure what the right thing was, but you let the subject go. It lingers in your mind, however, to the point that you over-analyze the moment during the ceremony, replaying Feyd-Rautha’s expression as he saluted you.
You want to confront him about it, but apparently your first dance is all you will see of your new husband on the eve of your wedding. Even trying to catch his eye is impossible as you are both continuously pulled in different directions.
“Is this a bad time?”
At first you bristle, afraid that you’ve been caught sneaking away from the festivities. You have no idea of the time but it has to be well into the morning now, and you just wanted a moment to collect your thoughts. The spot you’ve chosen in a darken alcove gave you a perfect vantage point of Feyd-Rautha, infuriatingly charming as he speaks to a pair of nobles out of earshot.
You tear your gaze from him.
“Father!” You run into the arms of Leto, Duke of Arrakis, who ambles down the hall to you. It’s reflective of your greeting with Jessica this morning, but he inspires only warmth and fond memories. The brush of his beard across your cheek fills you with longing. “Oh, how I’ve missed you.”
“I apologize for not going this morning to visit you. Your mother insisted she go alone.” A frown tugs on his handsome features but disappears as quick as it appeared. “You look breathtaking.”
“Thank you,” you sigh. It’s as if you are a child again, the light of your father’s attention basking you in a sunny glow.
“I…” Leto pauses, deliberates. Your father is usually not someone to be lost for words. “I wish I had done something to prevent this.”
You touch his arm. “It’s not your fault.”
“I blame myself, it’s true. What kind of father willingly hands his daughter over to that…monster?”
“You had no choice. Neither of us did.”
“Listen, Y/N, your mother regrets how your conversation went this morning. She has only wanted the best for you,” he adds softly.
His words prick at you, and suddenly the warmth of his light diminishes. “We both know that’s not true.”
“Her intentions can be…muddled by her Bene Gesserit training. But that doesn’t change the love she feels for you.”
“Her love.” You chuckle bitterly. “All that she loves is what others can do to forward the Bene Gesserit agenda. You. Me. Don’t you realize?”
Leto’s expression softens. “Just come with me. She’s waiting for us. She wants to try again.”
Anger seizes you with white-knuckles and stifling heat, blooming in your chest. “I’ve given her too many opportunities to make things right. You just told me that you wish you could’ve prevented this. She could’ve prevented this. I do not wish to speak another word to someone who has orchestrated my entire life since conception.”
Perhaps you can blame the time that you’ve spent apart, the exhaustive events the day has presented you, but there is a side to Leto that you have forgotten — his frightening, unwavering loyalty to Jessica. A loyalty that not even you, his daughter, can temper.
His voice is that of a diplomat, detached and commanding as he says, “You will not speak of your mother in such a way.”
You’re not sure what you were expecting, but jumping to the defense of your mother cuts you deeper than any knife can. You swallow your disappointment.
“You’re fooled by her just like everyone else.”
Leto’s mouth tightens into an angry slash. “You are not the daughter I remember.”
“No.” You tilt your chin. “She is gone.”
“Then I have no business with you.”
Your tongue rolls in your cheek, over your teeth, carefully selecting your next words. “So be it. I won’t inconvenience you with my company.”
You can’t stand to witness his expression, or let him see the grimace of pain that graces yours, so you turn from him before either happens. You go, not back towards the party, but away — you can’t be here any longer. It feels as if your bones are trying to flee from your skeleton, your skin suddenly stretched too tightly.
Truthfully you have no destination in mind but your feet carry you to the one place that you know will guarantee silence.
Feyd-Rautha’s strategy room.
In the dark your fingers find the seam of the door and you ease it open, slinking inside. For the first time since this morning, you’re alone, and there’s no auditory assault of voices or music.
Back against the wall, you slide down to the ground and pull your knees to your chest. You will tears to your eyes but there are none to summon, lost to the icy numbness claiming you. Any other feeling is cast adrift.
Could it have only been three months ago that you were on Arrakis, sparring with Gurney?
You no longer recognize yourself.
The closest identifying factor is when the door open and Feyd-Rautha appears. There’s a resemblance there, a call of darkness in him that something within you answers. Your mouth twists in distaste. How did he find you?
“Go away.”
“No.”
“I don’t want you here.”
“I don’t care. This is my strategy room, and I can come and go as I please.” Cast in shadows, you can barely make out his face, but the scorch of his gaze is telling of his scrutiny. “Get up off the floor.”
“No.”
“Get up or I’ll make you.”
You weigh his words. Then you reluctantly rise to your feet, unable to look at him.
“This…attitude is unbecoming of you.”
“You’re a prick,” you fire back.
“A na-Baroness, brooding alone — and on the floor, nonetheless, like a common stray. I won’t tolerate this kind of behavior.”
“Or what?”
A muscle feathers in his jaw. “I will have to remind you who you are.”
Heat flickers in your belly, a weak flame. “And what is that? A whore, a womb? I am nothing but what others have made me to be.”
Feyd-Rautha laughs.
He actually laughs.
The sound of which is so unnatural, so unnerving, that your muscles tense like they’re anticipating a fight. You flush with shame — anger — and raise your hand to strike him but Feyd-Rautha catches your wrist. His words lilt with ill-timed amusement.
“Surely you don’t believe that.”
You struggle to wrest yourself from his grasp, but the effort is futile. “Let go of me.”
“No. Never.”
Feyd-Rautha’s lips crash into yours. He steers your back to the wall, colliding with your spine. He swallows your cry of pain with his mouth, slanting it over yours, hands bracketing either side of your face. His fingers delve into your hair, pads of his thumbs pressing against your cheeks. The weak flame inside you ignites into a raging inferno.
He kisses you with a fierce, concentrated energy, as if his sole purpose is to bruise your mouth with his own. His tongue flickers across your bottom lip, behind your teeth. You moan at the same time Feyd-Rautha chooses to coast his hands down your sides and your head lolls back, neck bared.
He grabs onto you as his mouth flies to your exposed throat, hands greedily clutching at your waist. Feyd-Rautha presses a series of kisses that turn swiftly into nibbles, bites. He sucks and licks at your neck, no doubt creating a necklace of love marks, eagerly staking his claim on the sensitive skin. Each bite and lick winds you closer and closer to an orgasm, the idea of his lips marking you wickedly delightful.
Feyd-Rautha moves his hands to your ass, to the underside of your thighs, and hikes you up. Without thinking, you lock your legs around him. The action brings his hardened length nudging against your center and you whimper, grinding into him, desperate for friction.
“I want you so fucking bad,” you pant. “Please.”
He hums against your neck. “What did you say you were — a whore?” His hips roll with yours, the memory of him inside you inciting a moan from your lips. “The na-Baron doesn’t bother fucking whores.”
“Please,” you say again.
In response, Feyd-Rautha bites down on the juncture of your neck and shoulder. You wince even as pleasure floods over you. “Beg all you want but I won’t fuck a whore.”
You fail to conjure a response as he pins you to the wall with his hips, your arms thrown around his neck, and effectively loosens his hands in order to hoist your dress up. Your flesh pimples as it’s exposed to the cool air of the strategy room.
Feyd-Rautha’s hands skim over you, brush over your center. You whimper, “What do you want from me?”
“I want you to tell me who you are,” he rasps.
Feyd-Rautha teases your clit through your panties, drawing lazy circles with his fingers. You buck your hips in an effort to gain reprieve but he denies you this.
Your voice pitches nearly into a whine. “I-I don’t know.”
And you don’t — not after the sequence of your day, not with Feyd-Rautha unraveling you with his his hands and his mouth. You are infinitesimal, insignificant, clay waiting to be shaped in his capable touch.
“Then I will remind you,” Feyd-Rautha says. He pushes your panties to the side, ghosting his digits over your entrance so that you writhe in desperation. “You are my wife, the na-Baroness of the House Harkonnen. You will raze cities to the ground and bring men to their knees. I will fuck you often and fill you with my seed, keep you pregnant so that you bear my children. You are not nothing, you are magnificent.”
His words are punctuated by his short, breathy pants, fingers pressing to your cunt without giving you any of the pleasure that you seek.
“Now — tell me who you are.”
“I-I am the na-Baroness. I am your wife.”
A wail looses from you as Feyd-Rautha plunges his fingers inside you, relieved from your aching by his careful ministrations. Each pump of his hand brings his palm to your sex, quick and authoritative. A hand that had killed six men today, saluted you, bled with you, and the severity of the situation has your walls clenching around him — he is Feyd-Rautha, and he is fucking you with his fingers, littering your body with bites and kisses and mumbled, appreciative praises.
It’s not surprising that this drives you to orgasm with record speed, to alleviating the pressure building between your legs —
Feyd-Rautha removes his fingers, depriving you of your release. You almost howl in frustration.
“Close,” he says. “But I’m not convinced.”
“No, please —”
“You can cum once you’ve convinced me that you remember who you are. Until then — your pleasure will be withheld.”
Again, he punishes you with his fingers, splitting you open as he inserts them. Your back bows.
“Now,” he pants, “tell. Me. Again.”
“I am the na-Baroness. I am your wife,” you repeat, mustering as much conviction as you can. You would tell him anything if it meant cumming on his fingers.
Harder, faster, wrist snapping: “And?”
“And…I am magnificent.”
Feyd-Rautha’s satisfaction is evident even in the dark, judging only by the pulse of his fingers, the breathy laugh fanning into your neck. He removes his fingers again, though, to your chagrin, trading positions for one that allows him to see your face. “Oh, you are,” he purrs. “And I bet you taste even better.”
You hitch your legs around his shoulders at his prompting. Feyd-Rautha sinking to his knees while applying enough weight to keep you trapped against the wall. You suppress another whimper. Your thighs are nearly flush with your chest as Feyd-Rautha dips his head to greet your cunt, driving you higher up the wall and forcing you to grab onto his armor for support.
You can’t see him with the skirt of your dress in the way, but you feel his mouth hovering your entrance.
Feyd-Rautha presses a kiss to you. He flicks his tongue over your clit, then licks a stripe up your center back to it, lapping eagerly between your thighs. His mouth works in tandem with his tongue, his teeth, treating you to the same nipping and sucking that he administered to your neck. Your hips buck to meet his every stroke.
And then, there it is again, your orgasm fighting for completion, raking claws of molten lava through your belly, your pelvis.
From between your legs, Feyd-Rautha rasps, “Convince me and I’ll let you cum.”
You swallow down a cry of protest. If you don’t get your release, you might actually implode. You do your best to summon his words from before, “I am the na-Baroness. I am your wife. And I am magnificent.”
“And how will I fuck you?”
Your teeth grind as you recall, “Often.”
“Why?”
“To-To keep me pregnant,” you stammer out. You rarely allow yourself to imagine your body in such a state, afraid of what it will invoke, but you do now: belly swollen with Feyd-Rautha’s child, breasts full, a physical manifestation of the vigorous fucking he regularly bestows.
And just like that, like the snapping of a rubberband, he returns his mouth to your cunt and laps at you until you finally, finally, reach your orgasm. Feyd-Rautha holds you steady as the prolonged release cleaves you in half, shuddering against his mouth, your vision swimming with stars. Tears wet your cheeks with your relief.
You sag into him, and he effortlessly lifts you back to your feet, still trapping you to the wall, one hand lazily skimming your hip.
“Do not, ever again, think so lowly of yourself. Do you understand?”
Your head bobbles stupidly. “I understand.”
“Good.” He brushes hair back from your face, runs his finger along the scattering of angry welts he’s left on your neck. “Now, my jewel, how do you want me to fuck you?”
You commit him to memory, this renegade angel, a contrast of darkness and your own personal deliverance. “I’ll let you choose.”
Without missing a beat, Feyd-Rautha carries you to the strategy table and lays you flat on your back, maneuvering to grab your ankles, one in each hand and spreading you wide. He takes his straining cock from his pants and strokes it as he admires you. “Mm, my beautiful wife, so eager for me to fuck her.”
He traces your entrance with his fingers, then notches his cock there, sliding the tip of it between your slick folds. You ache to take him but with your ankles in his grip, he keeps you firmly in place. Like a silly, wanton thing, you try desperately to grind against him as he drags himself, up and down, teasing you.
“Please, Feyd,” you beg, “please fuck me.”
“Say it again.”
“Fuck me, Feyd. Please.”
The ridges and crests of the strategy table bite into your back as he drives into you. The ecstasy of finally having him inside you is almost too much to bear — hips snapping, groans rumbling through his chest. He is inspired like this, immersed in the feel of your walls clamping down on his cock, pupils blown, plush lips parted with each panting breath.
If you only you could bottle up this moment, savor the way you both rise to meet the other like waves upon the shores of Caladan.
He pounds into you in a borderline frenzy, each near-violent thrust surging your orgasm higher.
Then Feyd-Rautha releases your ankles, your legs returning around his waist, and he captures your wrists instead, holding them over your head. The angle allows him to press himself to you, spearing you deeper, winding your desire tighter and tighter.
“My wife,” he rasps, “my jewel. Look at me.”
You meet his gaze. Feyd-Rautha smirks, pleased with himself, with you, and thrusts into you with swift finality. Your orgasm peaks and suddenly you’re shuddering and convulsing beneath him, pleasure wrought from every fiber of your being.
Distantly, you feel your cunt draw out Feyd-Rautha’s own orgasm, hips rolling against you as he spills himself inside you. He collapses on top of you, both of you panting, greedily drinking in lungfuls of air. Ostensibly, he recovers first and peels himself from you, tucking his cock back into his pants.
He helps you to your feet and you thank him breathlessly, thighs quivering as you stand, the wrinkled skirt of your dress cascading back to the ground.
“I suppose no one will question whether or not we’ve consummated our marriage,” he says.
Your cheeks burn. “Does it matter?”
“It’s typical for someone to watch to confirm,” he tells you, lifting a shoulder. “I said that it would be obvious enough.”
You gasp and swat his chest. “You didn’t.”
“The alternative was some noble peeking in on our fucking. Would you have preferred that? I do know you like to watch.”
“I suppose I wouldn’t,” you admit.
“Precisely.”
Feyd-Rautha’s eyes flicker over your face, and you can only guess what he sees there — you’re coated in a thin sheen of sweat and, undoubtedly, love marks, hair tangled and headpiece askew.
You shy away from him. “Do we have to go back to the reception?”
“No,” he nearly snorts, affronted that you would even suggest such a thing. “I fully intend on taking you to my bed and fucking you until you’re a mewling, quivering mess.”
Your cunt, still full with his cum, dripping with it down your thighs, clenches in anticipation.
“Then what are we still doing here?”
Part 8
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THE HATING GAME - JJK
working together with your biggest competition was not something you saw yourself doing often. but fucking him one late night at office? never in a million years.
pairing — jungkook x female reader
genre — angst, smut
word count — 7.2k
warnings/tags — lawyer!jk x lawyer!reader, enemies2lovers, dom!jk, sub!reader, swearing, provocation, insults, petty arguing, vague mentions of murder/strangulation, jealousy, teasing, lying, denial, tension x100, improvisation, touching, so much sarcasm, explicit smut, light bondage, grinding, neck kisses, nipple play, tit slapping, begging, fingering, dirty talk, degradation, oral (m and f receiving), cunnilingus, choking, spitting, pussy slapping, tongue fucking, dick slapping (face), edging, crying, slapping (like once), spanking, penetrative sex, vaginal sex, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it guys), light pain kink, finger sucking, angry fucking, creampie, making out, cum eating, post-nut clarity, both very lost and confused by the end.
paired with this edit made by yours truly 🤭
a/n: hello and welcome to jahanara feeding into her office romance fantasies pt98583616 😭 please enjoy this very long and drawn out piece (similar to illicit desire) but more detailed, more descriptive and can be read as a stand-alone.
if you came from tiktok, hello and welcome to the dark side 😁 enjoy the long-awaited lawyer!jk au!
btw this fic has nothing to do with the book/movie called ‘the hating game’ the name just fit this ok 🙄
“We need to talk,” Jungkook’s voice causes your chest to falter as he enters his office, waiting for you to enter before shutting the door behind you and making home on the seat behind his desk.
“We can’t do this case.”
If you could burst out laughing right now, you would, but this was a professional work environment, “You invite me into your office, distracting me from my own work, just to tell me something I already know?” You make yourself comfortable in the seat opposite his, paying him a fake smile, “I don’t know why you’re panicking, we can easily get out of this. We can just say we have too much on our plate to take on a new case. There, done,” you shrug, leaning back in the seat without a care in the world.
Mr Jeon, your boss, thought it’d be a good idea to pair you up with Jungkook to work on a class case.
Why he’d even make that decision was beyond you. Neither of you got along well, trying too hard to one-up each other, spewing insults back and forth like there was no tomorrow. Failure to work well together in this case, you were both threatened with temporary suspension.
“Yeah, you’re forgetting one thing,” he says.
“What’s that?”
“My dad owns the fucking place.”
Yeah, your boss happened to be Jungkook’s dad, and honestly, it wasn’t such a bad thing. He was treated the same way as the other employees, sometimes a bit worse when it came to you.
You were his favourite employee, the absolute star of his team.
“He’s handed our current cases to another attorney so we can focus on this,” Jungkook groans, getting out of his seat to pace around your office as if he were going through a midlife crisis. He halts after a little dilly-dallying, “We should just take the suspension.”
"Pardon you, but I've got bills to pay, and I can't be having that suspension show up on my job record," you try to reason with him, but Jungkook didn't look very convinced. "Think about it this way…” you trail off, leaving your seat behind your desk to head over to him, standing confident in front of him, “When you're suspended, you're pretty much fired for an unfixed period.”
You were willing to work with Jungkook, just to get this whole thing out of the way, and there was only one way to get him on board.
Provoking him.
“I’m sure the Jeon Jungkook doesn’t wanna get suspended by his own daddy, right?” you taunt him, your voice getting quieter with each word.
Jungkook knew you were messing with him, and hated how you actually got under his skin, but with a defeated sigh, he agrees, “Fine, let’s win this case. How about we work on it over at your place? I’m sure you’ve got no plans for the weekend,” he scoffs, cocking a brow at your overly-confident form.
“I actually have a date this weekend,” you shrug, turning your back towards him ready to take your leave. “We can work on it later tonight, I’m leaving now.”
A date? There’s no way…
Jungkook is quick to rush to the door, blocking you from opening the door just as you reach out for the door knob. His arms were extended out to his sides, stopping you from leaving.
He needed to know who this guy was and why the hell he would go on a date with you of all people. “A date? Someone actually wants to sit and have dinner with you?” he questions, like it was the craziest thing he’d ever heard. “He’s gotta be deaf or blind.”
Now, with shit like this, you’d walk away, but Jungkook rendered you trapped in his office, “Listen you conceited asshole,” your index fingers goes to jab at his chest and you have to force yourself to ignore how built he was under his shirt, “I don’t like you. Never have, never will. We’re all a bit different outside of work but I’ve restricted you from seeing that side of me because you don’t deserve it.”
It was a simple and truthful explanation, you hated Jungkook beyond words, neither of you had a relationship outside of the firm. Your work persona would definitely not attract a guy with how much of a workaholic you were.
You needed this date, as a break from all the hardships these cases brought you.
Jungkook pondered your words carefully. Maybe he was a bit iffy about not having a relationship with you outside of work, he didn’t wanna be just a “work colleague” or that “annoying guy from work. He had way too much pride for that.
“Now if you could please stop hogging the door, that would be great. I don’t think I wanna spend another minute with you in your office.”
“Likewise, Y/N,” Jungkook sneers as he steps away from the door. It doesn't even register to either of you that this could be counted as an argument. How easily you both bumped heads with each other would have to come to a stop now that Mr Jeon was keeping a keen eye on you two.
As the day comes to night, you were still locked away in your office, reading away at your newly appointed case details and taking brief notes. The details were… gory to say the least, and exceptionally hard to read, but being a lawyer, you’d gotten used to it, having read the worst of the worst during your career. It was pretty much a skill to read such gruesome and ill details of murders, kidnappings and assaults with a straight face.
You were lucky not to be the only one reading up on gore so late at night, Jungkook waltzing through your office without knocking (as he always did) with a cup of coffee in his hand. He doesn’t say a word and instead sets the cup on your desk and takes a seat opposite you.
You thought you were seeing things.
Jeon Jungkook buying you coffee? That’s a first.
You don’t say anything, reaching out for the cup and bringing it close to your lips, about to take a sip, but you stop.
“You didn’t poison it, did you?”
As the man was getting comfortable in his seat, he deadpans, “Seriously? What am I, five?”
“Mmm, you act like it,” you mumble, shrugging your shoulders and taking a sip of the coffee anyway.
Thankfully, you were still up and alive.
“Have you had a look at the case yet? It’s a lot of information,” Jungkook says absentmindedly, shoving his hands into his pockets as he propped his feet up onto your desk; a move you’d witnessed on so many occasions, you’d gotten too tired to reprimand him for it.
You set the cup down and speculate over the mess of paper on your desk with a sigh, “Yeah.. I think it might be the hardest we’ve gotten yet.”
You pull out a photo of the crime scene from under the file, sliding it towards him.
It was a very clear image of strangulation on the victim, faded blood and marks of red around the victim’s neck.
All caused by his own father.
“So what are we? Defence or Prosecution?” You’d usually decide this part on your own, but you wanted to hear his thoughts first and ensure he was on the same page as you.
“Easy,” his eyes dip down to your desk, analysing the photo, “We’re defence,” he decides with no hesitation, pulling on his tie to loosen it slightly around his collar.
“What? You wanna go Defence? Seriously?” You thought prosecuting would be the most obvious route to take seeing as the evidence pointed towards the father of the victim being the obvious murderer.
“I spoke with Jimin about it earlier and he also thinks Defence would be the easier route for us.”
“Oh, so it’s just Jimin’s word against mine now?” you arch a brow at him, tilting your head to the side, awaiting a bullshit answer from him.
From the tone of your voice, Jungkook knew you were slowly getting worked up, and quite frankly, there was too much at stake to be arguing when the case hadn’t even started yet. “You know what, we’ll be the Prosecution if it shuts you up.”
As long as you got what you wanted.
“So who’s taking you on a date this weekend?”
Jungkook’s sudden question surprised you. You couldn’t think of one valid reason as to why he cared.
“Um, you probably don’t know him, but his name is Jung Hoseok—”
“—I know him.”
Of course Jungkook knew him; the pair went to law school together but parted ways after Hoseok got a job as a district attorney in the states.
He only returned a couple years back after becoming a legal director at their opposing law firm.
You regretted giving away Hoseok’s name. Now that Jungkook, your absolute nemesis, knew your potential love interest, he was probably planning to absolutely shit talk you to stop you from finding love to feed his bitter self.
“I know Hoseok pretty well, actually. He’s not really fit to be a boss if I’m being honest,” Jungkook recalls, remembering many times back in law school when leadership roles in team activities were up for grabs and Hoseok would always steer clear of them. “Surprised he’s willing to date a bitch,” he snickers, waiting for you to cuss him out.
“Listen, you’re tired, I’m tired, I don’t wanna talk about who’s a bitch and who’s fit enough to be a boss… and it’s definitely not you.”
“Oh yeah? What does Jung Hoseok have that I don’t?”
“Compassion, respect, authority, control, not to mention, he’s quite the attractive man,” you shrug with a sly smile, continuing to boast about Hoseok and at the moment, Jungkook was regretting even asking in the first place.
He could be all that and more.
“But our relationship isn’t very deeply rooted. We’re not in love or anything, we’ve only been on one date so our relationship is at the minimum right now.”
Jungkook didn’t ask for a dramatic reading of your relationship, and he’d just about heard enough, “Yeah, whatever. Can you cook? You should cook for us this weekend. You know, get the brain juice flowing or whatever it’s called,” he stands up abruptly, stretching his arms above his head before heading over to your couch, slouching against the material as he looks over at you, awaiting an answer.
“Why would I cook for someone I hate?”
“You don’t hate me,” he throws back at you, a sly smirk adorning his features, “You pick fights with me and always get competitive, because when you overcome me, it makes you feel better about yourself.”
You bite down on your bottom lip, pondering his words a little.
Maybe he was right to an extent. Nothing felt better than being put against each other and reigning victorious. Everyone in the firm knew how competitive you both were and always steered clear of any kind of opportunity to compete with you.
You sigh and roll your eyes, “Hmm… Maybe I might just have a thing for you, who knows,” you respond casually, shrugging your shoulders just to mess with him a little. “But that’s what you want, right? Another girl to fawn over you?” you taunt him, keeping your eyes trained on him as you recall the number of women that had bombarded your office earlier today after you were counted ‘lucky’ for working with Jungkook, ‘the most attractive guy in the firm.’
Now that made him fix his posture, sitting up for what could only be the most predictable thing he’d ever heard, “Oh my god, I knew it,” he laughs, almost demeaningly, “Everyone and their mum has a thing for me, you’re no different,” he shook his head in disbelief, a large grin spread across his face. “So that’s why you always argue with me, huh? Just so you can talk to me? That’s cute, especially since it’s you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” you question, slightly offended.
“Because it’s gonna be fun having the Y/N, my biggest competition, falling in love with me, Jeon Jungkook. Imagine all the headlines that would make.”
God, he’s so full of himself.
As much as you hated how egotistical he was, you wanted to continue your little play act, rising to your feet and walking over to Jungkook by the couch and once near enough, you grab the end of his tie, leaning down towards him and pulling him close to your face with a deceitful smile gracing your lips, “Oh Jeon… You’re so smart, I can’t believe you figured me out so quickly…” you whisper, voice as soft as ever and something Jungkook had never heard before.
He couldn’t deny, your hold on his tie was probably the most attractive thing he’d ever witnessed, but he would never flat-out admit it to you.
Jungkook lifts his hand to gently rest against your cheek, merely trying to see just how far you’d go to keep this act up, “Mhm, I bet you like where we are now, don’t you?” he teases, his voice dropping several octaves and matching the volume of what was once your voice, now barely there as your mind went blank and his eyes proceeded to dance between your lips and your eyes.
Your cheeks had heated up drastically under his touch and you weren’t expecting him to make a comeback like that, and you really weren’t prepared to take things any further, but your pride would take a major blow if you backed out now.
Besides, the setting was perfect for that kind of moment; a near empty building, alone in the office, lights dimmed down, both tired and stressed out..
Your lips were mere inches away from his own and you could’ve kissed him if you really wanted to, and maybe, maybe you did want to kiss him—
No, that was the tense air speaking.
Just improvise.
“Mhm, this is exactly what I wanted…” you whisper, giving his tie one last tug till your foreheads were touching, “But I’m sure your hand can make-do in better places, don’t you think?”
Jungkook’s brow twitches, and you almost miss it, but it was enough of a sign to let you know he wasn’t expecting you to keep up. It wasn’t a problem for him though, the man was just as stubborn and prideful as you were, there was absolutely no way in hell he was gonna back down.
Not until you do.
“And what about yours, Y/N?” he challenges, eyes briefly peering down at your hand still gripping on the end of his tie, “I bet you’re really skilled with your hands, aren’t you?”
The real fun begins when the hand that was once resting against your cheek, drops a little lower, making home over the dip of your neck and Jungkook could feel your skin burn under his palm.
Your heart was racing as you discreetly pondered what he meant by that and once you clocked on, your body had stiffened, but you needed to seem unfazed, “Of course I am, probably more skilled than you at this point,” you shrug, gesturing towards his hand near your neck.
If he had the balls, he’d touch you somewhere more scandalous.
“Oh, is that right? You wanna bring my hands further down then, Y/N?”
Jungkook was testing you and your patience. If he thought you were gonna pussy out, he was wrong.
Your left hand grabs onto his wrist, right hand landing flat against his chest as you pushed him back against the sofa, and without even thinking of your next move, you impulsively make home on Jungkook’s lap, straddling his thighs as you adjust yourself on top of him. He watched on, slightly shocked and a little amused at the lengths you were going through just to prove a point.
With your hand wrapped around his wrist, you drag his hand down your body, slowly reaching your chest and stopping, “How about this?” you whisper, your voice on the verge of the faltering.
“Could be better,” he shrugs nonchalantly, sitting up to pull his blazer off his body, leaving it elsewhere and going back to his previous position, “Try this…”
He begins to pull his tie off around his collar, leaving it beside him for later use and then reaching up to unbutton his white dress shirt until hints of skin peeked through, “It’ll be better if you touch me yourself, but I’m sure you already know that since you’re so ‘skilled,” he says, his hands resting over your hips.
How long was Jungkook gonna keep this up? You were running out of ideas and though this was all a game, you couldn't help but feel just the slightest bit turned on, but how couldn’t you? You were sitting on his lap, your near-skintight skirt rolling up your thighs and you were almost certain he could feel the slight throbbing between your legs.
With one hand placed on his shoulder, the other reaching down to slip your hand past his shirt, your palms making direct contact with his built chest, God, you’re all talk,” you roll your eyes, leaning in to whisper against his ear, “Why don't you put your money where your mouth is?”
Jungkook throws his head back, eliciting a low chuckle, eyes meeting yours again as his palms made home on your thighs, squeezing your flesh enough to warm himself up, “If we continue, this won't be a game anymore…” he trails off, trying his absolute hardest to ignore the growing pain of his hardening cock under his slacks, “I won't be able to stop,” he continues, knowing inside he wanted this too, but was more than willing to back off if you seriously didn’t wanna do this, “Is this what you want?”
Fuck, of course you wanted this. Your body needed an output, some kind of relief. Just this once, you were willing to set aside your differences for what, ten minutes of quick relief?
You adjust yourself on his lap, your lace-clad cunt snug above his growing erection and you could've sworn you almost moaned at the contact. "Can you feel that?” you whisper, referring to the throbbing between your legs. "Is that enough of an answer for you?"
"Jesus Y/N," Jungkook nearly groans at the closeness. If he continued this game, he would cross a line that would be hard to come back from, and he was willing and ready to deal with the consequences to come.
With one swift move, he rests his fingers under your chin, tilting your head to the side to make room for his lips to attach to your neck, gently sucking and biting along your untainted neck didn't whilst he kept you distracted by the new sudden feeling of his large hands rocking your hips back and forth over his erection.
You elicit a soft sigh, eyes coming to a gentle shut as you basked in the soft pleasure, your soaked-through panties bound to leave a mark of your mess on top of him.
Jungkook pulls away from your neck, leaning back to admire your state; your cheeks were flushed pink, hair a little messy and a sheer layer of sweat adorning your chest, resulting in your blouse sticking to your body and arched a brow at you, “Take the shirt off for me, will you?”
You don’t hesitate to oblige, unbuttoning your mesh blouse with your eyes solely focused on him, and it seemed Jungkook had the same plan to just stare you down as you pulled the material off your shoulders, your well hidden assets finally coming in to view and Jungkook’s breath had hitched in his throat.
He didn’t know what came over him, or if he was just high in the moment, but you looked absolutely unreal; a simple yet stunning black lace bralette over your chest, your cleavage on full show and and it was everything he’d imagined. He inhales sharply, resisting the urge to just grab you, but Jungkook was a man of class (sometimes).
He gestured for you to remove the bralette and you did, hands reaching for your back to unclasp everything and let the material fall to your lap, freeing your tits right in front of his face and he was impulsively leaning in, briefly flicking his tongue over your hardened nipples before pulling away just to leave a ruthless smack over the expanse of your tits, revelling in the way your skin would redden and how your body would jump on top of him.
If he was feeling nice, he’d give in to you, give you exactly what you wanted, but to be frank, he wasn’t in a nice mood. He didn’t know if he hated you the way he did before all of this but God, was he gonna give you a piece of his mind..
Jungkook briefly slips his hand under your skirt and reaching between your legs, eager to feel just how soaked you were through your panties and boy, he was not disappointed.
Just mere talking and subtle teasing got you this riled up?
Clearly yes, your thighs were shuddering between his hand and you were almost embarrassed to be sitting where you were right now, “What are you waiting for?” you huff, frustration evident in your tone as you pulled yourself up to slip off your panties.
“I’m waiting for you to beg.”
“I’m not begging you—”
As soon as your panties were off, Jungkook was immediately pulling you back down onto his lap, now getting a real feel of your slick dampening his dress pants, “You’ll beg me, otherwise we can just wrap this up and call it a day…” he trails off, firmly gripping your hips as he pressed you down harder on his hardening cock, forcing a quiet moan to slip past your lips.
“Come on, Y/N… you know what you want, just tell me,” he whispers, eyes meeting yours and drinking in the irritation in them.
God, he loved irritating you.
Giving in just this once wouldn't hurt you, but you weren’t exactly the begging type of person, “I need your hands…” you manage to muster, your poor cunt practically leaking over his slacks.
“That’s not how you ask nicely,” Jungkook taunts you, throwing in a disappointed sigh, “Enlighten me, will you? How bad do you want them?” He leans back against the sofa, his hands rolling the hem of your skirt up over your thighs so he could have a clear cut view of your pussy, swallowing sharply once his eyes catch a glint of your flesh shining under the dim lights.
"Fuck you.." you grit. Jungkook stating the obvious was embarrassing for you; who would've thought Jeon Jungkook would be the reason for your desperation.
You could tell from the tone of his voice that he was enjoying tormenting you, and today was not gonna be the day you beg for him; you had far too much pride for that.
Instead of using your words, you grab ahold of his hand, guiding it down your body and between your legs. Once the pad of his fingers were against your clit, you wasted no time in rocking your hips against them. "I— I want your fingers inside me," you whisper against his ear, hoping he’d cut you some slack.
"Oh Y/N..." Jungkook shook his head disapprovingly. He quickly pulls his hands away to fetch his tie laying next to him on the couch.
You knew exactly where he was going with this and you were right; he’d grabbed your wrists and forced them behind your lower back, using his black tie to restrain your hands, and all you could do was shuffle on top of him, “I’d be careful when moving, wouldn’t want you to fall back,” he taunts you, a grin plastering his face as he pulled on the restraints one last time.
Jungkook doesn’t even spare you a minute to get used to the tie, his hand making home between your legs once again as he moved the pad of his fingers up and down against your swollen clit agonisingly slow, “Don’t you know your manners, Y/N? What happened to saying ‘please’ when you want something?”
You were falling apart on top of him, your hands clawing at nothing as you tried to remain composed. You felt absolutely hopeless, and giving in didn’t seem so bad right about now.
“I fucking hate you,” you seethe through gritted teeth, grinding yourself against his fingers seeing as his lace was too slow for your own liking, “Please, Jungkook…” it physically hurt you to say those words, feeling your cheeks swell up in embarrassment, “I wanna fuck myself on your fingers…”
Most certainly pleased by your answer, he doesn't waste any time, thrusting his index and middle finger into you so fast, a gasp was ripped from your throat. “See, that wasn’t so hard, was it? Only a real slut would beg to get fucked by a guy she hates.”
His hands began to push in and out carefully, admiring your eventual fucked out state, "Fuck yourself on them, pretty," Jungkook instructs, gradually speeding up the rhythm of his fingers. "Or do you want me to curl them?"
It was a rhetorical question, already feeling him curl his fingers between your soft walls as you helplessly clenched around him.
It felt so good.
It was unfortunate your body was close to giving in, struggling to stay up on top of him but you tried to muster as much strength as you could to keep going, drowning Jungkook's digits in your slick as your hips moved up and down on his fingers at a similar pace to his wrist, “Jeon, I can’t..
"Oh? But you can argue with me, call me names, and make a fool of me in front of my colleagues?" Jungkook taunts, speeding up his fingers to a torturous fast pace that was sure to bring you closer to your high. "You can do all of that, but you can't fuck yourself on my fingers? What a pathetic bitch.”
He reaches behind you to untie the restraints binding your wrists together, letting the material drop to the floor behind you before he was picking you up and carrying you over to your desk, setting you down on the surface and pushing you to lie back ever so slightly as he dropped to his knees between your legs.
He split your legs apart, audibly groaning at the sight of your swollen pussy; clit peeking out and your tight hole desperately clenching around nothing. “Fuck… Look at that desperate pussy..” he mumbles to himself, fixing your legs over his shoulders as he leaned in, pressing the flat of his tongue against your cunt.
A content sigh left fell from your lips as he used the tip of his tongue to toy with your sensitive bud, causing your thighs to shake around his head. The repetitive movement had your body tensing and the moans you’d been keeping to a minimum now at the max.
“So— so good..” you whimper, gazing down at him. With your hands free, they moved to grab at his dark locks, shoving his head further between your legs till you could feel his nose repeatedly nudging against your clit and good god, Jungkook would go to hell and back to drown in your pussy for eternity.
He let out a muffled groan, sliding his tongue between your folds and sucking on your clit like his life depended on it, but he needed to pull away if he wanted to live to experience that.
When Jungkook pulled away, you whined, but he wasn’t gone for long, suddenly delivering a harsh slap to your cunt that made your body jump and left your eyes rolling to the back of your head.
It stung, but it felt so fucking good.
Pleased by your reaction, he did it again, this time only harder, “Oh, so Miss Lawyer likes getting her slutty pussy slapped?”
Before you could even respond, Jungkook was biting on his bottom lip, not wasting another second before he’d spat right over your aching cunt, forcing you to arch your back off the desk as he watched the bead of spit trail between your folds in awe.
He leaned in again, shoving his tongue into your aching cunt and feeling your walls clench around the wet muscle almost as if you didn’t wanna let go and he found it beyond amusing, pulling away almost immediately just to spite you as he stood up to tower over your body; mouth glistening from all the slick and you couldn’t deny he looked like a hot mess.
What you didn’t see coming, was Jungkook grabbing your face, slapping you one as he squished your cheeks within his hold, forcing your lips to pucker as he spat into your mouth, the mixture of his saliva and your slick seeping down your throat as you swallowed with no hesitation.
He chuckled deeply, “Should’ve known an A class whore like yourself was into this shit. What do you think the jury would think about that, huh?” He continues to tug on your face, forcing you to keep your eyes on him so he could watch you break down before him.
Jungkook pulls you up and off the desk, standing tall and confident in front of you as you tried to regain a steady composure, almost stumbling.
“I don’t know how they’d feel knowing the slutty prosecutor got on her knees for the heir of this firm,” he starts, reaching out to wrap his hand around your neck firmly and pulling you towards him, “We should risk it and find out, huh?” he breathes out against your lips, low and hoarse and you had to squeeze your thighs shut from the flutters you were feeling between your legs.
“I’d rather throw dirt in my eyes than suck your dick,” you spit, shamelessly lying through your teeth and Jungkook immediately knew you were playing games.
“You think you’re funny, huh?” His hands shift from your neck to the back of your head, gripping a hand full of your hair and urging you to get on your knees and you did exactly that, making it easy for him to get you down as you tried your best to conceal the knowing smile growing on your lips but all you did was lick your lips up at him, anticipation clouding your eyes as you gulped.
The subtle action alone had his dick jumping in his slacks and he refused to wait any longer before unbuckling his belt and pulling pants halfway down his thighs, leaving a thick and oblivious imprint of his cock straining against his boxers right in front of your face.
You didn’t realise it, but your body was inching towards him and Jungkook took notice straight away, doing you the favour of pulling his cock out from its confines to stand tall and hard before you.
You were meaning to reach out for him, but he beat you to it, wrapping a strong hand around the base of his cock as he pumped himself between his fist a couple times, squinting at the little bead of precum eventually dripping down the base of his cock and you could only stare on in awe.
“You want my cock down your throat, huh?” he taunts deeply, moving forwards so he could guide the tip of his leaking cock across your face, nudging your cheek and avoiding all contact with your mouth.
Right where you wanted him most.
“Say it,” he lightly slaps the tip of his dick against your cheek, dragging it down to your lips but not yet pushing in, “Say you’re a cock-hungry bitch who wants her face fucked by the man she hates so much…”
Submission was never your thing. You always showed yourself out to be a woman who always stood her ground, never taking shit from anyone. But now it was your worst enemy, proving you wrong on all of the above.
“I’m a cock-hungry bitch..” your words are there, but no confidence within them, “Who wants her face fucked by the man she hates so much,” you mumble against the tip of his dick, hoping he’d give in to you.
Jungkook shrugs, “Could be better, but what more do I expect from a whore?” He suddenly pushes the tip of his cock past your lips, taking you by surprise as he groaned deeply, basking in the warmth of your mouth as he slowly eased himself into you inch by inch until he completely bottomed out.
You couldn’t handle his immense size, already struggling to breathe and he hadn’t even moved yet and tears were brimming your eyes.
“Tight fucking fit…” he seethes, slowly pulling out only to slam back into your mouth with brute force, each thrust pushing against the back of your throat and though you started choking, you couldn’t bring yourself to stop him. You didn’t want him to stop; allowing him to use your head as assistance.
“Fucking made for my cock, aren’t you? A perfect fit..”
The only sounds that could be heard were Jungkook’s groans and the illicit sounds of your gagging and spluttering, a mixture of spit and precum leaking out the sides of your mouth.
"Gonna make better use of your pretty mouth.. and dumb you up so you'll never be able to throw all that fucking attitude at me again.." With no prep whatsoever, he impales your throat again, this time keeping your head at the very base of his cock, your nose brushing against his abdomen as your throat clenched around him, squeezing tightly to the point you could feel him throb.
“If this is the only way to shut you up, I’ll have you on your knees more often,” he looks down at you, watching the woman who stood so high on her fucking imaginary pedestal, now kneeling between his legs with her mouth stuffed full of his cock like a needy bitch.
Jungkook was damn near certain he almost came from the sight of you alone so he suddenly pulled you away from him, a thick and heavy string of precum connecting your lips to him leaving you a gasping, teary eyed, heaving mess.
“You’re so fucking annoying,” you grumble, slightly annoyed by the sudden withdrawal as you hastily stood onto your feet.
“Oh, Y/N.. What am I gonna do with you?” he questions, sarcasm lacing his voice as he took a couple steps towards you just to grab your arm and turn you around; pushing you down front first against the glass surface of his desk.
You could barely make out what he was about to do, the side of your face pressed up against the glass but God, he was so close behind you, you couldn’t help but push back against him a little, whimpering at the sliver of skin-on-skin contact with him and Jungkook was all for your eagerness.
He spits against the palm of his hand, using the heel of his palm to reach down between your legs and massage your weeping cunt, briefly letting his digits dip into you before replacing them with his cock.
At last.
“Oh— fuck.. Jeon—!” You’re more vocal now than you were ever before, his size deeming you absolutely vulnerable as he pushed into you slowly. The stretch was beyond humane, he was practically splitting you open and your tears were suddenly making another appearance.
Jungkook felt like he was going through the seven stages of grief; not expecting you to be so tight around him and already so addicting, it was like a revelation for him.
“Pussy made just for me..” he groans, a palm aiming to land a harsh smack against your ass cheek, making you jump and the ongoing stinging sensation turning the affected area a light shade of pink which was bound to darken overtime. “All fucking mine—” he grits harshly squeezing the flesh of your ass as he continued to thrust in and out of your sopping cunt, “Fuck, look at your tight pussy just sucking me in… bet you like me shoving into your cunt, huh?”
“Uhghhh yes, yes! I love it so much!”
You loved the pain.
Each powerful thrust caused your body to repeatedly shift against your desk, again and again his dick slamming so deep into your guts you wondered if it were even possible to experience such a thing.
You could tell he was giving you his all; his muscles were tense, every vein in his body was popping out just so he could take out his frustrations on you. He dealt with your ass for three years; constant bickering, competitions, insults, but fuck him, if he knew you what got you going, he’d have fucked you way sooner.
“Bet you wished I’d come in and fuck you at some point, huh?” A smirk was lingering over his features, knowing well what your answer was.
“God— yes!” Your back forcibly arches against your will as you nod desperately.
Truth be told, you did look forward to his visits in your office just to argue with you. Arguing with an attractive man who looked even hotter when he was mad?
Of course.
“And everytime I’d leave your office, you’d sit in your chair with a wet fucking pussy all day, hoping I’d come back in just to fuck you, right? But God, why didn’t I do that?” he mentally curses himself, digging his fingers into your hips as his pace faltered, indicating he was losing traction.
“Fuck you for not making a move,” you hiss through tears, gripping at the edge of your desk for stability as his thrusts became sloppy and messy.
He lands another harsh smack against your ass, making you help in surprise, “Shut the fuck up, I’m not done,” he seethes, picking up the pace and knocking all other backtalk out of your lungs, "Every damn day, I've had to deal with your shit; talking down on me—" his words laced with anger as he slams in to you, "—flaunting your stupid awards in my face and walking around like you own the fucking place."
He abruptly pulls out, turning you over to lay back on the desk whilst he spread your legs apart, his cock slipping into you once more as his free hand settled a harsh slap against your tits, “Now I have you under me, crying on my cock like a little bitch. Where'd that confidence go, huh?"
You couldn’t bring yourself to respond, to busy doing exactly as he’d stated. Your mind was hazy and your body was going numb, all you were capable of was squeezing your walls tightly around his cock as a sign to say you were close.
“Oh you’re close, huh?” Jungkook brings his hand down to scoop up the stringy mess connecting both your bodies, “We can’t have security walk in, can we?” lifting his hand again to shove three slick coated digits into your mouth in a bid to silence your moans as you came. “Come all over my cock like you were born for it.”
And thank god he did what he did because your pleasure filled cries would have woken up the entire city.
Your tongue lapped at his fingers, sucking off whatever was there before he pulled them out of your mouth, admiring the way they glistened under the dim lights.
You stared up at him in a daze, chest heaving and tits bruised red as he thrusted back and forth a couple more times before finally reaching his orgasm with a low bellow.
“Fuck…” he groans to himself and you could feel his warmth completely fill you up, some of it too much to the point white was leaking out of your sensitive cunt as he drained himself empty into you.
Once Jungkook was certain he was done, he slowly pulled out, his cock falling limp and his mess now prominent between your legs, noticing it was all slipping out so he did you the duty of using his fingers to push as much as he could back into you, the sensitivity making you shudder, “Can’t let it go to waste,” he chuckles, bringing his fingers up to his lips to sneak a taste.
It was the hottest thing you’d ever seen and he was pulling you to sit up on the desk before grabbing your case with both hands and kissing you with all his might.
It was unexpected but you were too in the moment to stop him. You could just about make out the distinctive taste of yourself and him on your lips and all you were wondering was how the hell you’d both come back from this.
Jungkook bit down on your bottom lip, dragging it out towards him before letting go and watching the plumpness bounce back, red and swollen like he’d left his mark on you.
“What did we just do..?” you whisper, finally drinking in the state of yourself and the absolute state of your office, papers everywhere and the smell of sex surrounding you.
Jungkook didn’t know what came over him, but he needed to reassure you one thing; “This probably wasn’t ideal but I don’t regret it,” he says, eyes glued to yours and curious to know if you felt the same way.
You didn’t know if you felt the same way, but you certainly weren’t feeling bad about it.
“You don’t have to say anything now, or put a label on it or anything, you can take your time,” he tells you softly, pulling away from you to pull his pants back up and tuck himself away. He was unsure whether you wanted to be alone or wanted to stay in his presence, but he figured he’d do what was safest, “Want me to clean you up and walk you to your car?”
Your hands adjusted the skirt that had been rolled up your hips, pulling it down to shield your thighs and the mess as you shook your head, “Oh no, that’s okay, I can take it from here,” you reply, this time giving him a genuine smile for his chivalry, one he’d never actually seen on you before and he wished he could see it more often.
Jungkook nodded and went to collect his shirt by the sofa, throwing it over his shoulder and heading for the door, “I’ll see you tomorrow morning then for some case work.”
“Yeah, you too…”
He curtly nodded and headed out of your office with a sigh. He didn’t wanna leave you alone after that, but he wanted to avoid any intrusive/pushy questioning and awkwardness.
How the hell would you both ever come back from this?
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When most Americans think of fascism, they picture a Hitlerian hellscape of dramatic action: police raids, violent coups, mass executions. Indeed, such was the savagery of Nazi Germany, Stalinist Russia, and Vichy France. But what many people don’t appreciate about tyranny is its “banality,” Timothy Snyder tells me. “We don’t imagine how a regime change is going to be at the dinner table. The regime change is going to be on the sidewalk. It’s going to be in your whole life.”
Snyder, a Yale history professor and leading scholar of Soviet Russia, was patching into Zoom from a hotel room in Kyiv, where the specter of authoritarianism looms large as Ukraine remains steeped in a yearslong military siege by Vladimir Putin. It was late at night and he was still winding down from, and gearing up for, a packed schedule—from launching an institution dedicated to the documentation of the war, to fundraising for robotic-demining development, to organizing a conference for a new Ukrainian history project. “I’ve had kind of a long day and a long week, and if this were going to be my sartorial first appearance in Vanity Fair, I would really want it to go otherwise,” he joked.
But the rest of our conversation was no laughing matter. It largely centered, to little surprise, on Donald Trump and how the former president has put America on a glide path to fascism. Too many commentators were late to realize this. Snyder, however, has been sounding the alarm since the dawn of Trumpism itself, invoking the cautionary tales of fascist history in his 2017 book, On Tyranny, and in The Road to Unfreedom the year after. It’s been six years since the latter, and Snyder is now out with a new book, On Freedom, a personal and philosophical attempt to flip the valence of America’s most lauded—and loaded—word. “We Americans tend to think that freedom is a matter of things being cleared away, and that capitalism does that work for us. It is a trap to believe in this,” he writes. “Freedom is not an absence but a presence, a life in which we choose multiple commitments and realize combinations of them in the world.”
In an interview with Vanity Fair, which has been edited for length and clarity, Snyder unpacks America’s “strongman fantasy,” encourages Democrats to reclaim the concept of freedom, and critiques journalists for pushing a “war fatigue” narrative about the Russian invasion of Ukraine. “There’s just something so odd about Americans being tired of this war. We can get bored of it or whatever, but how can we be tired?” he asks. “We’re not doing a damn thing.”
Vanity Fair: The things we associate with freedom—free speech, religious liberty—have been co-opted by the Republican Party. Do you think you could walk me through how that happened historically and how Democrats could take that word back?
Timothy Snyder: Yeah. I think the way it happened historically is actually quite dark there. There’s an innocent way of talking about this, which is to say, “Oh, some people believe in negative freedom and some people believe in positive freedom—and negative freedom just means less government and positive freedom means more government.” And when you say it like that, it just sounds like a question of taste. And who knows who’s right?
Whereas historically speaking, to answer your question, the reason why people believe in negative freedom is that they’re enslaving other people, or they are oppressing women, or both. The reason why you say freedom is just keeping the government off my back is that the central government is the only force that’s ever going to enfranchise those slaves. It’s the only force which is ever going to give votes to those women. And so that’s where negative freedom comes from. I’m not saying that everybody who believes in negative freedom now owns slaves or oppresses women, but that’s the tradition. That’s the reason why you would think freedom is negative, which on its face is a totally implausible idea. I mean, the notion that you can just be free because there’s no government makes no sense, unless you’re a heavily drugged anarchist.
And so, as the Republican Party has also become the party of race in our country, it’s become the party of small government. Unfortunately, this idea of freedom then goes along for the ride, because freedom becomes freedom from government. And then the next step is freedom becomes freedom for the market. That seems like a small step, but it’s a huge step because if we believe in free markets, that means that we actually have duties to the market. And Americans have by and large accepted that, even pretty far into the center or into the left. If you say that term, “free market,” Americans pretty generally won’t stop you and say, “Oh, there’s something problematic about that.” But there really is: If the market is free, that means that you have a duty to the market, and the duty is to make sure the government doesn’t intervene in it. And once you make that step, you suddenly find yourself willing to accept that, well, everybody of course has a right to advertise, and I don’t have a right to be free of it. Or freedom of speech isn’t really for me; freedom of speech is for the internet.
And that’s, to a large measure, the world we live in.
You have a quote in the book about this that distills it well: “The countries where people tend to think of freedom as freedom to are doing better by our own measures, which tend to focus on freedom from.”
Yeah, thanks for pulling that out. Even I was a little bit struck by that one. Because if you’re American and you talk about freedom all the time and you also spend all your time judging other countries on freedom, and you decide what the measures are, then you should be close to the top of the list—but you���re not. And then you ask, “Why is that?” When you look at countries like Sweden, Norway, Denmark, France, Germany, or Ireland—that are way ahead of us—they’re having a different conversation about freedom. They don’t seem to talk about freedom as much as we do, but then when they do, they talk about it in terms of enabling people to do things.
And then you realize that an enabled population, a population that has health care and retirement and reliable schools, may be better at defending things like the right to vote and the right to freedom of religion and the right to freedom of speech—the things that we think are essential to freedom. And then you realize, Oh, wait, there can be a positive loop between freedom to and freedom from. And this is the big thing that Americans get a hundred percent wrong. We think there’s a tragic choice between freedom from and freedom to—that you’ve got to choose between negative freedom and positive freedom. And that’s entirely wrong.
What do you make of Kamala Harris’s attempt to redeem the word?
It makes me happy if it’s at the center of a political discussion. And by the way, going back to your first question, it’s interesting how the American right has actually retreated from freedom. It has been central for them for half a century, but they are now actually retreating from it, and they’ve left the ground open for the Democrats. So, politically, I’m glad they’re seizing it—not just because I want them to win, but also because I think on the center left or wherever she is, there’s more of a chance for the word to take on a fuller meaning. Because so long as the Republicans can control the word, it’s always going to mean negative freedom.
I can’t judge the politics that well, but I think it’s philosophically correct and I think we end up being truer to ourselves. Because my big underlying concern as an American is that we have this word which we’ve boxed into a corner and then beaten the pulp out of, and it really doesn’t mean anything anymore. And yet it’s the only imaginable central concept I can think of for American political theory or American political life.
Yeah, it’s conducive to the joy-and-optimism approach that the Democrats are taking to the campaign. Freedom to is about enfranchisement; it’s about empowerment; it’s about mobility.
Totally. Can I jump in there with another thought?
Of course.
I think JD Vance is the logical extension of where freedom as freedom from gets you. Because one of the things you say when freedom is negative—when it’s just freedom from—is that the government is bad, right? You say the government is bad because it’s suppressive. But then you also say government is bad because it can’t do anything. It’s incompetent and it’s dysfunctional. And it’s a small step from there to a JD Vance–type figure who is a doomer, right? He’s a doomer about everything. His politics is a politics of impotence. His whole idea is that government will fail at everything—that there’s no point using government, and in fact, life is just sort of terrible in general. And the only way to lead in life is to kind of be snarky about other people. That’s the whole JD Vance political philosophy. It’s like, “I’m impotent. You’re impotent. We’re all impotent. And therefore let’s be angry.”
Did you watch the debate?
No, I’m afraid I didn’t. I’m in the wrong time zone.
There was a moment that struck me, and I think it would strike you too: Donald Trump openly praised Viktor Orbán, as he has done repeatedly in the past. But he said, explicitly, Orbán is a good guy because he’s a “strongman,” which is a word that he clearly takes to be a compliment, not derogatory. You’ve written about the strongman fantasy in your Substack, so I’m curious: What do you think Trump is appealing to here?
Well, I’m going to answer it in a slightly different way, and then I’ll go back to the way you mean it. I think he’s tapping into one of his own inner fantasies. I think he looks around the world and he sees that there’s a person like Orbán, who’s taken a constitutional system and climbed out of it and has managed to go from being a normal prime minister to essentially being an extraconstitutional figure. And I think that’s what Trump wants for himself. And then, of course, the next step is a Putin-type figure, where he’s now an unquestioned dictator.
For the rest of us, I think he’s tapping—in a minor key—into inexperience, and that was my strongman piece that you kindly mentioned. Americans don’t really think through what it would mean to have a government without the rule of law and the possibility of throwing the bums out. I think we just haven’t thought that through in all of its banality: the neighbors denouncing you, your kids not having social mobility because you maybe did something wrong, having to be afraid all the damn time. African Americans and some immigrants have a sense of this, but in general, Americans don’t get that. They don’t get what that would be like.
So that’s a minor key. The major key, though, is the 20% or so of Americans who really, I think, authentically do want an authoritarian regime, because they would prefer to identify personally with a leader figure and feel good about it rather than enjoy freedom.
You mentioned the word banality, which makes me think of Hannah Arendt’s theory of the “banality of evil.” What would the banality of authoritarianism look like in America?
So let me first talk about the nonbanality of evil, because our version of evil is something like, and I don’t want to be too mean, but it’s something like this: A giant monster rises out of the ocean and then we get it with our F-16s or F-35s or whatever. That’s our version of evil. It’s corporeal, it’s obviously bad, and it can be defeated by dramatic acts of violence.
And we apply that to figures like Hitler or Stalin, and we think, Okay, what happened with Hitler was that he was suddenly defeated by a war. Of course he was defeated by a war, but he did some dramatic and violent things to come to power, but his coming to power also involved a million banalities. It involved a million assimilations, a million changes of what we think of as normal. And it’s our ability to make things normal and abnormal which is so terrifying. It’s like an animal instinct on our part: We can tell what the power wants us to do, and if we don’t think about it, we then do it. In authoritarian conditions, this means that we realize, Oh, the law doesn’t really apply anymore. That means my neighbor could have denounced me for anything, and so I better denounce my neighbor first. And before you know it, you’re in a completely different society, and the banality here is that instead of just walking down the street thinking about your own stuff, you’re thinking, Wait a minute, which of my neighbors is going to denounce me?
Americans think all the time about getting their kids into the right school. What happens in an authoritarian country is that all of that access to social mobility becomes determined by obedience. And as a parent, suddenly you realize you have to be publicly loyal all the time, because one little black mark against you ruins your child’s future. And that’s the banality right there. In Russia, everybody lives like that, because any little thing you do wrong, and your kid has no chance. They get thrown out of school; they can’t go to university.
We don’t imagine how a regime change is going to be at the dinner table. The regime change is going to be on the sidewalk. It’s going to be in your whole life. It’s not going to be some external thing. It’s not like this strongman is just going to be some bad person in the White House, and then eventually the good guys will come and knock him out. When the regime changes, you change and you adapt, and you look around as everyone else is adapting and you realize, Well, everyone else adapting is a new reality for me, and I’m probably going to have to adapt too. Trump wants to be a strongman. He’s already tried a coup d’état. He makes it clear that he wants to be a different regime. And so if you vote him in, you’re basically saying, “Okay, strongman, tell me how to adapt.”
Yeah, we could talk about Project 2025 all day. This new effort to bureaucratize tyranny—which was not in place in 2020—could really make the banal aspect a reality because it’s enforced by the administrative state, which is going to be felt by Americans at a quotidian level.
I agree with what you say. If I were in business, I would be terrified of Project 2025 because what it’s going to lead to is favoritism. You’re never going to get approvals for your stuff unless you’re politically close to administration. It’s going to push us toward a more Hungary-like situation, where the president’s pals’ or Jared Kushner’s pals’ companies are going to do fine. But everybody else is going to have to pay bribes. Everyone else is going to have to make friends.
It’s anticompetitive.
Yeah, it’s going to generate a very, very uneven playing field where certain people are going to be favored and become oligarchs. And most of the rest of us are going to have a hard time. Also, the 40,000 [loyalists Trump wants to replace the administrative state with] are going to be completely incompetent. When people stop getting their Social Security checks, they’re going to realize that the federal government—which they’ve been told is so dysfunctional—actually did do some things. It’s going to be chaos. The only way to get anything done is to have a phone number where you can call somebody at someplace in the government and say, “Make my thing a priority.” The chaos of the administration state feeds into the strongman thing. And since that’s true, the strongman view starts to become natural for you because it’s the only way to get anything done.
You’ve studied Russian information warfare pretty extensively. A few weeks ago the Justice Department indicted two employees of the Russian state media outlet RT for their role in surreptitiously funding a right-wing US media outfit as part of a foreign-influence-peddling scheme, which saw them pull the wool over a bunch of right-wing media personalities. Do you think this type of thing is the tip of the iceberg when it comes to Russian information warfare?
Of course. It’s the tip of the iceberg, and I want to refer back to 2016. It was much bigger in 2016 than we recognized at the time. The things that the Obama administration was concerned with—like the actual penetration of state voting systems and stuff—that was really just nothing compared to all of the internet stuff they had going. And we basically caught zilcho of that before the election itself. And I think the federal government is more aware of it this time, but also the Russians are doing different things this time, no doubt.
I’m afraid what I think is that there are probably an awful lot of people who are doing this—including people who are much more important in the media than those guys—and that there’s just no way we’re going to catch very many of them before November. That’s my gut feeling.
While we’re on Russia, I do want to talk about Ukraine, especially since you’re there right now. I think one of the most unfortunate aspects of [the media’s coverage of] foreign wars—the Ukraine war and also the Israel-Hamas war—is just the way they inevitably fade into the background of the American news cycle, especially if no American boots are on the ground. I’m curious if this dynamic frustrates you as a historian.
Oh, a couple points there. One is, I’m going to point out slightly mean-spiritedly that the stories about war fatigue in Ukraine began in March 2022. As a historian, I am a little bit upset at journalists. I don’t mean the good ones. I don’t mean the guys I just saw who just came back from the front. [I mean] the people who are sitting in DC or New York or wherever, who immediately ginned up this notion of war fatigue and kept asking everybody from the beginning, “When are you going to get tired of this war?” We turned war fatigue into a topos almost instantaneously. And I found that really irresponsible because you’re affecting the discourse. But also, I feel like there was a kind of inbuilt laziness into it. If war fatigue sets in right away, then you have an excuse never to go to the country, and you have an excuse never to figure out what’s going on, and you have an excuse never to figure out why it’s important.
So I was really upset by that, and also because there’s just something so odd about Americans being tired of this war. We can get bored of it or whatever, but how can we be tired? We’re not doing a damn thing. We’re doing nothing. I mean, there’s some great individual Americans who are volunteering and giving supplies and stuff, but as a country, we’re not doing a damn thing. I mean, a tiny percentage of our defense budget—which would be going to other stuff anyway—insead goes to Ukraine.
And by the way, Ukrainians understand that Americans have other things to think about. I was not very far from the front three days ago talking to soldiers, and their basic attitude about the election and us was, like, “Yeah, you got your own things to think about. We understand. It’s not your war.” But as a historian, the thing which troubles me is pace, because with time, all kinds of resources wear down. And the most painful is the Ukrainian human resource. That’s probably a terribly euphemistic word, but people die and people get wounded and people get traumatized. Your own side runs out of stuff.
We were played by the Russians, psychologically, about the way wars are fought. And that stretched out the war. That’s the thing which bothers me most. You win wars with pace and you win wars with surprise. You don’t win wars by allowing the other side to dictate what the rules are and stretching everything out, which is basically what’s happened. And with that has come a certain amount of American distraction and changing the subject and impatience. I think journalists have made a mistake by making it into a kind of consumer thing where they’re sort of instructing the public that it’s okay to be bored or fatigued. And then I think the Biden administration made a mistake by not doing things at pace and allowing every decision to take weeks and months and so on.
What do you think another Trump presidency would mean for the war and for America’s commitment to Ukraine?
I think Trump switches sides and puts American power on the Russian side, effectively. I think Trump cuts off. He’s a bad dealmaker—that’s the problem. I mean, he’s a good entertainer. He’s very talented; he’s very charismatic. In his way, he’s very intelligent, but he’s not a good dealmaker. And a) ending wars is not a deal the way that buying a building is a deal, and b) even if it were, he’s consistently made bad deals his whole career and lost out and gone bankrupt.
So you can’t really trust him with something like this, even if his intentions were good—and I don’t think his intentions are good. Going back to the strongman thing, I think he believes that it’s right and good that the strong defeat and dominate the weak. And I think in his instinctual view of the world, Putin is pretty much the paradigmatic strongman—the one that he admires the most. And because he thinks Putin is strong, Putin will win. The sad irony of all this is that we are so much stronger than Russia. And in my view, the only way Russia can really win is if we flip or if we do nothing. So, because Trump himself is so psychologically weak and wants to look up to another strongman, I think he’s going to flip. But even if I’m wrong about that, I think he’s incompetent to deal with a situation like this. Because he wants the quick affirmation of a deal. And if the other side knows you’re in a hurry, then you’ve already lost from the beginning.
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Why Are You Doing This To Me?
summary: Your ex-boyfriend Bucky Barnes wrote two songs about (for) you and you don’t know what to do.
pairing: Ex!Rockstar!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
warnings: Angst, a past failed relationship, pettiness, jealousy, anger, a lot of emotions, no mention of y/n.
word count: 2.3K
A/N: I have been away for a while because I was busy learning another language aka Dutch. I still am but at least I am done with my big exam. As soon as I was done with it, I found myself writing again.
This is a random idea that just popped into my head while listening to music and taking a walk. Pure angst for some reason. Usually, I go for smutty ideas but bear with me.
>> indicates incoming messages and << indicates outgoing messages in this story.
Thank you @notafunkiller for proofreading and editing this so fast ❤️
All work is mine, please do not repost or translate without my permission.
Keep reading tag starts after the second paragraph of the story.
>> Hey! I know you don’t want to hear anything about Bucky, but I think you should check these out. I think he wrote these songs for you.
Two links from Spotify follow the text you received from one of your best friends, and you stare for a while, trying to decide what to do. You really don’t want to hear his voice. Not because you don’t like his singing or his songs, but you wanted to get back on your feet. It would be impossible if you kept listening to his songs. Besides, hearing his voice has always softened you. And your best friend knows this. She knows a lot about your relationship, how everything went down, and how you two eventually broke up. If she didn't think you should listen to these songs, she wouldn't be sending you these links, right?
You take a deep breath and click on the first link. The song starts to play, and you notice the soft vibe right away. It’s not particularly Bucky’s style. He sounds like he’s in pain but he's singing with such clarity that surprises you.
He talks about how much he regrets the things he didn’t do when he was with you. How he misses you so much every day. How much he wants to call you, but he’s afraid that you won’t pick up the phone or worse, you will talk to him like a stranger. He says he always knew how precious you were, yet he took you for granted.
The lyrics flow flawlessly. It sounds like poetry to your ears. The way he expressed himself so beautifully… You can’t believe he wrote such a heartfelt song about you, and it’s not even his style. He’s a freaking rockstar. He usually writes about sex, rock and roll, and drugs. Not feelings. Then the song finally reaches the chorus and his words make you freeze.
“You are the love of my love.”
Did he really just say that? Did he just call you the love of his life? You feel this rush of emotions, and it’s hard to distinguish what you are actually feeling. It makes it harder to think, harder to focus on anything else other than the fact that this song is for you. That’s when you notice the name of the song. It’s the Love of My Life.
Suddenly, you start to feel angry. Every other emotion just takes a backseat. You hate him. So fucking much! Why is he always like this? Saying everything a little too late. Was it so hard for him to tell you this when you wanted to find just one reason to stay with him? You begged him to communicate with you maybe a million times. He always said it was not easy for him to put his feelings into words. Good or bad. It didn’t matter. He always struggled with his emotions. You tried your best. You tried to show him that he could trust you, that you would always be there for him, but it didn’t matter in the end. You felt like you were the only one trying to make this relationship work.
That’s when you decided to give up. It felt like he just didn’t care enough. He didn’t put any effort into changing things or making you feel like you weren’t just beating a dead horse.
You hoisted the white flag and moved on with your life. That’s when he decides to put whatever he feels into words. Instead of talking to you, he makes a song about it. Then he puts it out into the world.
What a fucking asshole!
It takes you a while to realize the song is over as the silence fills the room. As much as you hate how he chose to do this, the silence disturbs you. It might be a little too late, but you still want to hear what he has to say. Your own rules about not listening to any of his songs instantly go out the window.
You open the messaging app and click on the second link. This one sounds a little bit more like his usual style. The name of the song though, instantly catches your attention this time. It’s one of the nicknames he used often for you.
He starts the song by saying that he knows how selfish he is. That he has no right to feel this way, but he just saw you with someone else and he hated how it made him feel. He talks about how jealous he is. How he can’t help but imagine you in that guy’s arms. Then he realized you might call him baby, just like you used to call him. Then he continues by begging you not to call him baby, how he wants you to save that pet name for him even though he’s not in your life anymore.
There are so many details throughout the song that indicate he’s talking about you, there is no mistaking. He calls you by your nickname, saying how he loves the way you talk passionately about your interests, how compassionate you are, and how much effort you put into maintaining your relationship but he was too stupid and pathetic to appreciate them.
Every word that comes out of his mouth makes you even angrier. How dare he? How dare he write a song like this for you? After everything you have been through, after all the effort you put into your relationship, after every heartbreak… He realizes how much he values you just because he saw you with someone else.
Selfish bastard!
He has no right to put these words out there. He has no right to feel jealous. You are not his anymore. You can call someone else baby if that’s what you want. How dare he try to dictate to you like this? It makes you wanna call someone up and go out on another date and call him baby, just in spite.
The problem is, it’s just your stubborn nature talking. Before this song, you didn’t even think about calling someone else baby. You didn’t feel like it. Subconsciously, you were reserving that pet name for him. And that fucker knew it. He just knew it!
You exhale deeply, trying to calm yourself down. The song is over, but you can still hear him singing in your head. The song is so beautiful. Petty but so fucking beautiful. He sounds like he poured his heart out without caring how vulnerable it makes him look.
Another deep breath, you try to understand which date he is talking about. You have been on a couple of dates since you two broke up. You were so dedicated to moving on. You didn’t care if it would hurt him. Because he didn’t care about how much he hurt you all those times you tried your hardest to make things work. So you went out with a couple of gentlemen. Some of them were decent, and some of them were downright horrible. Dating is just as tedious as you remembered. A lot of assholes out there who don’t care who they are hurting. You didn’t get hurt, though. You didn't care enough about any of them to give them the power to hurt you.
Then it finally hits you. He’s talking about your date with that motherfucking movie star! That one was big news for a while. You got photographed two, maybe three times together.
You really looked like you were having fun in those photos. Truthfully, you were, he was such a funny guy. He knew how to make fun of himself. You were just so tired of pretentious asses. It was refreshing. That’s why you said yes to a second and a third date. Then he was off to a European country to shoot his next movie. You had a fun and it was more than enough for you.
You precisely remember that tabloids started to talk about how perfect you two were for each other. God, that must have gotten under his skin. You can’t help but laugh. He’s so predictable. He just couldn’t bear to see you with someone else, but can you blame him?
You remember seeing something similar about him, but in that case, he wasn’t on a date with the girl. They were just working together for some lame-ass project he would normally despise. Maybe he was trying to keep himself busy, who knows? You remember so vividly how she was looking at him like she wanted to eat him up. As if that wasn’t enough, she kept praising him, calling him the best rockstar of the century just to get in his pants. You have no idea if it worked or not, but it was enough to make you feel jealous. So can you blame him for feeling the same?
It just makes you realize you want to listen to those songs again. It’s maybe too little too late but you still want to hear him. You wanted him to talk about his feelings for such a long time and he’s finally doing it. Through a song but still, he’s doing it. It isn’t exactly communicating because communication must be two-sided, right? That’s what was missing in your relationship. You were talking, pleading, trying while he was keeping everything in. You feel like the roles are reversed. Now he’s the one talking, pleading, and trying, and you just don’t know what to do. How the tables have turned.
The second time around, you notice other details you missed the first time. Like peaceful walks you took together whenever you had the time or how you always used fake names when you two traveled together. You can’t help but miss those days. Even though you had problems, being with him always felt so safe and peaceful. You have no idea how he managed to make you feel that way. Maybe that’s why it took you so long to end the relationship. You still miss the way you felt back then. As if you two could overcome anything together, yet you couldn’t. Because you didn’t work together. You were alone, struggling to make him talk.
Then he talks about how he still speaks to your friends, and that makes him miss you even more. That part surprises you because none of your friends mentioned that they were still seeing Bucky. Is that because you didn’t let them ever talk about him? You feared if you let yourself talk or think about him, you would go back to the point zero.
He ends the song saying he doesn't want you to be a distant memory, and this sticks with you. Do you want him to be a distant memory?
The second time you listen, you notice how desperate he sounds. The way he pleads doesn’t anger you anymore. You find something you feel in his words. Your own fears, your own selfishness and oh, how much you miss him. You didn’t let yourself admit that you miss him. You thought acting like he never existed, he was never a part of your life would make everything easier and it did. Just for a while. Lately, it was just a burden. You tried so hard to keep everything inside. Just like he did. You are still trying to do it… to act logically, not emotionally. Does it mean you are making the same mistake he did? Shutting yourself down, not talking about your feelings. Is it the solution or is it a part of the mistake? You can’t tell anymore. You just know that your heart is aching. The sound of his voice makes you want to cry.
God, you hate him so much!
How could he do this to you after all this time?
Is it that easy to get under your skin or was he always there?
You feel like you are about to explode because of all the emotions you are going through. On one hand, Bucky communicating with you is everything you wanted. On the other hand, isn’t it too late? And why did he write not one but two songs about you? Declaring his love to the world…
You repeat that last bit in your head. He’s declaring his love to the world.
He’s no longer afraid to talk about his emotions. He wants you to hear them, millions of other people are just the bonus. He’s not afraid to show how fucking miserable he feels. He just wants you back.
He’s doing his bit in communicating, but unless you don’t do something about it, it won’t matter. It will be another attempt in vain. You aren’t sure if you want to repeat the same pattern. You notice the song is over when your phone chimes. It’s your best friend again.
>> Did you listen?
<< Yeah.
>> How are you feeling?
<< Confused.
<< Are you still talking to him?
>> Yeah we all are.
<< Why didn’t you tell me that?
>> You said you didn’t wanna hear anything about him and we just respected your decision.
Just like you thought. You can’t blame them. Anytime someone mentioned anything remotely related to Bucky, you either changed the subject or found a reason to leave. So you can’t help but wonder…
<< How is he doing?
>> Not great. He misses you.
<< I miss him too.
>> Are you gonna call him?
You look at the message for a long minute. Are you gonna call him? That’s the question. Maybe you should. Maybe you shouldn’t. Both of the options sound equally wrong. You have no idea what to do.
<< I don’t know what to do.
>> Just give him a call. He’s the love of your life.
You have no idea how long you have looked at that text. Maybe for a couple of minutes, maybe for an hour.
He’s the love of your life.
He’s a bastard, but he really is the love of your life.
And you are the love of his life.
Where do you go from here? You look at your phone once again. You finally know what to do.
#bucky barnes#bucky barnes x reader#bucky barnes x female reader#bucky barnes au#bucky barnes fanfiction#bucky barnes x you#bucky barnes x y/n#bucky barnes imagine#bucky barnes one shot#sebastian stan#bucky x reader#bucky x you#bucky barnes angst#james bucky barnes#ex!bucky barnes#rockstar!bucky barnes#singer!bucky barnes#marvel fanfiction#bucky barnes x f!reader#my stories
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Secret Smokes (Part 16)
Pairing: Teacher! Remus Lupin x Reader
Series Summary: When the reader bumps into the new DADA professor on the bridge in Hogwarts she begins to build a friendship with him all thanks to their shared feeling of not belonging and love for muggle cigarettes. Their friendship blooms while they both fight internal battles deciding what is wrong and what is right leading to a lot of fluff, angst, flirting and a rollercoaster of emotions.
Warnings: Swearing, smoking, drinking, teacher-student relationship, angst, jealousy, fluff, smut.
Word Count: 2000
A/N: knock, knock, anyone still here? We're back baby! Let's continue this emotional rollercoaster.
| SERIES MASTER LIST (All chapters) |
Previous Chapter, Part 16, Next Chapter
The truth is you weren't sure if setting such strong boundaries between yourself and Remus was a good idea, you knew in your words you shut off any opportunity for dates but at least you stopped arguing. It was almost as if removing pressure and expectations relaxed you both, a bit more excitement showed up as you now didn't know when you would spend time together. This increased the tension during your tutoring and when you bumped into each other in the hallway. If you wanted to see Remus you would go and knock on his office door and usually he would be in, but if he wanted to see you he had to put in more effort, he would usually find you using his Marauders Map, and he'd "casually" bump into you and inform you that he needed to discuss an essay with you.
The first week after your discussion was quite drastic you only saw each other two evenings out of the week, Remus only waited for you to show up but by the second week he was initiating the invites too. Your tutoring days turned into default Remus days as you chose to stay after your lesson was complete, it all felt very healthy and balanced. Neither of you owed each other anything and in a way you finally fell into the pattern Remus always wanted of not being in love just being together. However what you didn't know is Remus ached the past just like you did, you both didn't know what to do with your evenings anymore hoping the other would speak out and initiate an evenings together. Yes you did spend more time with your friends you began building friendships with more fellow students like Oliver Wood for example but the emptiness and longing remained and only disappeared as soon as you were back with Remus. On Friday you decided to go visit Remus's office with a gift that your parents sent you for your "friends" birthday upon your request. You knocked on his door only to find him in his usual position, he was hunched over his desk writing, his hands slightly stained from the ink of his quill.
"Marking or just for fun Professor?" You asked as you entered with a light nod and he looked up at you with a warm smile.
"For mental clarity. To what do I owe the pleasure?" He collected all the parchment and put it back in his desk drawer as you sat down opposite. He didn't stand up to embrace you as he was recently taking a more reserved approach towards your relations.
"I've got you a gift." You said with a smile revealing a small present wrapped in brown paper and tied with a tweed string.
"Thank you but how come?" He looked confused as he stood up and came to sit besides you.
"Your birthday, I know it's a bit late but you didn't let me know your birthday in advance so next year it'll be on time."
"Oh you think they'll be a next year?" He said shyly.
"Well no matter how close you are to a friend at least birthday wishes are always in order don't you think?" You asked and he nodded.
"You really didn't have to, you spend too much money on me." He said holding the gift in his hands but not opening it.
"Just open it." You said rolling your eyes and he followed your instructions opening it slowly, attempting not to rip anything. He pulled out a hardback penguin classics editions of Blake's Songs of innocence and of experience. "To help with the moral battles going on inside your head."
"How utterly topical, thank you dear, it's absolutely beautiful." He said with a warm smile going in to kiss you at the end of his sentence you welcomed the kiss as it felt like how he kissed you before the argument happened. "However it was actually the proverbs of hell that I quoted to you."
"I know, innocent and experienced wouldn't say something so evil to me."
"You were the one who called it off not me." He said with a playful wink.
"All thanks to your verbs from hell Remus." You said throwing a sofa cushion at him jokingly and he laughed.
"So do we thank William Blake or do we hate him?" Remus asked.
"Well let's see what happens when I finish school than we'll know." You said moving to sit closer to Remus and resting your head on his shoulder he put down the book on the coffee table and put his arm around you.
"How's revision going?"
"It's going, I'm stressed and I feel like I can't focus it feels like the common room and library are so packed with people and no one is ever really that quiet and I feel like they're all so far ahead of me."
"Darling you are so much further ahead then most of them, trust me I mark their work. But if you want to come and study here again you can, even if I'm not here just use my office, if anyone knocks while you're in here you can just say you have detention or you can explain that I allowed you to work from here."
"Thank you, but it's okay. I'll let you know if I need it. For now I think I just need a break my head feels like it's on fire." You explained closing your eyes slowly.
"Walk with me?" He asked standing up and reaching out a hand, you nodded in return standing up with him. He picked up his blazer and locked his office as you both left. You began walking and talking not knowing where Remus was leading you but you quickly left the castle grounds and began walking in the direction of Hogsmeade.
"How do you feel about us now?" You asked quietly as soon as you left Hogwarts grounds.
"I think you did the best thing for us, something I didn't have the guts to do." He replied, hands in his pocket, eyes looking down at his feet.
"What do you mean?"
"You hit the breaks on us, something I couldn't get myself to do, but we both knew we should."
"I think I regret it." You admitted not looking at him but in this moment he looked at you with a hurt face. "Not you, not us, but slowing us down, I miss what we had already." You elaborated.
"We still have it, just more controlled." His voice was very controlled like each word was thought out.
"But it's not the same, it's like I'm constantly reaching to stroke your hair and then pulling away as I know that's too much for what we currently are. I just want to skip to the end of the year and click play, I don't like this time on pause thing."
"Don't waste these last few months, when you leave you'll realise how much you miss it. These will be some of your best years. The freedom almost disappears, the friends move away and money suddenly becomes a problem." He explained and you nodded.
"I don't even know what I'll do next year." You admitted.
"Do you want my advice or just for me to listen?"
"Advice." You said appreciating he asked.
"I think you should teach muggle studies."
"Where?"
"Here at Hogwarts." He said enthusiastically.
"Here with you?" You asked.
"Not necessarily here with me, just here in the best school in the country. Hogwarts needs someone as passionate as you. You can help make young witches and wizards understand the muggle world, you can introduce them to music, literature. You can spend all day talking about things you love."
"I never thought of it that way." You admitted.
"It's just a thought, I think you'd make a great teacher. Plus in what other job can you geek out about Bowie to a room full of people and call it work?" He said enthusiastically.
"I don't know the first thing about teaching." You admitted.
"I'll teach you." He said casually.
"You just want to stay as my teacher forever and then we can never move on." You said with a small nervous laugh.
"Don't be stupid, then you'll be my peer and we'll have more freedom as to see where our lives go." He said.
"Won't it be just as taboo? We'll be back in limbo of not being able to date as we'll be working together and then we'll be waiting forever."
"No I don't think so, the problem is right now you're young, you haven't experienced the world, I don't want to be the blockade. You need to be free to do whatever you want and when you are no longer my student we can talk and see what we are." He explained once again, it felt like you both had this conversation memorised.
"But," you began again and Remus sighed anticipating what you're about to say. "How does this constitute as freedom, if I want to date around I can't, not that I want to, but if I did we said we're exclusive, it's like this is a relationship with none of the feel good parts just the sex and longing." You whispered bits just incase anyone was around.
"You asked for this Y/N." Remus emphasised.
"I don't think I did, I asked for more and I settled for this." You explained realising all you ever wanted was more dates but somehow your argument that day led to you asking for less everything, less feelings, less love and less time.
"Dear, have you read The mill on the floss by George Elliot? In it Phillip says "It seems to me we can never give up longing and wishing while we're thoroughly alive. There are certain things we feel to be beautiful and good and we must hunger after them. How can we ever be satisfied without them until our feelings are deadened?"
"I think that feels like an instinct I share." You said not understanding how a quote about seeking love is relevant when he's saying not to seek it.
"It's the romantic manifesto. There must be something more than this, something more intense. Something to let you out of the washing up and making your bed."
"Exactly." You said.
"Well it scares me to say I may have found it, the something more intense, but I don't want to mess it up, because if it exists it's the most beautiful thing I've ever stumbled across and I don't want to loose it by messing it up. Therefore let's let it take time and nourish in the feeling of longing for a little longer before we find comfort in it, let's not risk it before we are sure we can have it."
"I feel you're right but I don't want you to be."
"I don't want to be either." He said as he stood still and you looked puzzled at him as he looked around. "Coast is clear, aparate with me." He said and you grabbed on to him. You were in an alleyway in London you knew that immediately. First thing he did was crash his lips into yours, you kissed for an extended moment as it felt like finally you could, once he pulled away he grabbed your hand. "Where are we going?" You asked.
"To visit a friend, if you'd like?" He said as you turned the corner to see the familiar steps of 12 Grimauld place.
"Really, you aren't scared?" You asked.
"Terrified, but there's no meeting and no need to have a meeting therefore the only person home today will be Sirius and no one else should arrive especially who on earth would come on a Friday with no news, they don't like to hang out here." He explained as you approached the house.
"I'm so excited to find out everything about teenage Remus." You said and he laughed as he knocked on the door waiting for Sirius to open it.
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Buy Me a Caf and We'll See (Wolffe x GN!Reader)
Summary: After a visit to a late night caf shop, feelings develop between you and Wolffe.
Word count: 2.4K
Warnings: Edit: Mentions of blood and injury.
-- -- -- -- --
In an effort to suppress the trapped yawn, you stretched your arms and let out a slow, lingering breath. The letters on your datapad started to blur, and you blinked a few times to regain some clarity. Had it not been for the gaggles of noisy, intoxicated citizens stumbling past the window, it would have been difficult to determine the time. One glimpse at the chronometer in the corner of the screen confirmed it was late. Frustratingly so.
On any other night, you would have been tucked up in bed, dozing and dreaming, but tonight, you were in an all-hours cafe, surrounded by the hum of hushed conversations and the clinking of ceramic mugs, as you tackled the longest requisitions request you had ever seen. Despite General Plo’s apology for sending over such an extensive list, it did little to alleviate the growing fatigue.
Your only saving grace was Wolffe’s presence across from you, his overworked focus fixed on the text on his datapad as he diligently documented the aftermath of the failed mission the 104th had returned from that morning. Every so often, his gaze shifted to the concrete walls and rustic photo frames exhibiting a tempting display of pastries and cake slices. One brown eye and one cybernetic swept the outdated decorations and upside down jars housing dusty bulbs. His brow creased, and he redirected his attention to you.
If it hadn’t been for the urgent nature of the recent requisitions, he would have insisted you go home and rest. You tried to appear upbeat, but he could tell you were flagging. Your lashes fluttered at a sluggish pace, and your posture slumped.
“I didn’t even know this place was here,” he confessed, stimulating your interest.
Observing the tranquil cafe, you set your datapad aside for a brief respite from the neon glare. “I only found it by chance,” you replied. “I try to come here when I have some free time.”
Wolffe remained unconvinced. Although he usually steered clear of civilian areas, the rich flavours of the caf and the enticing aromas tempted him to make an exception. And there was an encouraging hush that he was thankful for as he immersed himself in the mundane task of completing his report.
“Do we have a plan for the blaster replacement parts?” you asked after a gulp of your warm beverage. “I know Comet said that you found some, but should we keep the order pending, or would you rather I cancel it?”
“Might be best to have some spares on hand,” Wolffe suggested. “Considering what occurred yesterday…”
He didn’t need to finish his sentence; the culpability etched on his face silently completed it for him and you wished there was something you could do or say to provide some solace. “None of that was your fault, Wolffe,” you told him adamantly. “You exceeded your duty and despite an unsuccessful mission, you safely extracted all your men.”
Though he avoided contact, his brown eye twitched and his jaw clenched as your keen words sunk in.
As the earlier meeting had unfolded, your heart ached to witness the usually composed commander struggle as he reported one disaster after another. Despite the odds stacked against them, they had forged ahead and gave it their all. After learning about the events of their mission, General Plo’s only concern was their safe return, but you could see how it had troubled Wolffe. It was tough to watch him take responsibility for something beyond his control.
You reached across the table and gently grasped his gloved hands with your bare ones. Although the motion surprised him, he didn’t recoil, lowering the datapad to give you his undivided attention. His eyes widened slightly as they wandered over your features, taking in every facet, and contour, and the subtle details he had previously overlooked.
An uncomfortable silence drifted between the two of you, and despite your best efforts, you couldn’t find the words you had wanted to say just moments ago. In the end, you retreated from him, sheepish and defeated.
Heat rising in his cheeks and not from the steaming caf, Wolffe took a slow sip of his drink. “I, uh… appreciate your faith in me,” he said, fidgeting with his datapad to distract from the urge to hold your hands again.
“As a requisitions officer, I get you what you need,” you replied with a light-hearted undertone, “and that includes a little boost when you’re in a tough spot.”
Words failed to capture the full extent of Wolffe’s appreciation, a sentiment he preferred to keep unspoken in that particular moment. Struggling to block out the feeling of your comforting touch, he scraped his nails against the side of his datapad and attempted to regain his focus.
* * *
Cars rushed by the lofty window in a haste, engines screeching and thrusters thundering as though they were trying to race the rising sun to the horizon. At that early hour of morning, you couldn’t imagine why. The lanes were mostly empty, allowing vehicles to cruise at a leisurely speed without the fear of being late.
But Coruscant never slowed. The capital of the galaxy hustled and hurried, bustled and buzzed, a constant hive of action. If you were being honest with yourself, you preferred the fast pace onboard the Venators. At least that rush was organised and structured. The incessant noise and commotion outside only served to annoy you, and you decidedly crossed your office and tightened the blinds to deter most of the vehicular surge while still letting in the climbing morning light.
You had barely got comfortable in your seat when a firm knock jolted you from your work. Disregarding the need to identify the visitor, you pressed the button on your desk to unlatch the door.
To your surprise, Wolffe walked in, helmet braced under his arm and a cardboard caf carrier in his grasp. “Apologies for disturbing you. I just came to drop this off.” He placed a cup down by your paperwork and you immediately identified the red and white logo. “I was walking by that cafe and picked up pastries for the boys and General Plo, so I thought I’d get something for you too.”
The thoughtful gift caught you off guard, but you managed to muster an affectionate smile. “Thank you, commander,” you said, mindful of keeping up the professional decorum while at work and reminding yourself to address him by his military rank. Not that anybody was around to hear you, but you were well aware of how important protocol was to Wolffe. “You have no idea how much I need this right now.”
“Still got a lot to do?” he asked.
“I wouldn’t if stuff stopped piling up, but we are in a war,” you shrugged, taking a mouthful of caf and savouring the warmth. “It would be strange if there wasn’t a mountain of tasks demanding attention.”
“You can say that again,” Wolffe said, a wry smile forming. “If the war ended tomorrow, I don’t know what I’d do next. I doubt any of my brothers would, either.”
Nursing the heated paper cup, the commander’s comments resonated deeply within you. You hadn’t given it much thought before, but you acknowledged the point. Prior to the outbreak of conflict, you had a life, and you hoped to have one after it, but for Wolffe and his brothers, war was all they knew. Bred for the battlefield. Raised to fight. Thrown straight into the hungry jaws of the beast.
Guilt welled in your stomach as you observed him, so brave and valiant, putting everything on the line with no control over the situation. And there were millions of others like him, trapped in the Republic system. “When the war ends, I am sure there will be a place for you and your brothers,” you assured him. “The galaxy always needs defenders, and there are plenty of worlds willing to offer a fresh start for anyone looking to leave the army.”
Wolffe didn’t have the heart to remind you he was considered property of the Republic, a mere cog destined to live a life dictated by duty. Instead, he lowered his head and cradled the helmet wedged between his arm and his hip.
You observed the way he paused, much like he had been doing for the past few weeks since that morning in the cafe. Every time you chatted, he retained a reserved demeanour. Although he had never been one for physical contact, he made a deliberate effort to maintain a distance from you and you wondered if you had done something wrong.
For a moment, he lifted as though to speak, but he quickly deflated and whatever he had in mind remained unspoken. “I’ll catch up with you later at the meeting,” he said as he headed for the door.
“Can’t exactly miss it,” you replied. “Thanks for the caf.”
He offered you a quick nod before scooting out into the corridor, the latch clicking shut again and the room falling silent.
You waited for a couple of extra seconds before sinking into your swivel chair. Wolffe seemed preoccupied, and it worried you. He had a knack for brushing things off, but this particular issue chipped away at him.
The quickly escalating desires that had been building up within you were certainly not easing the situation either. He had always treated you with respect and kindness, never hesitating to include you in the squad activities and ensuring you felt valued. You worked well together, functioning as a united unit, but lately he had been attempting to reach out only to retreat at the last moment.
Determined not to get overwhelmed by your own emotions when you had duties to attend to, you attributed his distant behaviour to the stress of his job and shuffled your chair back to the desk. That paperwork and all those requests wouldn’t resolve themselves, and you were thankful for the distraction.
* * *
You sprinted at full speed down the corridors of the cruising Venator, the assault of adrenaline drowning out all other sounds as you fought to maintain your balance around an abrupt turn. An irregular pant pulled at your breaths, but you refused to stop. As soon as you had received the message, you were out of your seat and bolting through the ship, blundering past clones and droids with only one goal in mind: reach him.
Bursting into the medical bay waiting room, you startled the medic on duty. After identifying the wolf sigil on your sleeve, he motioned to the door behind him. “He’s still having some scans done, but you can go in,” he said. “Wouldn’t stop muttering your name when he arrived.”
You locked eyes with the clone medic as though he was about to break into laughter and reveal a ruse, but he remained politely hushed. The news of Wolffe’s injury and stable condition consumed your thoughts, granting no chance for any other concerns. To hear he had been asking for you, it became clear why Sinker had been dispatched so urgently after the commander’s arrival. He wanted you by his side.
Smoothing your uniform and wiping the perspiration off your brow, you entered the medical room, the sterile scent of bacta hitting your nostrils. The lights were dimmed, creating a soft glow around the equipment screens that seemed to form a halo until your eyes adjusted. At the end of the singular cot, a medi-bot hovered, emitting a wedge of blue light.
The commander straightened up and met your worried gaze. His right side was covered with a large bandage, secured over his black under suit, and red-stained gauze spilled over the rim of a bowl on the tool tray.
The droid completed the scans and exited, appearing content with the results.
“You know you’re supposed to run away from the explosions?” you said in relieved jest as you perched on the narrow mattress.
“I was caught on the edge of the blast,” Wolffe replied. “A bit of shrapnel grazed me. Nothing major.”
“Really?” you challenged, elongating the word and fidgeting in anticipation of your next words. “Because your brothers told me you were in and out of consciousness. And according to the medic, when you arrived, you were whispering my name. Kind of explains why Sinker came to fetch me so quickly.”
Wolffe’s eyes widened, his deep hazel eye dilating and the cybernetics in his other rotating. If you hadn’t spent so much time with him, you wouldn’t have noticed the subtle change, but you learned his mannerisms early on in your assignment to his squad.
An apology or some sort of unneeded statement lingered on his lips and you silenced his doubts with a soft shush. “You don’t have to explain anything. Conserve your energy.”
“No,” the commander said, leaving no room for negotiation on the matter. “I owe you an explanation. I’ve been distant lately and I should have just told you the truth.” He shut his eyes briefly, and when he reopened them, he focused on the medical scanner attached to his fingertip. “I was bleeding out and all I saw was you. My brothers were calling out to me to keep me awake, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that I might never see you again.”
A breath snagged, but you forced it down, mouth slightly agape and captivated by the commander’s confession.
“My squad have talked about the civvies they’ve encountered and formed connections with, but we made a collective decision not to let any relationships form. We’re soldiers. Every time we ship out, we don’t know if we’re going to make it home. But with you, I… I want to.”
“Wolffe, what are you trying to say?” you asked, hoping for a less evasive response to confirm your interpretation of what he was struggling to communicate.
Wolffe’s mismatched eyes shone with a love that spanned the entire galaxy, and you understood. You didn’t need him to speak it aloud.
Reaching over the bedsheets, he gingerly entwined his fingers with yours, a faint smile growing as you tightened your grip. He handled you with the utmost care as he lifted your hand and planted pecks to your palm, sowing his affection into each crease.
While he was distracted, you inched closer and coaxed his attention, leaning in. Your nose whispered past his and you captured his waiting lips. His hands moved fast to draw you nearer with each movement of the kiss.
“I was wondering if you would go on a date with me,” he said as you parted, sounding more nervous than you’d ever heard him.
You toyed with a fallen curl by his temple. “That depends,” you teased.
“On what?” he questioned.
“Buy me a caf and we’ll see.”
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