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felassan · 11 days ago

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Jason Schreier for Bloomberg reports: 'Inside the ‘Dragon Age’ Debacle That Gutted EA’s BioWare Studio'

The latest game in BioWare’s fantasy role-playing series went through ten years of development turmoil. The failure of Dragon Age: The Veilguard, released in October, led EA to gut BioWare

[note: article is below cut after these tweets]

Jason Schreier: "NEW: What went wrong with Dragon Age: The Veilguard? Why was the writing so tonally inconsistent? Why did it feel so shallow? Why were there so few choices? Really, after ten years of turbulence, it was a miracle that anything came out at all. This is the story [link]:" [source]

Jason Schreier: "The fatal flaw for Dragon Age: The Veilguard wasn't just that it pivoted from single-player to multiplayer and back again. It was that after the second pivot, the team was forced to keep going rather than hit the reset button and take the time to create a new plan." [source]

Jason Schreier re: this old tweet from Casey Hudson: "Fun fact: when I first reported at Kotaku in 2018 that Dragon Age 4 was rebooted to become a live-service game, BioWare studio head Casey Hudson wrote this on Twitter. But it was not entirely truthful. In reality, the game was being designed around cooperative multiplayer, replayable missions, etc" [source] Casey Hudson's old tweet from 2018: "Reading lots of feedback regarding Dragon Age, and I think you'll be relieved to see what the team is working on. Story & character focused. Too early to talk details, but when we talk about "live" it just means designing a game for continued storytelling after the main story."

Rest of post/article under cut due to length.

(bold in the text below is mine for emphasis)

"In early November, on the eve of the crucial holiday shopping season, staffers at the video-game studio BioWare were feeling optimistic. After an excruciating development cycle, they had finally released their latest game, Dragon Age: The Veilguard, and the early reception was largely positive. The role-playing game was topping sales charts on Steam, and solid, if not spectacular, reviews were rolling in. But in the weeks that followed, the early buzz cooled as players delved deeper into the fantasy world, and some BioWare employees grew anxious. For months, everyone at the subsidiary of the video-game publisher Electronic Arts Inc. had been under intense pressure. The studio’s previous two games, Mass Effect: Andromeda and Anthem, had flopped, and there were rumors that if Dragon Age underperformed, BioWare might become another of EA’s many casualties. Not long after Christmas, the bad news surfaced. EA announced in January that the new Dragon Age had only reached 1.5 million players, missing the company’s expectations by 50%. The holiday performance of another recently released title, EA Sports FC 2025, was also subpar, compounding the problem."

"As a result of the struggling titles, EA Chief Executive Officer Andrew Wilson explained, the company would be significantly lowering its sales forecast for the fiscal year ahead. EA’s share price promptly plunged 18%. “Dragon Age had a high-quality launch and was well-reviewed by critics and those who played,” Wilson later said on an earnings call. “However, it did not resonate with a broad enough audience in this highly competitive market.” Days after the sales revision, EA laid off a chunk of BioWare’s staff at the studio’s headquarters in Edmonton, Canada, and permanently transferred many of the remaining workers to other divisions. For the storied, 30-year-old game maker, it was a stunning fall that left many fans wondering how things had gone so haywire — and what might come next for the stricken studio. According to interviews with nearly two dozen people who worked on Dragon Age: The Veilguard, there were several reasons behind its failure, including marketing misfires, poor word of mouth and a 10-year gap since the previous title. Above all, sources point to the rebooting of the product from a single-player game to a multiplayer one — and then back again — a switcheroo that muddled development and inflated the title’s budget, they say, ultimately setting the stage for EA’s potentially unrealistic sales expectations. A spokesperson for EA declined to comment."

"The union between BioWare and EA started off with lofty aspirations. In 2007, EA executives announced they were acquiring BioWare and another gaming studio in a deal worth $860 million. The goal was to diversify their slate of games, which was heavy in sports titles, like Madden NFL, and light in the kind of adventure and role-playing games that BioWare was known for. Initially, it looked like a smart move thanks to a string of big hits. In 2014, BioWare released Dragon Age: Inquisition, the third installment in a popular action series dropping players in a semi-open world full of magic, elves and fire-spewing dragons. The fantasy title went on to win the much-coveted Game of the Year Award and sell 12 million copies, according to its executive producer Mark Darrah — a major validation of EA’s diversification strategy. Before long, Darrah and Mike Laidlaw, the creative director, began kicking around ideas for the next Dragon Age installment — code name: Joplin — aiming for a game that would be smaller in scope. But before much could get done, BioWare shifted the studio’s focus to more pressing titles coming down the pike. In 2017, BioWare released Mass Effect: Andromeda, the fourth installment in a big-budget action series set in space. Unlike its critically successful predecessors, the game received mediocre reviews and was widely mocked by fans. A few months after the disappointing release, the head of BioWare stepped down and was soon replaced by Microsoft Inc.’s Casey Hudson, an alumni of BioWare’s early, formative years."

"Like much of the industry, EA executives were growing increasingly enamored of so-called live-service games, such as Destiny and Overwatch, in which players continue to engage with and spend money on a title for months or even years after its initial release. With EA aiming to make a splash in the fast-growing category, BioWare poured resources into Anthem, a live-service shooter game that checked all the right boxes. One day in October 2017, Laidlaw summoned his colleagues into a conference room and pulled out a few pricey bottles of whisky. The next Dragon Age sequel, he told the room, would also be pivoting to an online, live-service game — a decision from above that he disagreed with. He was resigning from the studio. The assembled staff stayed late through the night, drinking and reminiscing about the franchise they loved. “I wish that pivot had never occurred,” Darrah would later recount on YouTube. “EA said, ‘Make this a live service.’ We said, ‘We don’t know how to do that. We should basically start the project over.’” Former art director Matt Goldman replaced Laidlaw as creative director, and with a tiny team began pushing ahead on a new multiplayer version of Dragon Age — code name: Morrison — while everyone else helped to finish Anthem, which was struggling to coalesce. Goldman pushed for a “pulpy,” more lighthearted tone than previous entries, which suited an online game but was a drastic departure from the dark, dynamic stories that fans loved in the fantasy series."

"In February 2019, BioWare released Anthem. Reviews were scathing, calling the game tedious and convoluted. Fans were similarly displeased. On social media, players demanded to know why a studio renowned for beloved stories and characters had made an online shooter with a scattershot narrative. In the wake of BioWare’s second consecutive flop, the multiplayer version of Dragon Age continued to take shape. While the previous games in the franchise had featured tactical combat, this one would be all action. Instead of quests that players would only experience once, it would be full of missions that could be replayed repeatedly with friends and strangers. Important characters couldn’t die because they had to persist for multiple players across never-ending gameplay. As the game evolved over the next two years, the failure of Anthem hovered over the studio. Were they making the same mistakes? Some BioWare employees scoffed that they were simply building “Anthem with dragons.” Throughout 2020, the pandemic disrupted the game’s already fraught development. In December, Hudson, the head of the studio, and Darrah, the head of the franchise, resigned. Shortly thereafter, Gary McKay, BioWare’s new studio head, revealed yet another shift in strategy. Moving forward, the next Dragon Age would no longer be multiplayer."

"“We were thinking, ‘Does this make sense, does this play into our strengths, or is this going to be another challenge we have to face?’” McKay later told Bloomberg News. “No, we need to get back to what we’re really great at.” In theory, the reversion back to Dragon Age’s tried-and-true, single-player format should have been welcome news inside BioWare. But there was a catch. Typically, this kind of pivot would be coupled with a reset and a period of pre-production allowing the designers to formulate a new vision for the game. Instead, the team was asked to change the game’s fundamental structure and recast the entire story on the fly, according to people familiar with the new marching orders. They were given a year and a half to finish and told to aim for as wide a market as possible. This strict deadline became a recurring problem. The development team would make decisions believing that they had less than a year to release the game, which severely limited the stories they could tell and the world they could build. Then the title would inevitably be delayed a few months, at which point they’d be stuck with those old decisions with no chance to stop and reevaluate what was working. At the end of 2022, amid continually dizzying leadership changes, the studio started distributing an “alpha” build of Dragon Age to get feedback internally and from outside playtesters. According to people familiar with the process, the reactions were concerning. The game’s biggest problem, early players agreed, was a lack of satisfying choices and consequences. Previous BioWare titles had presented players with gut-wrenching decisions. Which allies to save? Which factions to spare? Which enemies to slay? Such dilemmas made fans feel like they were shaping the narrative — historically, a big draw for many BioWare games."

"But Dragon Age’s multiplayer roots limited such choices, according to people familiar with the development. BioWare delayed the game’s release again while the team shoehorned in a few major decisions, such as which of two cities to save from a dragon attack. But because most of the parameters were already well established, the designers struggled to pair the newly retrofitted choices for players with meaningful consequences downstream. In 2023, to help finish Dragon Age, BioWare brought in a second, internal team, which was working on the next Mass Effect game. For decades there’d been tension between the two well-established camps, known for their starkly divergent ways of doing things. BioWare developers like to joke that the Dragon Age crew was like a pirate ship, meandering and sometimes traveling off course but eventually reaching the port. In contrast, the Mass Effect group was called the USS Enterprise, after the Star Trek ship, because commands were issued straight down from the top and executed zealously. As the Mass Effect directors took control, they scoffed that the Dragon Age squad had been doing a shoddy job and began excluding their leaders from pivotal meetings, according to people familiar with the internal friction. Over time, the Mass Effect team went on to overhaul parts of the game and design a number of additional scenes, including a rich, emotional finale that players loved. But even changes that appeared to improve the game stoked the simmering rancor inside BioWare, infuriating Dragon Age leaders who had been told they didn’t have the budget for such big, ambitious swings."

"“It always seemed that, when the Mass Effect team made its demands in meetings with EA regarding the resources it needed, it got its way,” said David Gaider, a former lead writer on the Dragon Age franchise who left before development of the new game started. “But Dragon Age always had to fight against headwinds.” Early testers and Mass Effect leads complained about the game’s snarky tone — a style of video-game storytelling, once ascendant, that was quickly falling out of fashion in pop culture but had been part of Goldman’s vision for the multiplayer game. Worried that Dragon Age could face the same outcome as Forspoken — a recent title that had been hammered over its impertinent banter — BioWare leaders ordered a belated rewrite of the game’s dialogue to make it sound more serious. (In the end, the resulting tonal inconsistencies would only add to the game’s poor reception with fans.) A mass layoff at BioWare and a mandate to work overtime depleted morale while a voice actors strike limited the writers’ ability to revise the dialogue and create new scenes. An initial trailer made the next Dragon Age seem more like Fortnite than a dark fantasy role-playing game, triggering concerns that EA didn’t know how to market the game. When Dragon Age: The Veilguard finally premiered on Halloween 2024 after many internal delays, some staff members thought there was a lot to like, including the game’s new combat system. But players were less impressed, and sales sputtered."

"“The reactions of the fan base are mixed, to put it gently,” said Caitie, a popular Dragon Age YouTuber. “Some, like myself, adore it for various reasons. Others feel utterly betrayed by certain design choices.” Following the layoffs and staff reassignments at BioWare earlier in the year, a small team of a few dozen employees is now working on the next Mass Effect. After three high-profile failures in a row, questions linger about EA’s commitment to the studio. In May, the company relabeled its Edmonton headquarters from a BioWare office to a hub for all EA staff in the area. Historically, BioWare has never been the most important studio at EA, which generates more than $7 billion in annual revenue largely from its sports games and shooters. Depending on the timing of its launches, BioWare typically accounts for just 5% of EA’s annual bookings, according to estimates by Colin Sebastian, an analyst with Robert W. Baird & Co. Even so, there may be strategic reasons for EA to keep supporting BioWare. Single-player role-playing games are expensive to make but can lead to huge windfalls when successful, as demonstrated by recent hits like Cyberpunk 2077, Elden Ring and Baldur’s Gate 3. In order to grow, EA needs more than just sports franchises, said TD Cowen analyst Doug Creutz. Trying to fix its fantasy-focused studio may be easier than starting something new. “That said, if they shuttered the doors tomorrow I wouldn’t be totally surprised,” Creutz added. “It has been over a decade since they produced a hit.”"

Article by Jason Schreier. [source]

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bamsara · 11 months ago

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I think that one thing people fail to understand is that unsolicited literary criticism coming from an online stranger who is reading with no knowledge of what the authors intended goal is, is not going to be received the same as say: the authors beta reader or friends who know what the authors intended goal and has the sufficient knowledge and input to help the author reach that desired outcome.

"But I'm only trying to be helpful" How do I know you have the knowledge and literary skill for you to be able to actaully do that when we don't know each other and you are essentially a stranger to me? Are you applying this criticism based out of personal biased experience and desire to see the story or characterization be driven in another direction or tweaked, or do you know the author's intentions for the character? If the story is incomplete, are you basing your criticism of a character on the incomplete narration with only partial information available of them or are you building up a report until the story's completion? Did the author provide you with the information needed to make a fully informed criticism?

Have you discussed with the author what their plans are or are you assuming them based off the narration, especially if the narration is proven or implied to be unreliable or missing key points of the plot? Are you unbiased enough to help them reach their desired outcome for the characters and story regardless of your personal feelings towards the characters/antagonists and setting? Can you handle being told your specific input isn't wanted because you're a reader and/or have no written anything relating to their genre or topic? Do you understand and respect that the author's personal experiences might influence their writing and make it different than how you would have done it personally? Do you understand if an author only wants input from a specific demographic relating to their story?

If it's for fanfiction or other hobby media, are you holding a free hobby to a professional standard? Are you trying to give criticism because you feel like the author has produced 'subpar job performance' of their fic? Are you viewing their work as a personal intimate outlet or something that must conform with mass media? Are you applying rules and guidelines when the fic is shared for simple sharing sake? Is your criticism worded appropriately and focused on the parts where the author has requested input on rather than a general dismissal and or disapproval?

Have you put yourself in a place where you assumed you have the input needed for the story to evolve better, or have you asked what the author needs and what they're having trouble with? Can you handle having your criticism rejected if the author decides their story doesn't need the change and not take it as a personal offense against your character? Are you crossing that boundary because you think you are doing the author a favor? Are you trying to be helpful, or do you just want to be?

I think sometimes when people hear authors go 'please don't give me unsolicited writing advice or criticism' they automatically chalk it up to 'this author doesn't want ANY constructive feedback on their stuff at all' and not "i already have trusted individuals who will help me with my writing goals and- hey i don't know you like that, please stop acting so overly familiar with me'

#small rant brought to you by: listened to my younger sibling's friend be very upset today because an original story she wrote gets bashed #the story itself is fine maybe a little fast paced but overall she was happy with it's progress #and there is this one dude who keeps trying to tell her that her story needs to go another direction to 'make sense' and it changes the end #after she's repeatedly explained she's happy with the outcome and does not want to expand on that plot point any further #dude says she's 'unreceptive to criticism' no dude you're just being a dick #constructive criticism helps the AUTHOR reach THEIR intended goal #not steer the story in the direction a reader wants to see it go #sara shush #pls don't reblog with any 'but i take unsolicited criticism all the time' this isnt about you. your boundary is not other people's boundary

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pucksandpower · 7 months ago

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Critics and Lovers

Max Verstappen x journalist!Reader

Summary: how would the paddock react if they knew that the woman writing scathing critiques about the reigning world champion weekend after weekend was the same woman who whispers sweet nothings in his ear at night?

“Did you really go to school for half a decade to get your journalism degree just to ask if I think I’ll win?”

Max’s voice cuts through the bustle of the press room, drawing the attention of a few journalists milling around with their notebooks and recorders. He leans back in his chair, arms folded across his chest, his smirk more amused than annoyed. His blue eyes — always so intense under the brim of his cap — lock onto yours, daring you to respond.

You raise an eyebrow, fighting the urge to roll your eyes at him. “I’m asking the questions the people want answers to, Max. It’s my job, remember?”

“Your job is to provoke me, apparently,” he counters, leaning forward slightly, his smirk widening. “But you know, you could at least pretend to be creative. Ask something that might surprise me for once.”

“I wasn’t aware you had the capacity to be surprised,” you quip, your pen hovering over your notepad as if ready to jot down his response.

Max lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Touché. But if you’re expecting me to give you a soundbite for your next article, you’ll have to do better than that.”

The exchange draws a few chuckles from the nearby journalists, but they quickly refocus on their own tasks, used to the banter between the two of you. After all, it’s no secret that you’re Max Verstappen’s biggest critic.

Week after week, your articles dissect his performances with surgical precision, never shying away from pointing out his flaws, his temper, his moments of questionable judgment. To everyone else, you’re just doing your job, holding one of the sport’s biggest stars accountable. But to Max — well, he seems to take it in stride, brushing off your critiques with the same ease he shows on track.

What no one else knows, though, is that this verbal sparring is just another part of the complicated dance you and Max have been perfecting for years. A dance that begins in front of cameras and microphones, and ends in private, where the lines between your professional rivalry and personal relationship blur into something neither of you can fully define.

“Okay, fine,” you say, pretending to think hard about your next question. “How about this: what’s your plan for today? Any new strategies to surprise us with?”

Max raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “That’s almost worse than your first question. Did you really think that would get me talking?”

You sigh, exasperated. “Maybe if you gave me a straight answer for once, I wouldn’t have to keep asking.”

He leans in closer, lowering his voice just enough so only you can hear. “Maybe if you asked me something off the record, I’d actually consider it.”

“Off the record doesn’t sell papers, Max,” you reply, your tone equally low but tinged with something more affectionate, something that would be impossible to miss for anyone paying close attention.

Max’s smirk softens into something more sincere, his eyes flickering with the warmth that you’ve come to associate with the quiet moments you share away from the track, away from the scrutiny of the world.

It’s a look that says he knows you’re playing a role, just like he is. That despite the biting comments and the professional jabs, there’s a mutual understanding between you. A connection that runs deeper than anything either of you would ever admit in public.

But here, in this crowded room filled with reporters who’d kill for the kind of scoop only you could provide, that connection has to stay hidden. Because if anyone ever found out the truth — if they knew that you, the woman who writes those scathing critiques of Max Verstappen, were the same woman who shares his bed at night — it would be the end of both your careers.

And so, the game continues, with both of you playing your parts to perfection.

“Next time, try asking me something interesting,” Max says, his voice returning to its usual volume as he straightens in his chair, signaling the end of your private moment. “Otherwise, I’ll start thinking you’re getting lazy.”

You give him a look that’s meant to be stern but can’t quite hide the smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “Lazy? I think you’re confusing me with your performance last weekend.”

The jab earns you a mock glare from Max, but he doesn’t take the bait, instead giving a noncommittal shrug. “We’ll see who’s lazy when I’m on top of the podium later.”

“Confident as ever, I see,” you remark, jotting down a few notes that you know you’ll never actually use.

“Just stating facts,” he says, and for a moment, you can’t help but admire the way he carries himself, the ease with which he navigates this world of high stakes and even higher expectations. It’s one of the things that drew you to him in the first place, back when neither of you had any idea where this relationship was heading.

“Well, good luck out there,” you say, finally stepping back to let the next reporter have their turn. But as you move away, you catch the briefest flash of something in his eyes — something that tells you he’s not just thinking about the race ahead, but about the conversation you’ll have later, away from prying eyes.

As you find a spot at the back of the room, your phone buzzes in your pocket. A quick glance tells you it’s a message from Max, sent under the guise of a work-related email, as usual.

You know I’m going to make you pay for that lazy comment later, right?

You bite back a smile, typing out a quick response.

Promises, promises.

The rest of the press conference goes by in a blur of questions and answers, none of which capture your attention the way Max does. You’re barely listening when the moderator finally wraps things up, and the drivers start to file out.

But before Max can make his exit, he pauses just long enough to catch your eye, giving you a look that’s all too familiar. It’s the same look he gave you the first time you met, back when he was just another driver on the grid and you were the new journalist determined to make a name for yourself. A look that says he’s already planning what he’s going to say to you later, when the cameras are off and the real conversations can begin.

You follow the crowd out of the room, blending in with the other journalists as you make your way toward the paddock. But your thoughts are already drifting to the end of the day, to the moment when you’ll finally be alone with Max, free to drop the pretense and just be yourselves.

Because despite the roles you play in public — the critical journalist and the cocky driver — in private, you’re something else entirely. Something that neither of you can fully explain, but neither of you wants to give up.

“Heading back to the media center?” One of your colleagues asks as you step outside, the midday sun beating down on the paddock.

“Yeah, I’ve got a deadline to meet,” you reply, forcing your mind back to the task at hand. But even as you say it, you know that your thoughts will be elsewhere for the rest of the day. On Max, and the secret you both share. A secret that, for now, is safe.

But how long can it stay that way?

The question lingers in your mind as you head back to your desk, the usual chatter of the paddock fading into the background. You’ve always known that this arrangement couldn’t last forever, that eventually, something would give.

The world of Formula 1 is too small, too tightly knit, for secrets like this to stay buried forever. And when the truth finally comes out — because it’s not a matter of if, but when — you know that everything will change.

But for now, you push those thoughts aside, focusing on the article you need to write. It’s what you’re good at, after all — crafting narratives, shaping stories. And today, the story is about Max, the driver who never fails to surprise you, both on and off the track.

The press room is quieter now, most of the other journalists having moved on to other tasks. You sit down at your laptop, the screen reflecting your determined expression. The cursor blinks at you, waiting. And as you begin to type, the words flow easily, the story taking shape with each keystroke.

It’s a story the world has seen before — another race, another analysis of Max Verstappen’s performance. But underneath it all, there’s a subtext that only you can see, a hidden layer that tells the real story. The one that will never make it to print.

The one that belongs to just you and Max.

Hours pass in a blur, your fingers flying over the keyboard as you lose yourself in the work. It’s almost too easy to write about Max, to analyze his every move, his every decision. You know him better than anyone, after all — better than any other journalist in this room, better than most of the people in his life. It’s a knowledge that comes with a price, though, a price you’re all too aware of.

But as the final paragraph falls into place, you sit back, satisfied. The article is done, the narrative complete. And with it, the day’s work is finally over. You stretch, glancing around the empty press room, and for a moment, you allow yourself to relax. To let go of the role you’ve been playing all day, and just be yourself.

Your phone buzzes again, pulling you back to reality. Another message from Max.

Meet me in the usual place?

You don’t hesitate before typing out a reply.

On my way.

The media center is almost deserted as you make your way out, the soft hum of electronics the only sound filling the room. You slip your laptop into your bag and sling it over your shoulder, feeling the weight of the day lift slightly as you step into the paddock. The evening air is cooler now, a welcome relief after the day’s heat, and the sky is streaked with shades of orange and pink as the sun dips below the horizon.

You walk with purpose, navigating the familiar maze of trailers and motorhomes, heading toward the secluded spot where you and Max often meet. It’s tucked away from the main pathways, a place where no one would think to look for you, and that’s exactly why it works. You reach the spot and pause, taking a deep breath before stepping around the corner.

Max is already there, leaning against the side of a trailer, his cap pulled low over his eyes, hands shoved in his pockets. He looks up as you approach, a slow smile spreading across his face.

“Took you long enough,” he says, his tone teasing.

“Had to finish that article you’re so eager to read,” you reply, stopping a few feet away from him, just outside the reach of his hands.

“Oh, I’m sure it’s a glowing review of my abilities,” he says, pushing off the trailer and closing the distance between you in two strides. He reaches for your hand, pulling you closer, and you don’t resist. Here, in this quiet corner of the paddock, the walls come down, and the roles you play for the cameras melt away.

“Glowing might be a stretch,” you say, allowing yourself a small smile as his hand lingers on your waist. “But it’s fair.”

“Fair is good,” he murmurs, leaning in so his forehead rests against yours. “But if I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re going easy on me.”

“Maybe I am,” you admit, your voice softening. “Or maybe I just think you deserve a break every now and then.”

“From the criticism? Or from you?” He asks, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

“Both,” you say, giving him a playful shove, but he doesn’t budge, his grip on you firm yet gentle.

“You know I’d never take a break from you,” he says, his voice low, serious now. His thumb strokes your side, sending a shiver up your spine.

You close your eyes for a moment, letting the sensation wash over you. It’s these moments you treasure the most, the ones where it’s just the two of you, no expectations, no pressure. Just Max and you, stripped down to the simplest version of yourselves.

“I know,” you whisper, opening your eyes to meet his gaze. “I’d never let you.”

His smile turns tender, and he cups your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin in a way that makes your heart skip a beat. “Good,” he says simply, before closing the small gap between you and pressing his lips to yours.

The kiss is soft, unhurried, a stark contrast to the fast-paced world you both live in. It’s a reminder of what you have, what you’ve built together despite the odds. And as you kiss him back, you feel a warmth spread through you, one that has nothing to do with the lingering heat of the day.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead resting against yours again, he lets out a small sigh, as if he’s been holding his breath all day and can finally relax. “I hate this,” he admits quietly.

“Hate what?” You ask, your fingers playing with the edge of his shirt, needing the physical connection to anchor you.

“Hiding,” he says, the word heavy with the weight of months, years of secrecy. “I hate that we have to keep doing this, sneaking around like we’re doing something wrong.”

You feel a pang in your chest, because you hate it too. Hate the way you have to pretend to be something you’re not in front of everyone else. Hate the way you have to watch your words, your actions, every time you’re in the same room as him. But more than that, you hate the idea of what would happen if the truth came out. The scrutiny, the backlash, the way it would change everything.

“I know,” you say softly, your fingers stilling on his shirt. “But it’s the only way right now. We both knew that going into this.”

“I know we did,” he replies, his voice tinged with frustration. “But it doesn’t make it any easier.”

“No,” you agree, resting your head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. “It doesn’t.”

He wraps his arms around you, holding you close, and for a while, neither of you says anything. The silence is comforting, a shared understanding that words can’t always convey. It’s moments like these that make the rest of it bearable — the stolen kisses, the secret glances, the knowledge that, no matter what happens, you’ll always have each other.

Eventually, Max pulls back just enough to look at you, his expression softer now, the frustration replaced with something gentler, more resigned. “I just wish it could be different,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Me too,” you admit, your heart aching with the truth of it. “But we’ll get through this, Max. We always do.”

He nods, though you can see the doubt lingering in his eyes. “Yeah, we will,” he says, as if trying to convince himself as much as you. “And when we do, we’ll figure it out. Together.”

“Together,” you echo, holding onto the word like a lifeline.

He leans in to kiss you again, and this time, it’s slower, more deliberate, as if he’s trying to memorize every detail, every sensation. And you let him, because you’re doing the same, savoring the feel of him, the taste of him, the way his hand cradles the back of your head like you’re something precious.

When you finally break apart, both of you are breathless, and the world feels a little less heavy, a little less overwhelming. Max rests his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, his breath warm against your skin.

“I love you,” he says, the words so simple, yet so profound in the way they ground you, remind you of what’s important.

“I love you too,” you reply, your voice steady, certain.

He smiles then, that slow, genuine smile that’s just for you, the one that makes your heart skip a beat every time. And in that moment, everything else fades away — the doubts, the fears, the uncertainty of what the future holds. Because right now, in this quiet corner of the paddock, it’s just the two of you, and that’s enough.

For now, it’s enough.

“Come on,” Max says after a moment, his hand finding yours and giving it a gentle squeeze. “Let’s get out of here before someone comes looking for us.”

You nod, and together, you slip out of the shadows, making your way back through the maze of trailers and motorhomes, hand in hand. The paddock is quieter now, most of the crew having called it a day, and the sky is a deep, dusky blue as night settles in.

As you walk, you can’t help but glance at Max, the way his profile is lit by the dim lights of the paddock, the way his grip on your hand never wavers. It’s moments like these that make it all worth it — the sacrifices, the secrecy, the constant balancing act between your public and private lives.

Because at the end of the day, it’s not the criticism or the articles or even the races that matter. It’s this — being with him, knowing that no matter what, you’ll always have each other.

And as you slip out of the paddock together, unnoticed by anyone, you hold onto that thought, letting it carry you through the darkness, through the uncertainty of what tomorrow might bring.

Because for now, it’s enough.

And that’s all you need.

***

The Hidden Truth: Why I Kept My Marriage a Secret

By: Y/N Y/L/N

For as long as I’ve been a journalist, I’ve prided myself on one thing: honesty. I’ve built a career on asking the tough questions, on digging for the truth even when it’s uncomfortable, and on holding the powerful accountable. That’s why, as I sit down to write this, I find myself in an unfamiliar position — one where I’m the subject of my own scrutiny.

Over the past few years, I’ve become known as Max Verstappen’s biggest critic. I’ve questioned his decisions on track, his attitude off it, and his approach to the sport we both love. I’ve written article after article dissecting his every move, never once pulling my punches. And, in doing so, I’ve created a persona that many have come to recognize — a journalist who isn’t afraid to speak her mind, no matter who she’s writing about.

But there’s something I’ve kept hidden. Something I’ve chosen not to share, not because I’m ashamed of it, but because it’s deeply personal. And now, it’s time to tell the truth.

Max Verstappen is my husband.

Yes, you read that correctly. The man I’ve spent years publicly scrutinizing is the same man I wake up next to every morning, the same man who knows me better than anyone else in this world. We’ve been married for two years, together for even longer, and our relationship is something I hold incredibly dear.

I can already hear the questions — how could I, a journalist dedicated to transparency, keep such a monumental secret? How could I write so critically about the man I love, knowing the impact my words would have? The answers are complex, but I’ll do my best to explain.

When Max and I first started dating, it was easy to keep our relationship private. We were just two people trying to navigate the chaotic world of Formula 1, and neither of us wanted the added pressure of public scrutiny. But as our relationship grew more serious, we both knew that revealing it would come with consequences — not just for us, but for our careers, our reputations, and our personal lives.

So we made a choice. We decided that our relationship was something we wanted to protect, something we wanted to keep just for ourselves. And yes, that meant keeping it a secret from the public, from our colleagues, even from some of our closest friends.

But the secrecy wasn’t about hiding. It was about creating a space where we could be ourselves, away from the cameras, the interviews, the constant analysis of every move we made. It was about having something that was ours and ours alone, in a world where so much is shared, dissected, and often distorted.

Now, as for the criticism — many of you will likely wonder how I could write so harshly about the man I love. The truth is, when I put on my journalist hat, I’m not Max Verstappen’s wife. I’m not Y/N, the woman who loves him. I’m Y/N Y/L/N, the journalist who has a job to do. And that job is to report on the sport objectively, to ask the tough questions, and to hold everyone — including my husband — accountable.

Max knew this from the beginning, and he respected it. In fact, he encouraged it. He didn’t want me to go easy on him just because of our relationship. He wanted me to be true to myself and to my profession, even if that meant writing things that were difficult for both of us. And yes, there were times when it was hard — when I wrote something that hurt him, when we had to have difficult conversations about where to draw the line between my role as a journalist and my role as his partner.

But through it all, we’ve managed to keep our relationship strong, because we both understand that what happens on the track, what’s written in the press, isn’t the full story. The full story is what happens behind closed doors, away from the public eye, in the quiet moments we share when it’s just the two of us.

And now, the secret’s out. I know this revelation will come as a shock to many, and I’m prepared for the questions, the speculation, and yes, the criticism that will inevitably follow. But I want to make one thing clear — I’m not sorry.

I’m not sorry for keeping our relationship private. I’m not sorry for protecting something that means the world to me. And I’m not sorry for continuing to do my job with integrity, even when it meant writing things that were difficult for both of us.

This is our truth. It’s messy, it’s complicated, but it’s ours. And now, it’s out there for the world to see. I’m not asking for understanding or approval, because I know this will be a difficult pill for some to swallow. But I am asking for respect — for my choices, for our relationship, and for the fact that, at the end of the day, we’re just two people who fell in love in a world that’s anything but ordinary.

Max and I are still the same people we were before you knew about us. He’s still the incredible driver you’ve come to admire, and I’m still the journalist who will continue to ask the tough questions, no matter who’s on the other side of them.

The only difference now is that you know the full story.

And I’m okay with that.

***

The Other Side: Why We Chose to Keep Our Love Private

By: Max Verstappen

I’ve never been one to shy away from a challenge, whether on the track or off. Racing is in my blood — it’s what I’ve known and loved my entire life. But writing? That’s a whole different race, one where I’m definitely out of my comfort zone. So, when Y/N suggested I write this article, I wasn’t sure if it was such a great idea. But she convinced me — like she always does — so here I am, trying to find the words to explain what’s been one of the most significant parts of my life, one that I’ve kept hidden from the world until now.

As you’ve probably read by now, Y/N Y/L/N, the journalist who has been my harshest critic, is also my wife. Let that sink in for a moment — I know it took me a while to get used to the idea too. Not the fact that she’s my wife, but that the world now knows something we’ve kept private for so long.

When Y/N and I started dating, we had no idea where it would lead. We were just two people who happened to find something special in each other, despite the chaos of our worlds. But as our relationship deepened, so did the challenges. How do you navigate a relationship when one of you is in the spotlight 24/7, and the other’s job is to shine that light as brightly as possible, even when it’s uncomfortable?

We quickly realized that what we had was too important to let the world dictate how we lived it. So, we made a choice — a choice to keep our relationship private, not because we were ashamed, but because we wanted something for ourselves, something that wasn’t up for public debate or scrutiny.

People will ask why we did it, why we went to such lengths to keep it a secret, and the answer is simple: because we had to. Being a Formula 1 driver means living your life under a microscope. Every move you make, every word you say, is analyzed, criticized, and often misunderstood. It’s a pressure cooker, and adding a public relationship into that mix was something we weren’t willing to do.

It wasn’t an easy decision. There were times when I wanted to scream from the rooftops about how much I love this woman, how much she means to me, and how proud I am of her. But I knew that doing so would open us up to a level of scrutiny neither of us wanted or needed. And so, we kept it quiet, we kept it private, and we built something strong and real away from the cameras.

That’s not to say it was without its challenges. Y/N’s articles about me — some of which were less than flattering — were hard to swallow at times. But I respected her too much to ask her to change the way she does her job. She’s a journalist, and a damn good one at that. She has a responsibility to her readers, to the sport, and to herself to be honest, even if that honesty stings.

Did it hurt when she wrote something critical about me? Of course, it did. But I also understood that what she wrote came from a place of integrity, not malice. It was her job to ask the tough questions, to hold me accountable, and to do so without bias. And I loved her even more for it.

You might wonder how we managed to keep our relationship strong despite the secrecy and the criticism. The truth is, we did it by being honest with each other in ways we couldn’t be with anyone else. We talked — about everything. About the articles, about the pressures we were both under, about our fears and our hopes for the future. We made sure that, no matter what happened on the track or in the press, we were solid in our relationship. And we were.

But now that the secret’s out, I know things will change. People will have opinions, and they’ll want to know every detail of how we made this work. They’ll want to dissect our relationship just like they dissect my races. And that’s fine — we knew this day would come eventually.

What I want people to understand, though, is that our decision to keep our relationship private wasn’t about deception. It was about protection. We wanted to protect what we had, to give ourselves the space to grow as a couple without the pressures of the outside world bearing down on us.

I’ve always been a private person, and that’s not going to change just because the truth is out. But I’m also incredibly proud of what Y/N and I have built together. She’s my toughest critic, yes, but she’s also my biggest supporter, my partner, and the person I trust more than anyone else in this world.

So, why write this now? Because I want to set the record straight. I want people to understand that our relationship is real, that it’s built on love, respect, and a shared understanding of what it means to live in this crazy world of Formula 1. We didn’t hide it because we were ashamed — we hid it because we wanted to protect it, to keep it safe from the chaos that surrounds us every day.

And now that the secret’s out, I’m not afraid of what’s to come. I know there will be challenges, but I also know that we’ll face them together, just like we’ve faced everything else.

This is our story. It’s not perfect, and it’s far from simple, but it’s ours. And now, the world knows it too.

***

The sun hangs low over the paddock as you walk beside Max, your hand nestled comfortably in his. The usually bustling environment feels different today, like the air has thickened with anticipation. You can feel the eyes on you — hundreds of them, some curious, some incredulous, all hungry for the next piece of the puzzle that is you and Max Verstappen.

You’ve written about this very paddock more times than you can count. You’ve captured its energy, its chaos, its unpredictability. But today, for the first time, you’re the story.

Max squeezes your hand, a silent reassurance, and you glance up at him. He’s calm, or at least he appears to be. You know him well enough to see the subtle signs of tension — the set of his jaw, the way his eyes scan the crowd with a little more intensity than usual. He’s ready for whatever comes next. So are you, or at least that’s what you tell yourself.

“Ready?” He asks, his voice low, meant only for you.

“As I’ll ever be,” you reply, managing a small smile.

The first few steps into the paddock are deceptively quiet, almost serene. But then, as if someone has flipped a switch, the cameras flash, the microphones extend, and the questions start flying at you from every direction.

“Max! Is it true you’ve been married for two years?”

“Y/N, why did you keep it a secret?”

“How does this change your dynamic on the grid?”

“Will you be writing about Max differently now?”

You and Max exchange a glance, a wordless conversation in the middle of the media frenzy. His hand tightens around yours, a steady anchor in the chaos. You can feel the eyes of your colleagues, the other journalists who are now looking at you not as one of them but as a subject. It’s a disorienting feeling, like the world has suddenly shifted and you’re standing in a place you no longer recognize.

Max leans in close, his lips brushing your ear as he whispers, “Welcome to my world.”

You can’t help the laugh that bubbles up, a sound that cuts through the tension like a knife. It’s absurd, this whole situation. You’ve spent years writing about him, criticizing him, analyzing his every move, and now you’re on the other side of that scrutiny.

You straighten your shoulders, drawing on every ounce of professionalism you have. This is what you signed up for. You’ve spent years dissecting the lives of others, and now it’s your turn to be under the microscope. It’s only fair.

But Max isn’t letting you go it alone. He steps forward, his presence commanding as he addresses the swarm of reporters. “We’ll take questions, but let’s keep it civil,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument.

The first question comes from a reporter you recognize, someone you’ve shared more than a few press rooms with. “Max, how does it feel to have your relationship with Y/N out in the open?”

Max glances at you, a small smile tugging at his lips. “It feels good. We’ve wanted to keep this part of our lives private, but now that it’s out, we’re ready to move forward.”

Another reporter jumps in, this one more aggressive. “Y/N, how do you expect to remain unbiased in your reporting now that everyone knows you’re married to Max?”

You take a deep breath, forcing yourself to stay calm. “I’ve always strived for objectivity in my work, and that won’t change. My relationship with Max is separate from my role as a journalist. I’ll continue to ask the tough questions, just as I always have.”

It’s a carefully crafted answer, one you rehearsed in your head a dozen times before stepping into the paddock. But you can see the skepticism in their eyes, the doubt that you can truly keep your professional and personal lives separate. It stings, but you knew it was coming.

Max’s voice cuts through the murmurs. “Y/N has always been one of the best in the business, and that’s not going to change just because we’re married. If anything, she’ll probably be even harder on me now.”

There’s a ripple of laughter, a brief moment of levity in the tension-filled space. But it’s short-lived. The questions keep coming, each one sharper than the last.

“Max, do you think your performance on the track will be affected now that your marriage is public?”

“Y/N, do you regret keeping this a secret for so long?”

“What about the other drivers? How do they feel about this?”

You’re starting to feel the weight of it all, the relentless pressure of the cameras, the voices, the questions that seem to dig deeper and deeper. But Max is by your side, unwavering, and that gives you strength.

“I don’t regret anything,” you say firmly, your voice cutting through the noise. “Max and I made the decision to keep our relationship private because it was what was best for us. We wanted to protect something that mattered to us, and I don’t think anyone can fault us for that.”

Max nods, his hand still wrapped around yours. “We knew this would come with challenges, but we’re ready to face them together.”

There’s a moment of silence, a pause as the reporters digest your words. But you know this isn’t the end of it. The scrutiny, the questions, they’re not going to stop anytime soon. You’ve become the story, and that’s something you’ll have to live with.

But as you stand there, side by side with Max, you realize that you’re okay with it. You’ve spent years writing about other people’s lives, their triumphs and failures, their relationships and rivalries. Now, it’s your turn to be in the spotlight, and you’re ready for it.

“Max, Y/N,” a voice calls out, one of the more seasoned journalists you’ve always respected. “What’s next for you two? How do you plan to navigate this new chapter?”

Max looks at you, his eyes softening. “We’re going to keep doing what we’ve always done. I’ll keep racing, Y/N will keep writing, and we’ll keep supporting each other every step of the way. This is just another challenge, and we’re more than ready to face it.”

You nod, feeling a surge of confidence. “We’re not going to let this change who we are or what we do. We’ve always been a team, and that’s not going to change now.”

There’s a finality to your words, a sense that you’ve said all there is to say. The reporters sense it too, the questions starting to taper off as they realize they’re not going to get anything more out of you today.

Max squeezes your hand one last time before turning to the crowd. “Thanks, everyone. We’ll see you in the media pen.”

With that, he starts to lead you away, but not before you catch the eyes of a few of your colleagues. There’s a mix of emotions there — some understanding, some curiosity, and yes, some judgment. But you don’t let it get to you. You’ve spent your career building a reputation, and one revelation isn’t going to tear that down.

As you walk away from the crowd, Max’s arm slips around your waist, pulling you close. “Not so bad, huh?” He murmurs.

You laugh softly, leaning into him. “Speak for yourself. I think I’ll stick to writing the articles, not being the subject of them.”

Max chuckles, his breath warm against your temple. “Now you know why I’m not a fan of the media. Present company excluded, of course.”

“Of course,” you echo, smiling up at him.

The paddock is still buzzing with energy, the usual pre-race preparations in full swing. But you and Max walk through it with a new sense of purpose, a newfound clarity. The secret is out, and while it comes with challenges, it also comes with freedom — a freedom to be yourselves, to love each other openly, without the burden of secrecy.

You know the road ahead won’t be easy. There will be more questions, more scrutiny, more judgment. But as long as you have Max by your side, you know you can handle whatever comes your way.

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fuiru · 10 months ago

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A 44 year old man goes to a K-Pop Concert

I promised you a report on the K-pop concert that I, a 44-year-old accountant, went to a couple of weeks ago with my wife and daughter in Toronto. So here it is.

The band we saw were Ateez. They're my daughter's favourite band and my wife's second favourite. I know most of my mutuals are similarly aged like me and may not be familiar with them so let me give you a brief primer on Ateez.

Imagine the most attractive eight men you can think of, just unfathomably beautiful specimens of aesthetic perfection, and make them sing songs that somehow combine the subjects of 'dancing like nobody is watching' with 'we live in a dystopian hellscape that we must all work together to overthrow'. Give them an ongoing music video story lore that literally nobody - not even the band themselves - understand, so that online discussion of their visual motifs looks more like the fevered rantings of a conspiracy theorist, complete with speculation about alternate realities and time being a Moebius strip. There is also a giant sand timer, for some reason.

That's Ateez. That's what you need to know.

Now, K-pop concerts are very different to the gigs I've been going to for the last 28 (!) years. There's no support act, for a start. Also the band perform for like, three hours, with breaks for costume changes and interpretive dance. Furthermore, hanging above everything is the constant looming threat of mandatory military service.

So this being my first such concert, I wasn't sure what to expect. What happened was difficult to explain, but I will try as I am already six paragraphs into this write-up and I'm too invested to stop now. Here goes:

In his Wicked + Divine comics series, Kieron Gillen places modern pop icons as deities, feeding upon and gaining strength from the worship of their fans at the altar of musical performance. I thought I understood that metaphor. I thought I understood it AS a metaphor. I was wrong, because that night Ateez WERE Gods with a capital G and we were their worshippers, a crowd emanating adoration (in the religious and non-religious senses), bestowing strength upon them and gaining their strength in return.

If that sounds weird, it probably is. But as pointed out above, I have lived over four decades and never yet experienced anything like the overwhelming passion of that crowd, the utter abandon with which they conveyed their love for the band.

"But Fuiru, what of the actual music?" you ask. Thinking back, there was a moment in one of their songs - I can't remember which - where I watched the stage, and the people around me, taking it in, and I thought, "Man, I just love Music". But that doesn't answer your question, sorry.

Ateez's music is bloody great. As a tiresome indie/rock/metal kid I'm resisting the urge to add the usual tiresome indie/rock/metal caveat of "...for pop music" because honestly that does it a disservice. They have some genuinely amazing songs. Halazia is an absolute fucking masterpiece that descends into furious hardcore breakbeat. Bouncy is a big, brash racket that somehow is also a perfect pop song. Utopia, Wonderland, and Guerrilla are similarly superb. The obligatory boy band slow number is represented by Dancing Like Butterfly Wings which will make you cry because you will forever associate it with your twelve year old daughter being pointed to and waved at by her favourite Ateez member (Seonghwa) because of her Seonghwa-branded lightstick.

That might just be me, though.

So in summary: being a 44 year old dad at his first K-pop concert rules and you should endeavour to partake in the experience if the opportunity arises.

Finally, for any Atiny reading this: my bias would be San or Seonghwa but my wife and daughter said they were taken so it’s Mingi. My concert outfit (designed and created by my offspring) reflects this.

#ateez #atiny #mingi #song mingi #k-pop #the oldest bloke at the dance #kieron gillen

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oscpstri · 2 days ago

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twin flames | piastri

piastri x fem motogp!reader, blurb

oscar piastri was a force to be reckoned with and whatever he was in formula 1, you were the same in motogp. you were always around each other, but you couldn't help it, the challenge was delicious.

INCLUDES: use of y/n, reader is an exact replica of osco maybe even a bit more badass bcs duh, inaccurate and fictional events

NOTE: ok i got this idea from the smooth criminal glee cast performance...... they're both so hot AND literally the best in both of their groups so like why not recreate that same tension in a very (VERY) serious sport. again, i only know the basics to motogp so pls do bare w me. also im not the proudest of this but i wanted to write

( masterlist | more OP81 )

You and Oscar Piastri were the same person in different fonts and different websites.

Oscar was well-known for being a rising superstar in Formula 1— winning Formula 3, Formula 2, and being the championship leader in the season so far.

You were the same— just in a different motorsport. You took home the gold in Moto3 and Moto2 and were high up in the clouds mid-season, absolutely dominating the field.

The both of you started at the very same time— careers paralleling each other in different universes. You two knew of each other, but never met until one fateful day when Quad Lock decided to create an F1 and MotoGP crossover with their global ambassadors.

You sat in your brand gear, cradling your helmet in your hands. Oscar stood with his arms crossed, Quad Lock hat on full display.

They had decided it would be a good idea to put the both of you in karts and pocket bikes for two separate videos. Obviously, Oscar crushed you in karting and you crushed him in bikes— everyone saw that coming.

The media thought that interaction would be the last they saw of you two in a while. Until the annual motorsports gala where the both of you tie for "Athlete of the Year".

They bring you both on stage— the perfect representation of differing categories in the sport. Oscar lets you talk first, signaling you to go ahead in front of the microphone. As you do so, you say something that triggers the tension that you and the F1 driver have had since you both saw each other from across the room.

"...And lastly, I want to thank Mr. Oscar Piastri who I share the stage with today for being a great second option." You lift the trophy up as the crowd breaks out into applause. You spot your fellow riders cheering you on and you spot the F1 drivers snickering in their seats like pre-pubescent boys.

Media outlets explode at your acceptance speech, reporters have a field day asking Oscar what his thoughts were on your words, and you merely enjoyed the entertainment of it all.

Two months later, the both of you find each other at a charity event. You get in the simulator and impress everyone with your lap times. Oscar gets on the bike and impresses everyone with his balance. And while a crowd of interested fans crowded you, you only paid attention to each other.

"And you doubted my two-wheel abilities?"

"Yeah, thought you'd find it hard to balance. What with that big head and all."

You two bicker the whole time. Focus still locked onto the simulators you both started, but attention onto the person beside you. The crowd started pulling their phones out, tweeting and posting clips of the moment. Your dynamic eventually went viral and the media dubbed you two as golden twins— the prince of Formula 1 who crossed paths with the princess of MotoGP.

This eventually leads you two to exchange numbers, not doing much with it except for the weekly banter. After a race, you would text Oscar and compliment him on it. Of course, mentioning the atrocious understeer that almost cost his race. After a race, Oscar would text you and compliment you on it. Of course, mentioning the cocky stab at gravity that almost makes you go flying into the stands.

You two eventually end up on a podcast together, trying to out-snark each other with each flying minute. This leaves the hosts confused as to what was happening and the fans just ate it up like they were starved. Were they flirting? Fighting? Or both?

Then this leads to a helmet swap a week after the podcast aired. Your teams called it marketing, you two called it stupid. Yet you still did it. And the only evidence that that interaction happened is a picture of the two you side-by-side, holding each other's helmets up like you enjoyed it. And maybe you kinda did.

Fast forward a few months, Quad Lock has you both in a chokehold once again. Marketing makes you do simulators, reaction tests, everything you do as training. And its a back and forth of you and Oscar winning.

"Now I know why you win all the time." Oscar sends you a cheeky smile.

You narrow your eyes playfully, trying to hide the smile that wanted to stretch on your face. "Oh yeah?"

"I've never been there to distract you."

Twitter erupts, fan pages explode, and the Formula 1 and MotoGP teams absolutely love the back and forth. So much so that Quad Lock decides to bring Oscar to a race.

You won, of course, and Oscar stayed for the entire podium celebration. You enter your garage afterwards, sticky from the champagne. You spot Oscar and quickly walk towards him, a smirk on your face.

"Enjoyed the race?"

Oscar smiled at this, shoving his hands in his hoodie pocket. "Yeah, until you won."

You place the champagne bottle and trophy down on an empty table, looking at the driver with an impressed expression. You take your hat off and toss it towards him. He effortlessly catches it and admires it, the blue Michelin hat sat drenched in champagne in his hands.

"You can have that as a token of you being here," you start, picking up your trophy and bottle. "Already have a lot of those, anyway."

You wink as you walk away, leaving him stunned in place, hands still gripping onto the hat like it was a brick of gold.

Two weeks later and it was your turn to show up for the other's race. Oscar won, like he always did, and you stayed for the podium celebration as well.

Walking back to the hospitality, you hear footsteps jogging towards you until you spot a familiar champagne-soaked driver next to you. He says nothing, just a stupid smile on his face, before he holds out the Pirelli hat that you take.

"Hope you were taking notes, two-wheels." And he runs off before you could reply. You walk slower than you did a few minutes ago, mentally processing what just happened.

Because whatever this was, you liked it. You had finally found someone who could match you. Someone who wasn't better or worse than you— but someone who was the exact same. And you found it intoxicating.

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peaktora · 3 days ago

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𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒 𝐎𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 ˚◞♡ ⃗ bluelock!boys

𝙧𝙚𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙬 ┊ where they let the media believe the rumors about their so-called girlfriend

𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙩 ┊ ft. rin itoshi, seishiro nagi, and micheal kaiser. not proofread bc im too tired to do so. in rin’s part, you’re not actually dating (yet). beware of the tooth rotting fluff (gosh i need to write some angst).

𝙖𝙪𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙧𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙚.┊man i got so carried away .. this was supposed to be a couple of quick headcannons for a character analysis. yet, individually these headcannons are all so long that they might as well be a one shot 😭 but enjoy !

𝜗𝜚₊˚ 𝐑𝐈𝐍 𝐈𝐓𝐎𝐒𝐇𝐈 ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

you didn’t know much about his sport—only knew for certain that rin was good at it. he was passionate about his goals and made sure to reflect that in the games he played. whenever he won a game, it was practically an instinct for you to lavish him in compliments. you’d bathe him in things like “good job!” or tease him by saying, “look at you, all pro.” but for rin, winning wasn’t just about the final score on the scoreboard. it wasn’t simple. to him, a victory meant nothing if it wasn’t clean.

two goals. no errors. as he walked off of the pitch, rin replayed each shot in his head. his jaw was set tight, and his hair was irritably damp from sweat—the wind only helped it stick to his face. by now, the crowd should’ve died down, atleast a tone or two. yet, as he took a look at the crowd, he could still see people holding up their signs high for him to see. they were loud—obnoxious, even. he hated that he could still hear the crowd’s roars.

he didn’t look for you. not right away. not while the cameras were still following his every move, not while the spotlight was hot on his back and the (quite frankly: annoyingly persistent) reporters were shouting loads of questions at him from each of every direction. he wouldn’t risk putting you in that kind of attention—not when you both knew how quickly the media could twist up something as simple as a glance.

but that didn’t mean he didn’t know where you were.

he always knew.

you stood in the same spot after every game—half-hidden behind the media barricade. it was just far enough back to stay out of view, but always close enough for him to find you. hell, he was the one who recommended you this spot. and true to the routine, you were tucked into the sleeves of a hoodie far too big to be yours.

his hoodie.

it was always one of his, but never the same. at some point you made a game out of it.

somewhere down the line of you two’s friendship, it became a tradition that before his games, you’d come over to his apartment. just to hangout of course. yet somewhere in between the time you were together, when he wasn’t looking—you’d sneak into his closet, pick a hoodie of your choosing, and not tell him which one you’d taken. you liked keeping it a surprise. he never knew which hoodie had gone missing until he saw you wearing it the next day.

like now.

you stood just where he expected, pretending as if you hadn’t been waiting for him this whole time. you were wearing one of his favorite hoodies—it was gray, soft—and it’s sleeves swallowed your hands.

he would never tell you, but because of this gesture? but he loves game day. he can’t help but notice you.

and apparently the media noticed you just as much.

he didn’t care if they did. but he didn’t want them asking.

“mr. itoshi! just a quick one—” a reporter cut in, jogging alongside him with a mic already raised—talk about desperate. “two goals again. i mean, you’ve been unstoppable lately! what’s changed?”

rin didn’t slow his pace. “nothing.”

which isn’t necessarily true, but while his performance may be their business, his personal life is not.

you’d think the reporter would back off by now, yet he didn’t budge. he increased his pace. “right, right—but you can’t deny the fact there’s been a shift, no? all your fans are talking about it. you seem… calmer? more collected. more grounded, maybe?”

rin chose not to respond, hoping his silence would be enough to make the reporter give up. thankfully, it worked. the man slowed to a stop in favor of standing still, awkwardly watching as rin continued to walk away.

then it happened.

one of his teammates—loud and face holding a (god awful) smirk, slapped him on the back mid-walk.

“probably because of that girlfriend of his,” the guy pointed and laughed in your direction. “she’s been at every match. guess that makes a difference, huh?”

rin stopped walking.

before he could even say his side of the story, the camera had aimed itself towards you. you who were in his hoodie. you who looked at him for any idea on how to handle this situation. you who still stood in the spot he asked you to all those weeks ago—a spot that was supposed to be secure and safe. fuck, it feels like he failed you.

the reporter instantly lit up. he directed the cameraman towards rin, and they both made a jog to his side. “so, rin… a girlfriend? can you confirm?”

the only thing rin could do was blink. because, he could say no. he could shut it down. easy.

but memories of you flashed in his mind. you sitting on the couch waiting for him after late practices, folding his laundry without being asked, brushing the hair out of his eyes when he got too tired to care. never demanding. never asking for more than he could give.

you were the only person in the world who didn’t take his silence personally.

and now everyone wanted a label. a headline?

at the thought, he looked straight into the camera as he flatly said “no.”

the reporter hesitated to ask. “so… you’re not dating?”

“i mean i’m not commenting,” rin replied. “that’s different.” rin likes to think he never really needed a media team.

because with this answer, he didn’t have to explain. he didn’t have to clarify. and most importantly? he didn’t say no.

the interview wrapped quickly after that. the mic lowered when the reporter realized Rin wouldn’t give more. one by one, the crew dispersed.

and now, finally—finally—rin could openly walk towards you.

as soon as he was close enough, you smirked and said, “you didn’t deny it.”

he leaned against the barricade, using the bottom of his shirt to wipe the sweat from his forehead, “nope.”

“you could’ve just said i wasn’t your girlfriend.”

“i could’ve.”

for a while, silence filled the space before you now softly asked, “then why didn’t you?”

he exhaled through his nose, irritated—not with you, but with himself.

“i don’t like interviews,” he muttered.

“i know.”

“i don’t like assumptions either.”

“i know.”

“but i didn’t deny it,” he said, looking up at you, “because they weren’t wrong.”

you blinked, “huh? you do know we’re not even togeth—“

“i didn’t say anything,” he added, voice quiet now, “because i’ve never had to explain what you are.”

he heard your breath hitch.

“you’re something that i guess i hold…close to me. something that’s mine,” he said, more certain now. “if people assume that, i’m not going to correct them.”

you hummed, “so… you’re one hundred percent okay with them knowing?”

he nodded once. “i’m okay with them assuming.”

you smiled. it didn’t reach your eyes—it was that small, soft one that never failed to break him, and gently nudged his arm.

“y’know, you’re terrible at this.”

he groaned, “i’m trying here.”

“i know,” you giggled, slipping your fingers into his. “and that’s why it counts.”

𝜗𝜚₊˚ 𝐒𝐄𝐈𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐎 𝐍𝐀𝐆𝐈 ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

nagi yawned and lazily scratched the back of his head. with the help of his sweat, his jersey clung to his back and his legs still burned from the run he didn’t even want to make for that last goal.

he let out a deep breath at the sight of a reporter pointing over to him. the match was barely over, and there was already duo—a cameraman and a reporter—hustling over to him.

within two seconds, he noted that this was a bother. the reporter was talking so fast, he could barely decipher what she was saying. the bright lights of the camera following him made his eyes sting. the game took so much energy out of him, he couldn’t even muster up a sentence if he’d wanted to. safe to say, this interview was not worth his time nor energy.

“nagi, you were just incredible tonight! that assist? it was just—just was insane—i mean no one saw it coming. what were you thinking in that moment.”

he rubbed his eye, muttering, “i wasn’t.”

following his words was a pause. the reporter nervously laughed, and like most—he’s sure that she assumes he was trying to land a joke. he wasn’t.

he spotted you standing on the sidelines, tucked off to the side. you gave him a wave, and he wiggled his fingers back as a response.

you looked so cute. so comfortable. all he wanted to do now was stand next to you and lean his weight against your shoulder. the only thing stopping him was a mic still being pointed at his face.

hm.

“right, well,” the reporter continued, “there’s a lot of talk about your change in attitude this season. you seem more focused motivated. the people are wondering: is there someone on the inside keeping you in check?”

nagi tilted his head. “huh?”

“like a girlfriend,” the girl clarified, a smile among her lips. “rumor has it that there’s someone important in the crowd tonight.“

the camera panned out to the stands and the surrounding area before nagi could say anything. straight to you. your smile wavered into a nervous chuckle, and a slight furrow creased your brows.

nagi followed the camera’s direction, gaze landing on you.

you’re so obvious.

for a second, he didn’t move. but then he shrugged—and he walked off.

the reporter fumbled. “w-wait—”

it was a lost cause. nagi’s mind was made up, he ignored the calls behind him and made his way towards you. reaching you, he lazily settled an arm around your shoulders.

he sighed dramatically, allowing his entire body weight to lean into yours. “you’re warm,” he mumbled.

you looked down at him “… you just walked out of an interview.”

“yeah,” he mumbled. “boring. but they asked about you.”

your heart did that weird little stutter. “they what?”

“kept saying girlfriend this, girlfriend that…” he shrugged. “i dunno…didn’t feel like lying.”

you stared. “you didn’t deny it?”

he turned his head slightly, chin resting against your hair. “why would i?”

“because we haven’t… told anyone?”

his fingers toyed with the hem of the sleeve.“feels like a lot of effort,” he replied. “lying about you. avoiding questions. hiding. ugh.”

you swallowed. “so you just… left?”

“figured it was easier to show ‘em.”

he leaned in, pressing his forehead against your temple.

“plus i wanted to see you,” he muttered.

you lips parted. “nagi…”

his thumb lightly brushed over your hand. “if you don’t want people to know i I won’t say anything,” he continued, voice quieter. “but ‘m not gonna act like you’re not mine when you’re standing right there.”

you locked your fingers with his.

“you’re mine too, right?” he asked.

you nodded.

“good.” he exhaled, eyes closing. “then i don’t get what the big deal is.”

you couldn’t help but roll your eyes, “you’re so lazy.”

“mm,” he agreed, “but i’d carry you off this field if it meant we didn’t have to talk to anyone else.”

he straightened up just enough to glance back at the crew still filming in the distance. that same lady from earlier was still talking. how much did she have to say? “think they’ll chase us if i just walk off with you?”

you snorted, “they definitely will.”

“how annoying,” he sighed. “let’s go anyway.”

𝜗𝜚₊˚ 𝐌𝐈𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐋 𝐊𝐀𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐑 ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

the crowd outside of the stadium could only be described as loud—obnoxious—and chaotic. but then again, when wasn’t it?

you signed at the sight, and slouched even further in the backseat of kaiser’s private car. you opened your phone to instagram—a mistake you knew not to make—but did it anyways.

instantly, a knot formed in your stomach. there it was again—those damn rumors. your feed was full of it. what caught your attention this time was a recent photo of you two. granted it was blurry, but you two were obviously close. it was taken the day he took you out shopping. he’d insisted on carrying all your bags, leaving your hands free. you were thankful for that—especially when you suddenly heard saw a flash of a camera, allowing you to quickly raise your hands to shield your face.

the headlines were relentless:

“michael kaiser’s mystery girl—exactly who is she?”

“has the emperor found his queen?!”

when kaiser asked you about revealing your relationship to the public, you told him to be careful. to keep things quiet. private. in response, he only grinned at you like he always did when he planned on doing the opposite. and you hoped, you really hoped he would listen.

sighing, you opened up the sports app and began to watch the live post-match feed of what was going on outside.

on screen, the cameras zoomed in on kaiser walking out from the locker room tunnel. surrounding him were his security members. his hair was messy, his jersey was slung over his shoulder, and he had that arrogant smile on his face.

you made a mental note to tell him how he should seriously consider getting that patented.

reporters called out his name left and right—to which, he paid no mind to. it’s only when one says, “you’ve been seen with the same girl three times in the past two weeks—the mall, hotel lobby, even at the training grounds. does she happen to be your girlfriend?” that he gives them a reaction.

still walking, he flashed a slow smirk as he adjusted his sunglasses. “you people really don’t get tired, huh?”

“is it true?” another voice pushed through. “are the dating rumors real?”

kaiser stopped just for a second—it was just long enough for every mic to shove forward.

you leaned closer to your phone. he wouldn’t. he can’t be serious. he wouldn’t, right? he wouldn’t—

his grin widened. “if i had a girlfriend, i’d show her off every chance i got.”

almost as if the entire thing was staged, a chorus of gasps and shouts erupted from the crowd.

“but is that a yes?!”

he shrugged. “i try to not make a habit of denying good taste.”

then, he waved his way through the crowd. so casually too, as if he didn’t just obliterate the entire internet.

seconds later, the door to the car opened and you watched as he slipped in.

“you didn’t deny it,” you say. although it’s more of a question than anything.

he reached up to pull off his shades. “hm, should i have lied?”

“i thought we agreed to keep it…y’know…lowkey?”

kaiser laughed, then leaned in, brushing his nose against yours. “you think i’d let them call you a ‘mystery girl’? that’s boring. pretty girl is better.”

you pushed him away, “kaiser—”

“i would say liebling is even better but that’s reserved for me.” he pulled you closer, one arm slung around your waist with ease.

“kaiser—“

“shhh. i didn’t even say your name. ‘jus gave ‘em enough to sweat.”

you squinted at him. “so what am i, then?”

he smirked, pushing a kiss to your cheek. “the emperor’s girl.”

your phone buzzed like crazy, notifications from every app you owned. kaiser didn’t just not deny it—he made sure the whole world hoped it was true.

560 notes · View notes

mrsvante · 11 days ago

Text

At Your Feet

pairing: jungkook x reader

genre: idol au, established relationship, pfp

summary: he’s home. eighteen months of denial. and now, the front door clicks shut behind him. the flashes stop. the noise fades. and all that’s left is you.

your voice. your rules. your power.

he remembers everything. every command. every ache. every way he was made to perform for you. and tonight, after all this time, he finally gets to please you again.

warnings: military discharge, established d/s dynamic, dom!reader, sub!jungkook, obedience/service kink, restraints (cuffs, blindfolds), orgasm control & denial, pegging m!receiving, spanking m!receiving, face sitting, oral fixation kink, praise & degradation kink, crying/emotionally overwhelmed jk, cumplay, overstimulation, lube & toys, a dash of military uniform kink 🤭, jungkook calling reader mistress/noona 😜😜😜, mental check ins between scenes, soft aftercare

word count: 8,840

a message from our sponsors 💁🏽‍♀️: okay so this is insane. i didn’t realize how long this drabble was until i was editing. it was difficult for me to write from a dom’s perspective (not to be too tmi but i prefer to lean way more submissive in my relationships). i kept thinking i hadn’t written enough for the drabble and now its double the word count of all the others 🤦🏽‍♀️🤦🏽‍♀️ well, whatever..hopefully you guys like it. i’ve seen a few sub!jk stories and wanted to try my hand at it 😅

The front door closed behind him with a soft click.

Outside, the world was still spinning. Reporters still lingering, flashes still going off, Jimin already texting him nonsense from the car en route to his apartment, but in here?

It was just him.

And you.

Jungkook exhaled as he slipped out of his boots, the weight of eighteen months settling at his feet like dust. The air inside your home was warm, humid with the scent of ginger, sesame oil, and garlic—your cooking. His favorite. The smell hit him in the chest like a memory and a promise.

He dropped his duffel by the door, throat tight.

“I’m home,” he called softly, voice already laced with need.

From somewhere deeper in the apartment your voice floated back, cool and calm and unmistakably you.

“Get on your knees.”

His breath hitched.

The smile that crept across his lips wasn’t a happy one, it was relieved.

“Put your hands behind your back.”

Jungkook was already sinking to the floor.

His knees hit the wood with a quiet thud. He rolled his shoulders back and laced his fingers behind him, eyes fixed on the hallway ahead…waiting.

Breath slowing. Head bowed slightly. Heart racing in his chest like a drum called to war.

Just like that, his body remembered.

Even after months of rigidity, rules, and military order, this was what brought him peace. You were his structure. His command. His reward.

His cock hardened instantly in his fatigues, straining uncomfortably against the stiff material, but he didn’t adjust it. Didn’t move. Not without permission.

Jungkook closed his eyes.

God, he’d missed this.

Missed you.

Missed the sound of your voice, stern, soft, all powerful.

Missed the weight of your gaze on him.

Missed the way his body hummed the moment you took control.

And now he was here, finally home, hands folded neatly behind his back, knees pressed to the floor, and waiting patiently.

Ready.

Yours.

—

His knees had gone numb.

But he didn’t move.

Didn’t fidget. Didn’t shift. Didn’t so much as glance around the room.

Jungkook knelt where you told him to, hands clasped behind his back, cock straining beneath the tight press of his uniform. And when the scent of your perfume slid around the corner, wrapping its fingers around his throat like silk?

He nearly whimpered.

Then you stepped into view.

And he did whimper.

Because you were in nothing but an apron. Thin cotton tied at the back, hem brushing your thighs, the curve of your hips bare, your chest barely concealed, nipples peaked beneath the soft fabric.

You tilted your head, not missing the way his breath hitched at the sight of you.

“Well,” you said, voice lilting like amusement dripped in honey, “they let you out early. Thought for sure they’d keep the kitchen staff for cleanup.”

Jungkook’s cheeks flushed.

“I wasn’t—”

You raised a brow. “You weren’t what, soldier?”

He shut his mouth fast, eyes lowering. “I wasn’t trying to argue, mistress.”

You hummed approvingly, arms crossing under your breasts. “Smart. Just a glorified cafeteria boy and still knows his place. I’m impressed.”

His cock throbbed at your words, the quiet cruelty in your tone, and the heat building behind your eyes.

And you knew it.

“Still so obedient after all this time,” you murmured, taking slow, measured steps toward him, heels clicking against the wood. “Still kneeling so pretty. Like nothing’s changed.”

You paused just a few feet in front of him. Close enough to see the way his throat bobbed. Close enough for him to smell the perfume on your skin and the faint hint of something sugary in your hair.

“But something has changed,” you whispered. Then, slowly, deliberately, you untied the bow at your back, and the apron slid forward an inch.

Jungkook’s eyes remained fixed on your feet, but you could see the tremble in his jaw, the flush on his neck.

You pulled the apron loose from your body, baring your chest, your stomach, the curve of your thighs—everything.

His breath stuttered.

“Be good,” you warned softly. “Eyes down.”

He didn’t move.

Not even when the apron dropped to the floor in front of him like a gauntlet.

You stepped out of it, bare now in every way that mattered, and paced around him like a flame licking at the edges of his restraint.

And still, he didn’t look.

Perfect.

“You’ve missed this, haven’t you?” you whispered, circling him like a predator. “Missed this house. This smell. This floor. Your place on it.”

“Yes, mistress,” he rasped, voice hoarse with need.

You stopped behind him, leaned in close.

“Missed me?”

His head bowed further, nearly to the floor. “More than anything.”

Your hand softly cupped his throat from behind, full of possession.

“You poor thing,” you murmured. “So starved for touch, and yet still so well trained. You’re mine, aren’t you, Jungkook?”

“Yes, mistress. Always.”

“Good.”

You moved back into view, standing before him once more.

“Now,” you said, stepping just close enough that the scent of your arousal reached his nose, “I’m going to cook while you continue kneeling like the good boy you are. And if you’re lucky, maybe I’ll let you taste what you’ve really been craving when I’m done.”

Jungkook bit down a moan and bowed his head again.

“Thank you, mistress,” he whispered, trembling.

Jungkook’s thighs ached. His back protested. His cock throbbed so hard it felt like it had its own pulse.

Still, he didn’t move and didn’t speak.

Just continued kneeling where you felt him. Staring at the apron piled in front of him.

He listened to the rustle of cookware and the faint bubbling of sauce from the stove. The way your heels clicked against the floor as you moved through the kitchen. Occasionally, he caught the sound of you humming to yourself under your breath, unconcerned with his presence.

That alone made him dizzy.

He was here, in your home, finally, after months of nothing but letters and rules and routines. And you were treating him like the obedient little thing he was, like no time had passed at all.

It made his chest ache.

It made his cock ache worse.

By the time you returned, your steps slow and measured, the food steaming behind you on the dining table and your nipples tight in the cool air, Jungkook felt like he was seconds from begging.

But he stayed still.

And you smiled.

“Good boy,” you purred. “Eighteen months and you’re still perfectly trained.”

His breath left him in a shaky exhale.

You stepped closer, brushing a finger beneath his chin, tilting his head up ever so slightly until he dared to meet your eyes.

“I want you to go wash your hands, bunny,” you said sweetly. “Use the powder room. You can stand now.”

Jungkook obeyed immediately.

He rose in one fluid movement, stiff from stillness but graceful all the same. His cock strained visibly in his pants, but he made no move to relieve it. Only offered you a bow of his head and whispered, “Yes, mistress,” before padding toward the powder room off the kitchen.

He passed you on the way, close enough to feel the heat radiating from your skin, close enough to inhale the sweetness clinging to your collarbone. He caught only a flicker of your bare back as he disappeared into the hall.

He washed his hands in silence, trying not to groan when he adjusted himself briefly in his fatigues.

When he returned, you were already at the table, one perfectly crossed leg revealing the curve of your thigh. A soft hum passed your lips as you filled his plate. Rice perfectly fluffed, meat steaming, the banchans were fragrant and colorful. You filled your own next, then folded your hands in your lap.

“You may eat.”

It was the softest command he’d received all day.

And yet it hit him the hardest.

Jungkook bowed his head gratefully before picking up his chopsticks. The first bite of meat melted on his tongue. Tender, spiced, cooked with the kind of love no military cooking could ever mimic.

He moaned.

Loudly.

“Fuck, mistress,” he said before he could stop himself. “This is so good. I—”

Then he looked at you again.

And almost choked.

Because while he was there, tucked beneath the soft glow of dining room light and chewing on perfectly seasoned chicken, you sat across from him, completely naked. Wearing nothing but a pair of stiletto heels and a small smile.

Casually eating.

Unbothered.

Like you weren’t slowly driving him to madness.

“M-mistress,” he stuttered, chopsticks freezing midair. His eyes dropped from your face to your breasts, to the bare skin of your stomach, to the place where your thighs pressed together just beneath the table.

He swallowed hard.

You didn’t look up. Just plucked another piece of chicken from your plate and chewed slowly.

“What is it, Jungkook?” you asked, feigning innocence.

“I—uh—” he tried, shifting in his seat.

“Is your food not to your liking?”

“No, mistress! It’s—it’s perfect.”

You finally looked up, eyes glittering. “Then eat, bunny. I didn’t spend all evening in the kitchen just for you to drool over my tits.”

Heat slammed into his gut like a fist.

“Yes, mistress,” he whispered, red faced, and forced another bite into his mouth—eyes darting between his food and your legs beneath the table.

—

The first time your heel brushes his cock, Jungkook nearly drops his chopsticks.

It’s subtle at first, just the curve of your foot nudging between his thighs, tracing along the inseam of his fatigues. But even that has him blinking hard, trying to stay composed, trying not to groan around a mouthful of rice.

Then the pressure increases.

The point of your heel glides up the length of his cock beneath the table, cruel and delicate. Jungkook’s whole body jerks.

You look completely serene, chewing thoughtfully, sipping water like your foot isn’t pressing into his crotch with dangerous precision.

“Mistress,” he gasps softly, hips stuttering beneath the table.

You don’t look at him. “Did you follow the rules?”

He knows what you mean.

“Yes, mistress,” he whispers, voice strangled with restraint. “I didn’t touch myself. Not once.”

Your smile is slow and satisfied. “Not even once?”

“Not even once,” he repeats, breathless. “I—I thought about you every night. But I didn’t touch.”

“Mmm…” You hum in approval, still not looking at him. “Such a good boy.”

Jungkook makes a noise, something like a half moan, half exhale as you press firmer, dragging the tip of your heel down the underside of his cock to rest just above his balls. His pulse hammers under his skin and sweat beads at the nape of his neck.

It’s not just the teasing—it’s you. You and your heels and your control. The scent of roasted meat still lingering in the air. The faint glisten of body oil on your bare chest. And now the image of your foot sliding along the line of his cock like you own him.

Because you do.

He grips the table’s edge to ground himself. His food forgotten.

“You’re not eating,” you note, eyes finally flicking to him. “Are you full?”

“I—” Jungkook swallows thickly, his cock straining violently against his pants. “Yes, mistress. I’m done. Thank you for cooking.”

Your head tilts, pleased.

“You’re welcome, bunny.” Then you lean back, voice dipping low. “I made your favorite for dessert.”

Jungkook’s eyes go wide.

You slide your chair back with a low scrape of wood on wood, then slowly spread your legs.

Jungkook forgets to breathe.

You’re wet and glistening under the warm light. And not wearing a single thing but those devastating heels means he can see everything. The soft, shaved curves of your pussy. The glint of slick between your folds. The shadowed heat waiting just for him.

His mouth waters instantly.

“Oh, fuck,” he whispers, barely audible.

You trace two fingers lightly over your inner thigh and smile. “You’ve been such a good boy, Jungkook. Do you want dessert now?”

He nods too fast, eyes locked between your legs like a starving man watching his first meal in months. “Yes, mistress. Please.”

You let your fingers slip lower, brushing just barely against your center as your voice goes saccharine sweet.

“Then crawl.”

He’s out of his chair in a second, already on his knees.

His fatigues scrape against the floor as he moves, but he barely notices. Not when you’re seated before him like a goddess in nothing but heels and power. His mouth is dry, his heart a war drum in his chest.

You spread your legs wider and Jungkook feels his pulse skip.

“Hands behind your back.”

The command is soft, but it cuts through him like a lash.

He obeys instantly, tucking his wrists behind him, spine straight, eyes locked on your dripping cunt. His cock aches where it’s trapped in his pants, throbbing in time with the tension that coils deep in his belly. But he doesn’t complain. He doesn’t move without your say so.

“Go ahead,” you murmur. “Eat.”

Jungkook leans forward slowly, savoring the moment. The scent of you hits first. All warm and musky, and familiar. He closes his eyes just for a second, inhaling like he’s been denied oxygen for eighteen months.

And then his tongue touches you.

You gasp as he groans, licking up the length of your slit with an eager stroke. His mouth latches onto your clit immediately, suction gentle but insistent. He moans again, tongue swirling, lips parting to press hot, open kisses into your folds like he’s trying to commit you to memory.

The sound of you drives him mad as he works your pussy slowly.

Jungkook tastes you like a man starved, tongue sliding through every crease, every soft dip, learning you all over again. But the more you squirm, the more he hears those little breathless sighs and choked moans from above, the more frenzied he becomes.

You reach down, fingers threading into his hair.

“Such a good boy,” you whisper, tugging him in closer. “My perfect, obedient boy.”

He groans, rutting his hips into the air at the praise, tongue fucking into you faster. His nose bumps your clit just right, and your thighs tense around his ears. Your heel presses into his back like a brand, keeping him in place.

“You missed this, didn’t you?” you murmur, breath hitching. “Missed worshiping your Mistress?”

Jungkook nods the best he can with his mouth stuffed full of your cunt, moaning against you like he’s already coming.

You’re close and he knows it. You always tremble right before. Your thighs quiver just slightly, and your fingers tighten in his hair, and your cunt starts to pulse around his tongue like it knows him.

“Don’t stop,” you warn, voice sharp and sweet. “You stop and you don’t get to come tonight.”

He doubles down.

Flicks your clit faster. Presses his tongue deeper. Lets his jaw go slack so he can shake his head slowly between your thighs, building pressure just the way you taught him.

Your moan breaks into something breathless and high.

And then you’re coming.

Hard.

Your thighs clamp tight around his ears, your hips bucking into his face, and Jungkook moans like he’s the one unraveling. He keeps licking through it, keeps drinking down everything you give him until your body slowly starts to relax.

You release his hair gently, your chest rising and falling in time with your breath.

Jungkook pulls back only when you nudge him, his chin slick, lips swollen and his eyes dazed with pure adoration. He waits, hands still behind his back, looking up at you like you hung the stars in the sky.

You lean forward and drag your thumb across his lower lip.

“Good boy,” you purr. “Now get undressed. Slowly. I want to watch.”

Jungkook rises to his feet with devotion in every movement. His fingers go first to the buttons of his fatigues, but he pauses, looking at you for permission. A single nod is all it takes. He begins to undress, slowly, just like you told him.

He peels off each layer like it’s sacred, his uniform jacket first, folded neatly and set aside. Then his undershirt, tugged over his head with trembling hands. You watch him the whole time from your seat, your legs still spread, your slickness glistening between your thighs, heels propped wide.

And yet…

There’s a softness in your gaze now. Just for a second.

It makes his chest ache worse than his cock.

You’re smiling. Not smug or sultry, but happy. A smile that cracks the mask of power you wear like a second skin. Your eyes shine, your throat tightens slightly, and Jungkook watches your smile tremble as you whisper, “I can’t believe you’re really home.”

He freezes, shirt halfway off.

The breath he takes is shallow, shaky. His voice barely works when he says, “I missed you so much, noona. I thought about you every day.”

You rise from your chair and you close the distance between you in three small steps. Your fingers find his jaw, thumbs brushing just beneath his eyes. And for a moment, just a moment, you pull him into a kiss that’s heartbreakingly gentle.

No teasing. No control.

Just lips pressed to his like you’re afraid he’ll disappear again.

It’s him who makes a sound this time. A broken little whimper against your mouth. His arms twitch at his sides, needing to hold you, touch you, anchor you. But he doesn’t. Not without permission.

When you pull back, you’re flushed, breath shallow. You’re so visibly happy it knocks the air out of his lungs.

But then your gaze sharpens.

The softness is gone in an instant, replaced by the glint of control in your eyes that makes Jungkook’s knees weak.

“Did I tell you to stop undressing?” you ask.

He scrambles. “No, Mistress. I’m sorry.”

“Then why are you standing there like you forgot how to move?”

“I didn’t—I’m just—” He bites back the babble of excuses, ducking his head. “I’ll be good.”

“I know you’ll be good,” you say, circling him slowly like a wolf scenting prey. “You always are.”

You stop behind him.

Your palms brush over his back, down his sides, and he shivers when your nails lightly drag over his ribs.

“Get rid of the rest. Now.”

Jungkook obeys at once, pushing his pants and briefs down his legs with trembling urgency. His cock springs free, flushed dark, glistening with need and angled up toward his navel. He steps out of the rest of his clothes, then straightens, arms at his sides, chest rising and falling fast.

You step in front of him again.

Look down.

Smile.

“My, my. Look at you,” you murmur. “Still obedient. Still desperate, and so fucking hard for me.”

He whines, hips twitching forward instinctively.

Your hand shoots out, palm cracking lightly against his thigh. “Ah-ah. You do not fuck the air.”

“Yes, Mistress,” he whispers, head spinning.

You grab his chin and tilt his face down toward yours. “You’re not going to come until I say so.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

You trail your fingers down his chest, past his navel, barely grazing the base of his cock. He moans, knees wobbling slightly.

“You’ve been so patient,” you whisper, brushing your lips over his jaw. “So well behaved.”

Your hand closes around him slowly.

He groans, cock twitching in your grip.

You pump him once. Twice. Enough to make his thighs tremble before you pull away completely.

“Go lie down,” you say. “We’re just getting started.”

Jungkook stumbles toward the bedroom without hesitation, cock bobbing with each hurried step.

And you follow, your gaze locked on your boy. Your boy who waited eighteen months to come home to you. Your boy who would burn the world just to kneel at your feet again.

—

He reaches the bedroom and pauses just inside the threshold, unsure if he’s allowed to climb onto the bed without being told.

But you’re already behind him, watching.

“Good boy,” you say softly.

Jungkook swears his knees nearly give out. Those two words hit deeper than any kiss, deeper than any touch. He feels them all the way in his gut.

“On the bed. Head at the pillows.”

He scrambles up, doing exactly as he’s told. His cock aches, heavy and flushed against his stomach, but he doesn’t dare touch it. Not without instruction.

You take your time walking around the room. Your heels echo softly against the wood floor, and the only thing Jungkook can focus on is the gentle sway if your hips with every step.

Then he hears the drawer and soft metallic clink of cuffs.

His breath catches.

You walk over to the bed, holding a pair of padded leather restraints in your hand. The sight of them sends Jungkook’s heart pounding. His hips twitch upward instinctively before he forces himself to be still.

“Hands above your head,” you say.

He obeys without hesitation, and you crawl onto the bed with the calm, practiced ease of someone who’s done this many times and knows exactly how to break him apart.

Your fingers brush over his wrists, and Jungkook swears he could come from just that.

“Still okay?” you murmur, checking his eyes.

“Yes, Mistress,” he says, voice breathless. “Please—yes.”

The cuffs go on gently, secured to the headboard with quiet clicks. They’re snug, but soft. Comforting, even. Like he belongs there.

You sit back on your heels and admire him.

There he is—spread out for you, skin flushed, chest rising and falling fast, cock leaking against his stomach, muscles twitching as he fights to hold still.

And when your hand trails from his collarbone down his chest, Jungkook moans, his arms flexing uselessly against the restraints.

“Look at you,” you murmur. “So obedient. So hard.”

He swallows. “I missed this.”

You smile, slow and wicked. “I can tell.”

You don’t touch him again. Not yet.

Instead, you shift to the end of the bed and sit between his spread thighs. Your hands push gently at his knees, encouraging him to stay open for you. Then you lean in and press a kiss to his inner thigh. Not his cock. Just beside it.

He moans, shivering at the softness of it.

Another kiss. Higher this time.

And another, near the base of his shaft.

He whines, tugging helplessly at the restraints.

“M-Mistress…”

“Something you want, bunny?”

He chokes on a breath. “Please touch me.”

“Oh?” Your lips graze the tip of his cock but never wrap around it. “You were so good for so long. Not even one touch while you were away?”

“No, Mistress,” he gasps. “I followed the rules.”

“Even when you couldn’t sleep?” you ask, voice lower now, sultry and curious. “Even when the barracks were dark and quiet and you were all alone… hard and aching for me?”

He whimpers.

“Yes, Mistress,” he says again. “I didn’t touch myself. Not once.”

You finally reach out, stroking a single fingertip along the underside of his cock.

He twitches violently, hips jerking upward before he can stop himself.

“Mmh,” you sigh. “You really are my good boy, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” he pleads, voice already beginning to break. “Please—please let me cum.”

You wrap your hand around him.

Not to stroke. Just to hold him, and he moans, helpless under the weight of your grip.

“You don’t get to come yet,” you whisper. “You’re going to thank me properly first.”

Jungkook nods, trembling, eyes wide and glassy. “Yes, Mistress. Anything.”

You shift up the bed again and straddle his face.

His heart nearly bursts from his chest.

And then—you lower yourself slowly until your heat is pressed against his mouth.

He groans like he needs this more than air.

His tongue works desperately between your folds, lapping and sucking, nose buried in the soft swell of you, and your moans. Those soft breathy sighs make him throb helplessly in the air.

He licks like he’s praying.

You ride his face with a slow, controlled rhythm, fingers gripping his hair, and he lets you take everything from him, his breath, his restraint, his mind. When you finally come, shuddering and gasping, he moans beneath you like he just found heaven.

And when you lift off of him, soaked and radiant, you smile down at him like he’s your prize.

“Still want to cum, bunny?”

He’s breathless. “More than anything.”

You reach between his thighs and stroke him once, twice, just enough to make him cry out.

Then you climb off the bed, and leave him there.

Eyes wide.

Mouth parted.

Cock leaking.

And you say, cool and casual, “Then be patient. We’re not done yet.”

He watches you walk away from the bed, his entire body trembling with need. His cock pulses in the air, flushed dark and leaking, glistening at the tip with every beat of his heart. Every instinct screams at him to chase you, to reach for you, to do something.

But he can’t.

His wrists are still cuffed above his head. And you haven’t told him to move.

So he doesn’t.

Instead, he watches, helpless and hungry, as you walk over to the dresser and open the shallow velvet lined drawer. The one that holds all the toys you love to use on him. His eyes go wide when you lift the wand vibrator from its place.

You don’t say a word as you climb back onto the bed.

But your smile speaks volumes.

You straddle his thigh, kissing the inside of his knee, then the curve of his hip. He’s panting already. Shaking. Barely keeping his whimpers contained.

The wand hums to life in your hand.

And you barely touch the head of his cock.

“Ah—fuck!” Jungkook cries, hips bucking despite himself.

You pull the wand away instantly.

“Tsk,” you scold softly. “What did I say about staying still?”

“I-I’m sorry, Mistress,” he gasps. “I couldn’t help it.”

You hum, tapping the wand lightly against his thigh.

“I think you can help it. You just need… more practice.”

And then you begin again.

The wand returns to the base of his shaft this time, sliding slowly up the length of him before you lift it just as it kisses the swollen head. Again and again. No pressure. No friction. Just the constant vibration around him but never enough.

Jungkook moans, his hands clenching into fists above him, his abs twitching as he tries to keep himself anchored.

“Please,” he whispers, voice cracking. “Please, Mistress… please let me cum…”

You tilt your head, pretending to think. “Hmm… no.”

You stroke him once with your free hand. Just once.

It’s devastating.

He cries out again, hips stuttering, the heat coiling too tight in his belly now, too fucking much to endure.

“You want to cum that badly, bunny?” you murmur, placing the wand against his inner thigh while your hand wraps around his cock.

“Yes,” he breathes, chest heaving. “Yes—please, I’ll do anything.”

Your grip begins to move. Slow, deliberate strokes, paired with the soft hum of the wand teasing the space just beneath his balls.

“Anything?” you echo.

He nods rapidly, moaning, breathless and ruined. “Yes. Yes, Mistress.”

You lean over him, your mouth just above his, voice a whisper of silk and steel.

“Then you’ll hold it.”

He sobs.

Because he knows what’s coming.

You stroke faster, the wand drifting closer, the pressure finally increasing. His body arches, tenses, his thighs trembling. He’s right on the edge.

You lean in again, licking a stripe up his throat before whispering:

“Don’t you dare cum.”

He tries. He tries so hard. But he’s been waiting eighteen long months. His mind is foggy, body burning, nerves alight with the promise of release.

And it breaks him.

He comes with a choked cry, body convulsing under your touch as his release spills across his belly and chest, thick and hot and endless. His entire body shudders from the force of it.

And the moment he’s finished you stop. The wand powers off with a click. And your hand stills. Silence settles in the room, save for Jungkook’s panting breaths and the soft whine of his voice breaking.

“I’m sorry…” He sounds wrecked. Wrecked and afraid.

You climb up beside him and stroke his hair back from his forehead.

“I know,” you say softly, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “That was beautiful, bunny. But I told you not to cum.”

Tears prick at his eyes.

“I tried—I tried so hard—”

You hush him gently. “You did. And I’m proud of you.”

You press your lips to his temple and uncuff his wrists slowly, gently, massaging each one after the release.

“But you’ll need to be punished.”

Jungkook nods, broken and grateful. “Yes, Mistress. Please.”

You smile. “Don’t worry. That’ll come later.”

You let him curl up in your arms after that, pressing slow kisses to his flushed cheeks and whispering praise in his ear. You stroke his hair, gently bring him back down. He clings to you, boneless, sated, and soft.

Eventually—your hand drifts back between his thighs.

He gasps softly.

“You didn’t think you were done, did you?”

The cuffs are gone, but his wrists still tingle with the phantom ache of restraint.

Jungkook blinks up at you, eyes glassy and red rimmed, his body limp where it sinks into the bed. He’s flushed everywhere, chest rising and falling, thighs twitching with leftover tremors, cum drying sticky across his skin.

You sit beside him, naked and composed, with a wet towel in hand and that same unreadable look in your eyes. He knows that look. Knows it so well.

It means you’re checking in.

You don’t speak at first, just reach out and gently clean him. Your touch is soft. Wiping his chest, his belly, between his legs. He doesn’t even flinch when you wipe over his sensitive cock, still hard, flushed and twitchy from being pushed too far too fast.

He moans softly instead, half lidded eyes watching you work.

When you’re done, you lean forward and press your forehead to his.

“Color?” you whisper.

His throat works around the swell of emotion. “Green, Mistress.”

You cup his cheek with your clean hand, brushing your thumb over the curve of his cheekbone.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes,” he breathes. “Better than okay. I… I missed this. Missed you.”

The honesty in his voice carves right through you, and for a moment, the second time today, you falter. The hard edges soften. The roles blur. Your fingers slide into his hair and your lips meet his in a kiss that’s less command and more confession.

You whisper his name like a prayer. He whispers yours back like he’s scared it’ll disappear.

“Did I push too far?” you murmur, eyes searching.

Jungkook shakes his head immediately, pressing into your palm like a cat begging for affection.

“No. Please don’t hold back with me. I need this. I need you.”

You nod slowly, exhale against his jaw.

“Then I’ll take care of you. Just like always.”

You coax him to sit up so you can massage his shoulders and rub balm over the light marks left by the cuffs. He leans into every touch, humming softly, melting back against your body when you cradle him from behind. His hands come up to hold your forearms where they cross his chest, grounding himself in your presence.

“Thank you,” he whispers again, voice cracking with how much he means it.

You smile, lips brushing the shell of his ear.

“My good boy,” you whisper.

And just like that—he shudders again. Moans at the praise, and his cock twitches back to life, still so responsive, so eager to please.

You notice, of course. You always notice.

“Looks like someone’s ready again,” you murmur, dragging your nails lightly down his torso until he’s shivering in your grasp.

Jungkook whines.

“Yes, Mistress. Please…”

You smile against his throat, kissing your way down his pulse point.

“Then hands back behind your head. Knees spread. Stay still while I decide what I want to do with you next.”

He obeys instantly. Because he always does.

—

He can’t see you.

The blindfold hugs snug across his eyes, cutting off the last of the ambient light. His breathing slows, deepens, as he settles back into submission. The sound of the drawer opening sharpens every nerve. The soft clink of buckles, the whisper of leather.

He knows what’s coming.

And he wants it.

He kneels again, this time on the bed, wrists bound behind his back in the new cuffs you’ve buckled together. His chest rises and falls with anticipation, muscles flexing as he adjusts to the vulnerable position.

You take your time.

You always do.

He hears you step around him, feels the shift of air as you circle. Every molecule of him is attuned to your presence. The soft click of your heels. The slight change in the mattress when you climb up behind him.

And then—smack.

He jerks, breath catching in his throat as your hand lands clean across his ass. Not too hard or light. Just enough to make his cock throb where it hangs heavy between his thighs.

He moans. Instinctively shifts forward.

You click your tongue.

“Back in place, Jungkook.”

“Yes, Mistress,” he pants, throat dry.

Another slap, this time to the other cheek. He moans louder, head falling forward. You lean in, tongue dragging over the faint red mark as your fingers squeeze and knead the flesh lovingly.

“Such a responsive boy,” you whisper. “You missed this, didn’t you?”

“Yes, Mistress,” he breathes. “Missed everything.”

You hum, pleased, and trail your fingers lower until you’re gently stroking his cock. He’s rock hard again. A bead of precum paints the tip, smearing down your palm as you tease him with a featherlight grip.

“Mm,” you muse. “So obedient. So needy. And to think you didn’t touch yourself once…”

“I wanted to,” Jungkook admits, voice tight. “Every night. Every time I thought of you. But I—I kept my promise.”

You reward him with another stroke. Another kiss between the shoulder blades. Another slap across his ass that has him biting down on a moan that still escapes.

When you finally unbuckle the cuffs and guide him onto his back, he whimpers at the relief in his arms and the heat still coiling in his belly.

You whisper, “Stay still,” and fasten the cuffs again, this time to the headboard. Then you run your palm over his blindfolded face, your thumb dragging across his parted lips before you slide two fingers into his mouth.

“Suck.”

He does.

Desperately.

And as he sucks, he hears the soft click of the bottle. The squelch of lube. The glide of something familiar being prepped above him. His cock twitches violently in response.

“Color?”

“Green, Mistress,” he gasps, lips wet.

“Good.”

When you finally push his legs up and over your shoulders, lubed fingers pressing inside him with practiced ease, Jungkook’s whole body sings. He groans shamelessly, tears welling beneath the blindfold as he rocks into your touch.

And once you’ve stretched him enough after all this time, you slide the strap on into him.

He cries out at the stretch. At the fullness. At the sound of your moan as you bottom out inside him. He never thought he could feel owned and worshipped at the same time, but here he is, spread and trembling and completely yours.

You fuck him slow at first. Deliberate. Measured. His ankles tremble on your shoulders, bound wrists yanking at the cuffs, head thrown back as you fuck him deeper with each thrust.

“God, you feel perfect like this,” you murmur, hands braced on his hips. “Taking me so well. Being so good for me.”

He sobs out a moan, completely undone.

“Say it,” you command softly. “Say who owns you.”

“You do,” he cries. “You own me, Mistress. Only you.”

You reward him with a sharper thrust, angling just right so the dildo taps against his prostate until he’s wailing through gritted teeth.

He doesn’t last long.

Between your rhythm, the slap of skin, the filthy praise pouring from your mouth, and the ache of need finally being met, Jungkook cums untouched and without warning, cock spurting over his abs and chest, whole body trembling like a man possessed.

And you don’t stop.

You slow down, soften your grip, and fuck him through every aftershock like you have all the time in the world.

The cuffs creak softly as his wrists tug against the headboard.

He’s panting hard, blindfold still in place, cum cooling on his abdomen, thighs trembling from the force of his orgasm.

Silence stretches.

Too long.

Your strap has already slid out of him, your touch no longer bracing his hips.

And Jungkook’s stomach knots.

He hadn’t meant to. He swore he’d last. Swore he’d hold on until you told him to let go. That’s what a good boy does. That’s what your good boy would do.

But he didn’t.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice shaking. “Mistress—”

Still, no touch. No praise. Just quiet.

“I didn’t mean to—I didn’t want to…” His words falter as panic creeps in. “Please don’t be mad at me.”

You’re still watching him, silent and still. It’s not punishment, not truly, but it’s your favorite kind of discipline: space to think.

Jungkook’s voice cracks. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to finish without permission.”

The desperation threads between each syllable like a plea.

“I just— It’s been so long, I tried—but you feel so good, you’re always so good to me, I just—”

He cuts himself off with a gasp when your fingers glide up his trembling thigh, smearing through his own release to press gently over his still hard cock.

“Do you think good boys cum without asking?”

“No, Mistress,” he whispers.

“So what does that make you?”

His breath catches. “A bad boy.”

“Mm. You didn’t used to be,” you hum. “I guess the military made you forget your place.”

“No!” The panic returns. “I remember. I remember everything. Please let me make it up to you. Please let me touch you—please let me taste you—please—”

You chuckle softly, cruel in the gentlest way.

“Oh, now you remember who you are.”

He nods quickly under the blindfold. “Yes, Mistress. Always yours. I never forgot. I swear.”

You loosen the cuffs slowly, not with mercy, but with intent. Dragging out the anticipation until Jungkook is free but still stays put. He doesn’t dare move without instruction. He wouldn’t.

“On your knees,” you say quietly.

He scrambles upright, kneeling between your legs at the edge of the bed, the blindfold still in place, chest heaving, body flushed and sticky with sweat and cum.

Your voice softens as you tilt his chin up.

“Look at you,” you murmur. “All messy and desperate… begging just to touch me.”

“Yes,” he breathes. “Please let me. I need you. I need to make you feel good. I missed your taste. I thought about it every night.”

You hum, pleased. “Every night?”

“Every night, Mistress.”

You finally remove the blindfold.

Jungkook blinks through the low light, eyes adjusting quickly to find you sitting on the bed in front of him. Nude, glistening, your thighs parted in invitation, your expression cool but undeniably pleased.

His mouth waters instantly.

“Show me,” you whisper. “Show me how much you missed me.”

He doesn’t hesitate.

Jungkook leans in, kisses first. Long, hungry kisses to the inside of your thighs, your hips, the softness of your belly. It’s worshipful. Apologetic. Eager.

Then his tongue finds you again.

And everything else melts away.

He moans against your pussy, tongue dragging through your folds like he’s starving. Like this is his last meal. His hands grip your thighs, squeezing gently as he buries his face between your legs, nose bumping your clit, mouth licking and sucking with deep, unrelenting focus.

You sigh, threading your fingers through his hair. “That’s it,” you murmur. “There’s my good boy.”

The sound he makes is practically a sob.

He doesn’t stop.

Not even when his jaw begins to ache. Not even when his cock twitches back to life, heavy and needy between his legs. All that matters now is you and your pleasure, your satisfaction, your forgiveness.

When you cum, thighs trembling around his head, fingers fisting his hair, your cries like music in his ears, Jungkook moans so loud it vibrates against you.

And still, he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t stop licking even after you come. If anything, your orgasm makes him hungrier.

Your thighs clamp around his head as you ride out the high, trembling with every flick of his tongue, every suck to your clit, every whispered moan from his lips that vibrates right through you.

But then he changes it up, just slightly.

You feel the brush of his fingers against your inner thigh, slow and cautious at first. One hand slips under to support your ass, the other glides up between your folds, slippery with the mess he’s already made of you. His mouth never leaves your pussy, not for a second, as he presses one finger in.

Then another.

You gasp, hips twitching. He crooks them gently, finding your spot almost immediately, tongue still lapping softly at your clit.

“Fuck, Jungkook—” you breathe, your head tipping back, a sharp moan spilling from your lips.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers against your pussy, so low it’s more breath than sound. “I’m sorry for being bad, for finishing without permission. I promise I’ll be good, I’ll be so good for you—just let me make you feel good again, Mistress. Please.”

You grip his hair, yanking slightly as your orgasm builds again, even faster this time with his fingers curling just right, his lips sealing around your clit like he knows what you need before you even ask.

“I need to make it up to you,” he whines, voice tight with emotion. “I’ll do anything.”

Your orgasm tears through you like a wave, loud and messy and soaked. You jerk against his mouth, grinding down as your cries echo off the bedroom walls. Jungkook groans, drinking in every second, like the sound of your pleasure is the absolution he’s been begging for.

When you finally start to come down, body trembling and thighs slick, your chest heaving, Jungkook doesn’t retreat. He lifts his head slowly, mouth and chin wet with you, eyes wild with devotion and need.

And then you feel it.

His cock, thick and hard like velvet wrapped steel, nudging against your pussy.

He’s rocking into you gently, barely restrained, the tip of his cock bumping your clit with every roll of his hips. Just enough friction to make you moan. Just enough to torture him.

“I need you,” he pleads, lips brushing your inner thigh. “Please, Mistress. Please let me inside. Let me make you feel good—let me show you I’m still yours. That I never stopped being yours.”

Your silence nearly undoes him.

He keeps going anyway.

“Please… Please… I’ll beg for the rest of my life if I have to,” he says, voice cracking. “I need to feel you around me—I need to feel you.”

You wait until he’s on the edge of unraveling, his cock glazed in your slick, his body shaking with how badly he wants it.

Then—

“You may.”

That’s all you say.

But it shatters something inside him.

Jungkook growls, fingers curling into the sheets as he lines himself up and sinks in, balls deep in one slow, shaking thrust.

“Oh my fucking god,” he gasps, body folding over yours, chest trembling, mouth slack. “So warm… so tight… I missed this—I missed you.”

His restraint breaks.

He starts to move, fucking you like a man possessed. Each thrust is deep, deliberate, full of that intoxicating blend of apology and addiction. He ruts into you with abandon, pressing kisses to your face, your throat, your breasts, your mouth, mumbling filth and praise between gasps.

“So good… so perfect… my goddess… my everything…”

You clench around him and he shudders, hips stuttering as your nails drag down his back.

“I’ll never cum without permission again,” he groans. “I’ll be the best boy, I swear. Just don’t stop. Please don’t stop needing me.”

Your reply is a moan, breathless and broken, and Jungkook takes it as gospel.

He keeps going until you’re shaking again, the coil tightening in your gut again. And this time, when you come, his name is the only thing on your lips.

—

You roll him gently off of you and onto his back, taking care not to jostle him too quickly. His breath catches. Still shaky, still caught somewhere between release and overwhelm, and you straddle his lap with slow intention, your thighs settling to either side of his warm, trembling body.

Your palms cup his face, thumbs brushing away the damp sheen across his cheeks and brow. His skin is flushed, pink with effort and emotion, eyes shut tight like he’s trying to trap something inside.

“Koo,” you whisper, voice low and laced with concern. You lean in, pressing a soft kiss to the center of his forehead. “Baby. Look at me.”

His lashes flutter. His eyes open.

And the moment they meet yours, something inside him breaks open.

Not violently, there’s no sob, no collapse, but a gentle crumbling. Like a final wall finally lowering. Like something tender and fragile unfolding after being kept hidden for too long.

“I’m okay,” he croaks, though his voice trembles. “I just… you’re here. I’m here. No more counting days. No more waiting. No more sleeping on a thin mattress thinking about you until I pass out.”

You nod slowly, a lump swelling in your throat as you lower your forehead to his. Your fingers slip into his sweaty hair, stroking through the strands as your nose brushes his.

“I’m so happy you’re home,” you murmur, lips brushing against his as you speak. “So happy you’re safe. That I can touch you… hold you. Hear you breathe beside me.”

He gives a small, watery laugh. “You were always the only thing that felt real. Everything else was just noise. I kept thinking if I just made it through one more week… one more day… I’d get to feel this again.”

Your lips find his. Your mouths molding together like they’d been waiting for this exact fit all along.

And then, without a word, he guides himself back inside you.

There’s no rush, no power play, no teasing or edge of dominance. Just the slow, aching stretch of being joined again as he gasps quietly beneath you and your fingers clutch at his shoulders like you’ll float away without the anchor of his body.

You both moan in tandem, foreheads still pressed together. He holds you close, palms cradling your hips, his thumbs tracing the softness of your skin with a kind of awestruck gentleness that makes your chest squeeze tight.

You move together slowly. Naturally. The pace isn’t dictated by pleasure, but by need. By the quiet, shared desire to savor this moment.

His hands drift upward, one settling at the curve of your spine, the other cupping your jaw as if to keep you from vanishing.

You’re both so close it’s hard to tell whose breath is whose. Whose heartbeat thunders louder. Your moans mix into the same air. Your warmth curls around him like a prayer answered.

“I love you,” he breathes suddenly, like the words slipped from his chest without permission.

Your hands tighten in his hair, your hips grinding down, your body trembling around him.

“Cum for me,” you whisper, voice hoarse with love. “Let go, baby. I’ve got you.”

He sobs as he comes. Quiet, strangled, drawn from someplace deep and private. The kind of release that feels like surrender. The kind of release that feels like home.

You follow not long after, the warmth of him inside you and the raw emotion in his eyes unraveling you in the most beautiful way. Your body pulses around him, and for a moment, the two of you just hold each other.

And when the world returns in slow focus, the sound of your shared breaths, the heat between your bodies, the tremor in his hands as he runs them along your waist, you know nothing else has ever felt more right.

—

You both stay still for a long time, hearts hammering, limbs tangled. The heat between your bodies slowly cools into something gentle, something quiet. It’s not awkward or heavy. It’s peace. Relief. A long held breath finally exhaled.

Eventually, you run your fingers down his spine, murmuring, “Come on, baby. Let’s shower.”

Jungkook makes a small sound, something halfway between a hum and a pout, before nodding. “Okay.”

He moves slowly, almost reluctantly, as you guide him into the bathroom.

The soft light of the sconces glows against the marble tile and fogs the mirror as you turn on the water. Jungkook stands behind you, hands ghosting your hips as he watches the steam rise. You glance at him in the mirror and smile, then reach back and lace your fingers through his.

When the water is warm enough, you both step in.

You guide him under the stream first, letting it cascade over his hair and shoulders, rinsing away the sweat and salt of everything you just shared.

Despite being the one who served eighteen long months, who grew broader and more powerful in your absence, Jungkook melts into you like he’s the one being protected. He bends down so his forehead tucks into the curve of your neck. His arms encircle your waist. And he doesn’t let go.

You let the water soak your hair and his, then reach for the shampoo. He stays still as you lather your hands and thread your fingers into his dark, wet strands. His breath hitches, chest rising and falling in slow rhythm as your nails lightly scratch his scalp. You massage him gently, murmuring as you work.

“So good, baby. You’ve been so, so good for me. Even when you were bad.”

Jungkook exhales a soft whimper, burying his face deeper into your skin.

“You followed every command,” you whisper against his ear. “Took everything I gave you. Didn’t stop once, even when it got hard.”

He clings to you tighter.

“And you came home to me.” You tilt his head back and rinse the suds away. “You made it back. I’m so proud of you.”

Jungkook sniffles but says nothing, letting the praise settle deep in his bones as you move to clean the rest of him. He stands obedient and still, but every time you lean in to scrub his chest or run the washcloth down his thighs, his hands find some part of you to hold—your hip, your lower back, your shoulder. As if to anchor himself. As if to remind his body you’re real.

You wash yourself quickly once he’s done, and when you shut off the water, Jungkook instantly reaches for the towel and wraps you in it before grabbing one for himself.

You dry off together in the quiet, exchanging soft touches and even softer smiles. And when you’re both finished, he swoops you into his arms with no warning, bridal style, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You laugh against his chest, draping your arms around his neck. “What are you doing?”

“Carrying my entire world to bed,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple.

You nuzzle into him, letting your eyes flutter shut for a moment. “I missed you so much.”

“I know,” he whispers. “I missed you more.”

He carries you to bed and lays you down carefully, pulling the thick comforter up over you both before sliding in beside you. His arms wrap around you immediately, his body curling behind yours like he can’t stand to let there be any space between you. One of his legs hooks over yours. One arm slips under your neck, the other drapes over your waist.

You both lie like that, heartbeats slowly syncing, breaths easing into a shared rhythm.

“Are you really here?” he asks quietly, voice gravelly with exhaustion. “This isn’t… a dream?”

You reach back and cup his cheek, guiding his lips to yours in a soft, lingering kiss. “I’m here. You’re here. We’re okay.”

His grip on you tightens. “I never want to leave again.”

“You won’t have to,” you promise. “No more bases. No more night shifts. No more rationed phone calls.”

“Just us,” he breathes. “Just us.”

You nod and kiss him again.

“I love you,” he murmurs, the words feather light against your skin. “So much.”

“I love you, too.”

And then, finally, your eyes slip closed.

Jungkook’s breath warms the back of your neck. His thumb rubs lazy circles into your hip. And as the quiet of the room wraps around you, you fall asleep in his arms—safe, sated, and whole.

Home.

masterlist

#bts #bts army #bts fanfic #bts fanfiction #bts au #bts smut #bts military service #bts jeon jungkook #bts jeongguk #jungkook x reader #jungkook smut #d/s relationship #d/s sub #d/s dom #d/s lifestyle #bangtanarmynet #SoundCloud

613 notes · View notes

lizzyiii · 8 months ago

Note

Can I make a request? Homelander falling for a reader who is completely unaware of it. Not because he's good at hiding it but because, they genuinely can't fathom the thought of someone being that intense with their feelings about THEM of all people👀 but their the only person who's genuinely kind to him.

I'm sooooo sorry this took so long

Love and Devotion

pairing | homelander x supe!reader

word count | 5.8k words

summary | homelander becomes increasingly obsessed with the new kind and unsuspecting supe, and fixates on her as his perfect match, believing she belongs to him. his possessiveness reaches new heights after discovering intimate details about her powers, pushing him to claim her as his own, regardless of her obliviousness to his feelings.

tags | canon homelander??? obsession, possessiveness, season 4 timeline, major fluff, tell me if you think it ooc homelander, lactating kink

a/n | first homelander fic, this was sooooo fun to write and yes I did rewatch season 4 for this

likes, comments, reblogs are always appreciated ✨

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

You were perfect from the moment he laid eyes on you.

"Her?"

Homelander’s voice dripped with disdain as he watched Firecracker spewing her rant about family values and patriotism, all while waving her hands around. She reminded him of a third-rate talk show host. He grimaced, turning to Sage.

"Yeah," Sage responded, standing at his side.

"Really?" he sneered, barely able to mask his disgust.

"Mhm," Sage hummed in affirmation.

"Seems like she fell off her Jet Ski one too many times," Homelander muttered, his lip curling.

Sage, unbothered by his sarcasm, simply shook her head. "No, now that Starlight’s back leading the Starlighters, we need someone like her."

Homelander raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Mm. And that’s gonna shut them up?" He knew exactly what "them" meant: the endless critics, social media commentators, all the noise that clawed at his mind.

"No," Sage replied, her voice low and cryptic. "She’s going to make them louder."

He shot her a look. "You gonna trust me or not?" she added before he could question it further.

Rolling his eyes, he turned his gaze elsewhere. He was growing tired of these briefings, the endless parade of new supes Vought was parading through. But then, his eyes landed on you.

You were surrounded by a group of eager reporters, microphones pushed into your face. Unlike Firecracker, who couldn't stop her loud, brash performance, you were different. You weren't reciting hollow slogans or pandering to anyone. You stood there with an almost serene composure, answering each question softly, with a gentle smile. There was something…sincere in the way you spoke, like you actually cared about the answers, not just the headlines they’d create.

"And what about her?" Homelander murmured, his gaze locked on you as if he were seeing something unexpected for the first time.

"The Pink Dahlia," Sage said, repeating your supe name as though it was obvious. "She’s going to be the new Starlight."

Homelander frowned, feeling a flicker of confusion. The new Starlight? That seemed impossible. No one could ever replace that bitch's popularity, her…adoring fanbase. But Sage seemed to sense his thoughts, elaborating with an almost bored tone.

"The only reason Starlight is liked is because of her sincerity. Her kindness," Sage explained, nodding towards you. "Pink Dahlia is going to be America’s next sweetheart supe."

Homelander hummed, though his mind was elsewhere, distracted by the sight of you. Sage was talking, but he was no longer listening. Instead, he watched as the cameras captured your every move. For a moment, you glanced in his direction. Not out of fear or awe, but with that same quiet softness you gave to everyone. It unnerved him how unaffected you seemed by his presence, by who he was.

He wanted to look away, but he couldn’t.

Sage dragged him into yet another pointless debate, but his attention was only half there. He knew she’d eventually let it go once she realized his disinterest, and sure enough, she did. He was quick to pass her along to the vultures—photographers desperate to get the next "supe girl" in their lenses.

As Homelander turned, his gaze landed on Ryan, sulking in one of the chairs at the back of the room. Frustration boiled inside him. He couldn’t stand seeing his son like that, so withdrawn, when the whole world was theirs.

But then, his brow furrowed. You had walked over, leaving the cameras behind. Quietly, you sat beside Ryan, the two of you almost invisible in the flurry of the room. He watched as you offered your hand to Ryan, a gentle smile on your face. His son, who had been lost in his own thoughts, blinked in surprise before hesitantly shaking your hand.

For the first time in hours, Homelander saw the tension leave Ryan’s shoulders. His usual sulk was replaced with something lighter. He listened to whatever you were saying, nodding slowly. Homelanders listened carefully to your sweet words, and watched how they were clearly having an effect on Ryan.

Interesting.

Homelander had too many fucking things going on for his mind to keep circling back to you. It irritated him, gnawed at him like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

First, the rage that boiled up every time he saw those goddamn Starlighter protests. He could hardly walk outside without hearing people chant for Starlight’s bullshit message, waving their signs, spewing their anti-Homelander garbage. It infuriated him. Then there was the constant frustration in dealing with Neuman. She was slippery, always too clever, too calm, and it made every negotiation with her feel like wading through quicksand.

But every time his temper cooled, his thoughts went back to you. You. That sweet, unassuming smile that you flashed so casually, like it wasn’t the most perfect thing he’d ever seen. And then there was your body—tight and perfect in that small pink and green suit, looking like you belonged on a magazine cover instead of here, in this hellhole with people like him.

It made him furious.

How could he let himself be distracted by you, when everything else around him was crumbling? He was supposed to be in control, but instead, he was falling apart. First he let that fucking loser Hughie get away. Then, Ryan—his own son—had the nerve to run off to see Butcher after everything Homelander had given him. After all the time and care he’d put into Ryan, after showing him the world, how was he still not good enough?

It made him sick.

And then... and then there was the other thing. His reflection. The part of him that never shut up, that always knew where to strike. His other self had looked at him and sneered. Told him he was weak, that he was a joke. That no matter how much power he had, no matter how feared he was, he was still nothing.

And maybe it was right. Maybe he was losing it.

So he decided to visit home. The lab. Where they had made him. Where he had been molded into the strongest supe to ever walk the earth. He’d slaughtered every single one of the scientists who had "raised" him. He stood in the sterile halls, the faint hum of the machines still active around him. The silence made him feel grounded, like this was the only place in the world where he could truly be himself.

But it wasn’t enough. Not anymore.

Not when the image of you—your smile, your soft gaze, your kindness—kept seeping into his mind. You were a weakness he couldn’t afford. And that filled him with even more rage.

And yet the moment he saw your face, all that rage he had been holding onto evaporated like steam. The blood, the anger, the frustration—it all seemed distant as he took in the worried expression on your face.

He had strolled back into Vought Tower like nothing was wrong, though his suit was still soaked in the blood and viscera of the scientists he’d butchered in the lab. It didn’t matter—he was Homelander, after all. No one would dare question him. But fate must have been laughing at him because, of all people, he ran straight into you.

You froze when you saw him, your eyes widening in pure shock at the sight of him covered in carnage. Anyone else would have been horrified, would have run or screamed, but not you. Instead, your lips parted and, with that same quiet softness he had come to expect, you said, “Would you like some help?”

Homelander just stared, his mind slowing to a crawl as the words sank in. He was a god, covered in the blood of men, and here you were, offering help. Something inside him shifted in that moment. He nodded, feeling strangely empty and vulnerable, like a child waiting for instructions. In the back of his mind, he realized this was the first time you had actually spoken to him directly.

His chest tightened as you stepped closer, your eyes flicking up to his with cautious concern. You reached out and gently placed your pink-gloved hand into his red, blood-stained one. Homelander nearly closed his eyes, focusing intently on the warmth of your touch. That warmth—it spread through him, melting away the sharp edges of his anger. No one touched him like that, without fear or calculation.

You led him silently into the elevator, your hand still in his, guiding him like he was something fragile. He couldn't help but glance down at your hand in his, his mind spinning as he tried to commit the sensation to memory. The touch wasn’t just physical—it felt like a lifeline, something pulling him out of the darkness he had been sinking into.

As the elevator doors slid shut, the quiet hum of the building surrounded them, and Homelander found himself focusing solely on you. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t recoil. You just held his hand, gently, as if leading him somewhere safe. He didn’t feel like a monster in that moment, not in your presence.

The elevator dinged softly, and you led him down the hall to your floor. The sight was unlike anything in Vought Tower—lush greenery, vibrant pinks and soft petals blooming everywhere. It felt alive, warm. This was your power after all, to bend nature to your will. And it was a reflection of you, full of life, soft but powerful. He was surprised it was even still Vought Tower.

He hadn’t expected you to bring him here. You could’ve taken him to his own floor, left him in one of the pristine, sterile bathrooms of his suite. But no—you’d brought him to your space, a sanctuary. It was so unlike the cold, artificial world of Vought. And so much like you.

Slowly, you guided him to the bathroom. The plants trailed along the walls, the air fragrant with the scent of blooming flowers. You looked up at him, blinking those wide, soft eyes of yours. A single word entered his mind: Fawn. You looked like a fawn, delicate and innocent, standing before something dangerous without any idea of what it could do to you.

“Do you want me to leave?” you asked softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

He shook his head, unable to find the words to speak. Still entranced by you, he wondered how you could be so kind, so gentle, to someone like him. Anyone else would have left him to clean himself up in cold silence, but you…you stayed.

You nodded quietly, as if you understood, then turned to the bath, filling it with warm water. He watched you bite your lip in thought, and all he could think about was biting your lip himself. His gaze lingered on your mouth, and for a split second, he imagined pulling you close, feeling that softness against his own. But instead, he remained silent, his breath heavy as you carefully and gently began to undress him.

He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had touched him with such care. You didn’t fumble or stare, didn’t sneak a lustful glance as you removed his suit piece by piece. You were entirely respectful, your touch light, focused on the task. And when you led him to sink into the bath, your hands still guiding him, he realized that you weren’t treating him like Homelander. You weren’t treating him like a god. You were treating him like…a person.

The warm water surrounded him, washing away the blood and grime. But what made him feel truly clean was your touch. You knelt by the tub, peeling off your pink gloves, and began washing him with your bare hands. He could feel your skin against his, the warmth of your palms gliding over his body.

He had to fight to keep from shivering. The sensation of your skin on his—bare and vulnerable—sent a wave of euphoria through him. It was unlike anything he’d ever felt. This wasn’t lust. This was something deeper, something far more dangerous. He was intoxicated by you, not because of what you were doing, but because of who you were. The softness, the care, the genuine kindness…it was all so foreign to him.

And as you worked in silence, cleaning away the blood, he realized with a start that he never wanted this feeling to end.

Homelander couldn’t take his eyes off you as you washed him. Every gentle stroke of your hands sent a ripple of pleasure through him, and though his eyes begged to close, he refused. He needed to see you. To watch you, to take in every movement, every touch. Your fingers slid through his hair, and for a moment, he almost gave in—almost let his eyes flutter shut and just melt into the sensation. But his gaze stayed locked on you, intense and unyielding.

You could feel his stare, that much was clear, yet you didn’t say a word. You just kept working, silent and serene. And it started to bother him, gnawing at him. How could you be so quiet, so unaffected by his presence? He needed to hear your voice again. He craved it, like a drug, something to soothe the irritation building inside him.

“Talk to me,” he said, the words slipping out in a petulant tone he hadn’t meant to use. But he didn’t care. He wanted your attention, your words, your everything.

Your eyes met his, wide and curious, like you were studying him, trying to figure him out. You tilted your head, and once again, the thought struck him—fawn. That was what you reminded him of. A fawn, delicate and gentle, standing before a predator without realizing the danger.

You pursed your lips, thinking carefully about what to say, and for just a second, Homelander finally closed his eyes. He wanted to focus solely on your voice. Nothing else mattered. Just you.

“I named myself Pink Dahlia because my favorite color is pink,” you began, your sweet voice filling the room like music, “and dahlias symbolize love and devotion.”

His eyes snapped open.

Love and devotion. The words echoed in his mind like a gunshot, shattering every other thought. You kept talking, explaining something about flower meanings and other potential supe names you’d considered, but Homelander didn’t give a fuck about that. None of that mattered. All he could focus on was love and devotion.

It was a sign. It had to be. You were made for him. There was no other explanation. How could it be a coincidence that the one person who treated him with kindness, who looked at him without fear, had chosen a name that embodied exactly what he wanted from you? Exactly what he needed. Love and devotion.

His chest tightened with the realization, his mind spinning with the possibilities. You would love him. You would be devoted to him completely. It was inevitable. Fate had brought you into his life for a reason.

As you continued to speak, your voice soft and calming, he stared at you, consumed by the thought of it—how perfect it would be. You, by his side, loyal and loving, filling the void that no one else could. The world would bow before him, but you…you would worship him in the way he craved, in a way no one ever had.

You were starting to seriously piss him off. The way you acted, pretending like nothing had happened between you, like the connection between you wasn’t so strong it practically vibrated in the air. You carried on as if the two of you didn’t share something deeper, something unspoken but undeniable. It was infuriating.

Then again, if you had acknowledged it—if you’d brought it up and confronted him about it—he probably would’ve blown a fucking gasket. His control was fragile enough as it was.

But trying to talk to you? That was a whole other level of frustration. Every time you looked up at him with those soft, gentle eyes, and gave him that sweet, unassuming smile, all the words in his head vanished. Just gone. Like you had some kind of power over him that even he didn’t understand.

So, he did the only thing he could think of to get you closer—he forced The Deep to move, ordering him to sit somewhere else, so that you could sit right next to him. He wasn’t subtle about it, either. He didn’t care if anyone noticed. As long as you were close, that was all that mattered.

Then came the Vought V52 Expo, and Homelander could feel the agitation building inside him. He needed to talk to you, to make you see what was right in front of you, but the timing was never right. On the bright side, things were going well with Ryan. He was bonding with his son, teaching him to stand up for himself, to say no when he needed to. It felt…good, like he was finally getting through to him.

But by the time they got to the V52 Expo, the agitation had grown into something much sharper. His eyes tracked you across the stage, watching as you announced your new environmental awareness project—the Dahlia Project. Fans were cheering for you, screaming your name, and you looked so damn perfect up there.

You were smiling, waving to the crowd, talking passionately about your cause, and the noise of the crowd was deafening. But all Homelander could think about was how you hadn’t even looked at him once. Not a glance. Not a dedication. Nothing.

He watched you with cold, calculated eyes, trying to keep the growing frustration in check. You were good at this, at drawing people in, making them adore you. But how could you not see that you already had him? That no one else in the crowd mattered compared to him?

And as the fans continued to cheer, his grip tightened around the milkshake he’d bought for you. He needed to speak to you. To make you understand. And the longer you went on, the more he realized—this wasn’t just about getting closer to you anymore. It was about making sure you knew that you belonged to him.

Homelander was standing with Ryan, guiding him through yet another lesson in asserting control. Ryan had been eager to "help" people, to really understand what that meant. So, when Homelander saw an opportunity, he called over Adam—the Vought employee who had been making his assistant visibly uncomfortable with inappropriate advances.

Ryan’s eyes narrowed skeptically, his young face twisting in uncertainty as he looked at the assistant. “Um… is he making you uncomfortable? You can tell me. You won’t get in trouble.”

The assistant bit her lip nervously before nodding, her voice hesitant but honest. “Kind of… yeah.”

Homelander raised an eyebrow, turning his attention to Ryan. “Ryan, what do you think we should do about that?”

Ryan hesitated, the weight of the situation pressing down on him. He still hadn’t fully grasped the power he held, and Homelander could sense his uncertainty, the hesitation that made his own patience wear thin. With a sigh, he glanced away—only for his eyes to land on you, walking past with that usual air of calm about you.

“Dahlia,” he called, his voice a little sharper than he intended. “Come over here.”

You looked up at him, eyebrows raised in that sweet, expectant way that only made him more agitated, and walked over without hesitation, your eyes scanning the scene as you assessed the situation.

“What’s up?” you asked simply.

Homelander smiled, the kind of smile that didn’t reach his eyes, and gestured to Adam. “Adam here has been making some inappropriate advances toward his assistant. What do you have to say about that?”

Even Ryan turned to you, waiting for your response. Homelander watched you closely, studying the way you furrowed your brows in genuine concern as you looked at Adam.

“I think,” you said carefully, “that there’s no excuse for making someone else uncomfortable. And it’s even worse when you know you’re doing it.”

Homelander’s smile widened at your answer. It was perfect—clear, direct, and moral, just like he expected from you. There was a subtle pride in the way you spoke, and it fed into his own sense of approval. You were playing right into his hands without even realizing it.

Your words seemed to be the push Ryan needed, as he turned to Adam, his voice gaining confidence. “Apologize,” Ryan commanded, the hint of authority in his tone surprising even himself. When Adam hesitated, Ryan’s jaw tightened. “Now.”

Adam stated an obviously insincere apology, and Ryan, growing bolder by the second, looked at the assistant. “I want you to slap him.”

Homelander’s gaze snapped to you, watching intently for your reaction. You didn’t flinch. Instead, you seemed to consider the situation with a quiet thoughtfulness, your expression showing no sign of discomfort. You didn’t object or look shocked—in fact, there was a hint of agreement in the way you nodded lightly. You understood the need to make a point, to assert control.

Homelander couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride. Not just in Ryan, but in you. The way you navigated the situation with clarity, how you stood by his side and reinforced his lessons without even realizing it—it only confirmed what he already knew.

You belonged with him.

The moment his resolve truly snapped was at Tek Knight’s party. Everything had already spiraled out of control. A-Train and Firecracker were nowhere to be found, MIA at a critical time. And when it was time for the big speech to the GOP donors, Sage was acting as if she’d had a fucking lobotomy, leaving Homelander to take over.

The minute he started speaking, they questioned him. Him. They criticized him as if he wasn’t the most powerful man in the room, as if he wasn’t Homelander. His hand twitched, and he was one second away from lasering through every single one of those smug, entitled bastards. But then Neuman stepped in, pulling the conversation back on track and rallying the support he was seconds from obliterating.

He stalked away, seething. And that’s when he saw it—him—one of the donor’s sons talking to you. But it wasn’t just talking. He recognized the look in that guy’s eyes, the casual leaning in, the way his hand brushed against your arm like it was nothing.

Homelander’s chest tightened with a slow, burning jealousy, the kind that clawed at him from the inside. His grip on the glass tightened, but for the moment, he held himself in check. Barely. When that loser touched your arm, though, that’s when it snapped. His entire facade shattered.

In his mind, that small touch was a violation. You belonged to him. Whether you knew it yet or not, it was already decided. And this idiot was crossing a line no one should ever have the nerve to approach.

His reaction started subtly—at first. His smile stiffened, his eyes narrowed with an icy focus. He moved toward you with the kind of charm that made people believe he was still in control, but inside, he was already a storm waiting to break.

Homelander slid smoothly between you and the man, a calculated smile plastered on his friendly. “Everything alright here?” His voice was polite, but there was an edge, a tension simmering just beneath the surface.

You blinked up at him, surprised but unsuspecting, nodding lightly. “Yeah, of course. This is Jason Wilson, the District Attorney’s son. We’re just talking.”

Just talking. Homelander’s smile grew tighter. Logically, he knew that. But logic had no place here. The jealousy gnawed at him, irrational, violent, and all-consuming. Without hesitation, he slipped an arm around your waist, pulling you closer in a way that left no room for doubt. “We wouldn’t want things to get inappropriate, now would we?”

Jason froze, his eyes widening slightly, clearly unnerved by the sudden shift. Homelander’s stare bore into him, a silent warning not to take another step, not to even breathe in your direction. Jason stammered an awkward excuse and quickly retreated, leaving you and Homelander alone.

You frowned up at him, clearly confused by the sudden shift in his mood. “What was that about?”

Homelander didn’t answer right away. Instead, his grip on your waist tightened, enough that you’d feel the strength behind it—enough that you couldn’t pull away easily. He quietly steered you toward a more secluded corner of the room, away from prying eyes. His voice dropped to a low, dangerous tone, his lips close to your ear. “You shouldn’t let people touch you like that,” he said, barely keeping his rage in check. “Not when you’re with me.”

You blinked, utterly confused, your brows knitting together in that way he both adored and despised. “I don’t understand. I’m not… with you.”

His jaw clenched. The words stung, hitting him harder than any physical blow could. You didn’t understand yet. You didn’t see what he saw, didn’t feel what he felt. But you would. You had to.

Homelander let out a hollow chuckle, raising his hands in mock surrender. “You don’t understand. It’s fine, I’ll forgive you for that.” His tone dripped with condescension as if he were talking to a child. He then pointed between the two of you, his expression hardening. “You and me—we belong together. Which makes you mine.”

You stared at him, completely lost, your mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air. The confusion in your eyes only seemed to amuse him further. You were so oblivious, so innocent, and it both frustrated and thrilled him. Finally, you managed to speak, your voice soft and uncertain. “I thought you were interested in Firecracker.”

Homelander’s face scrunched up in pure disgust, his lip curling as if you had just said something vile. “What? No. Ew. No.”

“Oh,” you mumbled, looking around as if there were hidden cameras capturing this bizarre moment, half-expecting this to be some kind of elaborate joke. “Oh.”

Then you turned back to him, your wide eyes filled with genuine surprise, lips pouting slightly as you asked, “You… like me?”

The way you said it—so innocent, so utterly unaware—made his chest tighten. Like wasn’t even close to what he felt for you. He needed you. You were everything he’d been waiting for, the one pure thing in a world full of filth and betrayal. But the fact that you couldn’t even comprehend why someone like him would be interested in you… It only made his obsession stronger.

He smiled, soft and almost tender, his previous irritation and jealousy melting away in the face of your cluelessness. “Like doesn’t even begin to cover it,” he murmured, his voice lower now, dripping with an intensity that sent a shiver through the air. He stepped closer, his gaze locking onto yours with an unsettling focus. “You’re perfect. You’re everything.”

He reached out, gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, the gesture intimate but laced with possessiveness. “You just don’t see it yet. But you will.”

You blinked up at him, still dazed, still confused, your mind struggling to process what was happening. But in his mind, it was already decided. You were his—had been from the moment he laid eyes on you. And soon enough, you’d understand that too.

Homelander cupped your face as though you were the most delicate thing in existence, his touch surprisingly gentle for someone capable of such monstrous strength. His heart raced as he leaned in, finally close enough to taste the softness of your lips—something he’d craved for what felt like an eternity. He could already imagine how perfect you’d feel, how right it would be.

But before his lips could meet yours, your hand quickly covered his mouth. "Wait," you said, eyes wide with sudden embarrassment.

His eyes snapped open, irritation flashing in them, his impatience barely concealed. "What?" he grunted, his voice muffled by your hand.

You hesitated, biting your lip nervously, avoiding his intense gaze as you finally explained, “My lips… they’re poisonous.”

His brows furrowed in confusion, and you removed your hand, looking even more embarrassed. “They contain a toxin,” you said softly, as if confessing a dark secret. “It gives anyone who kisses me a high, raises their heart rate until they get a heart attack… and die.”

A heavy silence followed as you waited for his reaction, expecting rejection or disgust. But Homelander’s eyes gleamed with something entirely different. Instead of pulling away, he just shrugged as if the danger you posed was trivial to him. "Fuck it," he muttered with a smirk, his hands tightening around your cheeks.

Before you could protest again, he pulled you into a kiss, his lips crashing against yours with a hunger that bordered on madness.

The moment your lips met, Homelander let out a low, primal groan of pleasure. The sensation of your mouth against his was everything he’d imagined—and more. He could feel the toxin you had warned him about seeping into his bloodstream, but instead of fear, it only fueled the euphoria rushing through him. His tongue forced its way into your mouth, deepening the kiss, his desire consuming every rational thought.

The high from your poison made him feel invincible, like every dark, twisted part of him was being set free. The world outside—its chaos, its disappointments, its endless betrayals—faded into nothing. All that mattered was you. He felt light, weightless, as though he could fly to the edge of the universe with you in his arms.

And as the toxin worked its way through his system, the sensation of bliss became all-consuming. He didn’t just want to kiss you—he wanted to devour you, to possess you completely, body and soul. Every kiss, every taste of you, made the thought of losing you unbearable.

He deepened the kiss, his grip on your face tightening, every muscle in his body screaming with pleasure. He didn’t care about the risk, didn’t care that you could kill him. In that moment, he belonged to you, utterly and completely, and he’d die a thousand deaths for this feeling. The darkness inside him surged, but for once, it didn’t feel like a curse. With you, it felt like freedom.

Homelander had never been high in his entire existence, but if this was what it felt like—well, it was fucking spectacular. Every nerve in his body buzzed with euphoria, his muscles relaxed in a way that felt almost foreign to him, and everything around him suddenly seemed amusing, even absurd. He laughed—really laughed—as he flew the two of you back to Vought Tower, the wind whipping through his hair as if the world itself couldn’t touch him.

When he landed on your balcony, a wide grin stretched across his face, a rare glint of pure joy in his eyes. You looked up at him, bemused, as he stumbled slightly, his usually poised demeanor replaced with a boyish charm. He couldn’t stop smiling. “How long does this last?” he asked, his voice light with the toxin’s effects.

You chuckled softly as you led him inside, your touch warm and steady while his hands wandered over you, unable to keep still. “Max? Maybe two hours before the average human dies,” you murmured with a teasing smile.

He let out a breathless laugh, his hand still brushing against your waist, intoxicated not just by the toxin but by you. “How many people have you done this to?” he asked, voice low as he buried his nose in the curve of your neck, inhaling your scent deeply. It was almost possessive, his need to absorb every part of you.

You leaned back slightly, a soft sigh escaping your lips. “Two… high school boyfriends.”

Homelander’s hands slid over your body, but then something caught his eye—a small jar on the kitchen island. His gaze sharpened instantly, curiosity piqued. “What’s that?” he asked, tone suddenly playful but underlined with a dangerous edge as his fingers drifted toward the jar.

He could feel the tension in your body before he even turned to face you fully, sensing the shift in the air. His smile twisted into something more predatory as he turned to you, eyes glinting with amusement and a hint of menace. “Look here,” he started, his voice low and smooth, “since we’re now officially together—”

“Officially?” you murmured, your eyes slightly hazy from his intoxicating presence, a dreamy smile playing on your lips.

He scrunched his nose in a mock expression of annoyance. “Yeah, officially. And there’s one thing you should know about me—I hate secrets. Can’t fucking stand 'em.”

You flushed, your face heating with embarrassment as you shifted on your feet, clearly reluctant to answer. “It’s… nipple cream,” you mumbled.

Homelander raised an eyebrow, his expression uncharacteristically patient, though the intensity in his eyes never wavered. “I can see that,” he said, his voice slow, almost mocking. He leaned closer, a smirk tugging at his lips. “But why do you need it?”

You hesitated, then looked away shyly before finally answering, “I lactate.”

For the first time in a long time, pure shock crossed Homelander’s face. His smile faded, replaced by an unreadable expression as your words sank in. Lactate? He couldn’t process it at first, the information almost short-circuiting his mind. “What?” he asked, his voice lower now, the question almost a growl.

You swallowed, explaining softly, “Just like how some plants and fruits produce milk… ever since I got my first cycle, I’ve been producing milk too.”

Homelander’s throat went dry, his eyes dropping instinctively to your breasts as his thoughts spun wildly. “Only during your cycle?” he asked, voice barely a whisper.

“No,” you admitted, your voice softer still. “Every single day since I got my cycle.”

A long pause hung in the air between you, the weight of your revelation settling in. Homelander’s heart pounded, and for a moment, the effects of the toxin couldn’t compare to the sheer awe and hunger he felt. His gaze drifted back up to meet yours, and something primal flickered in his eyes.

“Oh,” he murmured, a slow smile creeping back onto his face, but this time, it wasn’t just euphoria driving it. No, this—this was something deeper.

Somehow, impossibly, you had just become even more perfect in his eyes.

Reader's Aesthetic

(only her supe name is Pink Dahlia)

Hope you enjoyed!

#homelander x reader #homelander #the boys #homelander x you #homelander x y/n #antony starr #the boys x reader #homelander fanfiction

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humanjarvis · 2 months ago

Text

serenade

synopsis: when top music critic sylus qin gives your new album a scathing review, you plan a performance to make him pay.

tags: celebrity au, porn with plot, enemies to lovers (reader hates him, sylus is generally a bastard but just doing his job), mirror sex, p in v, light choking, moderate biting, size difference, dramatic reader, reader does some light internet stalking, brief angst only bc sylus’s review was mean, he does something nice at the end to make up for it, inspired by dandelion by ariana grande pairing: music critic!sylus x pop star!fem reader word count: 7.2k

a/n: writing this was a traumatic experience i literally decided i was going to finish and upload today 12 hours ago because i cannot have this in my drafts any longer

I. THE RATING

“A fucking 4.7?!” you screech, hurling your phone across the bed in horror.

It must be a mistake. A typo, or maybe your eyesight has gotten worse since your last checkup. Paparazzi cameras can do that, your optometrist had told you once. Yes. You’re sure that’s the case.

Taking a moment to breathe—hyperventilate, more like—you snatch the device back up and double-check with wild eyes.

And sure enough, in big bold letters: Four. Point. Seven.

There was no way. No fucking way that that hard-ass snobby bastard Sylus Qin had given your new album—the record you’d poured your heart and soul into—a 4.7/10 rating.

You refresh and refresh, but the numbers stay the same. 4.7, followed by heartless jabs that carve into your chest like daggers. Failed. Uninspired. Noise.

You must have died last night, somehow. You must be dead right now. And for some reason unbeknownst to you—you’ll have to talk it out with God if you ever get the chance—you had woken up in Hell.

Life as you knew it was over. The little ghouls who hounded you online were going to throw you to the wolves. Your agent would be lucky to book you at a high school bake sale. The reporters—if you even counted as a celebrity anymore—would never let this go. And there was only one man to blame.

Sylus Qin.

The name alone struck fear into the hearts of the entire pop industry. Not even the living legends with decades-long careers were safe.

The man himself was an enigma, with little known of him other than his unnaturally deep voice and moderately vampiric appearance. But the reputation that preceded him was that of the most renowned music critic alive.

No one knew how he got his start—maybe he’d just spawned onto Earth one day, slashing dreams and breaking hearts. Or maybe his mother had played him the classics while she carried him, murmuring to her belly about what true music was, and he’d been ranting about artistic integrity and sonic evolution since before he could walk.

No matter what his story was, the facts were that your peers lived in terror of a bad Sylus Qin review—or any Sylus Qin review, really. He’d ruined so many careers, it was like he had a yearly quota.

And the prick had just given what you’d thought was your magnum opus the industry equivalent of a public hanging.

As frustrated tears well in your eyes, you take a look around the house you’d only just managed to buy—the cozy Gothic fireplace, the customized in-home studio, and the quaint little garden. It was all still so new to you. And just like that, you’d have to give it up soon.

You were wholly, utterly, and hopelessly fucked.

***

Death. You’d imagined it’d be…more peaceful. Less emotional devastation, more belated introspection.

But as you shift under the weighted blanket you’d rolled yourself up in, the sudden movement disturbing the heap of tear-stained tissues on top of you, you realize how much you hate being wrong.

Your life had officially been over for almost 22 hours. And in those hours, you’d stared at the wall, ignored 36 text messages, opened and immediately closed your socials countless times, and sobbed into your satin pillowcase.

As you roll away from the sliver of sunlight slipping through your curtains with a pained hiss, you hear the heavy footsteps climbing up your marble staircase.

Oh well, you shrug inwardly. Not like it can get any worse. If it’s an intruder, they can have at it. Put me out of my misery.

But as a familiar pattern of knocks precedes the door swinging open, allowing more light than you’d seen in the last day to flood the room, you realize that this may be a fate worse than brutal murder.

“You can’t answer your phone anymore or something?” the tenor voice of Devon, your beloved, overbearing manager cuts through the room.

“Go away,” you mumble, the sound muffled by the heavy blanket covering your mouth.

You hear an incredulous snort. “Go awa—Girl, get up,” he snaps, walking up to tug the blanket off of you. As he heaves it to the foot of the bed, the army of tissues scatters across the room like huge snowflakes of failure, and your jostled body ends up sprawled in an almost-perfect diagonal from the impact.

“I’ve been calling you all morning! And not only do you not pick up, but you block my number? You had me rushing over here to do a wellness check like you died or something.”

“Oh. Well,” you begin nonchalantly. “In case you haven’t heard, I did. Yesterday. And I’m finding it to be quite pleasant, actually,” you lie through your teeth and purse your lips, “so I’d like to continue being dead, please. Alone.”

“Yeah. Right,” he responds, mouth wedged open in a clearly annoyed grimace. “Okay, we do not have time for this, girl. You got a fan engagement livestream scheduled for this evening. You’ve never canceled a stream, not even when you lost your voice from that virus that one time. You really gonna let that man break your streak?”

At the mere reference to his existence, your face shrivels and you curl into a defensive ball. “Oh, what’s the point?” you wail, shoving your face into the mattress. “There will probably only be 4.7 viewers. And then the tabloids will be filled with news about how I’m talentless and unpopular.”

Devon closes his eyes, pinches the mahogany skin of his prominent nose, and releases a slow, controlled exhale.

“Okay,” he starts, visibly switching tactics. “If your own fans—you know, the people who made you famous—can’t get you out of bed, maybe this will.” He takes a deep breath, as if bracing for impact, before continuing. “I have it on good authority that Sylus Qin is doing a TV interview. Tonight.”

And in the middle of an agonized writhe, you freeze in place.

“He never does interviews,” you say lowly, voice suddenly hard enough to cut diamond. “He’s never done an interview, D. Stop bullshitting.”

“Dead serious,” he replies, shoving his too-bright phone in your still sideways face. And sure enough, mysterious critic act be damned, Sylus Qin’s name is in bright bold letters on the hottest talk show in the country’s latest social post.

Failing to suppress the anxious pang in your chest, you swallow thickly. “It’s…real. You weren’t….he’s actually going to…right after…he…” The world starts spinning as you trail off, and when the dry heaves start up on their own, you wonder if it’s possible to die twice.

“Chill! Girl, chill,” Devon yells, firmly sitting you up on the bed. “My contact in production said he’s not talking about his work. He’ll be there to announce something, so he shouldn’t mention you unless they ask.”

“Unless they ask,” you cry, slapping your palms to your face.

“Which they won’t,” he adds in unsuccessful reassurance. “I just figured it might wake you up a bit. You’ve never seen him before, right? Maybe some exposure therapy will help.”

Chewing your bottom lip hard enough to leave marks, you consider your options. You could either kick your manager out and wallow in bed until you get a foreclosure notice, or get up, grit your teeth through the livestream, and rush back to your bedroom afterwards to hate-watch Sylus on national television and pray he doesn’t speak your name.

Your conscience and the voice in your head confer, and it seems like your anxiety has beaten your depression this time. Second option it is.

II. THE INTERVIEW

After an excruciating hour of smiling blankly, avoiding talking about your album, and pretending not to see cruel comments, the stream is over.

It was time to stare Death in the face.

With 8 minutes to spare, you run up the stairs from the streaming setup in your studio and catapult into your walk-in closet, ripping your intricate work clothes off and diving into the comfiest loungewear you can find. If you were going to do this, you were going to do it comfortably.

3 minutes. You dim the lights and flip the TV on, having already set it to the right channel in a bout of paranoia hours ago. Your house is empty except for you, but you trot over to shut the door just in case. A potential humiliation ritual was a private affair.

And with 30 seconds to go, you unmute the TV and slowly climb onto your bed, sitting cross-legged and letting out the kind of breath you’d spent hundreds on mastering in pilates.

The cheery, inauthentic talk show theme fills your ears, and you lift your eyelids open in resolve.

A corny host intro. A brief band performance. And then, a tall white-haired man is strolling across your screen.

Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the illustrious Sylus Qin!

Your heart stops.

“Thank you, it’s my pleasure to be here,” a baritone purr rings out. Unnaturally deep voice, huh. They’d been right about one thing.

And then he sits on the smooth leather couch, turning his body to face the camera.

Sylus Qin is…young. Not some wrinkled up curmudgeon out to terrorize the youth in his bitter old age. By the looks of it, he hasn’t even reached his 40s yet.

Another observation. Sylus Qin is big. To be tall is one thing—not that special in a world of models doubling as singers—but this guy nearly swallows the sofa with his huge, obviously muscled frame. You wonder how he finds the time to work out between ruining lives.

And as you take in his chiseled appearance—certainly vampiric, you think—you realize with unprecedented dread: Sylus Qin is handsome.

“Mr. Qin,” the host begins, “we know this opportunity is extremely rare, so let me just say—it is our absolute honor to have you here during such a busy time for you.”

It’s an ambiguous reference, probably not even to his most recent work, but you flinch backwards anyway.

“Not a problem at all,” he drawls smoothly. “And just ‘Sylus’ is fine. I heard you all like to…have fun on this show.” He finishes the reply with a conspiratorial smirk, and you can all but see the women in the audience swoon at his despicable charm. “Like you said, this is a rare moment. You’re here to ask, and I’m here to answer. So, ask away.”

“Perfect,” the host starts. “So, Mr—ahem—Sylus, you’ve built your reputation through exclusive music correspondence for a variety of publications…”

***

As the minutes tick by and your hatred turns to intrigue, you start to really study the man in front of you. Learn his unique cadence, contemplate the angle of his aristocratic nose. Take in the way his ruby eyes glint when he talks about music, the way he sounds older than the age listed on his Wikipedia. And his IMDb. And his famousbirthdays.com. You’d triple-checked.

You note the way he smirks at difficult questions, as if welcoming the challenge and begging for something harder. The way he crosses and uncrosses his thick, long legs as he weaves his answers into an impromptu PR masterclass. The way he panders to the audience so subtly you’d think it natural—if not for the way his large palms open when he looks their way, as if luring them into his trap from the stage.

Fuck, he’s hot. And you can’t even try to pretend otherwise.

Until a particularly sore subject snaps you out of your ogling and draws you back into the conversation.

“Now, Sylus, you may be a critic, but you’ve received some criticism yourself lately for your ‘harsh and grating’ reviews, especially in the pop sphere. Some go as far as to claim you’re even biased against pop artists. What do you say to that?”

And Sylus Qin chuckles. The bastard chuckles. As if he actually finds it funny.

“I give albums and their creators the reviews they earn,” he says evenly. “I didn’t get to where I am today by handing out participation trophies.”

He’s doubling down. You can’t believe he’s doubling down.

“I’ve heard that some recent articles of mine have…ruffled some feathers. There’s never a shortage of angry fans in my inbox,” he shrugs. “But it’s my job to speak up when projects are…uninspired. You all get better music that way,” he quips, spreading his palms once more.

Uninspired. Uninspired. The word that’s flashed in your head nonstop for the past 36 hours. A failed ascent to the top of pop stardom reveals itself as little more than uninspired noise.

That was the exact quote he’d left in his scathing review of your album—you remembered. Because you’d read it—cried to it—over. And over. And over. And he’d just alluded to it with a smirk on his face, the crowd eating straight from his outstretched hands, in front of the entire country.

Ugly, uncontrollable shame heats your face as the all too familiar tears sting your eyes once more. As you search for the remote through blurry vision, your blood burns hotter than lava, and you curse yourself for letting your guard down. For seeing any redeeming qualities—even if only physical—in a man with his reputation. With his lack of empathy.

When your fingers close around the controller and you stumble off the bed, more than ready to click the TV off and return to the glorious rot-until-you-get-kicked-out plan, you freeze as Sylus speaks again.

“That said,” he continues, “I encourage any artists who’ve been offended by my commentary to come chat about it in person. That’s my reason for coming here, after all—to announce that I’ll be attending the annual Spirit Awards this year.”

Thumb hovering over the “off” button, you blink your tears away in disbelief. The Spirit Awards. You know that show. You know that show well. Because as thanks for your viral performance at last year’s event, you’d been invited to sing in the main performance slot.

You were going to headline. And Sylus Qin would be your audience.

As the interview ends and his figure fades to black with the next commercial, a sudden realization talks you down from the ledge.

This was your chance. To give the best damn show you’d ever put on, to reclaim the work whose meaning had been stolen from you. To sink his reputation, and to save yours.

Maybe it’s a good thing he looks the way he does, you think, a slow smile spreading across your increasingly mischievous face.

Because for the first time in almost two days, you’re confident. Confident that you’ll not only get him to change his mind, but that you’ll get him. Period.

Sylus Qin, we’ll see about that fucking 4.7 when I’m done with you.

III. THE PLAN

Bleary eyes. A full night of sleep lost. And three 12-ounce iced coffees delivered straight to your door.

But after eight and a half hours, Operation: Silence Sylus was a go.

After the interview, you’d set up a makeshift situation room in your studio. You’d hauled all your devices—phone, laptop, monitor, smart watch, you name it—into the space for backup. Anything that could find information, you needed. You’d have even dragged your smart microwave in here if you could figure out the wires.

But, all things considered, the setup had been the easy part. Because what came after was an informal case study on the most elusive man in history.

You’d started simple: his social media.

There was more to work with than you’d expected, but nothing too crazy. He had 2.6 million followers—a fraction of yours, you’d smirked, but still good for someone whose work is out of the spotlight.

His photos had no discernible aesthetic, as if he posted them straight from his camera roll. And his upload patterns…the lack of marketing was so severe it sent a shiver down your spine. The man posted a few times a year, if that, and the captions he did include were vague and simple. He’s lying about his age, you’d decided, because this guy is old as fuck.

But Sylus’s dire need for a social media manager was far from the most interesting thing you’d noticed. No, in all your 264 weeks’ worth of research—you’d scrolled until the app wouldn’t let you refresh anymore—not a single other person was featured on his feed. Like, there’d been more motorcycle pictures than humans on there. You’d have chalked it up to the narcissism typical of men like him, but he hardly even posted his own face.

And as shameful as it was to stalk the man who’d publicly humiliated you’s Instagram to see if he had a girlfriend, it was absolutely necessary. If the answer was yes, it’d put the whole plan in jeopardy! You were simply doing your job as a diligent creative, covering all your bases in advance. How would you seduce him into changing his mind about you if he had a fucking girlfriend? Or worse?

That would be your next stop, then, you’d nodded resolutely. His dating history.

But no matter how many articles you read; how many variations of Sylus Qin girlfriend, sylus Qin single, Sylus qin married, sylus qin Boyfriend you’d put in the search bar; how many viruses you’d probably gotten on your laptop from clicking through trashy tabloid sites; there was nothing. No photos, no reported sightings, hardly even a rumor. You’d typed in Sylus Qin asexual as a last resort, but that came back empty, too.

You’d sat in disbelief for a second, wondering how he could be so…clean. Even with his…glowing personality, his looks and success more than made up for any quirks. In this town, people should have been throwing themselves at him left and right, bogeyman allegations be damned.

But there was no mistaking it. As far as romance was concerned, the man was a blank slate.

Good thing you were coming for him with a big feather pen, ready to brand your name into his skin.

***

After analyzing his public image and making sure no…obstacles would block your path, it was time for a personality study. And where better to start than his full catalogue of reviews? His portfolio was practically front and center on his publication’s website—all 114 articles offered to you on a silver platter.

Almost immediately, you’d taken a nervous breath and hastily clicked past the most recent page. The abject horror of the 4.7 was still too fresh on your mind, and you’d be damned if tonight ended with a traumatic episode. So you’d landed on the second most recent page, starting with reviews from a couple months ago. And you’d read.

104 irritatingly confident articles. You’d read his praise, his disappointment, his bewilderment, his disgust. His beautifully packaged this-person-should-be-sent-to-prison-for-making-this-es. No matter how much you disagreed with some—most—of his takes, he was an incredible writer.

He tolerated jazz the most, it seemed. The smooth melodies, the warm embrace of the trumpet, trombone, and sax. It was so incredibly old. But it suited him.

“The riveting blend of brass and reed solos marks the triumphant rebirth of a fallen genre,” he’d complimented a band earlier this year. Looking at his preferences, it was no wonder why your synth-heavy pop beats seemed to have personally offended him.

But for all the things Sylus thought he knew about you, he was missing a few key items:

You were desperate. To win back the public, to win his approval, to win him.

You were planning a deluxe album with six new songs. And one of those songs said please fuck me disguised under a sensual trumpet solo.

You were desperate enough to release said album and perform said song a month early, solely to prove a point.

And with one screaming match of a phone call to Devon at 6 a.m., it’d been done.

You hadn’t coordinated with your dancers yet. Or told your label. Or informed the Spirit Awards producers that you’d be changing your set. But in your sleep-deprived, caffeine-jittered mind, it was all but confirmed. Your next performance would be dedicated to Sylus Qin.

There was only one more piece to put into place. With newfound conviction, you’d reopened his Instagram and clicked “Direct Message” before you could talk yourself out of it. And while you’d have liked to send him a colorful list of expletives, you maintained your professionalism.

Hi! I heard you’re going to the Spirits next Sunday. Hope you’re in the crowd for my performance—would love to chat after :)

The passive aggressive smiley face of doom. Sent and delivered.

His fate was sealed, but he didn’t know it yet.

Between excited bounces of your leg, you’d taken a final pass at his portfolio, and your eyes found your name before you could stop them.

“Deeming the music passable is more of a compliment than any listener should be willing to give. A failed ascent to the top of pop stardom reveals itself as little more than uninspired noise.”

Failed. Uninspired. Noise. There they were again, the insults seared into the back of your mind.

A reminder of your shame, but a motivator for you to make him eat his words.

IV. THE PREP

You’d always loved awards shows.

The buzz of energy backstage, the rushed glimpses of peers and legends, the flamboyant accessories and vibrant strips of fabric strewn across the floor. The kind of chaos you’d learned to thrive in.

After making the rounds of greetings and introductions, you take a break outside your dressing room in the main hall. Your stage outfit was already on and hidden under a frilly robe; you always liked to arrive early in case of any mishaps. (Lesson learned from the time you’d been fashionably late and had to go onstage in an unfashionable loose corset. That had slipped down mid-song.)

Chatting with your head dancer, you laugh at a video she shows you on her phone before spotting something in the corner of your eye: a flash of white hair.

Your body goes rigid.

But the lightning-quick twitch in your eye is forcing you to turn around, and your breath hitches as soon as you do.

Sylus Qin is here.

Just as he said he’d be, you suppose, but it’s no less surreal seeing the object of your warring emotions in the flesh.

Somehow, he’s taller than he looks on camera. Bigger, too. How someone whose job involved hunching over a laptop writing hate mail every day could be built like a professional athlete, you’d never know.

Black slacks are snug around his strong legs, and he’s paired them with a silken, wine-red shirt that you’re sure would match the color of his eyes if he’d just turn arou—

It’s like he heard you. Felt you.

Because before you can even finish your thought, Sylus Qin’s bewitching ruby eyes are on you.

When your jaw drops slightly, his lips curl. And as that lazy, taunting, I’m-better-than-you smirk spreads across his gorgeous face, it reignites the feelings that got you here. The hatred and humiliation and unyielding spite.

So with flames in your eyes, you pat the dancer on the back and give her a cheerful platitude before storming—no, sauntering, you should saunter—over.

When he bends his neck to accommodate your comparatively small stature, Sylus Qin watches you like you’re his favorite reality show.

“Sylus!” you squeal, pulling him into a side hug. One thing you’d learned in the industry: overfamiliarity was the best form of offense. “It’s so nice to see you here! I’m glad you could make it.”

You expect him to falter. To push away from you in a decidedly rude yet necessarily humanizing show of uncertainty. For that condescending smirk to waver in confusion, only a little.

But to your surprise, he simply wraps a very muscled arm around you and returns your embrace. He’d been trained well, you lament with an inward groan.

“It’s great to be here,” he says smoothly, and the way he rumbles your name makes you want to forego the performance entirely and beg him to take you here and now. “Especially since someone was nice enough to invite me to watch their performance. I get the opposite, usually—people typically fake illness when I watch them in person—so I just had to see this for myself,” he drawls.

At some point, he’d laid his warm hand on your robe-clad shoulder, rubbing up and down in time with his slow words. But like that wasn’t enough, you’d almost been too wrapped up in his heady scent to notice. In his teasing embrace, the smell of spice, leather, and a hint of pomegranate envelop you, and you have to school your expression to look like you aren’t huffing it in.

As you stare up at him blinking dumbly, you notice his smirk widen, and somewhere in the back of your head you remember that conversations are two-sided.

“Y-yes,” you try to assert, cursing the way your voice shakes with need. “It’s right up your alley. I think—I know you’ll like it.”

“You know, hm?” he quirks a brow, circling his thumb against your arm.

“I know. It’s a new song, much more to your liking. Think of it as…a tribute. To your glowing review of me,” you reply coldly, untangling yourself from his hold despite your body’s protests. If you had any chance tonight, you had to level the playing field. Which meant Sylus Qin could not touch you anymore.

“Mm,” he hums, eyes lingering on the spot you’d detached yourself from before flicking up to your face. “I reviewed your album, sweetie. Not you. Even so, nothing I said was untrue,” he shrugs as you bristle with rage. “But…if your performance is to my taste, as you claim, then you’ll know my review soon after. Before the end of the night, I’d say.”

His words are intentionally vague, as if he’s goading you into asking what he means. But under the heat of his gaze, you’re too prideful and angry and turned on to ask for clarification.

“Then I guess we’ll see, won’t we?” you challenge him with a saccharine smile.

He nods plainly, as if merely entertaining the idea of you ever impressing him. “I guess we will.”

That twitch in your eye? It’s back with a vengeance.

Before it can overtake your whole face, you spin on your heel and sashay away from him, pretending not to care if he watches you leave or not.

Refusing to stop before you’re out of his sight, you disappear into your dressing room and slump into the nearest chair. As the stylists flock over to put the last touches on your hair and makeup, you try not to chew your nails off and ruin your fresh manicure. Damn him, you think for the 300th time in a week.

***

In the center of the room, a monitor broadcasts the show’s live feed. The early portions go by in a blink—time flies when you have pre-seduction attempt anxiety, you guess—and before you know it, it’s 10 minutes to showtime.

As soon as you’re clear to set up on stage, you make a beeline for the curtain and pull it back ever so slightly, looking for Sylus in the crowd. And just to your luck, there he is, sitting pretty in the second fucking row. Great if you don’t mess up, catastrophic if you do.

Just as his all-knowing eyes shift toward the stage, as if he somehow felt your gaze from afar, you inch back into the inky shadows of the curtain.

Two minutes to go. Clenching your hands into fists, you squeeze your eyes shut and breathe.

It was time to channel the outrage, embarrassment, and devastatingly irritating lust into the performance of your life.

V. THE SHOW

The soft swells of a trumpet float through the hushed arena.

The player, first chair in a local jazz ensemble, sways gently to the beat, his dark skin glowing in the warm stage lights.

In time with the soulful melody, dozens of dancers fan out around the bar set, fiddling with prop bottles of fake booze. Your hours of research had pointed you in one direction: a speakeasy theme.

Perfect for a jazz intro, and seductive enough to get your point across without getting you banned from live television.

The outfit under your robe was a modern take on the 1920s: a bejeweled crimson flapper dress, sharp black stilettos, and a thick raven’s feather nestled in your hair.

Just like you’d practiced, you stumble onto the set, miming drunken confusion as you trip into a male dancer’s arms. You shoot him a flirtatious smile when he steadies you, only for your attention to be captured by the trumpet still crooning in the background.

Enraptured by the player, you glide across the stage to lean against him, standing back-to-back with your hands on your heart. The tassels on your dress flow in time with the sultry swirls of your hips.

A few more beats, and the intricate solo dwindles into the main riff that marks the true beginning of your set, to the audible gasps of the crowd. Look, you liked jazz as much as anyone—well, maybe not someone—but this was still your song. Your stage. And you were here to wake it up! As good as the player was, you had hypothetical sex to sing about.

So the trumpet fades out, replaced by a poppy trap beat. Between each drum hit, your female dancers crowd you, tearing off the edges of your dress until you’re left in a shimmering red bodysuit.

Strutting across the stage, you work through the lyrics of the first verse, eyeing the audience as you sing for someone special to come and take what he wants from you.

The way you prowl from edge to edge is suggestive, inviting. The screams of the fans drown out the sound in your earpiece, but the winks you give them are only for show. You’d decided a week ago that you’d be a bad idol tonight. You’d make up for it later—a giveaway, follow spree, or something—but tonight, your focus was reserved for one man.

As you ease into the chorus, your muscles glint under the twinkling lights, flexing in time with fluid spreads of your arms and gentle footwork. A siren song is what you’re singing, rhythmic pleas for a partner to make good on his promise falling from your lips.

The next verse brings a slowdown in the melody that you meet with sensual rolls of your hips. Twisting your frame, you slide a purposeful hand down to rest just above your pelvis, tangling the other in your hair.

The beat picks back up as you lead a line of men down the steps and into the audience, playfully evading their touches. It’s a calculated game of cat and mouse—one you’d hoped would pique the interest of the man you’d done this for. And as you parade right behind his row, boldly ghosting a hand over his shoulder in the dim crowd lighting, the tension in his muscles tells you you’d been right.

You can’t see his face, but the thought of him suffering right now is so satisfying, you have to fight to keep the vindictive smile off your face. Revitalized, you flounce back onstage right as the bridge melts into the final chorus—your favorite part of the show.

Because while you’d been working the crowd, the crew had lined up seven shiny motorcycles at the front of the stage. Six were for your dancers, of course, but the seventh? That one was special. You’d gone through hell to get that bike on time—the same luxury model that was plastered all over Sylus Qin’s Instagram. The seventh bike was yours.

Taking your place in the center, you swing a leg over the seat and lower your hips gracefully, snapping back into the final moves of the choreography.

With a daring raise of your eyebrow, you glance at his massive frame in the second row. He’s relaxed now, body no longer rigid with surprise. A bit too relaxed, you think, with the way his legs are spread apart, thumb swiping lazily across his smirking mouth. His gaze locks onto the familiar brand etched into the side of the bike before traveling up to yours, and the half a second of eye contact sends a shudder down your spine.

Between hazy, hopefully covert blinks, you hum out the last note of the song to thunderous applause. When you release your ending pose, waving to the sea of cheering faces, your eyes find his seat once more.

But Sylus Qin is gone.

VI. THE AFTERMATH

The moment you step backstage, a flood of congratulations greets you.

Dancers, friends, and strangers huddle all around you, whooping with joy at your undeniable triumph.

But between the friendly pats on your shoulders, sweaty hugs, and heaving breaths, you wonder if tonight can be called a success at all.

Hours and hours of mourning your young career. Of research that, in any other circumstance, probably would have gotten you on a watchlist. Of hard work, of pivoting, of betting your entire future on the hope that he’d break. And he’d just…left.

You were never one to stop a celebration early, but the burning pangs of defeat are too much to bear. With a tight smile and a flick of your card into the nearest hand—drinks are on you tonight—you trudge back to the solace of your dressing room.

And the scent of leather and spice hits you a second too late.

Because in all his wicked glory, Sylus Qin is in your empty dressing room, lounging in your chair like he owns the place.

Your initial reaction—a startled jump and a choked squeak—has his eyes sparkling in satisfaction, and you stalk up to the mirror with a scowl before you can embarrass yourself any further.

Feigning nonchalance, you remove your accessories one by one, starting with the feather in your hair. As you place it gently on the marble counter, a firm chest presses against your back, and you see his frame nearly swallow yours in the glass before you.

“If I were a bolder man, I’d think you were trying to send me a message just now,” he purrs into your ear.

Glancing at his reflection, you shrug noncommittally. “Did you like it?”

You receive a soft hum in response.

As you continue your act with trembling hands, Sylus cages you against the hard edge of the counter, admiring the remaining pieces of your costume with light, teasing touches.

Once you make no effort to stop him, a large hand rises to close loosely around your throat. When his thumb brushes your bottom lip, you bite it hard enough to sting, and his deep chuckle worsens the throbbing between your legs.

“I’m enough of a man to admit when I’m wrong. I underestimated you, it seems.” The low admission sends blood rushing through your ears, and you lean into him with a quiet gasp. “You have me right where you want me now, right? Then tell me—how did you come up with your little stunt?”

Tense seconds tick by as you debate your options. How humiliating it’d be to come clean in his arms. But then again, humiliated had been your main emotion as of late. With a deep exhale and slight tuck of your head, you begin your confession.

“I just wanted you to change your mind,” you whisper, watching as he unravels the satin ribbons on your bodysuit.

“I was so proud of that album, Sylus. Took me months to feel good enough to release it. And then I wake up to see the most respected voice in music calling it worthless.”

Your voice wobbles at the mention of his review, and his fingers freeze on the lowest ribbon.

“I thought my career was over. That’s what you do, right?” you ask, eyes flashing up at him. “Ruin people like me.”

Checking your teary gaze in the mirror, he has the decency to press a kiss to the skin between your neck and shoulder.

“My manager had to do a wellness check,” you add with a self-deprecating chuckle. “I could barely get out of bed. But then he told me…I’d have a chance to see you that night. And I guess the anxiety of impending doom was enough of a motivator. So I got up, and I watched.”

As your voice steadies, it grants him permission to undo the final ribbon. It loosens with a firm tug, and the slackened fabric sags around your body, waiting to be removed entirely.

“I really did want to change your mind. To prove myself to you. But then I saw that stupid fucking interview…saw you for the first time, and I…”

“You what, sweetie?” he murmurs into your neck, spurring you on with a gentle kiss.

“I wanted you, too.”

As he sucks in a breath, you take the moment to step out of your costume, tossing it to the floor below. You’re nearly bare before him, now, save for the thin tights and thong still blocking you from his sight.

“That’s what all this was for,” you reveal, gesturing to the fallen fabric. “I wanted your attention—all of it—in any way I could get it. So you were right. I wanted to end up right here, with you.”

For several seconds, his labored sighs are the only sounds in the room. You, unfortunately, are too afraid to breathe. But before long, warm hands grasp your hips, pulling you flush against his hardened lower half.

Catching your ear between sharp teeth, he floods your senses with a smooth whisper. “It seems you got what you wanted, then. Why don’t I tell you what I thought?”

And the second the “please” escapes your lips, he tears the thin layers left on your hips clean off your body.

He uses your shock to his advantage, taking the chance to free his swollen cock and glide it across your slit, teasing your clenching hole with the pulsing length. When he’s coated in your wetness, he surges into you with a firm thrust, groaning at the squeeze of your fluttering walls.

Allowing you a moment to adjust to the stretch, he gropes the fat of your hip before continuing.

“You obviously did your research,” he rumbles, pumping in and out of you at a steady tempo. “Speakeasies were the home of jazz, for a time.”

As the curve of his tip hits deep inside you, you wish you’d gotten a look at him. You’d expected him to be big, if the rest of his body was any indication, but the sheer fullness in your core feels like it should be illegal.

“And the arrangement…paying homage with a modern twist. It was admirable. Bold,” he grits out, hissing as your cunt tightens at the compliment.

Locking eyes with him in the mirror, you meet his thrusts with a high-pitched whine, asking for more—more pressure, more praise, more of all he could give.

With a patronizing tsk, Sylus grips your jaw in one hand, pulling your face close to his. “How many ratings of mine did you read to pull this off? I wouldn't think you knew what real instruments were, based on that album.”

The barb snaps you out of docility, and you try to twist away from him with a sneer and grumble. But Sylus only pulls you back into his quickening strokes, a fond, terrorizing chuckle enveloping you.

“Don’t run, sweetie. I’m flattered, really. Like I was when you got on that bike—my bike—and I wanted to pull you down from that stage,” he breathes, circling two fingers around your throbbing clit. “Because I knew in that moment, you were mine.”

As his claim rings through the air, he pinches your sensitive flesh and ups his pace, kissing your cervix with brutal strokes as the lewd slaps of skin on skin echo around you. Shaky breaths and soft whimpers leave your mouth, and you rut back into him as much as his firm grip on your hips allows.

“This was all for me, hm? For my attention, you said? Now you have it,” he murmurs huskily, and a sharp scratch of teeth against the pulse in your throat has you spilling over the edge with a desperate moan.

Somewhere in the haze of your orgasm, he pulls out with a groan of his own, leaving you empty and shivering until you feel his warm release coat the curve of your back.

With the last of his strength, he turns your face to his and captures your lips in a heated kiss, your tongues tangling unhurriedly. You’re forced to pull away first, already more than drained of your stamina for the night. When you slump forward in exhaustion, he falls into you, folding you over the counter with his heavy weight.

You groan at the impact but welcome the soothing pressure, and for a while, your heaving exhales mingle in the quiet of the room.

Once his breathing evens out, his low drawl—raspier than usual—eclipses the silence. “So,” he begins, and you can tell he’s smirking above you without even seeing his face. “How would you rate my performance tonight?”

Too tired to scoff, you settle for a mocking hum. “Hmm…an 8. I’d say a 9, but you just lost a point for that line,” you smile softly. “The pacing was good, but the feeling was lacking. It felt a little…uninspired.”

VII. THE EPILOGUE

You can’t feel your limbs the next morning.

You can’t feel your limbs, but your phone is ringing—has been for a few minutes now, you think groggily.

With a pained grunt, you roll over and over in bed until the screen is within reach and put the call on speaker.

“Check your texts!” Devon yells excitedly, damn near blasting your ears off.

“What? What are you talking about?” you grumble. “And you know not to wake me up until at least 4 p.m. after a show.”

“Sure, girl, fire me if you want. Just check your texts!” he repeats, voice climbing to a near screech.

“Fine, just give me a—”

Your jaw drops. It has no choice but to drop.

Because sitting in your inbox, right there at the top, is an updated link to Sylus Qin’s review of your album.

And right there, where that dreaded 4.7 had stared you down, is a giant, boldface 8.

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jennaflare · 1 year ago

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So Disco Elysium is the only game you've ever really liked

I get it! It's a phenomenal game with superb art and writing, and its themes are consistent and deeply explored. It sets a high bar for video games. But there are other really, really fantastic games out there. This is a list that is 100% my own taste of things that aren't necessarily similar, other than the fact that they're really fucking good. (A lot of these are on sale for the Steam Summer Sale until July 11 2024!)

In Stars and Time

In Stars and Time is a time loop game where you play as Siffrin, the rogue of a party at the end of their quest to save the day by defeating the King, who is freezing everybody in time! But something is wrong: every time you die, you loop back to the day before you fight the King. You're the only one who remembers the loops, so it's up to you to figure out why it's happening, and how to break out.

In Stars and Time is a heart-wrenching dive into mental health, friendship, and love. It's about feeling alone, and how awful it is when the people who love you don't notice (and how awful it is when they do). It's about falling deeper and deeper into your worst self and your worst tendencies, and how to come back from it.

The creator also did one of my favorite Disco Elysium comics ever, which is only tangentially relevant but worth mentioning.

Roadwarden

In Roadwarden, you play as the titular Roadwarden for an undeveloped and "wild" part of the kingdom. Monsters roam the forests and roads, and it's your job to keep people safe. On paper, anyway. Your real mission is to find out what is of value in the area, and how to take it from its people. How well you perform this task is up to you. It's an oldschool text-based RPG, and I take a lot of notes by hand when I play.

Roadwarden explores exploitation and industrialization by making you look in the face of your potential victims. You can only learn what your bosses want you to report on by getting close to the residents, after all. There are mysteries to be solved, secrets to be gathered, and hearts to win.

The Longing

The Longing is an adventure-idle game where you play as the solitary servant of a sleeping king. Your task is to wait for him, for four hundred days. Time in the game passes in realtime (for the most part). There are caves to explore, books to be read, and drawings to make.

The Longing is about loneliness and depression. It's about whether or not you decide to stay in that hole, and if you do, what you do with yourself while you're there. Maybe you'll wander. Maybe you'll stare at a wall. Maybe you'll just sleep until it's all over.

Papers, Please

Papers, Please casts you as a newly hired customs officer in a country that is rapidly tightening its borders as its fascist government tightens its fist. This game is stressful. Sometimes you intend to help out the revolutionaries when they asked, but then you got so stressed out trying to make your quota so you can feed your family and pay your bills that you didn't notice the name of the person they were hoping to contact while going through their papers. Sometimes someone puts a bomb in front of you and expects you to defuse it. Sometimes someone suggests you steal people's passports so you can get your family out, and with the horror you see daily, the idea tempts you more than you'd like.

Papers, Please is all about hard choices and testing your moral fortitude. Everything you do has consequences. Being a good person in this game is hardly ever rewarded, but not in a way that feels overly cynical. Papers, Please asks you what kind of person you want to be and what you're willing to sacrifice to get there.

The Return of the Obra Dinn

From the creator of Papers, Please, The Return of the Obra Dinn is a game where you play as an insurance investigator for the East India Trading Company. The ship the Obra Dinn has just floated back into port, its entire crew missing or dead. It's your job to figure out what happened aboard the vessel. For insurance reasons.

I don't know how to go into the themes of this too deeply without giving away too much, but the mechanics of the game itself make the game worth playing. You have a magic stopwatch that allows you to go back to the moment of a person's death, allowing you to try and figure out who (or what) killed them, and how. And the soundtrack is extremely good.

Outer Wilds

In Outer Wilds you play as an unnamed alien, and it's your first day going to space! Your planet's space program is pretty new still, so there's still lots to explore and discover on the planets within your system. There are ancient ruins from a mysterious race that once lived in your system, long before your species began to record history. Why were they here? Where did they go? How are they connected to the weird thing that keeps happening to you?

The fun of Outer Wilds is in the discovery and answering your own questions. The game never tells you where to go, and it never outright tells you anything. There are clues scattered through the system, and it's up to you to put them together and figure out your next steps. It's about the way that life always goes on, no matter what, even when it seems like the end of everything, forever. I'd recommend NOT reading anything else about this game. Just go play it. Seriously, the less you know, the more fun this is.

If on a Winter's Night, Four Travelers

In If on a Winter's Night, Four Travelers, you explore the circumstances of the deaths of four individuals.

This is a short one that took me about two and a half hours to play. If for no other reason, play it for the stunning pixel art. The game explores sexism, racism, and homophobia in the Victorian era and leans heavily into horror themes. Best of all: it's completely free!

Pentiment

Pentiment takes you to the 16th century, where you take the role of Andreas Maler, a journeyman artist working on his masterwork in the scriptorium of an abbey. When someone is murdered, Andreas takes responsibility for finding the culprit.

The game is set over 20~ years and you get to watch how Andreas' actions affect the village in various ways (who's alive the next time you come by, have people gotten married and had children...). It's an exploration of how the past affects the future, and what parts of that past we choose to keep or discard. It has beautiful art, and fans of both Disco and Pentiment often compare them.

Other games you might wanna check out

Night in the Woods, Dredge, Oxenfree, A House of Many Doors, Inscryption, Slay the Princess, Citizen Sleeper, Chants of Sennar, Loop Hero, The Cosmic Wheel Sisterhood, The Pale Beyond, Where the Water Tastes Like Wine, Elsinore, Her Story, Before Your Eyes, Pathologic (not delved into above because the venn diagram of Pathologic fans and Disco fans is basically a circle)

#disco elysium #pentiment #outer wilds #in stars and time #roadwarden #if on a winters night four travelers #papers please #the return of the obra dinn #the longing #video games #hoping so badly there are no glaring errors in this #made this because i have spoken to many people who Dont Play video games but liked disco

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theprettynosferatu · 3 months ago

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Cover: @snootieenoot as Mia West

Breast Size and Cognitive Ability: A Rebuttal

Prof. Mia West

Overview and Project Objectives

This work originates from the publication of Prof. Lawson’s paper Breast Size and Cognitive Ability last month (Lawson, Breast Size and Cognitive Ability, Northwestern Journal of Science, 2025) and the ensuing discourse it has elicited both in the scientific community and society at large. Not only do we find it socially and politically harmful, but either intellectually dishonest or frankly substandard in both reasoning and the basic principles of experimental science.

Prof. Lawson posits that breast size in females is negatively correlated with academic ability and general I.Q. As this work will show, not only is Lawson’s methodology ruefully unsound, but his conclusions are so implausible one can only assume that, by his own logic, Professor Lawson must himself possess an impressive set of mammaries to believe such scholarship deserves serious consideration.

It is the objective of this paper to, entertaining such ludicrous premises, empirically disprove Prof. Lawson’s thesis on its own terms and hopefully set the matter to rest permanently.

Methodology

A research team comprised of four highly accomplished female experts (see Appendix A: Team Background and Initial Cognitive Tests), including the author, will take it upon ourselves to test Dr. Lawson’s hypothesis in a controlled, verifiable and reproducible basis. Having established a baseline for cognitive ability, we must consider the second element of Dr. Lawson’s proposed correlation; as we’re sure he’ll lament (given his manifest interests) all members of the team possess what can commonly be referred to as a modest chest size (see Fig.1: Team’s Initial Measurements).

In order to modify this factor gradually, we will be using Dr. Joanna’s Marsh experimental Focused Hormone Enhancement System, or FHES, which has shown remarkable results, even in its early stages of development (see Marsh, FHES Preliminary Observations, Oberlin, 2024).

Weekly breast measurements, as well as tests on cognitive ability, will be performed to track any changes in the research team, or most likely, lack thereof (at least in the intellectual side of Lawson’s correlation). Additionally, this author will provide any observations and comments that might be relevant to the purview of this paper.

Observations: One Week Under the Effects of FHES

Initial results show that the effectiveness of Dr. Marsh’s compound not only meets the expectations established in her paper but, in the present use case, surpasses them (see Fig.2: Team’s Measurements, Week 1). All four team members have been forced to acquire new brassieres to work comfortably.

A common reported side effect among the team is a degree of difficulty maintaining focus on complex tasks for even moderate periods of time- what is referred to as “brain fog” in common parlance. While not debilitating, this phenomenon has increased the difficulty inherent in writing a clear, concise overview. It does not, however, seem to be accompanied by physical exhaustion- activities which require movement have not been reported by the team as feeling more taxing.

We attribute this “brain fog” to the adaptation to the new hormonal load, and we expect it to subside soon. This also explains the slight decrease in the result of the team’s cognitive tests (see Appendix B: Cognitive Tests, Week 1).

Of additional note is that the team has experienced a slight but constant emission of clear, vaginal fluid. Testing shows it to be harmless and indeed to be the kind of fluid generated for lubrication normally during intercourse or arousal in general. We believe this to also be merely a temporary hormonal adjustment, but will keep monitoring it in the following weeks.

Observations: Two Weeks Under the Effects of FHES

The effectiveness of FHES continues to astho asst surprise the team. Our tits breasts have expanded massively (See Fig 2: Team Measurements, Week 2), to the point that our standard lab uniforms no longer fit our curvy bodies and feel too tight and not in a cute way. To remedy this, the team was forced to go out and purchase new, more fitting and fashionable clothes (See Fig 3: Team Dressing Room Selfies). Obviously, new make-up was also necessary to match the vibe of the new fits, especially the goth-style gram garnm clothes chosen by April which just called out for some striking black eyeliner and a lighter shade of base. We collectively observed that the combination of her new clothes and make-up work really, really well on her: it’s giving bratty sub, as can be confirmed (See Fig. 4: April’s Selfies and Cute Pics Taken By Mia).

The Brain Fog is still there, probably because of the hormones and all other stuff, but the team reports it to be a pleasant sensation. While it makes writing these reports hard, it’s not really bad- more like floating in a pink, fluffy cloud. Prof. Lawson’s idea that tit size makes women dumber is still unproven, as the Pink (that’s what we have taken to calling the Brain Fog) is for sure the result of the treatment, not an effect of increased chest size. There are plenty of smart women with big boobs, after all, and I know for a fact Dr. Lawson has watched their videos on several adult sites. These women’s success in such a competitive industry is surely proof of their intelligence.

The constant most moiz wetness appears to have caused a few incidents among the team, since it now also involves an increased sensitivity and level of arousal. The distraction of feeling one’s pussy so needy all the time explains the lower test results this week (See Appendix C: Cognitive Tests, Week 2), as well as some notable events that took place this week.

It would be unprofessional to omit those events in this observation, so I’ll recount them as accurately as I possibly can. On Tuesday, before we went shopping, I walked into the Substance Storage Unit and encountered April and Sophia looking at a tablet. While I couldn’t see the screen, the video playing was at full volume, and I could make out the sound of a slut woman gurgling and choking on what, I can only assume, was a truly large cock penis. My teammates had both removed their (ugly) uniform pants, and unbuttoned their shirts (as mentioned, they had by this point become very uncomfortable, so that’s understandable). They were engaging in mutual masd mutul mmmmm fingering each other, drooling and moaning like stupid cunts in a way that showed their excitement. They shouted encouragement at the performer on the screen, which I feel demonstrates a high capacity to focus on engaging tasks; their choice of phrases (“take it deep you stupid bitch”, “fucking choke in it you dumb cow”, “use her fucking throat as a fleshlight!”) also proves their creativity. Witnessing this event produced a very strong effect on myself, but I managed to sneak into the bathroom before shoving my fingers inside my soaked pussy thus obtaining temporary relief.

Fuck. Okay, rubbing break over. Time to go back to writing.

A second incident took place on Friday. By then we had acquired new wardrobes, and the act of dancing, strutting and showing each other our new looks might have affected some team members in an unexpected manner. While we all identify as heterosexual, seeing our colleagues’ tight fucking bodies and huge, firm funbags aesthetic choices proved to be a stimulating experience. My recollection of events remains fuzzy, but I’m pretty sure I made out with April and at some point Hannah poured beer over April’s tits and I lapped it up and then sucked on her nipples while I rubbed myself silly and Sophia was filming on her phone so we both put on a show and I’m pretty sure she sent the video so someone but i don’t care encounters of an erotic nature may have taken place.

As each team member has clearly settled on a particular preference regarding their appearance, we have ordered more clothes and toys for the experiment.

We are confident that once our amazing bodies have adapted to the hormone treatment, such incidents will not reoccur.

NOTE TO SELF: MIA, REMEMBER TO ERASE THE STRICKEN PARTS BEFORE UPLOADING UPDATE!!!

Observations: Two Weeks Three Weeeks Under the Effects of FHES

So I have to write this to keep you updated because it’s my job and I’m a professional and stuff so ehre it goes. We had like massive tits before but now they are so huge and sensitibe and spectacular and they feel kind of like giant clits so I guess the copm compoud the thing we take to make them grow is also making them feel super good! We tried to take measurements but the tape rubbing against out funbags feels too good and we get distracted and we have to take care of that so we figured we’d just send you some nudes so you can see how much our stupid bimbo tits have expanded (see sexy pics attached) because we are not dumb and pics are better than illustrated numbers anyway. We got a bit carried away with the pics but I hope you’ll enjoy them! In like, a scientific way. Duh.

Reading back I guess I was keeping track of the Pink? I think? It’s hard to understand what I wrote before. So like, the Pink. It’s kinda hard to explain but it feels so fucking good, like we’re all so happy and floating and horny all the time and nothing feels super important anymore except doing whatever feels good at the moment, with whoever or whatever is around. We stopped storing the toys because having them all over the lab is super useful to play with one another or to just bounce on a big dildo looking at the tasty porn on the screens.

Oh shit I forgot to explain the porn thing! So like, we noticed that we can focus on porn a lot better than on boring lab stuff and we’re trying to demn demos prove big boobs don’t make sluts dumb so having porn blasting in every screen means we have something to keep us concentrated and so we’re not dumb because we can keep our attention on stuff. And we can like, really really watch porn. It’s like… we’re not just watching it with our eyes, we’re taking it in with our entire bodies and the Pink makes it so much better because it’s like the porn gets inside us and makes us better and we feel so, so good!

And another thing that proves we may be stupid cunts but we’re not dumb is that we learn really, really fast. We just left the pron running and the site kept showing us video after video after video and we all learned different things and we could put it in practice instantly! Like, April has gotten really into her new goth mommy thing and we saw a video and a girl in it was spanking another girl with a leather paddle and it was super hot but we didn’t have paddles (we ordered them, they should arrive today! Yay!) so April took a clipboard and made Sophia put her hands on the wall and April went to town on her cute bubble butt and it got so red and the rest of us watched and rubbed and drooled and Sophia came from being spanked! She’s becoming such a good slut. She really likes putting her hair in pigtails and wearing like, a sort of schoolgirl uniform with a microskirt and chewing gum and acting like a dumb whore around the lab and it kinda makes all of us want to do bad things to her. We saw a few videos where the cunt was sort of taken by force and Sophia loved them so now she keeps calling herself “good rapebait” and teasing us so we’ll be mean to her and fuck her with a toy or a strap. She cums so fast and screams what a rapedoll she is and begs to be used and abused forever! It’s super hot, so we are almost constantly shoving toys and fingers in her like, really hard.

Also, we have amazing stamina now! I can’t remember when I last slept. My desperate pussy needs me to take care of it all the time.

We’re using the computer labs to show off online, because the porn showed us that all good girls expose their slutty bodies. We’re sad that the webcams don’t look as good as the porn but we’ve ordered new cameras and like, some lights to make every inch of us look amazing. And the people we talk to on random sites are so helpful! They have ideas we never could imagine, and it’s so much easier to just do what they tell us to do and we learn so much doing it! Last night me and Emily spent like an hour just drooling and making out and rubbing each other’s tits in front of the camera because a nice Man told us to and it felt amazing to know he was jerking off his fat cock to us! We didn’t know just obeying Men made cunts feel useful but some Men told us and we did it and they were right! I think it was when April and I were going ass to ass with a double dildo because a Man told us to that I realized how amazing it is not having to choose and just drift in the Pink and be good sluts.

Sometimes they tell us to do hard things, like writing on each other’s bodies. Because our tits are so huge we have a lot of room to put tasty words in, but figuring out the spelling while we rub and lick each other is very, very hard! I can still spell kinda good, but Sophia couldn’t even spell “cumslave” right, so I had to write on Emily even though Sophia was supposed to and I got too excited and fuzzy and maybe some of the videos put thoughts in my head because I ended writing stuff like “mindless fuckdoll” and “brains are for boys” and “bitch in heat” on her instead of just “cumslave”, but the Men online liked that and told me to make myself cum as a reward and I didn’t know Men could just tell girls to cum but when they told me to cum I barely had to rub my cunt before I had like, the best orgasm. Maybe getting permission to cum always feels better? We should do a study on that after this one is done.

It’s funny how much Emily loves to have filthy words written on her body. She always was super shy and she’s so slutty now but she sstill gets all red and flustered and some men like that because it’s clear she likes to be a silly cunt but also she tries not to show it and so having someone writing on her lets her pretend she’s not thinking all those words even though like, we all totally know she’s thinking them and also when she wears a cute little mask she is shameless and so fucking desperate it’s like the mask lets her be her true self. That’s another thign we could study!

Speaking of studies, we kinda didn’t have time to take the test this week but I’m sure we would have aced it for sure. I have to send something in that section of this stupid form so I’m attaching a video of all of us training our throats with dildos, because it shows we can still do tasks so we aren’t dumb.

Ugh, writing is so boring and I can hear Sophia being fucked behind me and I really want to make her eat me out while another girl makes her ass gape.

We ordered more clothes and toys because Men deserve choices and we want to be able to be any kind of slut a Man could want. I guess I’ll write more next week.

obdertations weak for

i have to write i dont want to write this is so boring my head is to fuzzy and fuuuuck april is licking my pussy under the desk but i dont want to cum because good girls dont cum without permission and no Man told me i could cum but i want to cum so badly but also i dont want to cum because being edged makes me better makes me wetter makes me obey i want to obey i want to be a stupid cumrag forever and ever and get tasty cummies and my tits need to be covered so i can be super pretty

My stupid cow udders are so huge now one load cant cover them i need to be surrounded by cocks and make all of them cum just so i can feel that warm jizz all over them and i know because we tried it we gave the nice Men online the address to the lab and they came hihihi came and came came all over us and inside us and even three cocks cumming on my boobs isnt enough and also sometimes they aim to high and it lands on my face and that feels so amazing and tastes so fucking good but i like it on my sensitive bimbo tits better because theyre like my pussy and they always need more and more and more and there are never enough cocks around to share and we try to be good girls and serve together but we get greedy and end up fighting for the honor of wrosph worp woshi whoreshiping cocks but the Men help us and tell us what to do and whos turn it is and they even gave us a fun way to fight for cock and we have rubbing competitions where we dance and rub and tease and say so many filthy things anf the one that proves shes the more depraved slut gets the cum and i wish i was better because i want to win every time but sometimes another fucking cunt wins and i have to wait

pffff last night sophia did her hole pretending to be innocent thing and called the men daddy and said she would be the bestest girl for them and smiled and flirted and made it seem like she didnt know her skirt was riding up and she had no panties and they used her so much i only got like three loads on my tits and i had to get more Men to come into the lab because its sooo not fair that she got used in all her holes by like, ten guys and i only got three cocks in my tight asshole but in the end more Men came and i really slutted it up and called myself a piece of worthless fuckmeat and a mindless obedient set of holes with huge tits and explained to the Men why girls need to obey and be happy and how fenminism is boring and maybe us girls would be better off without rights and they liked that and they really liked it when they found out i have a PHD an stuff so in the end i got used lots so I was useful and it was a good night

Clothes are all over the floor and the desks but we need more because there are so many ways to be a cute slut and we want to please everyone and become anything they want us to be and do anything they want us to do and i tried ordering more clothes but i got confused but a Man ordered for us so they should be arriving soon and fuck we cant stop rubbing and licking each other imagining all the sexy stuff we’ll get to wear and also the new camera is so good and we look just like the girls in porn and i guess we are pron now because we keep filming or letting Men film us and they upload everything and people like it lots and i think about everyone jerking off to us and its the best feeling in the world knowing i dont have to be there to make a cock cum, i can be useful forever because the videos will always be around fuuuuuck i almost came April got sooo good at eating pussy but i don’t want to cum i really want to cum i

I dont remeber how to ttach stuff but ill get a Man to put the best videos on the file so yall can see what good girls we are now and maybe you can cum to us please cum to us please rub your pussies and play with your cocks looking at us we want to make you happy and horny like we are i wish everyone could feel the Pink its so good and fuzzy and warm and makes people giggle and fuck nd be so happy maybe everyone should take what we take and grow big boobs and sink into the Pink I wonder if men get huge cocks from it that woud be amazing like giant cocks that cum buckets fuccccccc i dont wanna{p´.k

Fuck i came so hard but im still so fucking horny it’s never enough i need more i need to please i exist to please obeying makes me feel so good an cum makes me so pretty and i dont remember how i lived before because this feels like its who ive always been like its just right and natural and good but i started writin for a reason and i can’t figure out what it was i have to tell April to stop eating me out and find out what im supposed to rite

Oh, duh! A Man said big boobs make girls dumb. And that’s a dumb thing to believe. But I have massive tits and I’m dumb so I guess I believe him because dumb feels good so I’ll believe any dumb thing a Man tells me!

EDITOR’S NOTE: This document is being published without edits or corrections at the request of Prof. Lawson. Given that the express intent of this “paper” is to disprove his theories, we felt it fair to show the resulting work unaltered.

Prof. Mia West has retired from Academia. She and her team seem determined to continue in the adult industry. The Northwestern Journal of Science has reached out to Prof. West, who requested readers to “log into the sites and cum yourselves silly to our stupid bimbo bodies”.

As far as we can ascertain, every one of the mentioned videos is available for free. It is unknown who obtains the ad revenue or funds the team; however, given the noticeable increase in production value in newer installments, as well as the establishment of what has been christened the “Slut House” to film, we must assume someone is managing the team’s career.

On an unrelated note, we’re delighted to announce Prof. Lawson’s new seminar, “Video Production, Marketing and Monetization in the Digital Age”, to take place this Fall.

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