#guess whose getting them in a campaign!!

[galacticsabc]

The Phantom Express Warlock's Form of Dread

[eternalguk]

Pink Hearts & Black Clouds || jjk. — 02

Love me at my lowest, I’ll love you when you’re barely holding on

↠ Pairing : Jungkook x Reader

↠ Summary : Jeon Jungkook is the epitome of a brooding grunge. Moody, distant, and always a little too sarcastic. A grumpy, tattooed college student who barely tolerates anyone… except you. Somehow, the girl who’s a whirlwind of pink hearts and strawberry lipgloss is the one who keeps dear Jungkook on his toes.

But you must admit… behind that gruff exterior, there’s a side of him only you get to see—gentle, caring, and ready to spoil you in his own way. Everyone else may see him as the tough guy with a permanent scowl, but you know better. Jungkook’s heart? It’s all yours.

↠ Genre : established relationship au, college au, grunge!bf x bimbo!gf, angst, fluff & smut

↠ Word count : 7K

↠ Warnings : swearing, explicit sexual content, riding, oral (f receiving), breast play, intense makeout, multiple orgasms, pet names, dom!guk x sub!reader, praise kink, both of them have a very filthy mouth …

↠ A/n : Hi there ; here is chapter 2! It’s been so long so I both thank you for your patience and apologise for the delay. Chapter 2 takes more of a fun ride and gives you the perfect insight to how chaotic life is for our doll and Bakugo~ There is a scene that is inspired by the voting scene from Gossip Girl. I just felt that it really worked for the two of them :) Your feedback / comments are always appreciated. Thank you for giving my story a chance & happy reading 🦢.

↠ Song : ‘Closer’ by Jungkook / ‘Good for you’ by Selena G

❧ Chapter 02 : lace & chains

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Three days before voting day

You burst into Jungkook’s apartment like a whirlwind, carrying an armful of colourful flyers that threaten to spill onto the floor. Your oversized tote bag clinks as you toss it onto his couch, the sound of perfume samples and random trinkets filling the silence.

Jungkook, seated cross-legged on the couch in his usual black hoodie and shorts, barely glances up from his phone. His dark hair falls messily over his eyes, and his lip ring catches the dim light as he scrolls through his FYP on TikTok.

“I’ve decided,” you announce dramatically, your voice ringing through his apartment. “I’m running for president.”

The statement hangs in the air like a firework that hasn’t yet exploded. Jungkook’s eyes rise slowly from his magazine, his brow arching in disbelief.

“President of what?” he deadpans, leaning back into the cushions.

“Student president!” you exclaim, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. You drop your flyers onto the coffee table with a flourish, scattering glitter and pastel-colored paper everywhere.

“Ms. Choi mentioned it today? Were you not listening?” You roll your eyes, taking off your cream bowknot coat.

Jungkook picks up one of the flyers, his tattooed fingers smudging the edge as he squints at it. The text is scrawled in a glittery font so loud it’s practically yelling: Vote for Me, Because I’m Cute! Beneath it is a selfie of you holding a puppy, your face framed by glitter stickers and cartoon hearts.

Whose puppy is that?

“These look like ads for a bake sale,” he says flatly, turning the flyer sideways like it might reveal a hidden agenda.

“They’re campaign flyers,” you correct, hands on your hips.

He gives you a pointed look, holding the flyer up. “It says, ‘Vote for me because I’m cute and I’ll listen to your problems.’”

“Exactly!” you chirp, sitting beside him and crossing your legs. “Who wouldn’t want a cute president?”

Jungkook stares at you, his expression unreadable. “So, you’re running to lead the entire cohort because you’re… cute?”

“And I’m kind,” you add, smiling sweetly.

Jungkook exhales, setting the flyer down like it’s too much for him to process. “You do realise this isn’t just a popularity contest, right? There’s actual work involved.”

“I know that,” you reply with a wave of your hand. “That’s why I have a plan. And guess what? You’re gonna be my campaign manager!”

His laugh is instant and sharp, the kind that makes your pout deepen. “Yeah, no. There’s no way I’m getting involved in this mess.”

“Why not?” you whine, tugging at the sleeve of his hoodie.

“Because,” he says, shaking his head, “this is doomed from the start. And when it crashes and burns, I don’t want my name attached to it.”

You gasp dramatically, playing with your pearl necklace like he’s insulted your very soul. “I can’t believe you! You’re supposed to support me, not tear me down!”

“I’m trying to save you from yourself,” he mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose.

But your determination is unshakable. “You’ll see, Koo. I’m going to win, and when I do, you’ll regret not being by my side from the start.”

“You genuinely serious about this?”

“I am! I already told Taehyung and Jimin, and they’re helping me with posters tomorrow!”

That makes him pause. “Taehyung and Jimin?”

“Yes.”

“They’re helping you run for student president?”

“Of course!”

“I regret making you all meet.” Jungkook gulps, rubbing his hands over his face. “This is just going to be a complete train wreck.”

“No, it’s not!” you argue, stomping your foot for emphasis. “I’m going to win, and then you’ll see. Everyone will love me as their president!”

“They already love you,” he says, exasperated.

“Exactly!” You beam, missing the sarcasm in his tone. “So you’re on board?”

He groans, now running his hand through his hair. “Fine. But only so I can stop you from embarrassing yourself too much.”

“Yay!” You jump onto the couch and throw your arms around him, planting a kiss on his cheek. “You’re the best!”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles, though his lips twitch into the faintest smile. “Now come here.”

Two days before voting day

The next day, Jungkook regrets everything.

You’re standing in the middle of campus with Taehyung and Jimin, holding up your new-and-improved campaign posters.

Well, “improved” is a stretch - Jungkook still thinks they look like ads for a daycare. Or was it a bake sale?

He stands stiffly in the middle of campus, hands stuffed into his black cargo pants as you, Taehyung, and Jimin flit around him like chaotic birds.

Taehyung is holding a stack of your revamped posters, and Jimin’s busy tying pink ribbons to the railings of the quad. And you? You’re smiling as though you’re the happiest person in the universe right now.

“Vote for Y/N: She’s cute, and she loves puppies!” Jimin reads aloud, snickering. “This is gold!”

“I do love puppies,” you say proudly, twirling a strand of hair.

Jungkook groans. “This is embarrassing.”

“Don’t be so grumpy, Koo,” Taehyung teases, snapping a picture of you holding up a sign. “You’re dating the future president. Show some pride.”

“Pride,” Jungkook repeats flatly, eyeing the glitter stuck to his hand. “Right.”

You tug on his arm, your lace-trimmed beige cardigan brushing against his tattooed sleeve. “Stop sulking and hand out some flyers!”

He doesn’t move. “Why did I agree to this?”

“Because you love me,” you say with a wink.

Jungkook groans but walks over anyway, taking a stack of flyers from your hands. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

“Believe it, Daddy,” Taehyung teases, earning a glare from Jungkook.

“Shut up.”

Taehyung just laughs, holding up his phone to take more pictures of you posing with your flyers.

“Make sure you get my good side!” you call out, striking a pose.

“They’re all your good side,” Jungkook mutters under his breath, though no one hears him.

“Okay, next we need to practice my speech,” you say, clapping your hands together.

“Speech?” Jungkook repeats, already dreading it.

“Yeah, for the debate,” you explain, but not without sending a glare Jungkook’s way.

Obviously there was going to be a speech!

Jimin’s eyes light up. “Oh, now this I’ve gotta see.”

That Same Evening

Later that evening, you’re sprawled out on Jungkook’s couch, surrounded by ribbons and glitter glue as you design yet another poster.

Your lace-trimmed socks dangle off the edge of the couch, while Jungkook sits on the floor, leaning against the coffee table with his laptop. His silver chain necklace gleams under the dim light, a sharp contrast to the pastel chaos surrounding him.

Jungkook is drained.

You, on the other hand, are still buzzing with excitement as you recap your “successful” campaign efforts on the walk home.

“Everyone was so nice!” you gush. “They all said they’d vote for me!”

“Mhm,” Jungkook says, not pointing out that most of those people were just being polite. And because they wanted a homemade brownie…

“And did you see how cute that dog was? I can’t believe I got to pet it!”

“That’s what you’re focusing on?”

“Obviously. Oh, and Jimin said he’d help me edit my speech later tonight!”

Jungkook groans. “Why do I feel like this is going to end in disaster?”

“It won’t,” you insist, grabbing his arm and flashing him a confident smile. “You’ll see, Koo. I’m going to be the best president ever!”

Jungkook sighs. He really doesn’t have the heart to tell you otherwise.

“Why do you want to do this, Doll?” he asks, glancing at you over the rim of his glasses.

“Because it’s fun, Bakugo” you reply, your voice muffled by the pen cap you’re holding in your mouth. “And because I’m going to win.”

“You’re ridiculous,” he mutters, though there’s a faint smile tugging at his lips. Your confidence deserved to be applauded.

You lean over, poking his cheek with a glittery finger. “You love it.”

He catches your wrist, his grip firm but gentle, and pulls your hand away. “I do love you. This? Not so much.”

Your eyes soften at his words, the teasing grin fading into something quieter. “You really do, don’t you?”

Just a few months ago, you couldn’t have imagined Jungkook looking you in the eyes and saying “I love you” with such steady, unshakable certainty.

He sighs, setting his laptop aside to look at you properly. “Yeah, I do. Even when you’re driving me insane with this campaign nonsense.”

You grin, leaning closer until your nose almost brushes his. “Well, for what it’s worth, I think you’re the best campaign manager ever.”

“I’m not your campaign manager,” he grumbles, but his lips twitch into a smile when you kiss the corner of his mouth.

“You are! We need a team name,” you chirp, gazing off as you try and think of something. “Doll and Bakugo!”

The lace of your cardigan brushes against Jungkook’s heavy chain as you pull back, and for a moment, everything feels like it fits - your softness, his edge, the chaos you bring into his carefully ordered life.

“Lace and chains,” he mutters under his breath, shaking his head.

“What?” you ask, tilting your head, not exactly catching what Jungkook had said.

“Nothing.”

But the way he looks at you, with a mixture of exasperation and affection, says everything he can’t.

Voting Day Eve

The campus is filled with students, curiously walking around the hall examining the posters of all the class president candidates. Your station is right at the end, hard to miss due to all the pink.

You’re holding the poster in both hands, eyes wide with determination as you stand in front of Jungkook. “I can’t believe I’m actually running for president!”

Days later, the statement still hangs in the air like an uninvited guest. Jungkook stares at you, unblinking, while Taehyung and Jimin - because, of course, they’re here - exchange looks before bursting into laughter.

No one could believe this was actually happening.

“President? Of what?” Jungkook sarcastically asks, deadpan, voice full of that grunge skepticism that could level buildings.

“Of the whole class, obviously!” you announce, puffing out your chest like you’ve already won. “I’ve even got a - what’s it called - a manifesto!”

Taehyung’s practically chokes on his laughter. “You don’t even know what a manifesto is.”

You roll your eyes. “Yes Tae, I do! It’s, like, when you tell everyone what snacks you’ll bring to meetings and stuff.”

Jimin’s doubled over now, wheezing. “Snacks?!”

Jungkook’s still standing there, arms crossed, watching you like you’re an alien that just crash-landed in his life. “I still don’t get why you’re-. You can barely-” He stops himself, probably realising that anything he says will sound meaner than it’s meant to be.

“I can barely what?” You narrow your eyes at him, ready for a fight.

Jungkook sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You can barely decide what to eat for breakfast without flipping a coin.”

“That’s called strategy,” you argue, pointing at him with your infamous glittery pink gel pen. “And don’t act like you wouldn’t benefit from me being in charge. I’d be the people’s president. Free parking for everyone!”

Taehyung raises his hand like a student in class. “There’s no paid parking on campus.”

“Then I’ll invent it! And then make it free again!” you declare triumphantly.

Jungkook groans, running a hand through his messy hair. “You don’t even know what you’re saying anymore.”

But your enthusiasm is unwavering. “Just you wait! I’m going to get elected and change this school forever.”

“What’s your slogan?” Jimin asks, still snickering.

You hold up your poster proudly. On it, in hot pink marker surrounded by glitter stickers, is your face in an unevenly drawn heart. Below it, the words: ‘She’s cute, so vote for her!’

Jungkook stares at the poster for a long moment, then looks back at you. “This is a joke, right?”

“It’s not a joke! Cute presidents are more approachable,” you explain, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“And what happens if you don’t win?” Taehyung teases.

You gasp, horrified. “I have to win. I’ve already planned my victory speech.”

“Let me guess,” Jungkook says flatly. “It’s just you saying, ‘Thank you for voting for me because I’m cute.’”

You blink at him, offended. “You think I’d be that shallow?”

“Yes,” all three of them say in unison.

You ignore them, flipping your hair over your shoulder. “Whatever. When I win, you’ll all be begging me for favours.”

“I can’t wait to see how this turns out,” Taehyung mutters, already texting someone.

Jungkook grabs the glitter-covered poster from your hands, his expression a mix of exasperation and amusement. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Unbelievably presidential,” you correct, snatching it back. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a campaign to run.”

Jungkook watches as you march off, shoulders square, your sparkly pen tucked behind your ear like a weapon. He shakes his head, muttering under his breath. “I can’t believe I’m dating this lunatic.”

“Hey,” Jimin says, leaning closer. “Admit it. You’d vote for her.”

Jungkook scoffs. “I’ve never voted for anyone. A day like that is a day off for me.”

However, later that afternoon, when you’re texting him about poster designs and debate outfits, he replies:

‘You’re an idiot.’

But when he sees your reply - selfie of you holding a new poster that reads ‘Vote for me because my boyfriend’s hot!’ - he can’t help but laugh.

Okay, maybe voting wouldn’t hurt after all.

That Same Evening

You’re walking through the campus courtyard with Jungkook, Taehyung, and Jimin, your campaign flyers clutched in your hands. The sun has started to dip, and you’re all finally heading home after another long day of plastering your posters everywhere you could think of.

Nearby, a group of students sits in a semi-circle on the grass, casually chatting. At first, you’re too busy laughing at something Jimin said to pay attention, but their conversation drifts over, loud enough for all of you to hear.

“As cute and nice as Y/N is,” one of the students says, their tone hesitant, “I just feel like we need someone serious for student president. Someone who’ll actually get things done.”

Hearing your name, you slow your steps, glancing over curiously.

Another student chimes in, nodding. “Yeah, I mean, she’s sweet and all, but this isn’t just a popularity contest, right? We need someone with a real plan.”

Around them, a couple of others murmur their agreement.

Before you can fully process what’s being said, Jimin throws his arm around your shoulders, tugging you close with a grin. “Y/N! You know what we need to do? Get you a campaign mascot. Like a dog! Or a tiger. You’d look great standing next to a tiger. So fierce!”

You blink up at him, momentarily distracted. “A tiger? Where am I supposed to get a tiger, Jimin?”

“Oh, don’t worry. I’ve got connections,” he says, waving his hand dramatically. “Just trust me.”

While you’re occupied with Jimin’s theatrics, Taehyung leans closer to Jungkook, lowering his voice. “You heard that, right? I’ve been hearing stuff like that all day. A lot of people aren’t planning to vote for her. She’ll be crushed.”

Jungkook’s jaw tightens as he glances back at the group of students. For a moment, his expression is unreadable. Then he lets out a low breath, shrugging. “Honestly, it might be for the best.”

Taehyung looks at him sharply. “What?”

“She doesn’t realise how much work this is going to be,” Jungkook says, his tone steady, almost detached. “She’s always in her own little world. I don’t think she understands what she’s getting into.”

Taehyung frowns but doesn’t argue. He knows Jungkook too well to push when he’s in one of his gruff moods. “Maybe,” he mutters, glancing back at you.

And there you are, smiling up at Jimin as he spins some absurd story about how he once met someone who owned a pet tiger. Your laughter rings out, light and carefree, completely oblivious to the conversation happening just feet away.

Jungkook’s gaze lingers on you for a moment too long. The corners of his mouth twitch, and something flickers in his eyes - an idea taking shape.

“Actually,” he begins, tone softening ever so slightly, “wait, never mind.”

Taehyung tilts his head, studying him. “You say somet, bro?”

Jungkook doesn’t answer. He’s already turning away, hands shoved into his pockets, a hint of determination in his stride.

Voting Day

The auditorium buzzes with anticipation as the student body crowds into the seats, the chatter growing louder with every passing second. You’re seated near the front, sandwiched between Jimin and Taehyung, your knee bouncing with nervous energy. Jungkook sits at the end of the row, his arms crossed as he leans back in his seat, his usual stoic expression betraying nothing.

The student council advisor steps up to the podium, clearing her throat as the microphone squeals. The noise quiets instantly, the crowd leaning forward in anticipation.

“Thank you all for joining us,” she begins, scanning the room. “After a record-breaking number of votes this year, it’s time to announce your new student president.”

You suck in a sharp breath, clutching Jimin’s arm in a death grip. “Oh my God, oh my God,” you whisper, your voice high-pitched and shaky.

“You’ve got this,” Jimin whispers back, patting your hand reassuringly. Taehyung gives you a thumbs-up, though his grin is teasing.

Jungkook doesn’t say anything. He’s staring straight ahead, his jaw tight, his fingers drumming against his armrest.

The advisor opens an envelope, the sound of ripping paper echoing through the silent room. “And the winner, with a significant margin, is…” She pauses, glancing at the paper before smiling broadly. “Y/L/N Y/N!”

For a moment, the words don’t register. The room erupts into applause, some laughter, and you sit frozen, your mouth slightly open as your brain scrambles to catch up.

“Wait… what?” you squeak, turning to Jimin.

“You won, dummy!” Jimin yells over the cheers, shaking your shoulders excitedly.

“I… I won?” you repeat, still stunned.

Taehyung laughs, shoving you out of your seat. “Go! Get up there before they think you passed out!”

Your legs feel like jelly as you make your way to the stage, your heart pounding in your chest. The applause grows louder, and you spot a few familiar faces cheering for you from the crowd.

The cheers from the crowd fill the air, and the stage is lit with bright light. You stand confidently beaming as you clap along with everyone else, your heart racing in disbelief. Flowers are handed to you by random students, and your smile could light up the entire quad.

This is it - the moment you’ve worked so hard for - even though you didn’t expect it to actually happen. But now, standing on the stage in front of all your classmates, your heart is a mix of excitement and pure shock. You don’t know how it happened, but here you are. You’ve won.

The advisor hands you the microphone, her smile encouraging. You glance out at the sea of faces, your eyes wide and slightly panicked.

“Erm… hi?” you say nervously, your voice echoing through the room.

The crowd laughs, and you relax slightly, your trademark grin breaking through. “I honestly don’t know what to say. I didn’t think I’d win - like, at all. But, um, thank you? Thank you so much for believing in me. I promise to make this the most fun year ever!”

More cheers erupt, and you can’t help but laugh, the sound bright and genuine. You feel like you’re on top of the world.

From his seat, Jungkook watches you, his expression softening as you beam at the crowd. Taehyung leans closer to him, nudging him with his elbow.

“You didn’t think she’d pull it off, huh?”

Jungkook smirks faintly, his gaze never leaving you. “Guess I underestimated her.”

Taehyung raises an eyebrow, but before he can respond, Jimin pipes up from Jungkook’s other side. “You’re proud of her, aren’t you?”

Jungkook rolls his eyes, but the hint of a smile remains. “Shut up.”

On stage, you clutch the microphone tightly, your confidence growing with every second. “And to everyone who didn’t think I could do this - haha! Joke’s on you!”

The crowd laughs and claps, your infectious energy impossible to resist. As you step back from the podium, your eyes scan the audience until they land on Jungkook.

He’s sitting back, his expression calm but his eyes warm, the faintest tilt of his head acknowledging you. And for a brief moment, everything else fades away.

You grin at him, your heart swelling with joy.

As you wave to the crowd and enjoy the praise, you feel like the luckiest person on earth. You’re so focused on taking it all in that you don’t even notice Jungkook leaving his seat to stand off to the side, leaning against a pillar and watching you from a distance, arms crossed.

Jimin and Taehyung join him, but are engaged in their own conversation as Jungkook busies himself with his phone.

Taehyung leans over to Jimin, grinning like the little troublemaker he is. “Dude, I don’t get it. How the hell did she win? I thought she was just being her usual bubbly self, handing out flyers and acting cute… But look at her now.”

Jimin laughs, nodding. “Yeah, man, what’s up with that? I mean, she’s sweet, and all, but… I didn’t think people would actually vote for her.”

The two of them glance over at Jungkook, who’s still standing quietly, his face unreadable. Taehyung smirks, nudging him lightly. “What do you think, Kook? How did she even win? Who’s voting for her, really?”

Jungkook raises an eyebrow, not bothering to look at them, but there’s a hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He stands there, arms crossed, silently watching you, who’s now trying to juggle the flowers while still looking out at the crowd with that infectious grin of yours.

Jimin tilts his head, eyeing him suspiciously. “Come on, Jungkook. You know you have some sort of opinion. Tell us, who voted for her?”

Taehyung adds, “We can’t be the only ones. Did she really have this big of a following?”

Jungkook finally speaks, his voice calm, as he looks at Taehyung and Jimin, not making any effort to hide the slight amusement in his eyes. “Me,” he says, his gaze still fixed on you, who’s now blowing kisses to the crowd.

Jimin blinks, confused. “Well duh, but what was that going to do?”

Taehyung on the other hand scoffs, failing to believe Jungkook actually voted. “Bro, did you seriously vote? That’s a first.”

Jungkook glances at him, his lips curling into a small but knowing smile. “Yeah, about 120 times.”

There’s a moment of stunned silence, as Jimin and Taehyung exchange wide-eyed looks.

“Wait,” Taehyung starts, his tone of disbelief almost comical. “You really voted for her that many times? Dude, you’re joking.”

“No,” Jungkook responds, his voice laced with casual indifference. “Why would I fucking joke?”

Jimin can’t help but chuckle, looking over at Taehyung, who’s still in shock. “Wow, we had no idea. You’re soft for her, aren’t you?”

Jungkook shrugs nonchalantly. “She deserves it.”

The two of them fall silent for a moment, digesting what he’s just said.

Jungkook, the grungy, distant guy who typically didn’t care much for things like this, voted for you - his ditsy, but incredibly endearing girl - 120 times.

“She won because of you?” Taehyung asks, his voice almost in awe.

Jungkook finally shifts his gaze away from you and looks at the two of them. There’s still a quiet smirk on his face, but his tone is serious when he speaks again. “She’s the best choice. They need her.”

Jimin looks back at you on stage, a soft smile forming on his face. “Damn. I never thought I’d see the day.”

Jungkook’s eyes flick back to you as well, a subtle warmth in them that he doesn’t bother to hide this time. “Come on hyung, get over it.”

The two of them stand there, silently processing Jungkook’s revelation, while you continue to beam up at the crowd, completely oblivious to the conversation happening just a short distance away.

Your joy is contagious, and for the first time in a long while, Jungkook feels like he’s part of something bigger than himself. You make him feel that way, without even trying.

“Should we go congratulate her?” Taehyung asks with a grin, nudging Jimin, who looks lost in thought. “I mean, she’s our president now, right?”

Jimin laughs, shaking his head, still processing the revelation about Jungkook. “Yeah. Let’s go before she starts thanking everyone except us.”

As the two of them start to walk toward you, Jungkook stays behind, watching them for a second before his gaze drifts back to you.

When you finally make your way off the stage and into the crowd of friends and classmates congratulating you, your eyes lock with Jungkook’s. You smile at him, that soft, bright smile that always catches him off guard, and you laugh, still holding the flowers in your hands.

You’re quick to thrust your bouquets into the arms of Taehyung and Jimin, who both lean in to try and hug you, but you’re off and throwing yourself into your Bakugo’s arms.

“Jungkook, I don’t even know how I won! I don’t know what happened!” you exclaim with a cute laugh, clearly overwhelmed by everything happening around you.

Jungkook doesn’t say anything at first, just watches you, his eyes softening with something unreadable. Finally, he pulls you in, engulfing you in his bulky arms.

Home.

“It was your daily speeches doll,” he whispers quietly, almost to himself. “You’re special.”

You beam back at him, your joy too big to contain. “Thanks, Koo! I couldn’t have done it without you!”

Jungkook says nothing, but the way he looks down at you, with the faintest smile on his lips, says it all.

For once, it’s clear: he’s always believed in you, even when you didn’t know it.

Later that evening, after the excitement has settled and the crowd has dispersed, you find yourself in Jungkook’s apartment again, sprawled on the couch with your victory flowers placed haphazardly on the coffee table.

Jungkook sits beside you, shirtless and looking hot as fuck as he flips through his phone.

You nudge his side with your elbow, catching his attention. “So, Kookie…” you start, drawing out the syllables in a singsong tone.

He raises a brow but doesn’t look away from his phone. “What now?”

“I won student president,” you remind him, grinning as you scoot closer.

“Did you? I didn’t notice,” he says dryly, still scrolling.

Back to his usual self it seems…

You pout, tugging on his sleeve. “That’s a big deal, you know.”

“Sure is.”

You lean in even closer, practically draping yourself over him. “Big enough for a reward, don’t you think?”

At that, he finally looks at you, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. “A reward?”

You nod enthusiastically, your smile turning mischievous. “Yep. I worked so hard, and I think I deserve something for all my efforts.”

Jungkook smirks, his tongue running over his bottom lip in that way that always makes your stomach flip. “Oh, you think so?”

“I know so,” you declare, sitting up straighter and crossing your arms. “I handed out flyers, made speeches, posed for pictures. It was exhausting!”

You pout, knowing it will help you win your case.

He tilts his head, his gaze dropping to your lips before flicking back up to your eyes. “And what kind of reward are you looking for, Miss President?”

You pretend to think for a moment, tapping your chin with your finger. “Hmm… Something meaningful. Something memorable. Something…” You trail off, leaning closer until your face is just inches from his. “Fun.”

Jungkook’s smirk widens, and he sets his phone down, finally giving you his full attention. “You’re unbelievable, you know that?”

“Unbelievably deserving of a reward,” you correct, grinning shamelessly.

He shakes his head, his hair falling into his eyes as he leans back against the couch. “Alright, Miss President. What do you want?”

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you slide onto his lap, straddling him, your hands resting on his shoulders. His hands instinctively settle on your hips, and his brows shoot up in surprise.

“This,” you say, your voice dropping to a softer, more playful tone. “This is my reward.”

You grind down on Jungkook, moving forward to rest your nose against his cheek.

Jungkook chuckles, low and warm, his grip tightening slightly. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“Maybe,” you admit, leaning in until your lips are a breath away from his. “But you like it.”

He doesn’t deny it. Instead, Jungkook closes the distance, capturing your lips in a slow, lingering kiss that sends shivers down your spine.

When you finally pull back, a satisfied smile on your face, you whisper, “Best reward ever.”

“But I’m not satisfied,” Jungkook says in a husky tone, playing with the hem of your short, silk nightgown. “I think I deserve a reward too.”

As Jungkook’s fingers continue to trace lazy patterns on your thigh, his voice drops further, laced with that teasing, husky tone that always makes your cheeks warm.

His lips brush slightly against your ear.

You pull back and blink up at your man, your glossy lips parting slightly in confusion. “Huh? But you’re not the class president, silly. I am!”

Jungkook pauses, pulling back just enough to look at you, his dark eyes narrowing like he couldn’t believe what you’d just said. And then he laughs - deep and low, the sound rumbling from his chest and vibrating against you.

A sound you’re not quite used to, but is your saving grace.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” he says, shaking his head, the smirk tugging at his lips betraying his exasperation.

You pout, your perfectly glossed lips sticking out just enough to tempt him further. “I’m not wrong though,” you argue, tilting your head innocently.

“Mhm.” His grip on your waist tightens slightly, his thumb brushing against your skin as he leans closer, the warmth of his breath fanning against your cheek. “Still think I deserve something… presidential, don’t you think. You know, for being the best campaign manager?”

You stare at him for a second, trying to piece together what he meant before your face lights up. “Ohhh! You mean, like, a sticker or something? I think I have some in my bag! Wait here!”

Jungkook groans softly, the sound half-amused, half-defeated, as you attempt to wriggle out of his grasp. But he wasn’t going to let you go anywhere.

“Forget the sticker, doll,” he mutters, tugging you closer and pressing his lips firmly against yours once again.

Jungkook laughs softly, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your waist. “You’re lucky you’re- never mind.”

“You’re lucky I’m your president,” you quip, earning an eye roll and another kiss that leaves you both grinning like fools.

Jungkook pulls your closer, groaning. A deep, throaty sound that sends a shiver down your spine. “Why don’t you remind me how lucky I am?”

Your fingers trail down his buff chest, teasingly slow, until they reach the waistband of his jeans. You toy with the button, glancing up at him through your lashes. “I think you already know,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “But if you need me to spell it out…”

Before you can finish, his hand shoots up, gripping your chin gently but firmly. “You’re such a tease,” he mutters, his gaze locked on yours. “Always pushing buttons, seeing how far you can go.”

A thrill runs through you at his words, your body responding instinctively as you nod, your lips parting slightly.

“Yes,” you breath, the single word laden with meaning.

That was all the encouragement he needed. In one swift motion, Jungkook flips you onto your back, pinning you beneath him as his mouth crashed into yours.

The kiss is hungry, desperate, his tongue claiming yours as his hands roamed over your body, leaving trails of fire in their wake. You moan into his mouth, arching into his touch, your hands fisting in his hair to pull him closer.

When he finally breaks the kiss, both of you are breathless, your chests rising and falling rapidly.

“Such a good girl,” he murmurs, lips trailing down your neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin. “Class president. Always so perfect, aren’t you?”

Your head falls back against the couch cushions, a whimper escaping your lips as his teeth grazed your collarbone.

“Only for you,” you gasp, your fingers tightening in his hair.

Jungkook chuckles darkly, his hands sliding under your skirt to grip your thighs. “Is that so?” he asks, voice laced with amusement. “Then let’s see how much of a good girl you can be for me tonight.”

With that, he shifts lower, his lips following the path of his hands as he kisses along your inner thighs.

You squirm beneath him, the anticipation building as he teases you mercilessly, his breath hot against your skin. When his tongue finally finds its target, your back arches off the couch as a cry tears from your lips.

“J-Jungkook!” you moan, your hands clutching at the cushions as waves of pleasure wash over you.

“My love, I’ve missed this” Jungkook murmurs, voice thick with lust, his breath ghosting over your slick heat. “Missed my mouth all over this filthy cunt.”

Your fingers tangle in his dark hair, nails lightly grazing his scalp as you tighten your grip, hips arching in desperate search of contact. The need is maddening, your body trembling with want.

“Please… Koo,” you whine, your voice barely more than a whimper, every syllable laced with urgency. “Please, I need you.”

He hums against your thigh, the sound sending a jolt straight through your core. His gaze flickers up to you, hungry and impossibly tender. “I need you too,” he admits softly. “Need to taste you. Need to be inside you. Need to ruin you.”

Then, with infuriating patience, he drags the tip of his tongue along your folds - a featherlight stroke that leaves you shuddering. You writhe beneath him, chasing more, the teasing making your heart pound.

Jungkook groans low in his throat, clearly affected by the sight of you already in bliss.

“Baby, please… need more,” you whine, voice high and trembling, your body begging louder than words ever could.

And that is all it takes.

“Koo’s teased you long enough, hmm, doll?” he taunts, cupping your thighs and settling in deeper. “If it’s too much, you’ll tell me.”

Jungkook licks a slow, deliberate stripe from your entrance to your clit, savouring every drop of you. His tongue lingers, his lips sealing around your cunt as he begins to truly devour you … hungry, reverent, insatiable.

He moans into you, the vibration making your toes curl. His mouth is everywhere - sucking, kissing, lapping - and when his tongue flicks over your swollen clit, you cry out his name like a prayer.

You rock your hips against his face, seeking more, always more, as he flattens his tongue against you and groans at the taste he’s been craving. His hands roam upward, brushing over your chest, thumbs circling your hardened nipples, sending sparks of sensation through your already trembling frame.

“Oh my god, Baby—please! I-I can’t—” You gasp, the first orgasm crashing into you hard and fast, your thighs clamping around his head.

But Jungkook doesn’t stop.

He already knows.

“Baby wants more?” he teases against your heat, voice muffled but devilish.

And despite the pressure, you find yourself nodding.

Jungkook is then licking you again… up and down, over and over… shameless, worshipful and like he’s starved for you.

You can barely breathe, pleasure building again far too soon, and all you can do is hold on as he pulls another climax from your trembling body, whispering your name between every lick like it’s the only word that’s ever mattered.

You whine, tears spilling from your eyes as you reach for your Koo to hold you.

“Not yet,” he says, voice rough with lust and desire. “We’re not done.”

Before you could protest, Jungkook is kissing you again, his hands roaming over your body as he guides you to sit up.

“Ride me,” he commands, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You obey without hesitation, positioning yourself over him as he unbuckles his jeans, freeing his hard length.

Slowly, you sink down onto him, moaning at the sensation of being filled so completely. All while the tears continue to spill.

You love… you adore… you could die for the way this man fucks you.

Jungkook’s hands grip your hips tightly, guiding your movements as you begin to ride him, your bodies moving together in perfect harmony.

“That’s it,” he growls, his eyes locked on yours. “Take what you want, baby. Show me how much you’ve earned this.”

You whimper, pace increasing as the heat between you builds to an unbearable level. Jungkook’s hands move to your breasts, kneading and teasing as you grind down on him, each movement sending jolts of pleasure through your body.

“Look at you,” he rasps, his voice guttural and raw. “Riding me like you own me.” His words send a thrill through you, spurring you on as you pick up the pace, grinding down onto him with increasing urgency.

“You’re- you’re mine,” you manage to utter, grip tightening on Jungkook’s shoulders as you reach down to kiss him.

Jungkook, however, seems occupied with your urgency. And being his usual determined self, he cannot let you win.

His hands grab hold of your hips again, guiding your movements as he thrust up into you harshly, meeting you stroke for stroke.

The pleasure builds rapidly, coiling tighter and tighter in your core with each thrust. You feel it building, that sweet pressure threatening to break you apart, but you hold on, determined to make your handsome man come undone first.

“Koo, I—” you whine, your voice breaking as you feel yourself teetering on the edge.

You clench around him, drawing a strangled groan from his lips as his rhythm falters.

Leaning forward, you capture his mouth in a messy, passionate kiss, your tongues battling for dominance as you ride him harder, faster, chasing that peak together.

“Come for me,” he demands, tone firm but gentle. “Fall apart on my dick.”

It was all the permission you required.

With a cry, you come undone, your body shuddering as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you.

Jungkook groans, the feeling of your sticky cum decorating him consuming him.

And before he can continue his usual post-orgasm shenanigans, you cut him off with a sharp roll of your hips, driving him over the edge.

His release hits him like a tidal wave, his body tensing as he spills inside you. He holds you through it, his groans muffling against your skin.

The sight of him cumming inside you, the feel of him pulsing within you, is all it takes to send you spiraling once again.

Another orgasm crashes over you, waves of ecstasy washing through your body as you clench around him, milking every last drop of pleasure Jungkook has to offer.

Both of you breathe heavily as you try to regain your senses. Jungkook’s arms immediately wrap tighter around you, holding you close as he presses a soft kiss to the top of your head.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, voice filled with satisfaction and pride. “You did so well, my princess.”

You smile faintly, your body still tingling from the second orgasm. “Does this mean I get a reward every time I win something?”

Jungkook chuckles, his grip on you tightening slightly. “If this is how you plan to collect, then maybe we should make more bets.”

You laugh softly, leaning into your boyfriend as the TV continues to flicker in the background, forgotten by both of you.

For now, all that matters is being lost in the heat of the moment and Jungkook’s promise of more nights like this.

—

And done! Hope you enjoyed 🫶🏻 I would appreciate feedback :)

[yukkiji]

betting on you

blue lock masterlist. leave a little stardust on my ko-fi

starring. michael kaiser x fem!reader

genre: fluff, romance, suggestive, enemies to lovers-ish

wc: 5k

author's note: idk why the hell i've been thinking about kaiser lately but ig this a bit self indulgent so i hope you enjoy hehe (i'm also thinking about making a part 2 of this that's a bit hehe)

it all started with a bet.

it wasn't just any bet with someone.

it was with michael kaiser, the notorious golden striker of bastard münchen. the guy whose ego was as massive as his talent, whose smirk could disarm crowds and whose confidence filled every room he walked into. and now, he was looking at you like you were his next challenge.

you were the newest intern on the pr team, fresh into the whirlwind that was managing blue lock’s chaos. they’d warned you, over and over, that this job wasn’t just about one team. no, you were in charge of all five — barcha’s flashy social media blitz, ubers’ tight-lipped press demands, pxg’s controlled chaos, manshine’s risky rebranding campaigns, and of course…

kaiser.

you hadn’t even gotten your desk properly set up when he found you, slipping in with that cocky grin that made your skin prickle.

“let me guess,” you said, already tired of his smug attitude, “you think i’m just another girl who’s going to fall for the star striker?”

he cocked an eyebrow, like you amused him. “no. i know you’re not just another girl. that’s why i made it interesting.”

you crossed your arms, keeping your voice steady despite the way your heart beat faster. “i don’t have time for games.”

his eyes glinted with challenge. “then try to keep up, liebling [darling].”

he leaned in, his voice dropping to that infuriatingly smooth tone that made you want to punch him and laugh at the same time.

“winner gets bragging rights. first to fall in love loses.”

you swallowed the lump forming in your throat, fought the impulse to smile, and looked away. this was going to be a battle — and somehow, you already knew it wouldn’t be so easy to win.

you quickly learned that being the newest intern on the blue lock pr team meant diving headfirst into chaos — and managing more than just one team was a lesson in controlled madness. each squad had its own personality, its own challenges.

barcha, being the loudest with bachira over there has their flashy social media content demanded constant attention. their fans craved excitement, and your phone buzzed non-stop with requests for new posts, player interviews, and viral clips. managing their image was like trying to hold a firework show in a hurricane.

ubers took the opposite approach — stoic and serious, their press demands tight and unforgiving. every word had to be measured, every statement vetted carefully. no room for mistakes. you’d spend hours drafting and redrafting press releases, balancing professionalism with a hint of warmth.

pxg? pure chaos. their locker room was a storm of personalities and egos, and your job was to make sure none of that spilled into the media. sometimes you felt like a juggler with too many balls in the air, praying none of them would drop.

manshine was in the middle of a rebranding campaign, trying to reinvent themselves. the pressure was on to make their image sleek, modern, and appealing — but with a hint of mystery. that meant tight deadlines, surprise meetings, and frantic brainstorming sessions.

and then there was bastard münchen.

the team that was as much a force of nature as they were a soccer club — rough around the edges, fiercely competitive, and infamous for their wild energy both on and off the pitch. the media loved to paint them as rebels, the “bad boys” of blue lock, and you quickly understood why.

and within those bastards was michael kaiser — their golden striker, the guy who refused to play by anyone’s rules but his own. his ego was as massive as his talent, his confidence filling every room he walked into, his smirk disarming crowds and teammates alike. he was the heart of the team’s chaos and charisma all at once.

kaiser was impossible to ignore. the moment he entered a room, his presence took over. and somehow, he always found you. calling you “liebling [darling] ” or “kätzchen [kitten] ” with a wink, like it was a game — and you were the prize.

one afternoon, you were coordinating a complicated press shoot for barcha’s latest campaign. cameras flashed, stylists fussed, and players posed with practiced ease — but you were focused on the schedule, clipboard in hand, barking out orders to keep everything on track.

kaiser appeared at your side, his voice a low murmur meant only for you. “you’re too serious, kätzchen. you need to lighten up.”

you glanced at him, arching an eyebrow but resisting the urge to laugh. “someone has to keep you in line, micha.”

he chuckled, that deep laugh that made your heart skip just a little. “maybe. or maybe i just like the way you challenge me.”

you rolled your eyes but the smile you couldn’t hide betrayed you. it was dangerous, this back-and-forth. the way he could make a simple phrase sound like a promise.

later that week, as you were helping ubers with a press conference, you found yourself surrounded by players from other teams, answering questions, sharing laughs, and juggling requests. it was a lot, but you liked the challenge.

kaiser wasn’t far off, watching from a distance, a flicker in his eyes that you didn’t catch right away. then he came over, sliding in beside you with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“so, liebling,” he said, voice teasing but edged with something sharper, “you seem very interested in what pxg’s star forward just said.”

you glanced at the player, a tall, charismatic guy who was mid-story, and back to kaiser, who was watching you like a hawk.

“he was just telling me about their new training routine. it’s relevant for the press coverage.”

“hm,” kaiser hummed, “interesting. but not as interesting as me, right?”

you smirked. “don’t flatter yourself.”

kaiser leaned closer, lowering his voice. “i don’t flatter, kätzchen. i know.”

there was a brief silence between you, charged and electric.

“you’re jealous,” you said softly, amused.

his smirk twisted into something almost vulnerable. “maybe. or maybe i just don’t like sharing the spotlight.”

you nudged him playfully. “micha, it’s not a competition. you know that.”

“maybe not,” he said, eyes locking on yours. “but i don’t plan on losing.”

you laughed, but your heart was pounding. beneath the teasing and bravado, something real was brewing, a challenge neither of you expected, and neither were quite ready to admit.

and with kaiser, every moment felt like the start of something that could never be just a game.

there were also some moments when kaiser would suddenly show up in your office unannounced just to tease the hell out of you, like right now.

you were buried in a pile of press releases and social media schedules, fingers flying over your keyboard, when the door creaked open.

there he was—micha, smirking like he owned the place, leaning against the doorframe with all the casual arrogance he could muster.

“working hard, liebling?” he drawled, voice dripping with playful mockery.

you groaned, rubbing your temples. “micha, what are you doing here? i have a million things to do.”

he stepped inside, closing the door behind him like it was a stage curtain dropping. “just thought i’d remind you who’s winning our little bet.”

you didn’t look up. “you’re dreaming.”

he moved closer, too close, until you could feel his warmth right behind you. one hand brushed your shoulder, fingers tracing slow, teasing circles. “maybe, but i like my odds.”

you finally glanced over your shoulder, catching his mischievous grin. “stop it.”

“stop what?” he whispered, leaning in so his breath tickled your ear, “making you fall for me?”

your breath hitched. you twisted in your chair, just enough to meet his eyes. “micha…”

he pressed a light kiss to your cheek, just below your ear, before stepping back with a victorious smirk. “see? easy to fall, liebling.”

you rolled your eyes, but the flush creeping up your neck betrayed you. “you’re impossible.”

“and you love it.” he winked, heading for the door. “don’t work too hard — i might have to come back for another visit.”

there were also times when kaiser would secretly pull you into the locker room after practice, using the excuse of needing a quick word about the upcoming press schedule.

the door clicked softly behind you, shutting out the distant echoes of the players wrapping up. the air inside was cooler, tinged with the faint scent of sweat and leather. the usual bustle of the stadium faded away, replaced by a charged quiet that made your skin tingle.

kiser didn’t say much at first. instead, he stepped close, his presence overwhelming in the tight space. you could feel the heat radiating off him, the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath his shirt.

“liebling,” he murmured, voice low and rough, “how long are you going to keep pretending you don’t feel this?”

before you could answer, his hand found the small of your back, steadying you. his lips followed a slow path down your neck, soft and deliberate, brushing against your skin like a promise. a shiver ran through you, his warm breath fanning over the sensitive spot just below your ear.

your heart hammered in your chest, caught between shock and something deeper — a pull you couldn’t resist. your fingers curled into the back of his shirt, anchoring yourself as he deepened the kiss on your neck, just for a moment, teasing but full of intent.

he pulled back slightly, eyes dark and searching. “i’m winning this, kätzchen.” he whispered, voice thick with something almost tender.

the tension between you wasn’t just a game anymore. it was raw, dangerous, and beautiful—a line you both danced around but neither dared cross completely.

and in that quiet locker room, away from the crowds and cameras, the bet faded into the background, replaced by something real that neither of you could ignore.

kaiser may have the tendency to tease you and make you frustrated most of the time, but there were also moments when he’d tone it all down. moments that caught you off guard, when the sharp edges of his teasing softened into something quietly caring, almost tender.

like that late afternoon when you were buried under a mountain of work, your eyes heavy and barely staying open at your desk. the office was quiet, the hum of the city outside fading into a soft background noise. your head dipped lower, and you fought the pull of exhaustion.

you didn’t notice when the door opened quietly behind you, footsteps soft but deliberate.

then, you felt it, the weight of his jacket slipping gently over your shoulders, the fabric warm and familiar, shielding you from the chill creeping into the room.

you blinked up, surprised to see micha standing there with a small coffee cup in hand, his usual smirk softened into something almost protective.

“for you, liebling,” he murmured, voice low and sincere.

you let out a tired laugh. “what, you worried about me now?”

he shrugged, but the spark in his eyes was different. “someone’s gotta keep you from killing yourself with work.”

you wanted to protest, but before you could, he pulled out the couch nearby and sat down. “come here,” he commanded softly.

you hesitated, but exhaustion won. you eased down beside him, barely able to keep your eyes open.

without missing a beat, he gently pulled you into his lap, careful as if you were fragile. your head found its place against his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear.

“you’re not getting enough sleep, meine liebe” he said quietly, fingers threading through your hair, soothing and slow.

“i’m fine,” you murmured, but your voice was thick with tiredness.

he pressed a kiss to your temple. “no, you’re not. and i’m not letting you work yourself into the ground.”

in that moment, the teasing faded away, replaced by a quiet warmth that made your chest ache in the best way.

“micha,” you whispered, voice barely audible, “you’re impossible.”

he chuckled softly, lips brushing against your hairline. “i'm aware”

you closed your eyes, letting yourself sink into the rare peace he offered — a soft, stolen moment away from the noise and the bet, where just being close was enough.

as you rested against him, kaiser’s fingers gently tracing slow patterns in your hair, he muttered something under his breath — almost too soft to hear.

he pulled back just a bit, eyes flicking down to you, voice low and hesitant, “maybe... i’m losing the bet.”

you blinked, but you didn’t catch what he said. maybe it was just your tired mind playing tricks.

“what was that, micha?” you asked, half-smiling, but he just shook his head with that signature smirk, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face.

“nothing, liebling. just thinking out loud.”

kaiser was sure he was losing the bet. how could he not be? every time you showed up at his games, standing just beyond the sidelines or leaning casually against the press area, something inside him shifted. suddenly, he wasn’t just playing for the team or the fans anymore—he was playing to impress you.

he caught himself pushing harder, sprinting faster, weaving through defenders with a flair he usually kept tucked away. his smirk after every goal wasn’t just for the crowd, it was for you.

“why else would i care so much, liebling?” he muttered one evening, half to himself, half to the empty office as he slumped into his chair.

he knew the answer, even if he tried to deny it. this wasn’t just a game anymore. it was something more, something he wasn’t ready to admit, but couldn’t hide. and deep down, that terrified him.

yet, whenever you smiled his way, or called him “micha” with that tired, knowing grin, he felt something fierce and stubborn flare inside him.

he was falling, fast and hard, and damn if he wasn’t going to enjoy every moment, even if it meant losing the bet.

you started noticing it—the little things. kaiser’s teasing never stopped, but there was something different now. beneath the sharp banter and playful jabs, you felt the weight of something real, something genuine.

like the way his smirk lingered a moment longer when you caught his eye. or how, after a joke that usually made you roll your eyes, he’d catch your reaction and soften it with a quick, almost shy glance.

one afternoon, you were wrapping up a press release for manshine when micha popped into your office unannounced, as usual. “schatz,” he drawled, leaning casually against the doorframe, that trademark smirk in place. “working late again?”

“obviously,” you shot back, already expecting the teasing.

he pushed off the wall and stepped closer, voice dropping a notch. “you know, if you keep burning the candle at both ends, i might just have to drag you away from your desk.”

you raised an eyebrow. “oh really? and how would you do that?”

without missing a beat, he grabbed your wrist and tugged you up, pulling you into a mock struggle before settling you down on the couch. “just like this.”

you laughed, trying to squirm away, but there was a softness in his eyes that made you pause. “micha…”

he brushed a stray strand of hair behind your ear and his grin softened into something warmer. “i’m serious, liebling. you’re not invincible.”

it struck you then, his teasing was still there, but it was laced with care, with concern.

and as you leaned into him, feeling the easy tension between you, you realized maybe kaiser’s game wasn’t just a bet anymore. maybe, just maybe, it was something more.

it’s a random thursday when it happens.

the media shoot for bastard münchen runs late, and the rest of the team’s already long gone by the time you and kaiser are left in the pr office. the lights are dimmed, just the glow from your laptop and the faint hum of your playlist filling the quiet.

you’re kneeling near the storage shelf, sorting through camera gear and tangled mic wires, too tired to care about how stiff your blazer’s gotten from wearing it all day. behind you, kaiser leans against the doorway, arms crossed, blue eyes sharp and unreadable.

it’s one of those moments, the ones where he shows up unannounced, just to tease the hell out of you. he always has a smug quip, always something to say. but tonight, he’s unusually quiet.

you glance back over your shoulder. “you good?”

his gaze flickers across your face like he’s memorizing every inch. and then, casually, like he’s commenting on the weather —

“i think i’m in love with you.”

you freeze.

your hands go still on the cables, your breath catches just enough to betray you.

there’s a long pause.

too long.

too quiet.

he sees your reaction—the way your spine straightens, the way your fingers tighten slightly around the gear—and immediately, panic flickers in his expression. his smirk reappears, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“kidding,” he says, tone light. too light. “obviously. still part of the bet. you’re almost there, right?”

you turn back to the equipment, force your voice to stay steady. “right.”

you don’t look at him. don’t let him see the hurt that blooms sharp in your chest like a bruise spreading under your ribs.

because you really thought… maybe it was real.

and maybe, that was your mistake.

you finish organizing the last mic, carefully winding the cord like your hands aren’t trembling slightly. behind you, kaiser shifts, but doesn’t say anything else. the air feels colder now, like whatever fragile warmth had existed between you had slipped out with his words.

what you don’t see—what you don’t know—is that kaiser had meant every damn word.

it wasn’t a line. it wasn’t part of the bet.

he’d said it without thinking, with the kind of quiet honesty that scares even him. and the moment he saw how still you went, how surprised you looked… fear kicked in.

he’s never needed anyone to know him before. never cared if people loved him or hated him, as long as they watched.

but you.

you make him want to be real. and that terrifies him.

so he took it back.

because kaiser didn’t know if you’d ever feel the same… and pride has always been easier than heartbreak.

but now, standing there in the doorway while you refuse to even glance his way, he realizes what he’s done.

he pushed you away the second he was closest to pulling you in.

and for the first time since he made that stupid, arrogant bet…

he’s terrified that he actually lost you.

then the next day came.

and the shift was unmistakable.

kaiser walked into the pr office like he always did, head held high, trademark cocky swagger in full force, expecting the usual. your unimpressed side-eye. the sarcastic “you’re not allowed in here, you know.” maybe, if he was lucky, the quiet smile you didn’t think anyone noticed when he leaned too close or called you liebling under his breath.

but this time?

nothing.

you were already at your desk, posture perfectly straight, headset on, fingers flying across the keyboard like you hadn’t just been the recipient of a half-confession the night before.

no teasing. no sarcastic quip. no glance in his direction.

just silence.

kaiser blinked, momentarily thrown off. okay, he thought. maybe she’s just busy.

he stepped inside anyway—uninvited, as usual—leaned casually against the filing cabinet near your desk.

“morgen, liebling.” he said with practiced ease, the pet name wrapping around the room like it always did.

your response?

a quiet, barely audible “morning.” you didn’t even look up.

his smirk faltered.

not that anyone else would notice, he was too good at keeping up the front. too good at hiding the fact that the cold brush-off felt like a punch to the chest.

he stayed there for a beat longer, waiting for the real reaction. the one where you'd roll your eyes and throw a pen at him. the one where you’d smirk and say, “don’t call me that at work, kaiser.”

but nothing came.

he walked out without another word, unsure if it was better to laugh or scream.

it only got worse from there.

during practice, he caught himself looking through the glass window of the upper level, where your office overlooked the training pitch, and you were there, clipboard in hand, headset still on. but you weren’t watching him. not like you usually did. not like you used to, when he’d send a wink your way after a goal or mouth a smug “for you.”

you didn’t glance at him even once.

and for someone who thrived on attention—who lived off reactions, validation, control—your silence hit like a direct kick to the ribs.

“yo,” ness nudged him mid-warmup. “you and the pr girl good? you’re off today. it’s creepy.”

“she’s busy,” kaiser grunted, brushing it off.

but his tone lacked conviction. even he could hear it.

isagi joined in a few minutes later, towel slung around his neck as he jogged beside him. “dude. did you mess up? she’s been acting different. super professional. formal. like—” he whistled low “—back to intern mode.”

kaiser didn’t respond.

because yeah. he’d noticed too.

the way you didn’t walk beside him down the halls anymore. the way you addressed him like a client in the media meeting, “kaiser, you’re expected at the post-match interview in ten” voice crisp, tone detached, like you weren’t the same person who once called him micha with something close to fondness under your breath.

not once today had you used that name.

and god, he missed it.

he missed you.

the real you, the version who didn’t flinch when he leaned in too close, who rolled her eyes when he flirted, who pretended not to smile when he brought you coffee just to watch your expression shift. he missed the quiet tension that buzzed between your fingertips whenever he reached out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear, the spark in your eyes when you pretended not to care.

and now?

now, you looked right through him. like last night had never happened. like the words “i think i’m in love with you” had been a figment of his imagination.

but it wasn’t your distance that killed him.

it was the fact that you didn’t confront him. didn’t retaliate. didn’t even acknowledge it.

because if you’d fought him, he could’ve argued back.

if you’d teased him, he could’ve spun it around, turned it into another game.

but this quiet, clinical version of you?

it meant you were hurt.

and worse, that you were hiding it behind professionalism.

that’s when it hit him.

you’d thought he was serious last night.

because he was serious.

what you didn’t know—couldn’t know—was that kaiser had never meant to say it out loud. he hadn’t planned on confessing anything. he was michael kaiser. prideful, untouchable, golden boy. he didn’t fall.

and yet, there he was, leaning in the doorway of your office after hours, watching the way your fingers moved and thinking i’m in love with her.

he’d said it without thinking.

and then panicked. covered it up with a joke because he was terrified of the shift, terrified of losing the upper hand, of admitting that the game had stopped being a game weeks ago.

he saw the way your shoulders stiffened.

he heard the pause.

and still, he laughed.

called it a joke.

just so he didn’t have to deal with the weight of what he’d just said out loud.

now you were slipping away from him, inch by inch, behind a wall of professionalism and distance.

and it was entirely his fault.

for the first time in his life, michael kaiser didn’t feel like a winner.

he felt like someone who was about to lose something real.

and the worst part?

he wasn’t sure how to fix it.

not yet.

it all comes to a head at the gala.

blue lock’s annual fundraising night, suits, champagne, media appearances, and gold-dipped smiles plastered across every player’s face. the pr team is in full force tonight, and as one of the top interns, you’re assigned to coordinate behind the scenes.

you didn’t expect to be seen.

definitely didn’t expect to be noticed.

but you were wrong.

your dress is nothing too extravagant, just a simple off-shoulder satin piece in midnight blue, elegant, understated. but it hugs in all the right places. a little more skin than usual, a little less guarded. your hair’s pinned up, leaving your collarbones exposed, catching the soft golden light of the chandeliers.

kaiser notices the moment you step into the room.

and his entire chest goes tight.

he's halfway through a conversation with a sponsor, flute of champagne untouched in his hand, but his eyes are glued to you, the way your fingers brush a curl behind your ear, the soft laugh you give when someone hands you a glass.

you’re not looking at him.

and yet, every man in the room is looking at you.

and then he walks up, some finance guy, older, tall, too smooth with his words, asking if you’re free for a drink after the event. kaiser’s too far to hear what you’re saying, but he doesn’t need to.

the guy leans in closer. his hand brushes your lower back. you don’t step away.

kaiser’s jaw clenches.

and then another one joins. some smirking ex-pro turned broadcaster who’s all too eager to compliment your smile. and god, you smile back.

that’s it.

he’s had enough.

“excuse me,” kaiser says, voice tight as he hands off his glass to the nearest staff member without a glance. his teammates call after him, confused. someone asks where he’s going.

but he’s already striding across the ballroom.

you don’t even notice him until his hand wraps gently but firmly around your wrist.

your eyes widen. “kaiser?”

“we’re leaving.”

you blink. “what—? i’m working.”

“not anymore.”

his voice is low. controlled. but there’s something wild simmering beneath the surface, jealousy, frustration, something close to desperation.

the two men standing beside you step back, startled.

“hey, man—” one of them starts, defensive.

but kaiser’s not listening.

he’s pulling you away from the crowd, past the confused eyes of sponsors and players, down the hallways of the stadium and back toward the pr wing like a storm on legs.

you protest once, “kaiser, let go—” but it’s weak. your heart is thudding too loudly, your breath catching at the heat in his eyes.

the moment the door to your office slams shut behind you, he turns—fast, sharp, like he’s been waiting for this.

you barely have time to draw a breath before his voice slices through the thick silence.

“do you enjoy it?”

you blink. “what?”

his jaw tightens. there’s heat in his eyes, something stormy and restless. “having them look at you like that. letting them touch you.”

your brows pull together, confusion giving way to disbelief. “it’s part of the job. it was harmless.”

“harmless?” he takes a step closer, the air between you shrinking. “they had no idea who you are to me.”

you flinch at the words—not because of what they mean, but because of what they don’t.

“maybe that’s because you made damn sure i wasn’t anything to you,” you fire back, the words out before you can reel them in.

the sentence lands like a slap. the silence that follows is louder than any scream.

his expression falters—just for a second. a flicker of something wounded passes beneath the cool, practiced arrogance.

“you think i don’t care?” he asks, quieter now, his voice laced with something raw. “you think this doesn’t eat me alive?”

he moves again, slow but deliberate, until your back hits the edge of your desk and you’re caged by his presence. it’s not threatening—but it’s consuming.

“you wear that dress,” he murmurs, eyes dipping to your collarbone, lingering like a touch. “you smile like that. and you expect me to stand there and watch them put their hands on you?”

you meet his gaze, unwavering despite the way your pulse races. your voice comes out steady—cool, despite the fire beneath your skin.

“you don’t get to be jealous,” you say. “not after you said it was all a joke.”

his mouth opens slightly, like the words caught him off guard.

then—barely audible—he says, “it wasn’t.”

you go still.

but now that the dam has cracked, he doesn’t stop.

“you think i didn’t mean it?” his voice is rough, strained. “you think i’d say i think i’m in love with you just to play some twisted game?”

you don’t answer. your silence is louder than words.

he exhales, ragged. “i panicked,” he admits, softer now. “i’ve always been in control. of the game. the spotlight. the way people see me. but you…”

he swallows, and it’s the most human sound you’ve ever heard from him.

“you’re the only thing i can’t manage.”

your gaze drops, but his fingers gently tilt your chin up again, forcing you to face him.

“i meant it, meine liebe,” he says, voice trembling at the edges. “every damn word.”

the room feels still, suspended in that fragile space between what was and what could be.

you hate the way your heart clenches.

hate the part of you that wants to believe him.

hate the way your breath stutters when his thumb brushes your cheek, soft like a secret.

then, in a voice barely more than a whisper—

“tell me it’s too late. and i’ll walk out that door.”

you don’t.

instead, your voice breaks the silence, quiet but sure.

“you really fell first, huh?”

and when he kisses you—desperate, deep, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold on tight—it’s not about the game, the act, or the mask he wears so well.

it’s real.

and this time, you let yourself kiss him back. completely. unapologetically.

like maybe, just maybe, this was always meant to happen.

[maturemenoftvandfilms]

The Senator From Montana

CHAPTER SIXTEEN: A Concession of Passion

Featuring Jon Tester

The air was crisp in Great Falls, Montana, as the sun began to set on November 6, 2024. The crowd gathered at the Civic Center was a mix of supporters, family, and press, all awaiting Senator Jon Tester's concession speech. The election results were clear; Republican Tim Sheehy had won the Senate seat.

Jon Tester, a robust man with the weathered look of someone who's spent a lifetime in the Montana fields, took the stage, his face a mask of disappointment but with an underlying strength. He spoke of his gratitude, his commitment to Montana, and his acceptance of the voters' decision. His words were met with applause, some with tears, others with a resigned nod.

As the crowd dispersed, the weight of the concession settled on Tester. Walking back to his campaign office, his steps were heavy, each one echoing the end of an era. But waiting for him was Jack Lucas, his male executive assistant, whose presence had always been a source of comfort and more. Jack, with his sharp suit and even sharper eyes, locked the door behind them, ensuring privacy.

"You did what you could, Jon," he said softly, stepping closer, his hand reaching out to touch Tester's arm, a gesture of comfort that carried the weight of something more intimate.

"I know, Jack, but it's hard to let go," Tester replied, his voice low, his eyes searching Jack's for the solace he desperately needed.

“I feel like getting my dick sucked. You want to suck the cock of an old dirt farmer?” Jon's voice was rough, laced with the gravel of his rural Montanan roots, as he unzipped his fly with a practiced ease. His jeans, worn and faded from years of hard work, slid down just enough to reveal his boxers. He pulled out his cock, not yet hard, a testament to his defeat but still impressive, nestled in a thatch of dark, curly hair.

“Ain’t much to it today. Guess the loss took all the starch out of it. But I’m sure you can make it hard,” he said, giving his member a casual wave.

Jack, with his stocky, athletic build, was eager to shift Jon's focus from political loss to physical pleasure. He knelt before Jon, his lips parting to envelop Jon’s soft cock, his tongue swirling around the tip with expert precision.

"Yea, I could use a little pleasure," Jon murmured, his voice a rumble of anticipation. "Maybe it’ll help me think of something other than losing my senate seat."

As Jack worked, Jon's cock grew, hardening, filling out to its full eight inches, thick and veined, the head turning a deep, lustful red.

“That feels damn right good. Swallow it all the way. I know you can do it,” Jon urged, his hands guiding Jack’s head with a mix of strength and care.

Jon's cock was a sight to behold, a column of flesh that seemed to pulse with life. Jack managed to take it all, his throat accommodating the girth, feeling the senator's pulse against his tongue. Jon's hand in Jack’s hair was firm, controlling the rhythm of his thrusts until he abruptly withdrew.

“Come on, Lucas, let's find a room. I want to fuck you,” Jon commanded, his voice thick with desire.

In the privacy of their chosen room, he instructed, "Take off all your clothes," his own plaid shirt and jeans soon discarded, revealing his robust, slightly hairy chest and the hard lines of his belly.

As Jack unbuttoned his shirt, his eyes lingered on Jon's belly, imagining the warmth and firmness pressed against his cheek. The sight of Jon pulling down his boxers, revealing his thick, now fully erect cock, and the heavy, low-hanging balls beneath, was almost too much.

“Get on the bed,” Jon ordered as Jack stepped out of his underwear, his own cock bobbing eagerly.

Jack lay back on the crisp white sheets, and Jon straddled him, his back to Jack's face, presenting his muscular, round ass. Jon leaned back, his asshole descending towards Jack's eager mouth. “Lick my asshole!” Jon commanded with the authority of a man used to giving orders. Jack's tongue met the tender, pink bud, tasting the bitter, earthy essence of Jon. Jon's sigh was deep, resonant, his body relaxing into the sensation. Jack's tongue danced around Jon's hole, then delved in, his hands spreading Jon's cheeks apart to delve deeper.

“Oh! Yea!” Jon's shout was loud, filled with raw pleasure.

“Fuck yeah! Fuck wonderful!” He grabbed Jack's cock, his grip firm as he jerked him off.

“Stick it deeper!” Jon demanded, his body hunching involuntarily with each flick of Jack's tongue.

Suddenly, Jon spun around, lifting Jack's legs, exposing him completely. He positioned himself between Jack's legs, his large hands gripping Jack's thighs with a strength that belied his age. Jack felt the heat of Jon's cock against his entrance. Jon didn't waste time; he spat into his hand, lubing himself up with a rough efficiency.

With a grunt, Jon pushed inside Jack, the sensation causing both to gasp. Jon's cock slid in to the hilt, his low-hanging balls slapping against Jack with each thrust. The room was filled with the sounds of their bodies moving together, the slap of skin, the groans of pleasure, and the occasional curse from Jon, who seemed to find a particular joy in the raw, unfiltered expression of his desire.

“Fuck me, Jon. Give it to me,” Jack cried, his eyes locked on Jon’s weathered, handsome face. He wanted to remember this moment, this connection. Jack's hands roamed over Jon's back, feeling the muscles tense and relax with each movement.

“You like having my cock up your ass?” Jon panted, his rhythm becoming more erratic as he neared his climax. Jack, overwhelmed by the intensity, could only nod, his own release building.

“You're a good man, Lucas. A real good man!” Jon growled, pulling back to the tip before ramming home again.

“Damn if your asshole isn’t hotter than Sharla’s pussy,” he admitted, his strokes becoming more forceful, driving Jack into a frenzy of bucking and moaning.

Amidst this intense coupling, Jon leaned down, capturing Jack's mouth in a kiss fierce with passion, their tongues battling. Then, with a guttural groan, Jon came inside Jack, his orgasm shaking his large frame. The kiss persisted, passionate and unyielding, even as Jon's climax subsided. Jack wrapped his legs around Jon, not wanting to lose the connection, the intimacy.

Jon slid down, taking Jack's cock in his mouth, his eyes never leaving Jack's, his movements deliberate and skilled. Just before Jack could reach his peak, Jon pulled away, straddling him. He guided Jack's cock to his ass, lowering himself with a groan that spoke volumes of his desire. Jack's hands spread Jon's cheeks, feeling the tight clench around his shaft. Jon's body moved with a surprising grace, up and down, his heavy body a beautiful contrast to the raw act they were engaged in.

When Jack came, it was with a cry that mingled with Jon's deeper groan as his release filled Jon, their bodies shuddering together in the aftermath.

Afterward, they lay there, catching their breath, the reality of what had just transpired settling in. Jon rolled off Jack, his body heavy with satisfaction. He reached for his clothes, the moment of intimacy fading back into the world of politics and public life.

“I’m gonna miss this, Lucas,” Jon said, his voice softer now, almost vulnerable. He pulled Jack into a brief, tight embrace before standing, his movements slow, as if he wanted to stay in this moment just a little longer.

As he dressed, he glanced back at Jack, who was watching him with a mix of admiration and sadness. “Keep in touch, alright? Maybe when the dust settles, we can find some more time for… this.”

With that, Jon left, leaving Jack with the lingering warmth of their encounter and the echo of his words, a promise of perhaps more to come, in a world where everything was about to change.

Note: This narrative is entirely fictional and meant for entertainment purposes. It does not imply or suggest any real-life events, behaviors, or relationships involving Jon Tester, Jack Lucas, or any other real person.

[superbat-lmao]

There are several tiktok trends I think the Batfam, and even the JL would have fun with as part of a “social media campaign” (the kids think it would be funny and it is). There are civilian and vigilante videos.

The first one is three separate tiktok’s on three different accounts. The Wayne’s tiktok, the League’s and Spoiler’s. It’s that one from b99 where the team is guessing how Holt will eat a marshmallow for the first time. Everyone is recording their guess as to how Brucie or Batman will react to being handed a pineapple. In the civilian video, Brucie flips it upside down and winks at the hidden camera. In the JL’s video, Batman disappears it into his cape. In Spoiler’s video he takes a bite through the rind and all. (Who got the closest guess? Tag your guess because I can’t decide.)

The second is a video on the Bats’ tiktok, the trauma candy salad kind. It’s a mix of different run ins with Rogues (shot by Two Face) to personal tragedy (my Dad was a supervillain) to Red Hood and Damian trying to one up each other over the most traumatic thing that happened to them. It’s considered a draw.

The vigilantes playing “Guess Whose Outfit is Whose” and there’s a video of Red Robin and Red Hood swapping the Robin outfit because Jason lost a bet and Tim wants to rub it in his face how stupid he looked during Titans Tower. There is also one of Nightwing and Red Hood swapping outfits because of Jason impersonating Dick. And one of Batman and Nightwing swapping which Bruce thought he could pull off and Dick straight up laughed at. He’s not laughing when Discowing gets brought out. (There is also one that’s never posted of Superman and Batman trading suits and it’s absolutely uncanny (and a security risk)).

Everyone does their own version of the adult swim video, with Red Hood’s being spelled out in goon bodies (they’re unconscious) like Deadpool spelling out Francis. His video gets flagged (most of his videos get flagged) so the next one on his account is just the [as] spelled out by the mugshots of all the guys who were UNCONSCIOUS.

Tim has a video where he follows Jason around with an xbox controller and tells a family member “press X to Jason” and whoever pushes it gets to yell “Jason!” like in Heavy Rain. The end of that video is Tim and Jason standing in front of Jason’s grave with a keyboard where he says “Press F to pay respects.”

The Flash, Green Lantern, and Superman all pretending to be the Chipmunks singing “How We Roll” with Barry giving the performance of a lifetime.

[wavesoutbeingtossed]

people just don't understand nuance. two things can be true: blake may be a victim of SA or general creepy behavior (which taylor can - and clearly does - support her getting justice for!!) AND blake may have done some other stuff that - intentionally or not - feels very manipulative. it's clear this situation is VERY complicated with a lot of stuff going down in private, which sucks in the social media age of "your team versus my team" and "my party can do no wrong."

yup exactly. It's two separate issues.

Blake's case is important, and imo it is very strong if you've read the filing. It wasn't an isolated incident, other people filed complaints, there is clear evidence the production etc. had to mitigate the unsafe environment.

But people are people and sometimes people do shitty things when they're in shitty situations. She may have felt backed into a corner and did something that accidentally lit a fuse. And if I had to guess, Taylor probably understood that, even if it was hurtful. But if I also had to guess, it's that the steps taken after that did not really attempt to rectify the situation, and instead are now adding fuel to the fire. And THAT is a separate issue from a) Blake's SA case and even b) the initial action (presumably using Taylor's name) that was hurtful to her.

Like, not to be speculative or write fanfic, but just placing myself in the shoes of someone whose friend accidentally did something hurtful, I could imagine if Blake had come to her at the time and said, "I panicked and said x and may have implicated you in something," Taylor may have been taken aback or upset, but likely would have worked through it and found a way to mitigate and even help Blake. But instead it seems like Taylor more than likely found out about her implication at the same time as the rest of the world, so that is the first thing that probably really stung. And next when Taylor probably indicated: this sucks and this hurts, and I'd like you to not use my name anymore, the response seems to have fallen on deaf ears. Because unwittingly or not, Blake's team keeps doing the very thing that hurt Taylor in the first place. Once was a mistake, repeatedly is a pattern, and that has to be painful, because that's a choice and like you said, it increasingly feels like a manipulative one.

IMO, if I were someone like Blake, my way of making amends would probably have been to have my team make a statement condemning JB's team's implication of Taylor (and/or whoever else they went after like idk Hugh) as a wild good chase to make it clear she was not part of the story. But instead, it seems like they are lowkey continually returning to the narrative that "the case strained their friendship but they've mended fences" as a way of piggybacking off of Taylor's goodwill (e.g. if our benevolent pop queen can forgive Blake than surely the public can see she is Good). Which again: is a really shitty thing to do to a friend who has asked to be removed from the situation, especially if you hurt said friend in the first place by dragging them into it. And particularly when you know said friend would walk through fire for you if asked. It's not that the stories themselves are harmful -- they're fluff, obviously -- but it's that every time they pop up, they push Taylor's name back to the top of the headlines. And again: in a legal case that has nothing to do with her but she now has to deal with because of her friend's actions.

This is not a binary, there are many factors at play, and it's very complicated. Which sucks but is also entirely human. I'm sure Taylor supports Blake as a victim and as a woman fighting this case and the targeted smear campaign (which-- again-- was OUTLINED IN THE FILING and has been followed to the letter even to now), but I'm sure she's increasingly hurt and frustrated that this private business is being used for public brownie points, while infringing on the peace she's earned and has a right to. Taylor is the queen of keeping her shit locked tight, and normally Blake and Ryan are equally protective of their private family life, and it has to be very upsetting to have their friendship kind of being used for clout.

Which sucks, because Blake is in an impossible situation as well, and I don't envy her at all, but like... in a situation where all choices are kind of shitty, it seems like instead of picking the least shitty for her personal relationships, she's gone with the moderately shitty one that protects her public ones, which leaves other people hurt in the process. But to err is to be human, idk what to tell you. She can be imperfect and hurt people while still being a victim and being valid in pursuing her case and deserving of the public's support on that front. It just seems like there may be personal consequences that can result from them that were unforeseen.

[dioslesbianwife]

Can I request the part 7 characters with a partner who is like Tonio Trussardi like she got a stand because of her amazing cooking and alone

How would they react to her stand being able to fix them being tired and as bonus they getting food that's so amazing

Gyro getting his pizza mozzarella 🍕

yes totally, thank you for requesting and hope you enjoy <3

Johnny Joestar

Johnny is suspicious at first. He’s seen too many weird Stands in this race to trust a cook whose pasta makes people cry.

But after a few servings of your creamy fettuccine and a brush of Stand energy through his back, suddenly his neck aches less. His headaches vanish. His shoulders relax for the first time in weeks.

He blinks. “I’m not... tired?”

Johnny gets quiet and emotional. “Is this what normal people feel like all the time?”

He’ll lie down beside your cooking fire like a satisfied puppy. When you make biscuits, he folds two together like a sandwich and eats them warm with jam.

He gets possessive of your meals. If anyone tries to cut the line or disrespect your food, he’s immediately like:

“That’s her Stand. Her gift. You don’t get to mock that.”

Gyro Zeppeli

He’s the first to get excited about your ability.

“You’re telling me this is a Stand? From pasta? SIGN ME UP.”

He immediately begs for pizza. Like, literally sings “Pizza Mozzarella” while you work.

The moment he eats your pizza, his back straightens, his skin glows, and he lets out a gasp like he’s seeing God.

“THIS IS A DIVINE EXPERIENCE!! What did you put in this sauce?! Is it legal?!”

He calls your Stand “the taste of miracles.”

Starts inventing fake ailments just to get more food:

“Ah! My wrist! It hurts! I may need... a risotto remedy!”

But in quieter moments, when he’s sore from battle and scared for what’s ahead, your warm, nourishing food brings him peace he rarely lets others see.

Diego Brando

Diego is WARY. He assumes your cooking is some sort of trap or manipulation tactic.

He watches others eat first. Waits for results.

When he finally tries a dish, he flinches- then furrows his brow.

“...Why do I feel like I just slept twelve hours?”

Your Stand heals a wound in his leg he didn’t even know was infected.

That’s when it clicks. He stares at his plate and mutters, “...This is dangerous.”

But he keeps coming back. Quietly. Always claiming, “I just need calories for the next ride.”

One day you make him stew and he actually smiles. A real, small, grateful smile.

“I don’t know how you do it. But… I guess it’s nice. Having someone like you around.”

Hot Pants

Surprisingly supportive from the start. Your Stand reminds her of her own in that it helps people- just in a less bloody way.

She’s cautious but curious. When she eats a sample pastry and feels her stress melt off her shoulders, she raises an eyebrow.

“That’s effective. You’re more useful than half the Stand users we’ve met.”

Hot Pants doesn’t gush about the taste like Gyro or get defensive like Johnny. But she’ll quietly clean every bite off her plate and linger a bit too long for seconds.

She helps you forage or get ingredients when she can.

If someone insults your food, she stares them down silently until they back off. No one messes with you on her watch.

“You feed people hope,” she says one night, serious. “That’s rare. Don’t stop.”

Funny Valentine

At first, he doesn’t see the national value in what you do- just an interesting anomaly.

Then you serve him a dish after an exhausting campaign speech and tell him to “eat and rest.”

The moment he finishes, his muscles feel brand new, his fatigue gone, and his headache fades into nothing.

Valentine looks at his hands in stunned silence.

“You… healed me. Without consequence.”

He begins to see your power as almost holy. A gift that could serve America’s future.

Starts offering you protection, supplies, and even a private kitchen space.

He dines in silence, eyes closed, actually savoring each bite.

[switchbladedreamz]

Door Number Three

Pairing: Ghostface x College!Student Reader, you guessed it, college au.

Requested?: no

Rating: R

Warnings/Tags: stalking (its ghostface), eventual smut

Summary: Y/n makes out with a random guy at a party. A week later someone in her class asks her out only to not show up. Who sent her the picture of herself?

please reblog and comment. Not only does it help blogs grow but it helps fanfiction grow and builds community <33

~~~~

Lively voices buzz all around me. Different types of conversations being held, how someone's day was going, what their parents said to them. Friends catching up, department faculty sitting with each other. The cafeteria is alive with chatter.

Standing at the end of the line, my hangover is thanking the universe that the line isn't that long. I recognize some of the faces in the line in front of me from the party last night. Dozens of drunken flashbacks play in my head all at once like a burst of ink on a page. My fingers ghost over my lips as one flashback in particular sticks out. My lips on some guy's neck. Did I make out with a total stranger? I try to focus my attention on recalling his face but..

"It's ready for ya" the cashier at the counter, her short brown hair is worn in a hairnet today, interrupts my internal investigation. I pull my I.D. out of my wallet and scan it in front of the small barcode scanner. I walk further into the cafeteria. My dry bloodshot eyes lock onto the familiar sight, the grill area. 'Fries. I need fries. French fries will fix me.'

It feels like my rumbling stomach is in charge of my feet as I stumbled a few steps forward, toward the plate stacks on a shelf beneath the dishes of food being served. After stacking my plate in golden, crisp, deliciousness I cross the cafeteria to the drink machine. I get my favorite soda and a seat at a table in the back half of the room, where there's less people. Natural light from the windows warms the tables surrounding them. My shorts do nothing to save me from the shock of the cold chair assaulting the backs of my thighs. Quickly I cross my left leg over the right to warm myself. The salt shaker on this table is almost empty, the remaining salt grains clang as the shaker is put back down to rest in front of me. My phone vibrates in my pocket. From the lock screen the notification is an image text from some random number. Assuming it's from a campaign or mailing list I forgot I signed up for, my thumb slides up my lock screen. Clicking on the text with the only subject being the word "image" in italics.

*bzzt bzzt*

"this u?"

Food gets caught in my throat, my chest instantly fills with air. My nose takes a deep breath in, the different smells mixing in the air. I take a deep drink to wash down the food I'm trying desperately not to choke and die on.

The picture that was sent is a selfie of the guy whose face I couldn't remember until now, myself, and our tongues down each other's throat. There's a mask pushed to the top of his head, sticking to his pale forehead with beads of sweat. Medium length black hair that's hidden behind the back of the mask. As far as his costume goes it's just black.. Well this just got either really creepy or really hot.

I respond. "Are you the guy in the photo?"

"so it is you"

"who are you?"

A grey box pops up into the chat with a loading circle in the middle. The grey fades to color, a girl sitting by self in front of a window, in a crowded room. Wearing a burgundy shirt and grey shorts, hunched over her plate and phone. I look down, its my clothes. That's me in the picture.. right now. My head shoots up, my eyes scanning everyone in the cafeteria. Their facial expressions, who is sitting in front of me, who they're sitting with, what tables are empty.

'Should I go to the police? Is this serious or is this a prank? I don't remember giving this guy my number..' Out of the corner of my eye, a small bubble with three bouncing dots appears above my keyboard. "See you soon bunny🫀🐇"

If this is a prank, I don't like it. And if it's not a prank... I refuse to let this fuck up my day right now, I have a test tomorrow I need to study for. Then I can move this morning on to the long list of things in the last 24 hours I can't or refuse to remember.

Promises, promises..

~~~~

My head hurts and my throat is so dry it feels like I swallowed sand. Every joint aches, my stomach is like a hornet's nest in a duffle bag that was dragged behind a truck. I wanted to skip class so bad, despite the fact that I got up, made myself get dressed and reminded myself that I studied hard the past few days, and I memorized the material well. I see no reason why I would do bad on this test. Also because I'll hate myself if my hard work isn't paid off. The test is over and I'm blissfully on my way to collapse in my bed, someone in hallway calls my name. I stop in the stairwell, turning to look behind me. He's medium height, a dark green shirt that rests over the grey sweat pants he's wearing. Lucky. My sweatpants are dirty. I don't remember where they sit but his voice is one I recognize as someone who sits behind me. He follows the crowd of people from the class room down the stairs although he stops in front of me. "Its uh Y/n? Right?"

"Yeah," Sticking my hand out in front of me, his large hand covers mine when he grasps it for a handshake. "I'm Wayne, I sit behind you. How did you think you did on the test?"

"I'm glad it was easy, I don't know if my brain could've handled one more four paragraph discussion over the same three things we discuss every class because this guy can't move on from the French Revolution." I shift my weight from foot to the next, turning my attention to Wayne.

"I know right? I checked the syllabus, we're supposed to be learning about the industrial era by now. I mean dude, come on." I chuckle at what he said, taking in his features. Tall with high cheek bones, a five o'clock shadow that frames his jaw nicely. Brown eyes, warm smile, long curly brown hair falls below his collarbone. He's cute.

"I've uh, always wanted to tell you, I like your style. The way you dress is really cool. Uh, maybe we could get to know each other over coffee sometime? We could talk about music, or books."

My face is hot and red, blood is rushing everywhere making everything warm and clammy. The one day I look and feel like shit is when I get asked out? I'm not sure if I should be flattered or insulted. "Yeah, I'd like that."

"Does The Better Blend tomorrow at 2 work for you?" I nod dumbly, trying not to smile like an idiot. "Yes, it does. Uh im sorry but I've really gotta get goin, can I give you my snapchat real quick?"

~~~

It's 2:15 and Wayne is nowhere to be found. I text him and wait for a response.

3:00 pm, still nothing and he's leaving me on delivered.

9:00 pm. Dean Winchester is fighting vampires on my tv. Sam is somewhere out of frame getting his ass kicked.

"Ever hear back from the guy that stood you up?"

"Nope." popping the 'p'. I looked at my friend, Reggie, next to me, I called him over to do homework together and keep my mind off my shitty day.

"I'm sorry. Maybe it was for the best." My back is greeted by his big warm hand rubbing in circles. "Probably." I sigh. We work on homework together sitting on my bed for another hour. I stretch my arms up and out, my mouth gapes and I suck in air in a surprise yawn. "Wanna take a break and watch RuPaul's Drag Race?"

"Fuck yes." I giggle. The floor is cold as I stand to put mine and Reg's laptops on my desk. Crawling back in bed I switched from Netflix to Paramount +.

~~

1:15 am, I crawled in bed thirty minutes ago and I can't calm down enough to wind down. My heart feels all swirly. The nightstand next to me vibrates as my phone lights up. A text. Oh joy.

"poor bunny a little birdie told me you got stood up"

I groan, a soft thud sound echoes around my ears as my head deadweights with a whump into the pillow.

"what do you want dude"

"what do i want?"

"i want to play a little game called.."

"guess which room im in"

[lizardsfromspace]

Trying to tease out why QAnon types target something/someone is pointless bc while they do have a motive, the way new targets get folded onto their enemies list is completely scattershot

Leaked Clinton campaign emails included an invitation to dinner with Marina Abramović; she called the dinner "spirit cooking" after a performance art piece of hers. And so Marina Abramović became a key part of the conspiracy, and "spirit cooking" became a phrase to look out for. Then they found emails mentioning events at a popular pizza place in DC. A trendy restaurant in Washington DC was hosting campaign events and had people who work in politics eating there, so it was now part of the conspiracy, and so was anyone associated with it, and so a bunch of people ended up on the enemies list for referencing pizza once. But that history ignores the first step: that the claim took off on imageboards that already used "cheese pizza" as a wacky euphemism for CSAM, so it was natural for them to assume their inane imageboard lingo was actually a thing in the real world, too

It's just an expansive version of the Clinton murder list from the 90s, as in it literally includes the Clinton murder list, which was a list of names of people associated with the Clintons who died, a list that expanded to include random murders in Little Rock & describe someone's death in a plane crash as mysterious even though "a single-engine plane crashed while flying through the mountains in low visibility" is one of the least mysterious ways someone can die

If you're curious why this list doesn't explain how Bill and Hillary could order the deaths of dozens connected to them, but couldn't silence Monica Lewinsky, it kinda does explain that. See, before the Lewinsky story broke, a reporter supposedly dropped the hint that an intern "whose name started with the letter 'M'" would speak out against Clinton. Which is an BONKERS thing for a reporter to do, what the FUCK, and I wouldn't believe it if it wasn't attested to by sources like Snopes (from when it was good), but around the same time, in July 1997, a former White House intern named Mary Mahoney was manager of a D.C. Starbucks that was robbed; the robbery went bad, and Mahoney and two other employees were sadly murdered. The case was strange - the robber left without taking anything - but just a coincidence.

Because, among other things, unlike Lewinsky, Mahoney didn't work directly with Clinton, but was mainly an intern for Doris Matsui, wife of representative Bob Matsui (Bob would die in 2005 and Doris would run for his seat and win, she's still in Congress to this day) who served in the White House as a liaison to Asian-Americans. But also: the Lewinsky story dropped in early 1998, revealing that the hint had never been about Mahoney. But they couldn't just remove her from the list, which can only ever grow, so they came up with explanations of how she was also going to testify against Clinton, or that the Clinton's hitmen were just making their way through all interns whose names started with M like the Terminator going through every Sarah Connor. But like. The hint dropped in mid-1997, and because Newsweek sat on the story the story wouldn't be exposed until January 1998. I guess the Clintons took out one intern and just? Gave up? I mean the Tamagotchi was out in America by then so maybe they got distracted

And so an outdated hint about Monica Lewinsky just kind of carries on, as they continually update the list, and as it expanded from "the Clintons are secretly murdering their rivals!" to "the Clintons are part of a worldwide Satanic cult". Their whole mythology is like this, just random junk they grabbed for reasons nobody remembers, but that must be part of the mythos forever, and which they're willing to literally do crimes over it

[akikohanasaki]

Hiii *gulp* erm... yandere Josh levy (if you write for a male reader that'd be appreciated but neutral is okay too :3) with a reader who likes all the sames things as him but let's say reader bonds better with a different club member :3 [RAH I HOPE THAT MAKES SENSE T^T]

I HEAR YOU LOUD AND CLEAR POOKIE 🤭

Sorry I'll make it neutral cuz I don't think I'm that good with writing male reader yet- but later I could try and make male version 👉🏻👈🏻

---

Yandere!Josh Levy x Reader

📼 Josh’s First Reaction to You

At first, he’s skeptical. “Oh great, another poser thinking they can hang with real fans. You probably just watched TNG once and call yourself a Trekkie.”

But when you clap back with a deeper cut or cite the stardate of an episode? His face drops. He’s stunned. He might try to argue a detail anyway, but the glint in his eye says it all: you’re legit.

He plays it off like it’s no big deal, but deep down, Josh is shaken.

“Okay, okay, maybe you’re not totally clueless. Still doesn’t mean you’re club-worthy. But… I guess we’ll see.”

From that moment, he keeps dragging you into debates just to see how far your knowledge goes. Not flirtatious—combative. That’s his love language.

---

📼 The Start of the Obsession

Josh is not subtle. He’s loud, aggressive, insecure, and when he decides he likes you? He doesn't get sweeter. He gets more possessive.

He starts framing everything like a challenge.

“Let’s see if you can name every crew member on the Enterprise-D before the meeting ends. I doubt it.”

When you match or outdo him, he doesn’t get mad—he gets obsessed.

“That’s hot—NOT THAT I—whatever! You got lucky!”

He starts seeing you as the only worthy person in the club. Everyone else becomes background noise. You? You’re the only person whose opinion matters.

---

📼 Jealousy Triggered

You help Pete sort comics. You and Jerry talk about fantasy movies. You even try to get along with Bill.

He loses it. Internally at first. Then externally.

“WHAT’S SO FUNNY, HUH? He’s not even that smart! He thinks Gundam Wing is peak anime—what a joke!”

He starts getting physically between you and whoever you’re bonding with more. Literally inserting himself in every moment. Elbowing people out of the way.

“If anyone’s gonna talk sci-fi with them, it’s ME. You guys didn’t even read the Starfleet Technical Manual!”

---

📼 Possessiveness Disguised as Gatekeeping

“No offense, but you can’t trust what Bill says about Star Wars. The guy once said Jar Jar wasn’t the worst part of the prequels. I mean—come on.”

“You’re smart. You get it. Why are you wasting time talking to people who don’t?”

He’s not trying to woo you—he’s trying to win you. In his mind, love is like trivia night: whoever knows the most about Vulcan mating cycles deserves your attention.

---

📼 Escalation

Josh starts tracking how long you talk to other members. Starts snapping or slamming his hand on the table if you ignore him too long.

He’ll quiz you aggressively in front of others.

“Hey, [Name]! Quick—what’s the Stardate for the first Borg encounter? Wrong answers mean you don’t sit with me!”

If you side with someone else during a fandom argument?

He looks like you just backstabbed him with a lightsaber. “Oh. Cool. Guess you’re just like the rest of them. Fake fans.”

Then five minutes later, he’s muttering to himself in the corner, trying to convince himself it’s all fine. “They’ll come around. They’ll see. They HAVE to see.”

---

📼 Violence? Drama? You bet

Josh will sabotage the other club member. Hide their collectibles. Scratch their DVDs. Set traps during a campaign.

“Whoops. Must’ve been a mystery gremlin that erased all your save data. Bummer.”

If things get really bad, Josh will get in-your-face desperate. Sweaty, eyes wide, ranting like he’s giving a monologue on why Kirk is better than Picard.

“You don’t get it! You’re the first person I’ve met who doesn’t suck! You actually know things! You can’t just—just pick someone else! I called dibs!”

---

📼 The Breaking Point

If you reject him outright or start dating someone else? He will spiral. Yell. Maybe throw a figurine.

But later, in the dark of his room, he’s hunched over a homemade zine titled:

“100 Reasons Why [Name] Should Be With Josh and Not That Loser”

And when the group’s back together? He’ll be staring daggers across the table at the person who “stole” you.

“You think I’m just gonna LET YOU have them? You don’t DESERVE them. You couldn’t even name the ships from Babylon 5.”

---

Hope you enjoyed it my dear anon 💋

Byeee 👾

[mastermatoyas]

Isekai/Isekai Adjacent Recommendations Post - Female Protagonist Version

So since a few people are sharing their own isekai recommendations, I figured I'd make a post of my own. Most of these are Korean manhwa, most of them lean more towards romance fantasy than action, and all of them have female protagonists.

The reason for this is that, after noping out of Mushoku Tensei like half an episode in, I now refuse to read/watch any isekai with a male protagonist unless it is recommended to me by like three people that I actually trust.

Anyway, recommendations!

All Time Favourite: Ascendance of a Bookworm

Summary: after dying in an earthquake, a book-loving young woman finds herself reborn in the body of Myne, a sickly peasant girl in a world where books are luxury items reserved mostly for the nobility. Horrified by her circumstances, she resolves to make her own books... and everything snowballs from there.

Why I like it: The worldbuilding in this story is absolutely fantastic. The protagonist is an extremely fun character, and plays really well off the supporting cast. The series is called "Ascendance" of a Bookworm because, in the process of trying to bring books to the masses, Myne brings massive changes to both her own life and the world around her.

Sometimes it's funny. Sometimes it's heartbreakingly sad. Sometimes you get lovingly detailed descriptions of printing presses, medieval economics, and soup.

A lot of these recommendations are romance-focused, but Ascendance of a Bookworm contains very little romance (arguably none for the protagonist, depending on how you interpret Myne's relationship with a certain character). Because of that, this is the one I would most recommend to people who are not interested in romance.

There is a manga for this one (and an anime), but it isn't finished. The light novel, however, is finished and has a complete official translation. Unlike a lot of light novels, the prose is actually pretty good, too! I would highly recommend the light novel if you're looking to get into this series.

Possible Second Favourite: Concubine Walkthrough

Summary: High school student Yona gets quite literally sucked into the world of the VR game Concubine Walkthrough. Now stuck in the body of the villainess, she has to beat the game and escape this virtual world in time to take her college entrance exams.

Why I like it: The premise seems fairly cliche at first, but unlike a lot of romance fantasy isekai that stay strictly within the realm of fantasy, Concubine Walkthrough is actually science fiction. It's also a tale of palace intrigue, the cruelty of the modern (well, near-future) world, and - yes - it is a love story.

It's hard to fully explain why Concubine Walkthrough is so good without spoiling it, so I won't say any more than that. Just that this is a journey worth undertaking.

Other Recommendations, in no particular order except maybe alphabetical

How to Win my Husband Over:

The protagonist wakes up in the body of Rudbeckia de Borgia, a novel villainess destined to die at the hands of her husband, Iske van Omerta. In order to survive, she begins a campaign to suck up to those around her and convince them that she is not a threat.

Rudbeckia ("Ruby") is a complex and troubled protagonist - a heart-rendingly realistic portrait of a woman who has never felt truly safe in her life. This story comes with massive content warnings for family violence, eating disorders, and self-harm/suicide. Some people find Ruby to be a really frustrating character, since her inability to trust others causes a lot of conflict in the story. I personally really like her, because her inability to trust others causes a lot of conflict in the story.

I'll Save this Damned Family:

The protagonist wakes up in the body of Tara Elias, who is - you guessed it, a minor villainess whose entire family is doomed to face execution. In order to save her entire household, despite the fact that most of them suck as human beings, Tara must use her wits to enter the arena of fantasy politics, throwing her support behind the illegitimate Prince Kyle. (Yes, for some reason most of the people in this one have normal-ass modern names).

The political intrigue in this one is incredibly complex. Tara is incredibly clever, but she doesn't always succeed - she is often outmanouevred, which adds a real sense of tension and urgency.

There's kind of a sideplot early on about Tara losing weight, which some people might find inherently distasteful. However, she goes about it in a normal and realistic way, and the story makes it clear that her worth as a human being isn't tied to her weight, which is actually kind of a big deal for a Korean manhwa.

Mother's Contract Marriage:

Lyrica is a normal eight-year old girl. No, really, she's completely normal - she has no memories of any past life, nor has she gone back in time after facing any sort of grisly fate.

Her mother, on the other hand, suddenly changes one day. Formerly a neglectful drunk living in the slums, she finesses her way into the imperial ball and secures a contract marriage to the Emperor, catapulting Lyrica into the glamorous life of a princess overnight.

Of course, as the audience, we figure out pretty quickly that Lyrica's mother has gone back in time, and is using her knowledge of the future to save both of them from a terrible fate. The story isn't actually about that, though - it's about Lyrica charming everyone around her, finding out about her own magical powers, and unknowingly fighting back against the darker side of the nobility.

The art style is absolutely gorgeous, and really sells the fact that this entire story is being filtered through the perspective of an actual child.

Not-Sew-Wicked Stepmom:

Children's fashion designer Lily Lee wakes up in the body of Abigail, the evil stepmother from Snow White. She resolves to shower her eleven-year-old stepdaughter, Princess Blanche, with affection, and to browbeat her distant and cold-hearted husband into doing the same.

This one is extremely sweet and heartwarming, while also dealing with some seriously heavy topics including body image and pretty much every kind of child abuse. Both Abigail and her husband, King Sabrian, are fundamentally good people dealing with some extremely difficult circumstances. Blanche is a sweet kid who has been forced to become mature beyond her years, and who wants nothing more than a loving family.

The Crimson Lady:

Karen Heyer woke up as the heroine of a romance novel. Since then, she has lived through the same year one hundred times. No matter what she does, she is destined to die a painful death at the end of each year - no sooner, and no later.

Having been hollowed out into a broken husk of a person, she resolves to become a serial killer, hoping that death - rather than love - might bring an end to the cycle.

This one seems to be getting close to its conclusion, and every chapter is a massive goddamn cliffhanger. It's one of those stories where every time a mystery is solved, it just brings up more questions, and I WANT TO KNOW UGH.

The Fantasie of a Stepmother:

Shuri was brought into the Neuschwanstein family as a child herself, raised by the ailing Marquess for the sole purpose of protecting his four children after his death. Despite being despised by her four step-children, Shuri nevertheless managed to shield them from harm, and looks forward to finally having a chance to live her own life after the marriage of her eldest step-child.

Instead, however, Shuri wakes up seven years in the past, right after the death of her husband. She must now relive her entire experience of raising the Neuschwanstein children - but is this an opportunity to repair her bond with them?

(Note: yes, Shuri was a child when she was married to Marquess Neuschwanstein. That marriage was not, uh, consummated. I would not call her husband a good man, for a number of reasons, but CSA isn't an element of this story. Important to note because that could obviously be a deal-breaker for a lot of people.)

This is one of the most popular romance fantasy manhwa around, and with good reason. The art is beautiful, the story is intricate, and the characters are vibrant and likeable. Also, the original web novel was written by the same author as How to Win my Husband Over.

The Glamorous Life of a Fake Mistress:

This one isn't super popular from what I can tell, but I'm recommending it because it's actually one of my favourites.

Sally, a common dancer, was taken in as the mistress of Duke Casis Estaban, who desperately wants to divorce his wife, Elysee. Although Sally falls in love with Casis, he remains cold and professional towards her, treating her as a mistress in name only. Elysee torments Sally behind the Duke's back, eventually torturing her and killing her.

After finding herself sent back in time, Sally initially attempts to avoid getting involved with Duke Esteban. However, after realising that this would simply transfer her fate to another person, she makes a deal with Casis - she will be his fake mistress and help him secure his divorce. With the knowledge she gained in her first life, both of the future and of noble etiquette, Sally sets out to achieve her goal.

Along the way, she gives a lot of very modern advice to noblewomen about sex, relationships, and self-esteem. I honestly just like this one because it's a breath of fresh air - Sally is a genuinely kind person, and I think it's easier to root for her in a way because she is a real underdog, as a commoner in a world of nobles and a mistress in a world of "respectable" women. Also, we love a girls' girl.

Villains are Destined to Die:

Probably the most popular isekai romance fantasy out there at the moment. The protagonist wakes up in the body of Penelope Eckhart, who is both the villainess of an otome game and the protagonist of that game's hard mode. The protagonist never actually managed to beat the game, having instead witnessed Penelope's constant deaths at every wrong turn.

Terrified of her fate, and deeply resentful of everyone within the game world, Penelope resolves to survive and beat the game.

In a pattern you may have identified, I like this one because of its protagonist. Penelope is cold, paranoid, and views the people around her as game NPCs. She tries to manipulate others without developing any attachments to them, focusing solely on her own survival. She isn't an inherently cruel person, but caring for others is a luxury she cannot afford.

[ryuusei-boi]

one monday morning, Raimon students entered the school grounds to find hundreds of flyers pasted across the hallways and bulletin boards. they crowded around them to read what they said, asking each other if they knew the guy whose picture was on it and whether it was true.

when Minamisawa walked through the school gates, he was greeted with stares and people whispering to each other. he barely had any time to wonder what was going on when Kurumada and Hamano ran up to him. "no time to talk, senpai. let's go," the latter said, and they grabbed his wrist and hurried over to the soccer building.

1.2k words, panic attacks, some homophobic language

as his teammates pulled him through the hallways, Minamisawa barely caught a glimpse of a flyer with his face on it, tacked onto the wall. that's weird, he thought, but it was quickly forgotten as he tried not to trip all over himself in the rush.

"ah, you've got him." it was their captain, Sangoku, who was standing in the middle of the locker room. at the table were Kurama, Shindou and Kosaka, looking grim. but before they could explain to their teammate what was going on, the door opened again.

"I think that's everything in this building, captain- oh, senpai, you're here." Minamisawa turned around to Amagi and Kirino, carrying armfuls of flyers- the ones with his face on them. cold ice shot through his veins and he snatched one out of Amagi's hands to read. "Minamisawa-san, wait-" he tried, but it was too late.

"Minamisawa Atsushi is a filthy homo."

it seemed like the entire locker room held their breath as his eyes scanned the page. everyone watched as he started to tremble. this can't be happening. Sangoku approached him carefully and took the flyer from his hands. "Minamisawa-san, breathe."

he couldn't. static fizzled behind his eyes and his vision blurred. tremors wrecked his hands as they reached for his hair, pulling at his locks. his heart felt like it was trying to crawl out of his throat, he wanted to throw up.

Sangoku's calm voice echoed somewhere in his ears, but was drowned out by the static again. his head felt like it was going to split open and explode into a million tiny pieces- he wished it would, anything to not have to exist right there in that moment.

he wasn't sure if it'd been minutes or hours, but at some point his heart had stopped trying to escape his body and he could see again, if barely. he could make out Sangoku's hand on his shoulder, and- wait, why was he on the floor? Minamisawa guessed his legs had given out somewhere along the way.

"good, keep breathing, just like that." Sangoku spoke softly, keeping him grounded. there were tears on his face- when did those get there? he hurriedly wiped them away. then he looked around and realized that Hamano and Kurumada had joined them on the floor. "why are you guys..."

Hamano smiled awkwardly. "solidarity?" Kurumada tried with a shrug. Minamisawa let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. Sangoku stood up and offered him a hand. that was when he realized Hayami and Mizumori had entered the room as well- both carrying more armfuls of flyers.

"listen, Minamisawa-san. I don't know who did this, but we're going to get to the bottom of it," Sangoku declared.

he frowned and looked at the piece of paper laying on the locker room floor. "...you guys don't hate me?"

"it's true, then?" Mizumori asked. Kurumada hit him on the shoulder. "it doesn't matter if it's true," Shindou spoke up. "a smear campaign like this is unacceptable. we need to tell coach Kudou and Otonashi-sensei."

Minamisawa was breathless. he wanted to say no, let's just keep this between us, but he knew it was too late for that. the entire school had already seen them, and the teachers no doubt had too- he would probably get called to the principal's office soon.

"and it goes without saying," Sangoku broke him out of his worried train of thought with a hand on his shoulder. "but of course we don't hate you. we all support you, don't we, guys?"

the team agreed, doing their best to shed their worried expressions in lieu of smiles. Hamano gave him a thumbs up. Minamisawa still felt a tightness deep in his chest. "...thanks, everyone."

"but who would do such a thing?" Hayami asked helplessly as he put the collected flyers down on the table. Kurumada looked at Minamisawa. "did anyone know about... about this? anyone who wanted to hurt you?"

he stiffened. "um... nobody. I didn't tell anyone," Minamisawa lied. then everyone went quiet as they tried to figure out who it could be.

"you know that's not true, senpai." Kurama broke through the silence as he stood up. everyone looked at him, but he only looked at Minamisawa. "I didn't want to say anything, but... I saw you guys together."

Minamisawa tensed up. ""you guys"? who?" Kosaka asked. Minamisawa ignored him. "what do you mean, you saw us?"

Kurama seemed hesitant to tell him. "...in the hallway, when he kissed you." the locker room broke out in wolf whistles before everyone remembered the situation at hand. "was it him?"

Minamisawa opened his mouth to respond, but the words died on his tongue. his relationship with Kento was supposed to stay strictly secret- he knew that kiss was a bad idea... not that he'd even wanted it in the first place.

Kento had been pushy about it, he'd grabbed Minamisawa's arms to sneak a kiss before everyone arrived for afternoon training. he supposed Kurama got there early to see it. god, he wished his head had exploded during his panic attack earlier.

"is that true, Minamisawa-san?" Shindou asked. "could he be the culprit?"

"yes," Minamisawa snapped. "it was him, alright?" he turned around and walked towards the front of the room, his back towards the others. he didn't want to be seen like this. "I don't know what I expected. of course he'd get back at me. why wouldn't he?"

"get back at you?" the others approached. he wished they wouldn't. Sangoku hovered near him with a worried look. "did you two break up, is that why?"

Minamisawa didn't answer. he felt the static buzzing behind his eyes again.

"worse," Kurama spoke up again, voice gravelly like he actually felt bad revealing these things to the team. like he didn't think Minamisawa wanted to keep them to himself until he was dead and gone, living his life without ever having to admit his weakness to anyone. "Minamisawa-senpai was being blackmailed."

rage swelled up in his stomach and he growled, balled his fists and got in Kurama's face. "just how much do you really know about me, huh, first-year? have you been spying on me, is that it?" he spat, grabbing him by the collar of his training jacket. "I'll teach you to leave well enough alone, you little..."

"stop it," Shindou urged him as he tried to get between them. "this isn't like you, Minamisawa-san!"

"he's right. don't take it out on him," Kurumada put a hand on his shoulder. Minamisawa's fingers twitched and he grimaced, finally letting go of his classmate.

he looked at the floor and let out a deep sigh, then made his way towards the door, pushing past his teammates. "Minamisawa?" he ignored it. he needed to be alone.

[distant--shadow]

The witch and the widow chapters 1-4 author’s notes

Ok, so first off I feel I gotta preface this by saying I am absolutely not a history buff. Kinda the opposite of one really. I was one of less than 10% of the kids in my year of 300 or so that didn’t take history at GCSEs, mostly caus a subject taught and based around names and dates etc is the definition of something not suited for my type of brain, also I hugely lost interest in it caus we moved past the fun trebuchet eras and all that real fast and it became of slog of me falling asleep in lessons caus I had a teacher whose method was putting on movies and shutting the blinds (I’d always fall asleep and he was later jailed for being a p*edophile, so that’s a thing.) Anyway, all that to say I’m not good at this shit, but as ive gotten older I have taken a bigger interest in queer history in particular, and that often if not always links into other areas such as fashion, women’s rights, religion,the arts, class, and race etc. (I’m still not good at names and dates though!)

They are outfitted and arsenalled - the stones of the wall - in a manner to rival any army; tapestries of red and gold perhaps once brandished on battlefield as banners promenading around death now retired and indoor-still-air-still as taxidermy giving colour between all of the shades of metal, burnished and polished and in some cases rusting, some still purposefully left blood-stained, swords and pikes and maces arranged in wallpaper patterns as though flowers or fans, sword-sheath beams spreading from chest-plate armour suns.

Let’s start with something easy and recent. The Baron’s armoury was inspired by a few castles I’ve visited, these rooms are always so bizarre to me. I don’t know if this is at all of the time/how they were decorated or a more recent thing, but either way it’s pretty wild but I do love the visual and metaphor of it. In this one castle I found out from talking about the carpentry to an attendant that the decorative ceiling work around the chandelier above the dining room table actually hid a trapdoor - and there was other hidden doorways for passages and to secret rooms in this castle, that’s not that unusual - but this particular trapdoor was to allow for the chandeliers to be switched out. Why? Caus they had them in multiple colours of glass, and the lady of the castle liked the chandelier to co-ordinate with her dress if they were having guests round. Aint that such a flex? Definitely some food for future thought.

Aight. Clothing. So anyone that chats fic/au to me or is in my server has probably heard me yell to go watch Kaz Rowe’s videos many times. As I’ve said this fic aint meant to be historically accurate but it does kinda straddle histories, one of which being our own; so women wearing trousers and the like at this time would still be a crime, and draw a lot of attention . Imogen in men’s clothing genuinely isn’t meant to be much of a gender thing but a thing of practicality, and she has mostly lived in the countryside or in the outskirts, so she does not get into the trouble she would should she go into the towns and cities (another reason to keep away past the potential noise, but this Imogen will happily don a dress or skirts if she needs to, she’s just usually working – and maybe it’s a bonus that dressing as a man acts as a sort of flagging for any women who might be interested lol.)

I guess here I should mention how I think this version of Imogen's powers and how they’ve manifested (along with everyone else being unaware of them) will have somewhat changed her disposition and personality, it is a lot more aligned with later campaign Imogen who has more confidence and empowerment, she hasn’t been ostracised for her abilities or particularly bombarded by them, think more like when she has her circlet on, she chooses to listen in (mostly), although of course she has still heard many terrible things (and her life has still been pretty brutal but that’s to be written still).

(it’ll be really fun in this regard getting to explore and explain this version of Laudna, but early days for giving much away on that yet!)

Her skirts are full and structured and plumed by many layers of petticoats that hide the movement of her feet across the wildflower lawn, causing her to appear to be drifting like the bees do from petal to petal, pollen dusting her pleats though ghostly her skin in contrast to the fine fabrics that she dresses for the part, black in mourning, still, bodice tight and sleeve leg of mutton, an ornate decorative layer of black lace laying over each yard of textured textile like spider webs on porcelain patterns, her husband's tableware collecting dust in the kitchen cupboard.

real impractical for how tending towards practical the Lady dares to be, hands on, too busy for errant hairs in piano key ivory and ebony windswept and loose from the high bun she pins in place with a cameo broach, a memento mori engraved in silver and inlayed with ruby eyes and tied with red ribbons. Her skin also proudly displays the age and perhaps trauma that her hair does, lines from laughter and furrowed brows and the feet of the crows that cry from the top of the chimney pots

A little note as to say that Laudna’s appearance is heavily influenced by Victorian mourning wear, with some of the clothes cuts altered to be a little bit more regency and earlier in places. (her  attire is a little outdated, further suggesting her distancing from society and fashion)

A couple of days ago Imogen happened upon a bird with an injured wing, crying helplessly and rolling in circles, feathers taking flight away from the bird that could not, settling around it as it panicked itself bald-

The bird could not live without the use of its wing, and it didn’t, whether that was by Prosciutto or a fox, only its feathers were left in a pile.

Imogen had gathered them into an empty burlap sack; taken them to one of the maids downstairs to clean, repurpose them for filling pillows.

Here’s a silly little easter egg for my p(r)oof reader. Last time he visited we was enjoying a cinnamon roll from the local bakery by the city river (as you do) and a cyclist hit a seagull. It was real distressing, the seagull was distressed too. A handfull of middle aged women stood around it not wanting or knowing how to intervene as its wing was twisted at a crazy angle and it flapped about in a pile of its own feathers, there’s still bird flu about so it is wise to not touch wild birds, and as bleak as it is I was saying to freshy that a wild bird who’s wings broken like that is gonna die, and probably slowly and painfully. Some man came along and lifted up the bird to take the bird off the path and laid it to rest behind an old bridge building, I think he must have mercy killed it too as the bird was already dead when we walked past 10 or so minutes later after finishing our cinnamon roll and giving a cautious glance. So there’s a nice happy memory thrown in there for him.

what appears to be driftwood breaches the surface, then another point, then another

the water belches

Ceviche scares, whinnying as he rears onto his back legs, the Lady leaning forward and clinging to his harness. Imogen stands in her stirrups, leaning across the gap over to the black stallion, grasping his reins and cooing

“All good, boy, all good-”

What had appeared to be driftwood lands on the surface with a slap, looking like the carcass of an old boat left to rot in the muddy bed of a dock, timber ribcaged and leathered skin cladding.

A femur surfaces, followed by a jaw.

Second easter egg for the p(r)oof is a quick one (I’m such a considerate writer, I know.) On a train ride to a loch we went to for a day out there is a stop that is on another lake/body of water, and right by the train tracks (which are at water height) there are 4 or 5 old ships stuck in the mud, most of them just the frames/structures of the old boats, mostly wood and some bits of metal, but they’re pretty big boats! It really looks like whale carcasses. I’ve always wanted to get of there and check it out, and we were gonna stop by on the way back but my health being what it is was giving me some grief that day so we missed 2 trains and then soon the daylight, so hopefully next time buddy.

There’s alotta meat and gore talk and Imogen being a vegetarian without the label for such is just another way of me playing round with all of her complex feelings about what the Lady might be doing, her feelings towards Angharad butchering and nourishing the women with these communal stews and all of that. I’ve been vegetarian myself for 20 years now, and it was all triggered by an existential crisis in my mid teens (still a huge fan of leather and blood though) – Imogen greatly cares about animals, struggles with the thought of anything being slaughtered, she is in some ways more empathetic than most because she knows those she does on so much more of a personal level, really feels how someone is reacting to a situation they are in, but also because of this she knows humans are often corrupt and vile and she is spared such thoughts from animals, only knows their instincts and the love and comfort and service they bring – and yet she will obsess over the Lady’s (potential) tooling on that saddlework leather that’s really fucking brutal if she thinks about it one way and beautiful if she thinks about it another hmmm what if everything’s not black and white.

Oh, and the stew is a homage to @picturesofthegoneworlds’ pre-campaign fic Intertwined which I am lucky enough to co-parent and her writing is hugely influential on mine.

There’s a few things being bread crumb trailed here that I can’t explain in the author notes yet, but I’m looking forward to when I can. One small detail I will give away is just a silly thing about the chapter headings. They are something of significance from within the chapter, given in its ‘proper’ name – maybe someone gets access to some books to do research at some point?

anyways, thanks @astoriacolumnstaircase for enabling me. will do another post like this for future chapters if folks find it interesting.

[mariacallous]

Over the past year and a half, I’ve kept finding myself in unexpected conversations about Diddy. Cab drivers, deli cooks, and far-flung uncles have all wanted to chat about the 55-year-old rapper who’s now on trial for charges of sex trafficking, racketeering conspiracy, and transportation to engage in prostitution. There is, certainly, plenty to talk about: Federal prosecutors allege that the media mogul liked to throw baby-oil-slicked orgies—called “freak-offs”—where abuse and exploitation regularly occurred. (He pleaded not guilty; his lawyers say he never coerced anyone into anything.) But the conversations tend to be less about Sean “Diddy” Combs than about playing a guessing game: Who else was involved?

Some of the people I’ve spoken with had theories about Justin Bieber, citing rumors suggesting that the singer—a teenage protégé of Diddy’s—had been preyed upon (“Justin is not among Sean Combs’ victims,” Bieber’s representative said in a statement last month). Others speculated that the Democratic Party, whose candidates Combs has campaigned for over the years, was in some way implicated in the case. Most of them agreed that Diddy was comparable to Jeffrey Epstein in that he was probably at the hub of a celebrity sex-crime ring.

Since the trial began a few weeks ago, it’s become clear what these conversations were: distractions from the bleak, all-too-ordinary issues that this case is really about.

The wild nature of the conspiracist narratives surrounding Combs can’t be understated. In January, social-media users wondered if the fires that swept through glitzy L.A. neighborhoods were meant to destroy evidence pointing to the participation of other celebrities. On Amazon last year, sales spiked for a salacious memoir purportedly written by the rapper’s late girlfriend, Kimberly Porter, and published by a self-described investigative journalist using the pseudonym Jamal T. Millwood—the latter being the supposed alias that Tupac used after he, according to legend, faked his death. (Amazon pulled the book from its offerings after Porter’s family lambasted it as a forgery.) One viral fake news story, based on no evidence at all, said that Will Smith had sold one of his children into Combs’s servitude. On Truth Social last fall, Donald Trump himself shared a meme featuring a fabricated image of Kamala Harris and Diddy, with text reading, “Madam vice president, have you ever been involved with or engaged in one of Puff Daddies freak offs?”

The media also stoked the fervor. A former bodyguard of Combs’s gave an interview for a TMZ documentary saying that politicians, princes, and preachers were mixed up in the rapper’s debauchery. The conservative influencer Charlie Kirk devoted a portion of one webcast to wondering, “Maybe P. Diddy has footage of Barack Obama doing something he shouldn’t have been doing?” Piers Morgan hosted a singer, Jaguar Wright, who insinuated that Jay-Z and Beyoncé had committed crimes much like the ones Diddy is charged with. After those stars issued a vigorous denial and threatened to sue, Morgan apologized and edited any mention of them out of the interview online—and then, in February, retired General Michael Flynn presented Wright with a “Defender of Freedom Award” at Mar-a-Lago.

A few actual facts underlay all of this QAnon-esque speculation. For more than a decade, Combs’s legendary White Parties attracted a medley of stars to the Hamptons, Los Angeles, and Saint-Tropez. Attendees often joked publicly about how rowdy the festivities could get. Over the past year or so, dozens of people—an array of musicians, workers, models, and others who have crossed paths with him since the 1990s—have sued Combs for a variety of offenses (all of which he denies), and some of those suits have alluded to alleged misdeeds by other celebrities. (One lawsuit naming Jay-Z was dropped after the star denied the claim; he has since countersued for defamation.)

Still, the speed and sheer giddiness with which conspiracist thinking eclipsed the known details of Combs’s case confirmed a few bleak realities about the psyche of a country in which economic inequality and sexual abuse are both stubbornly endemic.

A whole class of politicians, commentators, and media platforms exist to exploit the resentments that everyday people hold toward the rich and famous. Meanwhile, rates of sexual harassment and assault—reportedly experienced by 82 percent of women and 42 percent of men in the United States in their lifetime—remain as high as they were when the #MeToo movement erupted in 2017. Examining the real reasons for this is less fun—and, for many, less profitable—than imagining that Hollywood is a front for ritualistic sadism.

The trial itself, which began in Manhattan on May 12, has not yet revealed a network of super-famous evildoers. Although the testimony has surfaced vivid and bizarre details about the rarefied lives of celebrities, it’s also told an intimate, human, oddly familiar story about how power can warp relationships in all sorts of ways. I realized that in the random conversations I’d had leading up to the trial, I’d heard a lot about the imagined villains, and very little about the people they were said to have hurt.

Combs’s downfall in the public eye began in November 2023, when an ex-girlfriend, the singer Cassie Ventura, filed a lawsuit alleging that he had raped and physically abused her. The suit was settled one day later out of court, but many of its details are resurfacing now. Although the federal trial against Combs is expected to last at least eight weeks and feature dozens of witnesses, Diddy and Ventura’s relationship has been central to the testimony. Prosecutors say Combs ran an organized criminal enterprise that served, in part, to assist in and cover up this one woman’s subjugation.

Ventura, now 38, was a 19-year-old aspiring R&B singer when she met Combs around 2005. He’d heard her first-ever single, “Me & U”; it would become a hit, but Diddy promised that he could guide her to a career of lasting success. He signed her to a 10-album deal with his label, Bad Boy Records, and released her debut album in 2006. It is still her only album to ever come out.

Their relationship soon evolved from professional to romantic. The singer said she’d initially rejected the rapper’s advances but that she’d felt pressured to do what he wanted because her career was largely in his hands. He also reportedly provided her with gifts, threatened her with punishment, and supplied her with drugs until she felt he controlled her life. She said that he then used that control liberally, dictating what she wore, whom she socialized with, which medications she took.

He also beat her. Hotel security-camera footage from 2016 published by CNN last year—and used as evidence in the trial—showed Combs chasing Ventura down a hallway, throwing her to the ground, kicking her, and pulling her by her sweatshirt. The video is a small and terrible glimpse into their relationship. Diddy is in a towel and clearly furious; Ventura, starkly alone, makes no effort to defend herself. “My behavior on that video is inexcusable,” Combs said in a filmed mea culpa last year; during the trial, his lawyers have acknowledged that he was violent toward her.

Other witnesses in the trial have testified that the hotel assault was not an isolated incident. One former assistant, Capricorn Clark, reported seeing Combs repeatedly kick Ventura after learning that she’d been romantically involved with the rapper Kid Cudi. Another former assistant, George Kaplan, described a 2015 altercation between Combs and Ventura on Diddy’s private jet. He heard the sound of breaking glass in a private area, where he then saw Combs standing and holding a whiskey glass over Ventura, who was on her back. According to Kaplan, Ventura screamed, “Isn’t anybody seeing this?” No one on the plane intervened, Kaplan said.

The now-notorious freak-offs allegedly occurred against this backdrop of violence and intimidation. Ventura’s lawsuit said that toward the beginning of Combs and Ventura’s relationship, Combs hired a man to have sex with Ventura while Diddy watched. Encounters like that, involving sex workers and drugs, became regular occurrences that could last for days at a time. The freak-offs were, prosecutors say, “performances” for Combs’s pleasure. And they affected the performers; Ventura testified to having medical problems, mental-health issues, and drug addiction as a result of them.

Combs’s defense argues that Ventura willingly participated in these events. His lawyers have cited text messages in which she appears to express enthusiasm: “I’m always ready to freak off,” she wrote to him in August 2009. Other texts suggest a more complicated picture—in 2017, Ventura wrote, “I love our FOs when we both want it.” She and prosecutors assert that whenever she tried to resist Combs’s commands, he would bring her to heel with physical violence and threats of blackmail and financial harm. Ventura’s lawsuit alleged that when she tried to break up with him for good in 2018, he raped her in her home (an accusation that Diddy’s defense has concertedly pushed back on during the trial).

Ventura is not the only alleged victim of Combs’s. His employees have shared particularly disturbing stories: Clark said that Combs kidnapped her twice; a former assistant identified as Mia testified last week that the rapper repeatedly sexually assaulted her. (Diddy’s lawyers dispute that the kidnappings ever happened and have questioned Mia’s credibility.) Prosecutors are pursuing racketeering charges on the theory that Combs didn’t act alone: For example, they say he may have had someone set Kid Cudi’s car on fire (the defense denies Combs’s involvement in that arson). In this way, Diddy’s case is also a story about what happens when it’s easier to take the check and not ask too many questions.

But fundamentally, the trial is another highly public test of the definition of consent. It recalls the prosecutions of Harvey Weinstein, the movie producer who allegedly dangled job prospects to women interested in the film industry in exchange for sex (one of his convictions was overturned last year and is being retried now). It also evokes R. Kelly, the musician who wooed aspiring singers with promises of career help and then violently kept them—and other women—in sexual servitude (behavior for which he is currently serving 31 years in prison).

And the issues here transcend celebrity. When #MeToo erupted eight years ago, it forced many everyday Americans to reexamine experiences they’d had in their workplaces and homes. The movement has, by many indications, petered out or even curdled into backlash: Yesterday, one of Diddy’s lawyers asked Mia whether she was looking for a “Me Too money grab,” which suggests he thinks the very words Me Too might be tinged for some jury members. But to sit with the allegations against Combs—and the experiences of the alleged victims—is to again be confronted with the underlying reasons that movement happened. It’s to be confronted with the intolerable things that happen when men are given the power to pursue their desires however they want, and to extract whatever they want from their underlings.

A lot of people would evidently prefer to turn away from that confrontation—and to focus on fantasy. Since I started paying attention to the case, my YouTube algorithm has become polluted by videos with AI-generated courtroom sketches of stars such as Will Smith and Jay-Z, paired with totally imaginary testimony about their involvement in Combs’s crimes. The videos are yet another sign that our society is losing any shared sense of reality. They do, however, have disclaimers stipulating that they are fiction, which raises the question: Why is this the story someone wants to hear?

Perhaps because tales of demonic Hollywood cabals offer a simple, clear-cut narrative that doesn’t ask us to reflect on how domestic violence and sexual coercion really get perpetuated—and perhaps because that narrative benefits certain agendas. Last month, I tuned in to Asmongold, a popular Twitch streamer who interprets the daily news for a large audience of young, often aggrieved men. He had a glazed look in his eyes as TV news footage related to the trial played on his screen. Then he said, “I don’t care about this case at all—until Diddy starts naming names.”

[theinstagrahame]

Really excited about some of the RPG acquisitions this last couple of months. Most of these are Crowdfund rewards, a few are hot off the presses. Got a big bunch of POD books, which feels kinda cool.

It occurred to me that one of the cool things I'm doing by accident with these posts is sorta doing a bimonthly retrospective of the new RPGs released between my posting (at least the ones in my orbit, interest, and budget).

(Links and gushing below the cut)

Dang. I meant to get to this sooner, but the month really got away from me. I've already got a short stack for next month's set...

Death to the Wizard Kings: The pitch is, this is a playable character creation module for building a Vat Spawn character--a fucked up little guy made in a creepy magical process. Great pitch, really elevated with Marie Enger's sense of humor and fantastic art.

The Boreal Frostlands: I haven't actually used any of the other Hexcrawl products that I've picked up from Games Omnivorous, but they're so beautiful and tactile that it's really hard to pass them up. Boreal Frostlands takes their Hex and Screen offerings to a frozen world that promises to be... I'm sorry, I can't stop it... cool.

The Far Roofs: Jenna Katerin Moran is one of those designers whose work is so cerebral and thought-provoking while also being really down-to-earth and interesting. Here, she's exploring the fables and fantasies of adventuring mice. It's hard not to compare it to Mausritter or similar, and it's definitely that with a very different vibe.

Perfect Draw: Confession: I never watched Yu-Gi-Oh, and know very little about it, but Perfect Draw just feels like fun. I love PbtA games in general, and I'm really curious to see how what I assume Yu-Gi-Oh looks like in RPG form.

Orbital Blues - The Wanderer: Y'all already know I love me some OB. The Afterburn Kickstarter included this, which is the official solo mode, which I recently got to hear on @partyofonepod, featuring Austin Walker of Friends at the Table fame. An incredible episode that really put the game through its paces, and made it seem accessible and fun. Great prompts, and a really cool Poker mechanic for the overall resolution of your Wanderer's story. Seems like it could be a really cool way to populate your OB universe between campaigns.

OB: Rogue Anthems: When I first heard about the OB expansion, Afterburn, coming to Kickstarter, I expressed some excietment, and got a sneak peek of this item (i.e., Zach DMed me on Twitter about it). This is a VHS box filled with 8 little pamphlet adventures. It's SUCH a cool idea that absolutely fits into the Orbital Blues vibe. I really can't wait to bust them open.

OB: Afterburn: This is the core book for the OB expansion crowdfunder. More Orbital Blues? Yeah, count me in. I haven't yet cracked it open, and honestly I'm slightly worried that it'll inspire me in bigger ways than the first one did (more OB zines to come? I guess I'll keep you posted...)

Zine by Moonlight: Evil Hat has been doing this more and more, where they're putting the Stretch Goal material for their books in a POD format, and honestly? I'm into it! These are the zines that came with Magical Girl RPG Girl By Moonlight.

Stewpot Dice, Dungeons, and Delicacies: Stewpot is one of those games I've read through, really loved, saw there was a new edition coming, and wanted to get it all. This book is more content for the main game, and it's gonna be great.

Fe Borg: Partly picked this up because I've generally enjoyed what A Couple of Drakes puts out, and partly because of their meme initially pitching it. But doomed fae escapades is also an intriguing pitch.

Metastasis // Firestarter: If I'm completely honest, I don't know if I'd bring Lichoma to the table. These books are an expansion of that game, but the game design, layout, and art in these books are incredible. They instantly hit you with style, and really give you some ideas.

Dream Askew/Dream Apart: I've written, but never published, multiple Belonging Outside Belonging/No Dice, No Masters games, and this book has been instrumental to the design of those games. This is one of those books I recommend for any game designer's shelf, because it's such a complete thesis of its own style of play.

Monsterhearts 2e: MH2 is one of the RPGs I've played the most of, it a little bit outside my usual genre, but it's such a compelling and beautifully sensitive game for its subject matter. Plus, a lot of queer folks love it, so it's easy to get a game going.

Going for Broke: Everything Avery Alder makes, including the last two books and The Quiet Year, is gorgeous. This is no exception. Again, even though sitcom isn't really a genre I go for, I do love her work enough that I was intrigued.

Brindlewood Bay Community Cookbook: This was a splurge add-on for the original BB crowdfunder, and it kinda intrigued me enough to give it a shot. Its a fun in-world artifact that players can use, and includes a couple of rules to encourage players to bring recipes to the gaming table.

Jargon + Archetype: I really like Jaqueline Bryk's work. It's raw, honest, and sex-positive in some really lovely and potent ways. I also feel a little kinship with them in that we both had religious upbringings. These two books are small settings that take all of faer interests and spin them out into factions and faiths that hate and fight each other. Also I wasn't expecting to get both when I itch-funded the physical version of Archetype.

Apocalypse Frame: I've gushed before about Binary Star Games' work, and I'm in enough Discord Servers with Binary himself that it felt like not having Apocalypse Frame was remiss on my part. This one was a misprint, so I took it off his hands cheap, saying that I love books with character.

Fabula Ultima - Techno Fantasy Atlas: I'm really getting into Fabula Ultima in general, about halfway through the core book. I've got a campaign idea I'd really like to play out in, and it seems like the game's default tone for Techno Fantasy really fits the idea I have, so I picked the book up to read through it.

Zine Club has been extremely good to us this last couple of months. Don't know all of these:

Machine Impossible

Ball Game

To Honor and Obey

The Haunting of Cliff Cove

Exquisite Biome

Haunting of Cliff Cove is a Richard Ruane book, so I already know it's going to slap.

Equisite Biome I have actually read and played before it turned into a Zine, and I love it. Caro Asercion is a fantastic designer, and this really hits the Spore vibe, while also letting you really think about how a creature might fit into its niche. Highly recommended.

(Also I believe Caro has another game coming to BackerKit soon? Last Train to Bremen)

Never really got into Blaseball, but I think that's what Ball Game is channeling and honestly, I'm intrigued.

[mogruith]

Since I know you feel pretty positively about it as a plot point, I wanted to ask. IIRC, given he romanced her, does the child thing ever come up with Coranzan and Minthara? Does he have any larger thoughts on it?

No pressure to answer, ofc. I just wanna see if it's something you've considered within their back and forth.

Hiya Red! Thank you so much for the ask!! 💖 Sorry it took me so long to get around to answering this, things got a bit busy/weird this week.

But oh boy. Have I considered it?? Only the most normal of amounts of consideration. It's TRULY a struggle for me to stay on topic in this reply, but I cut so much to be as concise as possible.

Thing is, I've actually been thinking about this since I "datamined" the SWD lines myself back last December, never expecting them to become canon. I've always seen it as an interesting topic, given how often she reflects on her mother and her upbringing. It always feels like she's on the brink of some realization about herself. I suspect that might've been the original intent of some of those lines.

Anyway, on to the actual question-answering under the cut.

Does it come up for Coranzan and Minthara? Yes. It absolutely does.

The worst part of this update's execution is she would definitely mention it at least towards the end. So I guess it's up to us to headcanon it!

I imagine it's revealed shortly after Orin's demise - relatively late in the campaign. This is also on the heels of the alurlssrin conversation; the first time they express long-term commitment to one another. If she wasn't sure that he was going to be there for the long term, why should she say anything prior to that?

After Orin's death, she's really shaken up and comparing herself to Orin in terms of generational trauma.

"[Orin] was cruel, maniacal, sadistic. You could have been sisters." Minthara: "Given what we learned of Orin's mother, that is painfully accurate. We were both born of trauma, both raised by parents who protected us with one hand and tormented us with the other."

To me, this is a crucial moment where the gears are turning - there's some self-awareness of the kind of life she's been born into and realizing that it could have been something else. This is a natural segue to considering her role with her own child - and that maybe she needs to adjust its direction from what she learned.

And I think she'd bring this up in a reflective manner - not really sure what she can or should do about it just yet. Just that maybe things should be Different.

Coranzan's Thoughts

You are a better judge on this than I, my friend, but I don't think it's odd for drow to just decide they want to have a child and they make it happen through whatever means available to them. Especially in the noble world. So, I don't think her revealing this to him would be particularly shocking by itself. Her choosing to reveal it after keeping it so closely guarded might be the only thing he's somewhat surprised by. But the circumstances or whose it is? Largely irrelevant unless something about it threatens them - which I'm sure she'd mention if that were the case.

She's Minthara's daughter. Finding a home for her and raising her is important to Minthara. End of. Coranzan needs no other details.

The fact that she tells him about her daughter at all demonstrates some level of inclusion into something that would not be his business under ... traditional? circumstances. Revealing this is exposing a deep vulnerability and a willingness to be transparent. Initially, he's not exactly sure what she expects of him, if anything, but he understands that this is a Big Deal to her and it's extremely important that she's including him.

In the longer term, assuming Coranzan gets the chance to be part of Minthara's daughter's life, I think he'd like to be as involved in her life as much as possible and I think Minthara would encourage it to some degree.

Not for any ideas like father figures or something weird (to drow) like that. But like I mentioned, I think she's realizing that things could be different from her "traumatic" experience. Coranzan's a good example of that difference. Especially after witnessing how incredibly different his relationship is with his sister, Z'ress. Their sibling relationship, with seemingly unshakable trust, is something entirely unimaginable to her with her own family. And for Coranzan and Z'ress it's not a weakness. It's a strength. Something that's been demonstrated over and over while she's been fighting alongside them.

There's... a million other things I can rant about when it comes to this topic. From Coran's parents and his past dealing with kids, more thoughts on Minthara's mindset regarding this, and some other data-mined stuff that has implications for this plot, but it's way too much for now. I will never finish this post if I get into that.

For now, I'm gonna throw a few tags here for folks who have expressed interest in their relationship but I keep getting intimidated out of writing about it (and then I go posting about the most controversial topic she's had in a while - go figure).

@nemo-of-house-hamartia @moriarfer @pavusprince - no interaction expected, just keeping those who have asked about them in the loop.