#so I just... figured it out in like three clicks

[jacksabbotts]

✧ caught in the cold — ❪ part six ❫

. ᵒ . ➛ PAIR . dr. jack abbot ( the pitt ) x fem!morguetech!reader . ᵒ . ➛ SUMMARY . after days of avoidance, emotional overload drives you to the hospital roof—six prep sheets too many, one too-loud memory too far. you just need air. silence. solitude. what you get instead is jack abbott. already there. already listening.

. ᵒ . ➛ TRIGGER WARNINGS . lowercase intended!!! emotional spiral / anxious overthinking, self-deprecating inner monologue, implied crush / unrequited feelings ( perceived ), power imbalance ( attending physician x hospital staff ), flirting in a professional setting, profanity

. ᵒ . ➛ AUTHOR NOTES . i am sooo sorry it took absolutely forever to get this posted. i have been struggling on how to get morgue and jack to the next step now that she has confessed and still make it realistic with morgue girl's and jacks differing personality. also so sorry this is so freaking short its just a lil transition chap and trust me it is about to get good. lastly, i want to remind that concepts are not apart of the main universe ( aka the chapters ) and are simple au's for the main universe if that makes any sense at all.

series masterlist || inbox || ggc request form ━━━ * ✷ ⊹ * ˚ ✷ dividers by @cafekitsune and @uzmacchiato

JOIN THE JACKSABBOTTS 1K EXTRAVAGANZA HERE or REQUEST FOR jack abbot x morgue tech!reader

the door to the roof creaked open with its usual rusted groan.

you stepped through it like a ghost. shoulders tight. breath short. your scrubs hung loose, streaked with powder and formalin and god knew what else. your hands still smelled like bleach. your brain still pulsed with the click of scalpels and body bags and endless, impossible numbers.

six.

six full preps left behind for you. day shift gone. howell’s clipboard full. the day shift tech voice in your head cheerfully reminding you that the medical examiner's day starts at six am sharp!

your shift didn’t even have time for three. so you came up here. for air. for silence. for a breakdown in peace. you didn’t even check if the roof was empty.

'unbelievable,' you muttered, dragging both hands through your hair. 'six bodies. six. like i’m not human. like i don’t breathe. like—like it’s not insane to leave one tech with six fucking preps like that’s normal.'

you immediatly covered your mouth at the curse because that wasn't you. you weren't one to let your anger get the better of you and you weren't one to let words like that slip. all in testament to your predicament. you paced to the center of the roof. breath fogged the air in small bursts.

'i’m so tired,' you whispered. 'and i can’t even think straight because all i can hear is him.' you laughed, dry and cracked. 'what the fuck is wrong with me!'

you squeezed your eyes shut. 'because apparently one sentence—one coat—can short-circuit my entire life. i can’t go five minutes without remembering how he said i wasn’t a practice body.' your voice cracked. 'who even says that?'

a breeze blew. you didn’t notice but you did look up.

and then you saw him. jack.

oh, fuck me.

standing near the far edge. silhouetted against the skyline. arms crossed. head slightly tilted. he turned slowly. quietly. and your blood ran cold.

'oh my god,' you croaked, stumbling back a step. 'i didn’t—dr. abbot. i didn’t know you were—'

'yeah,' he said softly. 'i figured.' his voice wasn’t angry. it was something else. something that made your skin go hot and cold all at once. 'how much did you hear?'

jack took a few steps forward, out of the shadows, into the spill of light from the rooftop bulbs. 'enough.' you wanted to vanish.

'i was just—i needed air, i wasn’t thinking, and i didn’t mean—'

'why are you avoiding me?' his voice was quiet. steady.

you opened your mouth. closed it. because you didn’t have an answer that didn’t sound pathetic. he stepped closer. not too close. just enough that you could see the concern in his eyes. the exhaustion. the quiet ache beneath it.

'was it the coat?'

'no—'

'the compliments?'

'no, i—'

'was it the part where i said i liked you?' his mouth twitched like it wanted to smile but didn’t have the nerve. you finally spoke. quiet. honest. small.

'i didn’t think you meant it.'

jack blinked. 'why?'

you stared at your shoes. 'because people don’t mean things like that when they say them to people like me.'

silence.

dead, still silence.

and then jack stepped over the railing and walked toward you. you stepped back. he stopped. and then he said, voice low and level. 'i'm sorry, for making thinks worse for you.'

jack took one more step forward. gentle. careful. looking for any sign that you didn't want him to move closer to you. 'you know, i’ve been thinking about it too.'

your breath caught. 'the coat. the compliment. your face when i said it.' his voice dropped to something raw. 'and how much i wanted to say more.'

you stared at him.

he ran a hand through his hair. 'i didn’t push. i didn’t follow you after because i thought maybe you regretted the whole thing. that maybe i��d crossed a line. but hearing you talk just now…'

he finally looked at you—really looked. 'i’m not sorry, morgue girl.' his voice cracked open with softness. 'i’m not sorry i noticed. i’m not sorry i care. even if you don't believe me.'

you didn’t know what to say.

so he filled the silence.

'i don’t care how many bodies you’ve got waiting. i don’t care if you label scalpels or talk to corpses or live in the basement like a ghost.' a soft huff of a laugh.

'i like you,' he said. 'exactly as you are. warm or cold. overthinking or quiet. i like you.'

and then, quieter, 'but if you want me to stop… say the word. i will.' you swallowed hard. your eyes burned. and all you could whisper was. 'i didn't say that, i just—'

'what are you saying?' he asked. it should have been an easy question. what were you really saying? what did you want? as much as you wanted to say you wanted him and his sweet words. you couldn't make yourself speak.

he took another step closer. he was now standing right in front of you. 'tell me what you want.' it wasn't a request. it wasn't a question. it was a command, an order.

and god, if it didn't make your stomach swirl. if it didn't make you want to melt on the spot. you wanted to close your eyes. you wanted to break eye contact before you burst at the seams. you wanted to tell him exactly what you wanted. you wanted—

'you have to say it out loud, sweetheart.'

'oh my gosh.' you groaned, finally burying your head into your hands and breaking the eye contact you were sure was about to kill you. but he wasn't having it. he reached for you, finally, and his fingers brushed your own as he gentle pried your hands off your face.

'look at me, sweetheart.' he mumbled. 'look at me and tell me what you want.'

you groaned loudly. because why the heck was he so persistent. you took a deep breath and looked at him, like he told you to. you looked at him honestly and told him the only thing you knew how. 'this is really hard for me.'

he nodded. 'i know.' he mumbled and then untangled his fingers from you and you frowned. he almost thought it was cute. he brought both his hands to both sides of your face.

'i — i like the compliments. i do, its just — they make me loose focus, i can't concentrate because i sit there and i think about them non stop. i think — i think about you . . . non stop.' you confessed in the only way you knew how, word vomit. 'honestly, i don't think its really healthy the way i think about you and how much i think about you. and really its just —'

you stop talking abruptly when you see the smirk on his face and the impending laugh and you think he's laughing at you. and really you don't blame him. you probably sound so pathetic to him right now. 'and now your laughing at me. i knew this was a mistake.'

his smile immediately fell. 'no, no, no — i am not laughing at you. i am just surprised that you told me all that, your not exactly the most open person, sweetheart.'

and melt. you are a puddle on the ground. here lies the contents of you. cause of death, jack mother fucking abbot. 'so does this mean, your going to stop avoiding me like the plague.'

you flush. 'i wanna say yes, but honestly. i might unintentionally avoid you more. but please don't take it personally.' you confess.

you don't know what it is about jack abbot that makes you unintentionally bare your soul for him to judge with a mere request. he could probably say jump and you would shyly ask how high. it makes you both flush with embarrassment and makes you want to hit yourself for being so fucking whipped for a man you met a month ago ( and not to mention a man who yelled at you the first time you met. )

🔖  .   @princesssunderworld  @mayabbot  @imherefordeanandbones  @arigoldsblog  @oldmanbunnylover  @i-mushi  @autumnleaves1991-blog  @lovelexi717  @peggyofoz @qtmoonies  @nfwmb-gvf   @babybatreads  @cheekym8s  @bitteroceanlove  @spooky-librarian-ghost  @dr-yapper  @yutasgem  @keseqna  @gardeniarose13  @witchbitchlovesdilfs  @sotragedynut  @robbyrosierobinavitch  @anglophileforlife @flyinglama  @sillymuffintrashflap @letstryagaintomorrow @caterpillarskimono @maiamore @madzleigh01 @qardasngan @imightbeinsanebutwtv  @foolishseven @anxiousfuckupon  @coldmuffinbanditshoe  @blueliketheseaa  @justfaefaeee  @sweetdayme4427  @404creep  @yourdaydreamerfan  @ddrawers96  @m14mags   @twiddledeedumsworld  @jetless  @thedamnqueenofhell  @topnerd03  @abllor @loud-mouph @cannonindeez @nubecita040   @beebeechaos  @cwzham  @homebytheharbor  @painment  @namgification   @catmomstyles3 @livingavilaloca  @hello-lisa1026  @emma8895eb  @shadowfoxy @thesnugglingduck @britt217 @reignbooks8506 @kmc1989 @chuiisi  @Lumpypoll @generalstarlightobjest @dlljdhsh @misshoneypaper @Sabi127 @Coleground @sevenberry @Cherry_cosmos @idontcarenoughtonamethis @Sammiib444 

if your user is white instead of gray it means i was not able to tag you, i copy and pasted straight from the forms so that means there must be typo, feel free to resubmit a form ( linked below ) and i will update the taglist. this not all the people who have requested to be tagged ( i am one person and i will get everyone on the list at some point. thank you !!!! * ✷ ⊹ * ˚  want to join the morgue tech!reader taglist??? click here!!!!

[lotusmar]

babe… she’s literally dead. like gone. rip

bimbo!reader x mechanic!rafe

WARNINGS: suggestive, language, fluff, lightdom (also this is a bit short, its my first one hehe)

Your pink BMW jerks once—rudely—then makes a noise like a dying animal before cutting off completely in the middle of the road. You blink at the dashboard. Try pressing the start button again. Nothing.

“She’s literally… dead,” you whisper. “Like, not even joking. RIP to my baby.”

You sigh dramatically, flip down the mirror, and reapply your lip gloss like it’s a form of CPR. Then you grab your phone.

[rafe 💕💓�� 💘 ] babe babe babe she died my car died like she literally just flatlined i think it’s serious

You attach a selfie just to soften the blow—pouty lips, heart-shaped sunnies, the little “I’m helpless and hot” face you know he loves. You’re already sitting on the hood in your tiny pink skirt and matching tank when Rafe’s truck pulls up to the usual emergency garage spot ten minutes later.

He parks with the engine still running, steps out slow, and just stares at you. There’s a pause. Like he’s buffering.

Then: “You called me like it was an actual emergency.”

“It is an emergency,” you huff. “She’s not purring. She’s like… silent. It’s scary.”

He looks at your car. Then back at you. Then at the car again.

“Did you mash the gas like a psychopath again?”

You tilt your head, confused. “I just tapped it a little. To, like… hype her up. But then she made this sound—like hkkhhhkkk—and then it was just done. Over. Like when I run in heels for too long.”

He stares at you. Unblinking. “You compared your car dying to you running in heels.”

“Well, yeah. I relate to her.”

Rafe drags a hand down his face, clearly trying not to laugh. “Baby,” he mutters, walking toward the front of the car, “your brain is an actual wonderland.”

“I’ve been saying that!”

He pops the hood, and you trail behind him sipping your iced pink drink, your sandals clicking softly on the pavement. You lean on the side of the car, swaying gently, watching him work. You don’t know what any of it means—but he looks hot doing it.

“You look so hot when you’re annoyed,” you say softly.

“I’m always annoyed around you.”

You gasp. “That’s so mean.”

He glances up, smirking. “It’s also not true.”

You light up instantly. “You like fixing her. Admit it.”

“I like you.”

You grin. “So you do like fixing her.”

“Jesus Christ.” He lets the hood slam gently and turns to face you, hands still stained with grease. “You flooded the engine. Again.”

You gasp. “That is not my fault. She’s just emotional.”

He blinks at you. “She’s a car.”

You furrow your brows in protest. “She’s my girl.”

He stares at you with this look—half amusement, half disbelief—like he cannot believe he’s in love with you, but unfortunately, here he is.

“You can’t keep driving like it’s a Mario Kart level and expect her to survive, baby.”

You lean closer, your glossed lips pouting dramatically. “So… you’re mad?”

“I’m not mad,” he sighs. “I’m just—so deeply aware that I am the only man on earth who would put up with this shit.”

“You love me.”

He doesn’t even try to deny it. He just steps forward, crowding you against the fender, his voice low. “Yeah,” he says. “I do.”

Your back arches just a little. “Even though I’m dramatic?”

“Mhm.”

“And I break her, like… once a week?”

He smirks. “Every three days, but who’s counting.”

“And I don’t know what an axle even is?”

He kisses the corner of your mouth. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“You’re lucky I’m obsessed with you.”

He huffs a short laugh and brushes your hair off your shoulder. “I am. Now get in the damn truck. I gotta take this back to the shop and figure out what kind of chaos you unleashed this time.”

You blink. “I can sit on your lap while you drive, right?”

“No.”

You blink again, slower. “What if I say please and give you head?”

He gives you a long look. Then sighs, already folding. “You’re such a fucking brat.”

You skip toward the truck with a proud little wiggle in your hips. “And you’re in love with me anyway!”

He follows behind you, shaking his head with a smirk, already knowing—whatever part she broke, whatever nonsense she pulls next—he’ll fix it.

Every time. Because you’re his.

[emilielhess]

on air, off ice | 🎙️🏒 chapter 0:1

pairing: hockeyplayer!vi x nerdy!radiohost!reader tropes: 📌college AU | 💘 slow burn | 🎧 strangers to lovers | 🕶️ secret identity | 📻 late night radio vibes | 🤓 nerd radio host

<- previous | next ->

"Well, that brings us back to last night, right? Big congrats to our beloved hockey team for totally smashing it yesterday! I still don't get half the rules. Okay, maybe none of them, but watching those wild moves on ice, with goals flying left and right?

You let out an impressed whistle, lips brushing the mic's grille.

"Yeah, that told me the night got feral real fast. Shoutout to the captain for making campus something warmer than pre-midterm panic. Who knew she was actually good at more than just throwing elbows and breaking stuff?Just kidding. Good luck with pre-midterms, everyone."

Your fingers instinctively fumble across the control board, searching for the right switch-off button. You could find it with your eyes closed by now. Pressing keys, talking into the mic, messing with the knobs. Saying 'hi' to Piltover Collage over the speakers has become your thing. Your second nature.

The speakers crackle. Something they like to always do at the start and at the end of your broadcasts. It must have been the dust.

The corridors have been silent until you found this place. Or actually refound it.

Scratchy, faint buzz reminds you that you're sitting in the most neglected corner of campus. No surprise there. Studio, as you like to call it, is buried in a forgotten wing of media and communication building, right across unused bathrooms. No official sign. Just a fading, handwritten 'ON-AIR' note, barely clinging to the door.

Decades ago, it was probably a sound lab. Hard to say. When you first found the place it looked more like a junk closet. Two mismatched tables from the biology wing, washed-out walls and the light above your head that flickers every time you press the wrong button. If not for a half-working mic and a scratched-up control board, you wouldn't have looked twice.

It's definitely not glamorous.

The administration clearly had shinier priorities. Like the state-of-the-art hockey rink built two years ago, after completely the team's championship win. That's where the budget goes now.

You don't mind your barely-functioning place.

Moreover, Piltover doesn't even offer courses on radio, wave signals, or broadcasting. At least, not anymore. It's not like you'd be interested.

Your chair squeaks as you swivel to grab your bag from the floor.

Nobody had really considered starting a college radio station since the '80s, or that's what you figured. And honestly, you keep your broadcasts so random, it barely counts as official anyway.

Especially when every broadcast means slipping out of your safe space, hoping not to get caught by a lost freshman. Your phone screen reads 11:37. Seven minutes total. Maybe three of you rambling and around four for the tracks you queued up. Just enough time to pack up and disappear back into more civilized part of the media wing before anyone realizes you were gone.

Not a hard task, really.

The journalism section's never that crowded during breaks unless there's free coffee on Fridays or a looming deadline.

You stepped out of the booth and into the hallway, greeted by the sound of echoing footsteps. The corridors were empty, but you could still hear voices around the corner.

I was hoping she'd play that song from last Monday again. I've been trying to find the title everywhere.

This year's championships is ours, obviously. Too bad, it's just women's hockey, right?

Who's the radio girl, though...

You flinch at the last one, your legs suddenly rushing towards your class. The sound of soft clicks welcomes you. When you reach your desk, your friend don't even look up.

"You've vanished again."

You roll your eyes and then collapse into your chair. "I'm allowed to take a break, Ekko. It's practically written in the student handbook. And the constitution."

"But you missed the broadcast again, like... do you even care about our campus life?" He rests his chin on his hand. "Or your head will be buried in your books for the rest of your life?"

"I don't mind." You started your computer.

"That's unhealthy."

"It's just I got stuck in the coffee line. Took forever, so I came back." You gave him a shrug.

"Okay, forgivable." He nods to himself. "So... you've heard it? The broadcast, I mean. It was kind of cool, she mentioned about the hockey team. The whole canteen went nuts."

"Yeah? Good I wasn't there then." You click your mouse, opening a black doc for the day's assignments. "All that scream gives me headache."

"Seems like socializing does the same thing to you." Ekko says, turning back to his screen with a proud smirk.

You hum noncommittally.

"She said something about Vi, like she's got anger issues, but dressed it up so well it almost sounded like a compliment. You think she's actually that aggressive?"

You tilt your head slightly. "I think you just dramatically paraphrased whatever was actually said."

Ekko snorts, but says nothing. He dives straight into a list of new assignments.

"Three thousand words to write about a freaking book club. That's a joke, right?" He groans, dragging both hands down his face when he opens his task for today. "Heimerdinger's lost it. I swear, I'm gonna quit and switch to the arts major. They've got a graffiti course. That's literally my thing."

You pause mid-type. You belonged to that book club for a whole year.

"Since when?" You ask flatly, fingers clicking the keys without typing anything useful yet. "Since you sprayed 'eat the syllabus' on Heimerdinger's office door?"

"No," Ekko scoffs, leaning back in his chair until it squeaks. "Since, like... forever? I could be doing something that's actually creative, y'know? Writing columns about tea-sipping freaks arguing over plot twists makes me sick."

You scroll down your folders, searching for a decent template. "And journaling isn't creative now?"

"You just rephrase what someone else said. It gets even worse when they make you copy it word for word. Like some dumb parrots."

"If you're doing it wrong, sure," you mutter, clicking into one of the cleaner templates. Your eyes skim the options. "Minimalistic layout or over-the-top layout? Can't decide."

"You see? Even you're recycling your old stuff. It’s all repetitive. We're just parrots in a zoo, mimicking echoes of things that already happened. In zoo they feed them for free, at least."

"Well, since you're so creative, maybe you can help me design the layout for this month's paper." You turn your screen towards his face. "And, just for the record, those templates are obligatory."

"Fine. Move over," he rolls on his chair to your desk and peers at the screen. A blink. "That's it? A blank page? You do realize I can't level up a layout if there's nothing to level up, right?"

"It's kind of intuitive," you mutter, already clicking around. "I was busy."

Ekko raises an eyebrow. "Busy doing what? Reorganizing your folders by date and theme again? You already did that last week. Twice. You gonna get allergic to fun and people one day. Breathe a little, geez."

You want to hit him with a glare, but the empty document practically screams at you.

And it is definitely your fault.

You'd spent half the night buried in your broadcast notes again. Told yourself you'd only pick a playlist, maybe write down a few lines. Instead, hours vanished.

You still remember your first night in the booth. Voice shaking. Fingers hovering over the controls like the wrong button might set off a fire alarm.

Back then, you'd had enough of silence. Enough of switching campuses, trying to fit where you don't. Every school near home worshipped sports, like talent only counted if you wear a jersey.

And you weren't that.

You were lonely and broadcasting gave you a sense of escape. The only way to reach people without having to look them straight into their eyes.

No face. Just your voice.

Ekko was a different story. Loud, annoying, intrusive. But safe. It took time to let him in. But somehow, he got there. Not many do.

His shoulders slumps. "Just... let's start with that your soulless template. We don't have much time to make this art."

"While balancing this and mid-terms in two weeks. We don't." You say bitterly.

"Shit. They're already here?"

"That's what I said."

"I'll pass. You'll help me.'

'You're delusional,' you laugh, eyes flicking across the screen.

"Nope. I'm strategic. Besides, you're the only person the profs believe will pass."

"You could be that person too, you know. All it takes is sitting on your ass and cracking a book open." You shake your head.

Ekko shrugs. "That's your talent. I have other gifts. Like... avoiding Heimerdinger during breaks." He glances around the room. "Speaking of-have you seen Ellie?"

The chair creaks beneath Ekko as he spun around, scanning almost empty class.

You don't bother looking up from your screen, the glow of the monitor reflecting faintly in your eyes. "No. I mind my own business. You should too."

Ekko rolls his eyes, dropping his voice low. "Strange, though. We're supposed to finish the sports section, and she's been MIA since last Monday."

You keep your fingers poised above the keyboard, distracted by the subtle misalignment of the title on your page. "And I have to finish the layout, so… we're both hitting hard rock bottom. Sport column is not my concern right now."

"Eh," Ekko says, leaning back and brushing a stray braid behind his ear. "You sure about that?"

You finally glance up with a tight frown. "Yeah. Why?"

His gaze is fixed on something over your shoulder.

"Because," his voice drops even lower, "Mr. Heimerdinger is coming right at us with the blue file."

Blue file. Your gut twists.

The words echo in your head like a bad omen. Blue file. You feel a cold prickling down your spine.

God no.

You try to look busy, fingers tapping feverishly on the keyboard, pretending to be absorbed in your work, maybe even switch places with Ekko. But it is useless. He's already slouched back into his chair, eyes darting away, unwilling to meet yours as Mr. Heimerdinger's steps grew louder, bouncing in the small class.

"You filthy traitor," you hiss at him, a lump already forming in your throat.

"(Y/N)?"

You jolt, twisting your chair with a forced smile stapled on your face. "Yes, Mr. Heimerdinger?"

He's standing right in front of you, blue folder clutched in his hands. Even if you're sitting his not much taller than your. But his gaze full of expectation makes you feel small. You already hate this.

"I must say, this semester we find ourselves in a bit of a bind," he begins carefully, almost diplomatically. "I know the mid-terms are creeping up for al of you and this class is, of course, half-exceptional, but I do hope you're still taking the course seriously. Recommendation season is no joke."

You must go visibly pale, because your professor immediately places a hand on your shoulder. "I reviewed your last submission. Flawless editing. There wasn't a single correction needed." He smiles. "So far as I'm concerned, your section is done, and with your standards of work, I believe you're more capable of stepping in."

Your mouth opens.

"Stepping in?"

"For Ellie." He confirms. "We need someone to take over sport coverage for this month's issue."

From your right, you hear a very unsubtle snort.

"Oh-uh-can't we just wait for Ellie?" You scramble. "I mean, she's probably got all her notes. Maybe just couldn't format things yet. We could just... compile what she has?"

Mr. Heimerdinger shake his head slowly. "I'd rather not. It's highly unprofessional to abandon assigned work. At this stage, we need someone who follows through."

"But I still have to take care of the layout." You try to fight back with arguments.

"Don't worry. I've already thought about it. Ekko can handle the layout. He's got an artistic eye."

Your friend shrinks.

You blink twice emptily.

"I know this isn't ideal," the professor continues gently, "but I believe in you. This is an opportunity to grow, to step out of your comfort zone. I'd be more willing to recommend you if that'll motivate you just enough."

You stare at the blue file. Hockey section material. Leftovers from Ellie's work.

"With all due respect, professor," you said, voice barely steady, "I don't know anything about interviewing. Especially not the athletes. I can do anything else, really. Just not... this."

A brief smile flickered on his lips. "That's exactly why I picked you. You're sharp behind the desk, I know it, but I noticed you tend to stay in one place. This is your chance to break out. To do something new."

You swallow again, your heartbeat thundering in your ears, your hands clammy on the desk. The quiet safety of the booth is slipping away.

But Mr. Heimerdinger's expectant eyes hold yours, and something in them tells you this isn't a request.

You take from him the blue file like some kind of disease.

"Just do the interview for now. I hope miss Ellie will come back to us next week. Either way, I'm sure you won't disappoint."

You nod reluctantly. When he's few steps away, Ekko can't help yourself and says:

"Guess you're finally getting into sport journalism, huh?"

Fuck. Me.

You've texted Ellie countless times last night, practically spamming her inbox with panic-soaked messages, but she seemed to either be really sick or simply blind.

you: hi ellie, when do you plan to come back? you: I cover for your sport table you: do you have any advice or materials? you: its important you: text me back pls you: hope you recover fast

You weren't mad. It wasn't anger that kept your fingers twitching over the screen yesterday, rather your unfiltered, rising panic which took the whole space.

Not till today's morning. That's when you saw red.

No reply.

Just the awful, empty notification.

Read. 11:42 PM.

Ellie has seen everything and left you on a freaking read.

You stare at the screen for a long time, thumbs still curled around the phone. Part of you believe you're going to see the three dots popping up, but no. She's been inactive since yesterday.

You press your phone to your forehead, hit it three times and let out a soundless groan.

That's when you know. Time to say bye-bye to your recommendation list. Seed of hope Heimendinger waved in front of your nose gone.

Now, you are someone who couldn't even fake an interview for the school column.

The blue file lies innocently on your desk, its laminated tab gleaming under the light, supposed to be your pass to an easier life. Without scholarship, you had to fight only with your grades, but it would be way harder to compete, even if you're a nerd always at the top of your class.

To hell with muscles and jerseys.

You take a deep breath, shove it your bag with more force than necessary. Then you grab your coat and throw it on over your fuzzy, creamy cardigan. You don't bother with breakfast. You barely remember to lock your room.

You just go with resignation paper in your hands.

"You good?" Ekko slings a casual arm over your neck, as the two of you step into the library, the heavy doors creaking shut behind you.

You sigh, your shoulder already slumping as you lead your way to your usual table near the back, next to the window, with your friend following you behind.

"Do I look good, Ekko?" A snarky, muttered comment escapes your lips.

You drop your bag beside the chair with a dramatic thud.

"That's why I'm asking," he rolls his eyes and makes himself comfortable on a puff chair, the only reason he agrees to follow you between regals full of books. "Is this that interview thing?"

You unpack your textbooks and place them on the small, square table, your pens and favorite, cannery highlighter already there.

"If only that," you take your sit and start flipping through your notes, "Ellie completely ghosted me."

"She did?" Ekko squints his eyes, straightens himself up. "Strange, she replied on the group chat yesterday."

"I had nothing to work with, Ekko," you whisper-shout, stopping on a page from last lecture. "Like... nothing. No questions. No context. I've never even seen a full hockey match unless we count those fifteen-second reels on Instagram. I thought Ellie would at least save me with some kind of PDF or a cheat sheet before deciding to disappear."

You knew nothing about hockey and you only watched some shortcuts just for the case of your broadcasts to make people listen to you closely because it seems it all they care about.

You don't get goose bombs when you talk about the team. You have to talk about them. To keep Piltover interested. To get satisfaction from not only being the best one in courses.

He raises a brow. "Weren't you supposed to, like... find something to work with? On your own?"

You groan, leaning back on your chair. Your eyes drift to the high, white ceiling of the library. "Technically, yes. But then, I figured I'd get a head start by working with whatever materials Ellie had. I did really think about doing this whole shit. I mean, I need this scholarship and maybe it's my only chance to bag a place here since the whole school seems to be obsessed with sports, but I can't do this."

"Well, that was unwise." He huffs unimpressed.

You scoff. "Giving me this task was unwise. Like, why me? I have zero communicative skills. My charisma walks backwards. I don't even make an eye contact with a librarian or a guy from gas station."

Ekko lets out a quite laugh. "You are literally studying media and communication study. You're talking to me. Right now. In full sentences. You're opening your mouth and the words just flow. Some of them even make sense."

"That's way different." You shake your head, looking back at the pages sprawled before you, trying ot read the first paragraph. "I can't even focus." You push away your things and fold your arms. "He could have just given me anything else. Just not the hockey team."

"It's a sport table. You could do something different than this."

"We both know it has to be hockey." You purse your lips. "They buy our issues mainly because of this column. It funds the entire student paper."

"Make something up then, or at least try. It can't be that hard." He shifts in his sit. "I managed to pull off a piece with just the variations of 'we like books'. I'm sure, the hockey team will be all about loving pucks or something."

You blink.

"You really think I could pull this off?"

"Sure. Just smile, ask deep stuff, nod like you know what you're doing and boom. Journalism in a nutshell."

"I could borrow the clipboard." You say after a moment of hesitation.

"Totally. Clipboard is like half of the job. You would look professional."

Or just use it to cover yourself up.

"Yeah, still not doing it."

"Too bad. Because I've already pulled some strings."

You freeze.

"What do you mean you "pulled some strings?"

Ekko seems to be unbothered by your expression. "I've booked you an interview with hockey team, no need to thank me."

"You did what?" The words barely escapes your lips.

"I mean, not officially booked-booked," he offers, palms raised. "More like... I asked a friend who asked a friend, and now the coach knows. He's cool with it, said it's up to the team. So... you're kind expected."

You stare at him. You can feel the heat crawling up your neck. "Why-why would I thank you? I already gave the blue file to Heimerdinger this morning! I-" You cut yourself off, breath shallow. "I resigned."

"You did what?" He repeats the same line after you.

"Yeah. Guess we both had little secrets, huh?" Bitterness stings your tongue. "Like, how do you even know the hockey coach?"

"That's not really important." His grins becomes more sheepish. "Just-just calm down, you'll be fine. Bookworms from that club would ramble for hours if I didn't stop them. I'm sure the athletes are so fixed on their thing, they'll do the same. Maybe you won't even have to ask, they'll tak you to death. You'll get that recorded and voilà."

You groan, burying your face in your folded arms, your head hitting the table. "You better be right. If I survive this, I'm going to kill you."

"Not if you get that recommendation," he taps you with your highlighter. "Then, you'll owe me. Big time. And I mean it. I was begging on my knees yesterday."

"In front of who?" You peak up your head.

"Doesn't matter," he mutters.

"And when exactly am I supposed to do this?" You ask with a flicker of hope in your chest. "Next week or something?"

"Uh... A little bit closer than a week. Like, today?"

“Today?!”

"Couldn't negotiate. They have practice today," he say with a helpless shrug. "Plus, this whole thing ties into your scholarship, remember? Now or never." Ekko leans down next to you. "Listen, I've got a plan, alright? You go do the introductory interview and I'll sneak into Heimerdinger's office and pull your resignation letter before he sees it. And the blue file."

You bite on your inner cheek, a nervous tic you never quite grew out of.

"I do really owe you, right?" You murmur, not really meeting his eyes.

"Yeah, about that..." Ekko taps his phone screen, then pockets it. "I'll text you later. I might need your smart brain for something."

"Sure." You say, almost automatically. "Anything." You nod slowly, your voice quite now, heavy with a dread-soaked gratitude as you watch him rise from his puff.

"Don't worry, (Y/N)," he says with a smile, hanging his backpack over one shoulder. "It's just till Ellie comes back."

Yeah, till she comes back.

As Ekko strolls off, you start gathering your scattered things. The weight of the task still mocking you.

You pause, glancing towards the library window.

And then you hear it.

Laughter. Loud, unbothered. A sudden clash of sticks.

The hockey team.

You spot them just past the main entrance, occupying space with ease.

And then her. Vi. The captain.

She twirls her hockey stick like it's an extension of her own spine. Her shoulder are squared, posture effortlessly confident.

A teammate bumps into her from the side, playful, a little too rough, but she doesn't even flinch. Just throws a smirk over her shoulder and continues walking like nothing just touched her.

Your throat tightens. Uncertainty knocks on your door again.

No file. No questions. No Ellie.

And your nerdy, overthinking brain already knows how it ends.

She's gonna eat you alive.

note from Emi: Hey loves 💌 I just wanted to say - wow. You've completely blown me away with all the feedback on this fic. I wasn't prepared for how much love this idea would get, and honestly, my heart is do full 🥹❤️ I'm beyond excited to keep building this world with you. The hype for hockey captain Vi? Get it, she's dangerously hot. Trust me, ugh. Thank you for reading this. I hope this chapter keeps you hooked. Take care 🥰

taglist: @sycamore55, @baylegend6, @summerwriting, @tsujifreya, @sevikas-whore, @jnksvelvet, @eriiwaiii2, @wooziil, @bluminescent-moon, @thxtmarvelchick, @klallx @freakyjorker @lqqkis, @chellecunttt, @cottagegirlworld-blog, @sapphicscripts

[bloomzone]

#27 2025 : summer diary : mental health glow up !

You're probably reading this after scrolling endlessly because your brain won't stfu . You've got seventeen tabs open , three different conversations going, and somehow you still feel completely disconnected from everything. sound familiar ikr .

our generation (genz mostly) is dealing with levels of anxiety, depression, and mental exhaustion that previous generations literally cannot comprehend. We're living through a mental health crisis while being told to "just think positive" and "practice self-care" like buying a face mask is going to fix the fact that we're all collectively losing our minds.

But this crisis is also our opportunity. We're the first generation to normalize talking about mental health, to actually prioritize it, to understand that success without mental wellness is just a fancy form of self-destruction. And that's exactly why ur mental glow up it's inevitable if you're willing to do the work sweetheart .

Chapter 1: ur brain on social media

You wake up, grab your phone, and within five minutes you've seen someone's vacation in Hawaii with their friends , someone else's promotion announcement, someone get 4.0 GPA without even suffering , and a video of someone younger than you talking about his business and u see allll of this before you've even brushed your teeth like this your brain has already decided you're behind in life.

This is not normal. This is not how human brains are supposed to function ofc . We're literally rewiring our neural pathways to constantly compare ourselves to everyone else's highlight reel while sitting in our own behind-the-scenes mess no wonder we're all anxious.

The dopamine hit you get from social media is the same chemical reaction your brain has to gambling, shopping, and other addictive behaviors. Every notification is a slot machine pull. Every like is a small win that makes you crave more. And the platforms know this they're designed to keep you scrolling, comparing, and ultimately feeling not good enough so you'll keep coming back.

But the first move u need to do is to

☆ Recognize that your attention is literally being sold to the highest bidder. Every time you pick up your phone mindlessly, you're giving away your most valuable resource ur mental energy. Start treating your attention like the precious commodity it is.

☆ Detox doesn't mean going completely offline (because let's be realistic we're not doing that ). It means being intentional , unfollow accounts that make you feel inadequate. Mute keywords that trigger your anxiety follow creators who actually add value to your life instead of just making you feel FOMO. Your feed should inspire you, not depress you. (I already have a blog abt it click here !)

Chapter 2: The confidence paradox

Can we talk about how toxic the whole "fake it till you make it" mentality is? You've probably been told that confidence is about pretending you're not scared, acting like you have it all figured out, and never showing weakness. That's not confidence that's performance anxiety with a marketing budget. (LIKE SOME YOUTUBERS)

Real confidence is about feeling scared and doing it anyway. It's about knowing that you can handle whatever comes your way because you've handled hard things before. It's about being comfortable with not having all the answers while still believing in your ability to figure things out.

what actually builds confidence:

☆ competence : u can't think your way into feeling confident. You have to do things that prove to yourself that you're capable. Start with something small that you can actually accomplish. Learn a new skill. Finish a project. Have a difficult conversation. Each time you follow through on something you said you'd do, you're making a deposit in your confidence bank account TOUCH GRASS ...

☆ Stop waiting for permission to take up space : You don't need anyone's approval to pursue your goals, speak up in meetings, or believe in yourself. The people who seem naturally confident aren't special they've just gotten comfortable with being uncomfortable. They've accepted that growth requires stepping outside your comfort zone regularly.

☆ Document your wins : ur brain is evolutionarily wired to focus on threats and problems that's how we survived as a human. But in the modern world, this negativity bias is working against you. Actively counteract it by writing down three things you did well each day. Train your brain to notice what's going right instead of just what's going wrong stop talking about what u did bad think abt the goodies they happened in the day .

Chapter 3: emotional Intelligence

Let's address the elephant in the room: our generation is INCREDIBLY emotionally intelligent in some ways and completely emotionally illiterate in others. We can write paragraph-long texts analyzing someone's Instagram story, but we can't identify our own emotions beyond "good" or "bad" .

Emotional intelligence isn't just about understanding feelings it's about managing them effectively. It's about not letting your emotions drive your decisions while still honoring them as valid information. It's about being able to regulate your own emotional state instead of depending on external validation to feel okay.

☆ Start by getting specific about what you're actually feeling. Instead of "I feel anxious," try "I feel overwhelmed by my workload and worried about disappointing people." Instead of "I feel sad," try "I feel disappointed that my plans didn't work out and frustrated with myself for not having a backup plan." The more specific you get, the easier it becomes to address the root cause.

☆ Learn to sit with discomfort without immediately trying to fix it, distract from it, or numb it. Our generation has been conditioned to avoid negative emotions at all costs. Sad? Watch Netflix. Anxious? Scroll social media. Angry? Online shop. But emotions are information - they're trying to tell you something important about what you need or what's not working in your life.

☆ Practice the pause. Before you react to something that triggers you, take a moment to breathe and ask yourself: "What am I actually feeling right now? What do I need? How can I respond in a way that aligns with who I want to be?" This simple practice can transform your relationships and your relationship with yourself don't say "it won't WORK" just try it .

Chapter 4: rewriting ur origin story

you get to decide what your story means. You're not a victim of your circumstances, your past, or your current situation. You're the author of your own narrative, and you can rewrite it whenever you want.

Most people are living their lives based on stories they wrote about themselves when they were literally children. "I'm not a people person." "I'm not creative." "I'm not leadership material." These stories made sense when you were eight years old, but they don't have to define your entire life. ur past doesn't determine your future unless you let it. That failure you're still beating yourself up about? That's data, not destiny. That time you got rejected? That's redirection, not reflection of your worth. That mistake you made? That's education, not evidence that you're not capable of growth.

☆ Stop introducing yourself by your limitations. Instead of "I'm not good at public speaking," try "I'm developing my public speaking skills." Instead of "I'm so disorganized," try "I'm learning systems that work for me." The language you use to describe yourself literally shapes your reality. Value urself

☆ Create a vision of your future self that excites you. Not what you think you should want, not what would impress other people, but what genuinely lights you up. Who do you want to become? How do you want to feel? What kind of impact do you want to have? Get so clear on this vision that you can make decisions based on it today.

Chapter 5: Building an ti ti ti-fragile mental Resilience

Resilience isn't about being tough all the time. It's about being flexible, adaptable, and able to bounce back quickly when life hits you with unexpected challenges. life is going to hit you with unexpected challenges and this is life y'know . Ppl be like " nooo i don't deserve this" and start victimizing themselves like pooks move on this is why u are in this earth .

The goal isn't to avoid failure or discomfort ofc it's to get better at handling them. Every time you face a setback and recover from it, you're building evidence that you can handle hard things. You're literally training your brain to see challenges as opportunities for growth instead of threats to your wellbeing.

☆ Develop a growth mindset about everything, including your mental health. Instead of "I'm depressed," try "I'm going through a depressive episode." Instead of "I'm anxious," try "I'm experiencing anxiety right now." This it's accurate. Mental health struggles are temporary states not permanent identities. ( I have PTSD but I'm not building my life around it ofc I move on even when it's hard we need to LOVE LIFE )

☆ Build your distress tolerance gradually. Start with small discomforts and work your way up. Take cold showers. Exercise when you don't feel like it. Have difficult conversations. Sit with boredom without immediately reaching for your phone. Each time you choose growth over comfort, you're strengthening your mental resilience.

☆ Create a support system that actually supports you. This means having people in your life who celebrate your successes without jealousy, who call you out when you're being self-destructive, and who remind you of your strength when you forget. Quality over quantity you need a few ride-or-die people not a bunch of surface-level connections the healthier the friends are the healthier and happier u become.

Chapter 6: The daily practice revolution

Transformation doesn't happen in dramatic moments of it happens in the mundane, daily choices you make when nobody's watching. The people who successfully glow up mentally are the ones who show up for themselves consistently, even when they don't feel like it.

☆ Morning routines are IMPORTANT, but not for the reasons you think. It's not about waking up at 4 AM or drinking celery juice It's about starting your day with intention instead of reaction. Before you check your phone, before you do anything else, take a moment to set an intention for the day. How do you want to feel? How do you want to show up? What's one thing you can do today that your future self will thank you for?

☆ Practice gratitude, but make it real. Instead of generic "I'm grateful for my family," get specific. "I'm grateful for the way my mom always knows exactly what to say when I'm having a crisis." "I'm grateful for my friend who sends me memes when I'm stressed." Specific gratitude rewires your brain to notice the good things in your life more readily.

☆ Checking in with yourself multiple times throughout the day. Set random alarms on your phone that remind you to pause and ask: "How am I feeling right now? What do I need?" This simple practice helps you stay connected to yourself instead of just reacting to whatever's happening around you.

☆ each day by acknowledging your wins. Before you go to sleep, think about three things you did well that day. They don't have to be big maybe you were patient with a difficult person, or you chose a healthy lunch, or you had a good conversation. Celebrating your wins programs your subconscious mind to look for more opportunities to succeed.

Chapter 7: navigating relationships during ur glow up

The TRUTH is when you start changing, some people in your life aren't going to like it. They might make comments about you "trying to be different" or "thinking you're better than everyone else." This resistance usually comes from their own insecurities, not from anything you're doing wrong.

☆ You're going to outgrow some relationships and that's okay OKKKKK . Not every person is meant to be in your life forever. Some people are there for a season, some for a reason, and some for a lifetime. Learning to distinguish between these categories will save you a lot of emotional energy.

☆ Set boundaries without feeling guilty. You don't owe anyone access to your time, energy, or mental space. You can love someone from a distance. You can support someone without sacrificing your own wellbeing. You can be kind without being available 24/7.

☆ Surround yourself with people who are also committed to growth. This doesn't mean you can't have friends who are in different life stages, but it does mean prioritizing relationships with people who inspire you to be better instead of people who make you feel comfortable staying the same.

☆ Learn to communicate your needs clearly and directly. Stop expecting people to read your mind. Stop dropping hints and hoping they'll figure it out. If you need something ask for it. If something bothers you, address it. If you're struggling, reach out for help. Clear communication is a superpower that will transform all your relationships and always say "thank u" after they help with smthg.

Chapter 8: the glow up mindset shift

The biggest difference between people who successfully transform their mental health and those who stay stuck is mindset. It's not about being positive all the time it's about being realistic about challenges while maintaining faith in your ability to handle them.

☆ seeing yourself as broken and needing to be fixed. You're not a project to be completed. You're a human being who's constantly evolving, learning, and growing. Mental health isn't a destination you arrive at - it's a practice you commit to daily.

☆ Embrace the messy middle. The space between where you are and where you want to be is uncomfortable, uncertain, and often frustrating. But that's where all the growth happens. That's where you develop the skills, resilience, and confidence that will serve you for the rest of your life.

☆ Focus on progress, not perfection. You don't need to have it all figured out. You don't need to be the best version of yourself tomorrow. You just need to be a slightly better version of yourself than you were yesterday. Small, consistent improvements compound over time into massive transformations.

☆ Remember that everyone is figuring it out as they go. Those people who seem to have it all together are winging it too. They're just comfortable with uncertainty and committed to growth. You can be that person too.

Your mental glow up start rn !

This isn't just another self-help guide you'll read and forget about. This is your roadmap to becoming the mentally strong, emotionally intelligent, authentically confident person you know you can be. But here's the thing reading about it isn't enough u have to actually do the work glowing up mentally is a journey with up n down . Start today. Start with one small habit. Start with one act of courage. Start with one moment of self-compassion. ur future self is counting on you to begin, and they're going to be so proud of you for taking this first step.

The mental glow up it's about becoming more of who you already are underneath all the doubt, fear, and limiting beliefs. It's about uncovering the confident, resilient, authentic person who's been waiting for their moment to shine.

@bloomzone

[kevinformers-ibw]

A Ship Called "Home"

Hi :)

This wasn't really the first fic I expected to go public but it would make sense the long run. Would like to thank @delicioustarong and @nonsscrapheap for fueling the brainrot, couldn't have made it this far without them.

Now despite this being relatively short It's going to contain some small elements from The Echo Garden, hence explaining Soundwave's presence. But for now enjoy the brewing chaos :)

Prologue I: Dimension 3945

The Lost Light hovered in deep space.

“Great,” Rodimus said, lounging sideways in the captain’s chair like it owed him shanix. “Everything's fine right? No spontaneous combustion this time right?”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Brainstorm muttered from behind his terminal. “Depending on how this dimension interprets gravitational curvature, we could still explode. Just... in a really interesting way.”

Rodimus groaned. “You always know how to ruin a perfectly good jump with science.”

"Science is the only reason you survive jumps, Co-captain," Perceptor replied sharply without looking up.

“Correction,” Minimus interjected from the side, arms crossed. “We survive because everyone else compensates for his recklessness.”

Rodimus shrugged. “Well yeah. Delegation. It’s what great leaders do.”

Drift leaned on the console beside him. “Is this the part where you give another speech about bold leadership and fate?”

“Nope.” Rodimus stood and stretched with a dramatic flair. “This is the part where we hurl ourselves into the multiverse yet again and pray that whatever’s on the other side isn’t fire, teeth, or that dimension with the gelatin clones.”

“Do not remind me,” Megatron murmured quietly from the back of the room. “They were disturbingly polite.”

“Didn’t one of them try to court you?” asked Rodimus

“I said do NOT remind me.”

There was a short silence.

Brainstorm peeked around from behind a console. “Just for the record, I still say we shouldn’t have left dimension 3944 until I finished testing the emotion-hacking energon.”

“Pretty sure that stuff made Rewind cry uncontrollably for three joors,” Drift raised at optical ridge at the scientist.

“He was watching a data documentary.” Brainstorm protested.

“It was a traffic cam.”

"Anyways!" Rodimus flexed his joints. "Enough about that, dimension 3945 is locked in and ready to explore!"

“This jump should be stable. No anomalies detected.” Perceptor said.

“For once,” Rodimus muttered. “Last time, I swear my stabilisers existed three kliks before the rest of me.”

“Maybe next time they can leave your intake behind,” Megatron said dryly.

Rodimus ignored him and instead clapped his servos together. “Alright team, attitudes positive, and no one mention the dimension where we turned into rubber duckies.”

“That was ONE time,” Brainstorm shouted.

A deep rumble shook the ship, then everything stilled.

Perceptor hummed. “Jump successful. Welcome to Dimension 3945. No signs of immediate hostility… yet.”

Minimus leaned forward. “Any signs of civilization?”

“Advanced,” Perceptor confirmed. “We’re picking up faint tech signals. Matching Autobot and Decepticon encryption patterns… but they’re unusually synchronized.”

“That’s not normal,” Drift said.

Megatron stepped forward slowly, arms crossed. “Nor is it reassuring.”

“C’mon, when has anything about us been normal?” Rodimus gave a lopsided smile and reached for the comms button.

“Wait—Rodimus—”

click

“Attention citizens of this dimension—this is Rodimus, captain of the starship Lost Light, speaking to you not as a conqueror, not as a threat, but as a traveler… and a friend. If our arrival startled you, know this: the Lost Light comes in peace. We're just passing through—though we do tend to leave things a little better than we found them. Usually. So, on behalf of the entire crew of the Lost Light… we respectfully ask for safe passage, open minds, and maybe a map. We’re still figuring out where exactly 'here' is. Rodimus out.”

The transmission clicked off, and Rodimus spun around with his usual swagger. “Boom. Nailed it. That’s how you do diplomacy.”

“Is that what we’re calling it now?” Minimus said, datapad already in hand. “Because I distinctly recall asking you to run any first contact messages by me before transmission.”

Rodimus grinned. “Yeah, I ran it by you. Mentally. Super fast. You must’ve missed it.”

Minimus narrowed his optics. “You forgot again.”

“Forgot again is such a loaded phrase.”

Drift leaned against a wall, arms crossed. “Don’t worry, Mins—"

"Do NOT call me that."

"—I’m sure next time, the locals won’t arm their planetary defense grid because Rodimus opened with ‘We come in peace.’”

“Hey!” Rodimus shouted. “I'm charismatic, I'm irresistable, everyone loves me and my speeches.”

“Yes. Because seeing a giant star ship, and equally giant individuals really calms people down, and your speeches.” Megatron said, deadpan.

"Listen Megs, I have something that you lack, it's called. Charisma, in fact I had so much charisma that I killed an entire infestation of personality ticks."

“By ‘I’ you mean ‘we,’” Megatron replied. “Because we both killed them.”

Rodimus rolled his optics.

“Incoming signal,” Blaster announced, already pulling it up. “Encrypted, but not hostile. Audio only.”

Rodimus leaned forward. “Put it through.”

A smooth voice crackled to life.

"Lost Light—this is Blaster, Autobot's Head Communications ffficer. Your message has been received, Rodimus." The tone was formal and diplomatic. "Your intent has been acknowledged and appreciated. I am not alone in receiving your signal. The Decepticon Soundwave is also monitoring this frequency and has authorized continued contact. We are coordinating a response and will provide you with navigation data shortly. Stand by."

Rodimus stiffened, and for a moment, he thought he’d misheard. He turned slowly toward Blaster, who was frozen at his station.

"Blaster?" he asked carefully. "Did he just say—?"

"Yeah," Blaster breathed, still staring at his screen in disbelief. "That was me. Or… him. I mean—it’s not my voice at all, but I'm alive, and a Soundwave as well?"

All optics turned to their Soundwave. He remained utterly silent.

Megatron narrows his optics. “If a Soundwave is cooperating with Autobots… something must have happened.”

Rodimus turned to the side. "Percy? Brainstorm? So what happened to duplicates not being allowed in the same dimension? I thought that wasn't possible"

"Because it shouldn't be," Perceptor said, expression tight with disbelief as he typed furiously into his datapad “In all 3945 dimensions we’ve traveled, we’ve only ever arrived in one where our crew either never existed… or had already been deceased. All of it remained consistent—until now, so something changed. The question is: what?”

"As the ship's genius," Brainstorm piped up. "even I'm confused about this. Don't get me wrong, I'm guilty as much as the next mech but I haven't even worked on fixing this problem ever since dimension 2020 and we all know how that went." Perceptor nodded in agreement.

Rodimus stood silent for a klik, optics narrowing. "So let me get this straight—we're probably in a dimension where not only do we exist, but we're alive? Another me? Another you? Another Megatron too? Are we sure this isn't another Cyberutopia?"

Drift opened his intake.

Rodimus pointed. “Don’t answer that.”

Blaster straightened suddenly. “They’re responding again—same frequency. Patchin’ it through.”

"Lost Light—this is Communications Officer Blaster. Your signal is verified and logged. We're transmitting landing coordinates now. Expect company. No hostilities. Just... a lot of questions. Coordinates incoming.”

Rodimus raised a servo triumphantly. "SHIP-WIDE MEETING!"

Minimus sputtered. "Now hold on a klik Rodimus you can't just—"

"So great of you mechs to attend this last breem meeting." Rodimus ignored the long, spark-weary glare Minimus shot him from the corner. "I know most of you are grumpy from being interrupted from your drinking and all that slag but I promise you all that this is important."

"Just get to the point!"

"Shut up Whirl! Anyways—we are about to make history!” Rodimus said. “For the first time in all our dimension-hopping escapades, we’ve landed in a universe where we’re not just footnotes or casualties. We’re alive, mostly. Here. Now. With names. And oil preferences, probably.”

There was silence. Then there were many voices at once.

"Wait," said Swerve. "So, if there's another me, and he's alive… Am I legally allowed to high-five him? Or is that one of those time-law things?"

Rodimus pointed at the mini-bot. “Excellent question, Swerve. I have absolutely no idea!”

“That’s not even remotely reassuring.” Swerve muttered.

"Do not touch yourself," Perceptor muttered absently. Then, realizing how that sounded, quickly added, "I mean your counterpart. Don’t—physically interact. We don’t know the consequences. Yet."

"That’s also not reassuring," Swerve mumbled, visibly sweating.

Skids raised a servo. “What if we’ve already messed something up just by being here? Like... what if our presence destabilizes this universe?”

“Then we leave it slightly worse than we found it,” Rodimus said cheerfully. “Which, honestly, is still better than usual!”

Minimus pinched the bridge of his nasal ridge. “I cannot believe you’re treating this like a motivational pep rally.”

“I believe in preparation,” Rodimus replied. “And right now, we prepare by not panicking. Unless the other me has a better paint job. Then we panic.”

A few quiet chuckles broke the tension.

“Look, I don’t know what we’re walking into,” Rodimus admitted. “But they sent coordinates. No weapons charged. No warnings. They know who we are and they didn’t shoot us out of the sky. That’s already a win. And let’s face it, when’s the last time any of us saw a version of ourselves that wasn’t dead, missing, or well disappointing?”

“That’s a little grim,” Chromedome murmured.

“It’s also not wrong.” Rewind said.

Rodimus clapped his servos together. “When we go down, we have our weapons holstered, we play it cool, we don’t freak anyone out.”

“Define ‘holstered,’” Whirl called from the back.

“Do not high-five yourselves. Do not kiss yourselves. And absolutely do not get into existential debates with your alternate selves unless you’re absolutely sure you can win. Dismissed!”

The crew began to murmur and shuffle out, excitement mounting under the nerves.

In the hallway, Rewind turned to Chromedome. “If we see another you, what do you want to do?”

Chromedome looked thoughtful. “Honestly? Make sure he never touches mnemosurgery.”

Nearby, Whirl whispered to Tailgate, “I am going to try and kiss myself. Just saying.”

“Please don’t.”

Just beyond the corner, Nautica and Nightbeat were in a discussion.

“If their Blaster and Soundwave are working together,” Nightbeat said, “maybe their war ended differently. Maybe it never even started the way ours did.”

Nautica’s optics glowed. “Or maybe they reached peace earlier. Unified communications. Can you imagine the implications for science alone?”

“You're thinking science?” Nightbeat's visor flickered. “I’m thinking we’re walking into a paradox soup.”

Rodimus turned to his commanding officers. "I think that meeting was a success."

Minimus gave a weary sigh while Megatron raised an optical ridge. “By your standards, that probably qualifies as a masterclass.”

Drift patted Rodimus' pauldron. "I think you did great."

A cable yanked Rodimus clean off his pedes, causing Drift to laugh. "See, even Soundwave agrees."

Rodimus twists his frame to face the visored mech, giving him a cheeky grin. "Aww babe, don't be jealous. I'll never replace you."

Soundwave stared silently.

The cable dropped him.

“Ow...”

Updates schedule? Undecided, just know that tumblr gets them sooner than AO3.

Questions? Happy to answer them.

Prologue I? Out of IV

Time? It's 3 AM I'm going to bed.

[NEXT]

[rosygames-archive]

I’m finishing a few things before I post the new demo (just the prologue, around 2k words) on the new account (will link it here later). So, this will be my second to the last post here (last post will be linking the new account).

I know I said “last post here” like maybe three times (I guess it’s hard to let go, but also life was a bitch to me this year lol) but this really is it. It’s… weird, isn’t it? I can officially say this is a goodbye to the first The Rosy Ones. Allow me to… grieve it a little.

I started writing The Rosy Ones with a general idea of a story and an overwhelming desire to create Interactive Fiction. I have always been a big fan of it—from Choices, to Lovestruck, to finding my way over to Choice of Games/Hosted Games. I made a lot of haste decisions that ultimately ended up being scrapped when I actually sat down and thought about the story I wanted to tell. For those of you who weren’t there at the very start, it might come as a surprise that I first planned to have “houses” for the university, where the MC (not yet Rosetail) would be sorted into a certain house depending on their qualities. There was also a time when I was planning to let the readers choose what magical race their Rosetail is. For some time, the game only consisted of Geishehl’s death and Rosetail’s mother’s absence. Rosa wasn’t there yet, the Angel Guards were a last minute addition, and I only had a vague sense of romantic options in mind.

Then, I tried to actually plan and a bunch of those ideas were scrapped. It felt like using the Greek Gods to be the deities was too restricting, so I spent months trying to figure out whether I wanted to actually commit to creating new deities or not, then months more creating the lore and the new deities. It’s actually crazy to me now, as I look back on everything I’ve changed and redid. But to be perfectly honest? I don’t regret a single thing because I know I would’ve burned out of that previous demo and let go of the game if I didn’t take the risk and change it. I want to share that my adviser for my final project for uni had asked me, at the start of our relationship as adviser and advisee, to be courageous and honest with my work. She told me to allow myself to write whatever I wanted to write, regardless of how it might be received by others. This book is going to be heavily inspired by PH history, and I was honestly a little scared at first to lean so heavily into it because… well, it was actually a little dangerous back then and I also didn’t want to alienate any viewers. My adviser had made me realize that no matter what, some readers just won’t click with my game and so I should do what I want to do and not worry about any “alienation”. This is me doing that.

I have been MIA for so long—life just wasn’t kind at all. I am diagnosed Bipolar and I do not medicate because the medication made my life worse. This means that sometimes, I cannot control how my mood is and how it reacts to what happens around me. With several life-changing changes and revelations over the past two years, it’s actually a wonder that I’m here right now and posting the prologue to the new demo. I actually did it. It might seem small and insignificant to others, but I will not be embarrassed by the amount of effort it took to get here today.

I also want to thank everyone who read The Rosy Ones, even if you don’t join me in the new account. The support I received throughout the years has… basically saved me. I don’t know if I’ve ever said it here, but I badly burned out from writing before TRO. It had been years since I last wrote something of substance, and it felt like I was relearning writing. To see so many people say they liked the story, they liked the characters, and they thought I was at least a decent writer did wonders to my belief in myself and my writing. There are also those who believed in me enough to commission me to write for them—I remember y’all and I’m eternally grateful for the help and the support. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

The next chapter is a little scary, to be very honest. Anxiety is taking over me at the moment, and I feel jittery all over. I don’t know what’ll happen next, but I really, really want to finish this game and let you all in on the vast little world I’d made up in my head. I want you all to meet all these new characters—important and insignificant ones, and to visit all these magical, fictional places, and to go through all these emotions I’d gone through as I was writing and planning it all. I am so excited, and I am so scared, but I’m doing it anyway.

Thank you to everyone here, and thank you to everyone who’ll join me on the next account. I hope this was a good experience, and I hope we’ll have more good experiences together (or not together!)

Goodbye.

[side-shuffling-hyperfixations]

Liveblog: TMNT 1987 S4 Ep19: Leonardo Lightens Up

Not gonna lie, reading the logline of this episode I am...nervous and wary. I haven't even clicked play yet and immediately it reminds me of the Transformers G1 episode "Changing Gears", where I was actually aghast to see some of the other Autobots approve of Gears losing a vital piece of his personality matrix simply because its absence made him more palatable. I don't want to see them do that to my boy Leonardo :( But here we go regardless

Are the quips gone from the intro for good now? Man, I liked those

Leonardo, you ought to know by now the "I order you to" is prone to backfire

Askjfksjfks "Michelangelo, why weren't you at ninja practice?!" is giving "Why weren't you at elf practice?!"

Who cuts the pizza before it's cooked?

"Oh, that's raw dough, honey!" - Me actually out loud like a very concerned mom when Michelangelo took a bite

Okay, calling him a "sorry excuse" wasn't great, Leonardo

On the other hand Michelangelo doesn't seem fazed in the slightest

Oh boy, I don't want to see what happens between him and Raphael. I've been primed for tension between them with too many other iterations, I hate it when they fight

Phew, okay, that didn't blow up like I expected, at least

Hunters mistaking Splinter for a large raccoon was a surprisingly morbid joke to make, Raphael

Donatello's blep when he's concentrating on his work 🥺

"Not the personality modifier! It isn't perfected yet!" AND MORE IMPORTANTLY YOU SHOULDN'T BE USING IT ON YOUR PAL TO SCRAMBLE HIS SENSE OF SELF SHELL FOR BRAINS

Okay, it does make me feel a smidge better that Donatello was against it

Ohhh dear

The volume (pun unintended but convenient) of Maestro Clef's hair is impressive

Bro, don't break your conductor baton, don't you need that?

His evil laugh needs some work

Who's this new Channel 6 desk clerk? Where's Irma?

Vernon's eating a hot dog at the dog show. Sighhhh

The Channel 6 news van cannot catch a break

Raphael straight up whistled for Leonardo to come with dinner, I- mmmm, don't like it

But on the other hand I do like Leonardo with the silly moustache

I am slightly alarmed by the exploding turkey. How did he rig that?

"Using the ray on Leonardo was a real no-brainer." "Yeah, that figures, it was your idea." Youch, Raphael

I too miss the old Leonardo

"April, how'd you get here?" She knows the way because she comes over all the time?

I like the picture of the three-headed snake thing on the wall (probably some famous mythological creature I don't know about cause I'm not into that)

I too would kind of like to wring Vernon's neck, I'll take a number

"Ciao, babies"??? That's how you know his personality's out of whack

We got a "Cowabunga" out of someone other than Michelangelo for once, wow

Okay, Maestro's next evil laugh was a little better but not by much

"It's the Gotham blimp!" Are they allowed to make that reference?

"Don't you just hate a backseat blimp driver?" Brother, the blimp is actively crashing, I don't think this is the time to complain

Good on you, Leonardo, wearing your helmet while you're skateboarding

He is such a menace XD

Uh oh, Dad's home

MASTER SPLINTER IS SKATEBOARDING KICK IT KING

And we got another "my son" as the cherry on top 👏

"Your next concert will be played on the bars of your prison cell!" And they say Leonardo can't come up with witty remarks! With an added pun for the "bars" bit, love that

"That's why he's our numero uno dude" 💕

Annnd they forgot the lessons learned already. Shush, Raphael. Good thing Master Splinter's back to bring the point home

Okay, phew, it wasn't as uncomfy as the TFG1 episode. Still not a great thing to do to your pal; I kinda wish there was an apology in there somewhere but that "numero uno dude" comment and the pat on the shoulder probably got the sentiment across well enough in Leonardo's book so I can count it too

[psychopomp-namine]

thinking out loud for fic writing purposes. this is not about canon. or maybe it is? idk. but this is mainly for fic, so I'm more hand-waivy with the canonicity of details.

so how does diving and the 12 hour rule work? if lu guang stays past 12 hours, he permanently lives in that body and can't dive anymore. that's the current assumption, right?

okay so now. hypothetically, let's say there are three timelines: A, B, C. let's say lu guang dives from timeline A -> B then from B -> C. let's assume that he hops between parallel/multiple timelines and doesn't loop within the same timeline.

can I safely assume that as long as the 12h isn't up, he's free to hop in any timeline within those 12h, without requiring a death transfer of abilities? e.g. is it possible to dive within a dive? recursive diving? diveception?

if you dive into someone's body, do you have access to their ability? I think cheng xiaoshi technically "experienced" the twins' abilities but didn't know what was going on at the time, and didn't "use" it himself. if you know how to use the ability though, could you use it for yourself? so for example, if lu guang, who knows how to dive because of the death transfer and has dived before, possessed cheng xiaoshi, could he use cheng xiaoshi's dive abilities and dive as cheng xiaoshi? my head is spinning just thinking this

let's say lu guang goes from B -> C. 12h pass so he's stuck there, but cheng xiaoshi dies and transfers the ability so lu guang can dive again. if he goes to the first 12h of his dive in timeline B, and then tries to "exit" the dive by clapping out, which timeline would he end up in? A or C? that is, I guess the question is which "version" of him does the dive ability respond to...? his body in timeline B, which was diving from timeline A? or the lu guang who's diving from timeline C? when you dive, your body disappears, so...

when lu guang hops between timelines, does he erase ("overwrite") the lu guang that's local to the timeline he hops into after 12h? does the lu guang of that timeline "die" or does he "merge" with the lu guang of the other timeline? is there a meaningful difference? the only difference would be in memories, I suppose, but memories shape identity...

the last two aren't really questions, but just some concepts I've been thinking about. again, this is for fic purposes, so this isn't any statement about canon or anything.

the concept of photographs as a snapshot of spacetime. but in particular, if parallel timelines exist (which liu xiao believes to be true), then are photographs considered like connecting points between timelines? if you in timeline A took a picture of the sunset while you're in the basketball court during university, and the you in timeline B did the same during highschool, and the circumstances between those two nodes are similar (same people are in the court, same time and place). would those two pictures act like portals to each other's timelines?

the purpose of the high five as an anchor to the current timeline, so the diver can enter and exit within their home timeline instead of hopping in parallel ones. this is not necessarily true in canon, as we see cheng xiaoshi clap himself into surveillance footage all the time and not worry about parallel timelines. but again, this is for fic, so it's (hand waves) whatever. or maybe... the camera itself serves as an anchor? hmmmmm

[sysig]

Damned Masterpost

Original run

ZEX wasn’t there for that, Dex!

Getting started

Kissing Strangers 💋

Captain Dating Sim

If I become lost...

It started with a whisper

Perfect comedy routine

Flowers for you!

ZEX loves wild horse!

Dexter’s first visit

Pivotal bright spot

Sunshine Captain ☀️

But ZEX loves humans!

Uniform ♥

Hard learning curve

Big Guy Teisel

VUXisms

ZEX’s hair <3

Haunted by Kayako

Zelnick has two hands

Zelnick’s gone :(

ZEX’s MU (blood)

Them (blood)

Leaving weird impressions

Last man standing

Wake up somewhere better (blood)

Despite everything, he’s still ZEX

New Daay

DAX profile

DAX Expressions

VUX duo Expressions

Lover’s tiff Expressions

Action heroes Expressions (blood)

Roughed up VUX Expressions (blood)

Too busy flirting

The Little VUXmaid ---

What if DAX was there

DAX’s Special Counseling

Homesick

After ZEX’s MU

Hope we die (blood)

Max’s visit

Karaoke Night

The girlies are fightinnggg

Different sensibilities

ZEX’s hair, again

Protect him, please

VUXémon

The three of them

Wander I mean Dr. Doran

More Dr. Doran

“Wake up” configurations

More VUXémon ft. Larry and Kabu

Dismissed ---

First re-meeting ♥

Chill, Sub-Commander

Each other’s VUX

Pyramid Head fight (blood)

Dr. Vargas

VUX silliness

Therapy went great

Nightly squabbles

You must snuggle

Obeying commands

Locked In

Damned, but make it Osmosis Jones

Wants to fight so bad

Some familiar faces

Drix Uniform

Main three’s profiles

Other

Stanley profile speculations

Max wants out

Crystal Gem VUX

All those missing eyes

2024 Sketchdump

[amegeddon]

HOLY FUCKING SHIT

I WAS NOT READY FOR THE WAR WITHIN QUESTLINE

I HEARD DE COOKED BUT I DIDN'T REALISE IT WAS GONNA BE A GOURMET FEAST HOLY HELL THAT WAS AMAZING???

I have also heard the story gets EVEN BETTER from this point on so oh my god I'm very hyped for that. Just a shame mhwilds is out in a few days since it's 100% going to eat my attention lol

[arolesbianism]

I am fighting for my fucking life to figure out the game mechanics of the last girlie. Grips her shoulders. Why must you have no discernable features but a tank top and stupid hair

[gio-cosmo]

Yippie !

[echthr0s]

lol speaking of unlocking jobs in FFXIV, had another moment of it being incredibly clear how my understanding of games has developed over time, because all the melee jobs were impenetrable to me just a couple of years ago but I unlocked SAM last week and read the tooltips and was like "oh, ok, I get it" without even having to double-check the google machine. I felt so powerful

[dont-open-dead-inside-net]

guys help. ive become attached to another name

[valor52]

WIP Art Fight ref of my oc Acryl (she/they) from my planned project "Color Game"! She wields all three primary colors and is doing so well and doesn't need any therapy I prommy

[tojifiles]

WHY SHOULD I BE SAD? (WHEN I COULD JUST FUCK HIS DAD!) ★

ꨄ syn. after your ex-boyfriend cheats on you, you show up at his house only to find out his bum ass isn't there. buuut his dad is, and you see the perfect opportunity to get back— its time for you to move along, goodbye!

ꨄ feat. dilf! kento nanami + fem! reader, pwp, piv, unprotected sēx, improper use of a tie, oral f! receiving), age gap, pússy whipped nanami, choking, hairpulling, voyeurism. mdni.

wc. 3.5k

you knock. three sharp, deliberate raps against the door, knuckles grazing the oak.

the porch light flickers overhead, buzzing lowly as it throws shadows across your bare legs. the hem of your pink velour shorts rides high on your thighs, paired with the matching jacket, zipped halfway down to show a sliver of the white tank top underneath.

you shift your weight to one hip, arms folded tight across your chest, blowing a lazy puff of stray hair that stuck to your glossed lips.

pathetic. you think, glancing around the quiet streets. your (ex!!) boyfriend— still living with his parents like the immature man child he is.

some things just never fucking change.

you shift, scuffing the toe of your sneaker against the welcome mat. welcome, it says in clean, cursive letters. bold of it to assume.

you’re ready to just turn your ass around, already thinking how you were too pretty to be standing on the porch like this for a man who can’t even keep his dick to himself— before the door opens with a soft, weighted click.

and instead of the boy you were verbally (and probably physically) going to skin alive, you got his father.

nanami kento.

he stands framed in the doorway, still in half his work attire. the sleeves of his white dress shirt are pulled up to his elbows, the worn fabric stretching a little too tight over the muscle of his forearms. a navy tie hangs loosely around his neck, brushing ever so slightly against the center of his barely exposed chest.

his honey blonde hair is combed back, a stray hair brushing over the rim of his glasses. he blinks at you once, slow, and you can’t help but blink right back.

he’s hot— hot in that “pays his bills on time” kind of way. in that “he’s obviously bee-keeping age” kind of way. you can clearly see where all the good genes went— definitely didn’t stick with his son.

figures.

“can i help you?” he asked, voice worn around the edges, dragging low across the quiet between you— like he’s been talking all day but you’re the first thing he’s actually looked at.

“i was, uh, looking for your son,” you shrug, voice bittersweet. “but i guess he’s out. . spreading whatever new std he picked up this week.”

nanami’s mouth twitches, not enough to be a smile—not enough to be anything actually, but you still catch it.

“he’s not home, i’m sorry.” he finally says, exhaling through his nose, the sigh barely stirring the thick air between you.

“yeah, me too.” you scoff softly, letting a dry little laugh slip free past your lips before you can stop it.

nanami sighs, glancing out at the empty, paved street, then back at you— standing there in your tiny pink jacket, breath fogging in soft little puffs in the cold, evening air.

and he knows he should shut the door.

tell you to go home, and stop bothering him with his son’s antics.

but instead, nanami looks at you one more time, and the words are already out before he can take them back.

“come inside,” he murmurs, and you blink up at him, surprised. your lashes catch in the dimmed lighting, lips parted because, not gonna lie, you really expected him to scold you for showing up on his doorstep at this hour, not invite you in.

he creaks the door wider with one hand, not moving otherwise.

an invitation, plain and simple— yours if you want it.

and you do.

because why the fuck not.

you step past the blonde man, slow enough to feel the heat of his chest. his cologne hits you next, clean with a weight of something smooth, oaky, the kind that just smells expensive.

the door clicks shut behind you, a low, weighted sound as the house hums low around you — dim lamplight blooming gold against taupe walls, books stacked in corners, the edge of a dark whiskey bottle catching the faint gleam from the kitchen counter.

“can i get you something to drink? wine?” nanami’s voice cuts into the quiet, and you flick your eyes toward him.

his hand curls casual around the fridge door, rolex crowned wrist flexing as he reaches for a bottle without even needing to look.

“what, no vodka shots?”

“i have better taste than that.”

he pours slow — the maroon liquid threading ribbons into thin crystal glasses that catches lamplight like it’s flirting. the air shifts when he crosses back to you, glass dangling easy between his fingers, the stem catching a smear of light as he offers it out.

you take a small sip, the wine breathing sweet against your tongue. it's much heavier than what you're used to, warm enough that it drips slow down the back of your throat and settles thick in your stomach.

you hum low without meaning to, the sound slipping out sticky and soft. nanami sinks next you on chocolatey leather sectional, the seat creaking quietly under the shift of his weight.

“i'm sorry, again.” he says softly, his thumb drags absent over the rim once before he speaks once more. “that boy. . . he hasn't been the same since his mother’s been gone.”

“oh.” you lower your glass, words feeling awkward and clumsy on your tongue. “i’m sorry for your, um, loss.”

and nanami chuckles— the kind you’d expect to hear floating down the halls of some members-only country club.

“she’s not dead— she left. divorced me after she decided marriage vows were more of a suggestion.” he leans back, raising the crystal up to his lips.

you laugh before you can stop yourself — the wine buzzing a little low in your veins now, loosening your mouth, making you just stupid enough to flirt with the edge of it.

“ohh,” you purr sweetly, a little slur of silk in your voice. “so you haven’t gotten laid in a while, huh?”

nanami chokes.

no, like actually chokes.

“w-what?” he croaks, brows pulling inward sharply as his glasses shift down the bridge of his nose.

“gootteeenn laaiidd,” you repeat, dragging the words slower this time.

“like, you know, having intercourse.” you wave one hand vaguely in the air, wrist limp. “fucking, if you will.”

nanami exhales sharply through his nose - you’re really starting to give him a run for his money right now. “i know what getting laid means,” he mutters, tone clipped. “m’not that old.”

a brief silence drapes itself between you— not cold, yet slightly singed around its edges, tensed. after what seemed to be the longest three seconds of his life, nanami finally speaks.

“no. i, uh. haven’t been active— sexually.”

you burst out laughing, wine nearly sloshing over the rim of your glass. “oh my god,” you wheeze, setting down your drink before it spills over. “this isn’t a doctor’s office. we’re both adults here.”

“are we really?” nanami mumbles, umber eyes skimming over your doubled-over state.

“uh, i’m twenty, mind you.”

“that’s comforting.”

you shrug, one leg curling up beneath you as you swirl whats left in your glass, the liquid painting lazy rings up the sides. your head is lighter now, the warmth of it blooming low in your stomach, buzzing under your skin.

“you don’t have to be embarrassed.” you murmur, head tilting slightly as your gaze drags across his frame. “it’s juust. . . been a while, right? doesn’t have to stay that way.”

you don’t look at him after that. not right away. just take another sip— letting the remainder of the wine coat your tongue and melt there while your words hang.

nanami doesn’t speak at first. doesn’t blink. hell, doesn’t even breathe.

but you feel it. the way the air shifts. the way his eyes remain hot on you. like he’s trying not to picture anything he shouldn’t— and failing miserably.

you’re half his age— he could be your father, for crying out loud!

“you’re drunk.”

“a little,” you admit breathily, voice slurred around the corners like the alcohol is speaking for you. “not enough to lie though.”

his jaw flexes.

visibly.

nanami’s voice drops lower, steadier.

“you’re my son’s girlfriend.”

“ex-girlfriend,” you correct him. “very important prefix.”

“semantics,” he mutters.

“legalities,” you shoot back. “pretty sure that contract expired the second he chose to be community dick.”

and nanami just huffs, closing his eyes, as if you’ll vanish if once he reopens them.

you don’t.

his jaw ticks again— slow.

“you— you shouldn’t be talking like this,” his voice rasps, eyes darkening— not dramatically, like in the movies, but in that slow, irrevocable way. “flirting. with me.”

you blink up at him, doey eyes feigning innocence with such a foxed grace. “awe, why shouldn’t i, mister nanami?”

and uh,

being slumped over his couch not even five minutes later with your legs hanging daintily over his broad ass shoulders definitely wasn’t on your list of possible outcomes.

“k-kennnn,” you whimper, hips rolling up into his face without thinking. your body moving on instinct now. “oh my god—”

his name rolls of your tongue like pure honey. your hips buck into his face, reflexive and greedy, spine arching off the couch like your entire body was trying to climb into his mouth.

“you taste,” he breathes, voice ruined, mouth glistening with the evidence, “so divine.” his lips kiss the words right into your sobbing cunt, a sticky whisper smudged against your folds.

he’s drenched in your dulcetly sweet juices — mouth and chin glazed in spit and slick. there’s drool trailing from the corner of his mouth, pooling where his lips suck around your clit. it’s loud — shamelessly wet — the kind of messiness that echoes off the walls, mingling with your gasped mewls and broken pleas for more.

you're throbbing so much it aches. your legs can’t even stay open on their own— and they don’t have to, not with the way nanami’s palms are splayed into your inner thighs, keeping them spread wiiiidee like it’s his job.

like this is what he clocked out for.

you fist a hand in his hair, yanking him closer and he moans. actually moans into your cunt.

low and guttural, breath catching sharp in his throat as he sinks deeper into you. his tongue licks a wide, deliberate stripe up your cunt, lathering his entire mouth in the wet sheen of your sweetness.

and god, he’s drunk on it.

like he’s starved, but determined to savor every lick, every suck, every trembling twitch of your hips beneath his tongue. nanami wraps one arm around your thigh, pulling you closer to the edge of the couch, and stays there — nose pressed deep in your crevices, tongue flicking in tight circles, sloppy little suctions in between.

the last time he's eaten pussy like this, was what? back in college? almost two decades ago. yet it's like fucking muscle memory for him, like he's got PTSD.

“that’s it,” he rasps, voice muffled and wrecked, “don’t run. let me taste you, baby.”

your jaw drops. nothing comes out.

because how exactly are you supposed to say even a word with his tongue dragging figure eights over your clit? with his lips sucking bruises into your inner thighs between every flick? with his hands branding their grip into you every time you squirm?

his lips latch around your clit, sucking slow, heavy pulses while the flat of his tongue rolls wide circles around the swollen bud. his head shakes side to side, desperate now, messy, loud slurps filling the room.

you gasp sharply, hips jerking, thighs trembling around his head. “kento—i’m getting clooseee.”

the heel of your foot presses down against the middle of his back, urging him closer, guiding his mouth deeper into you. he groans again, a low, hoarse sound that makes your stomach tighten.

“hah—not yet, sweetheart,” he mutters into your pussy, words muffled by the wetness slicking his lips. “wanna enjoy you a little longer.”

he coaxes softly, voice low. “h-hold out for me. can you do that, pretty girl?” and you nod frantically, even as your body is begging for release.

“atta girl.”

nanami smiles against your cunt and you can feel it—the gentle curve of his lips pressing against your slick, tickling where he’s sucking and licking you raw. his hands stroke soothing down the backs of your thighs, holding you still, thumbs drawing slow circles into your skin.

his tongue flattens again, and you could've sworn you felt him drawing a slow, dragged K against your clit.

he’s just lost in it. in you.

completely, hopelessly enthralled.

you whimper, breath catching in your throat, fat, wet, tears finally pooling at your waterline before streaking down the flushed heat of your cheeks.

“k-kentoo,” you mewl softly, voice sticky with need, breath coming out in short little pants.

“go on,” he cooed softly. “cum for me, sweetheart. wanna feel it on my tongue.”

coiled tight, ready to snap. but his hands stayed firm on your thighs, his tongue pressing a slow, deliberate stroke over your wetness.

your release hits you violently, crashing over you like a rogue wave and you nearly sob. your toes curl into the soles of your shoes, thighs clamping around his head as your hips bucked against his mouth.

your body spasms in a wild, uncontrollable rhythm, slick soaking nanami's chin, his lips, his tongue—and he just took it. drinking you down with soft, broken groans, never once letting up as he licked you through every little tremble.

“that’s it,” his breath is warm as it's breathed against your core. “good girl.”

your body was still trembling, slack with aftershock when nanami finally lifted himself from between your soaked thighs. he wiped his mouth once but it did nothing— his chin was still slick, lips swollen and glistening, the faintest tint of pink glossed from where he’d devoured you.

his hands swept possessively down your sides. palms wide, calloused fingertips dragging over the curve of your waist as he guided you forward.

you gasp softly as he flips you onto your belly, nudging your hips up. your limbs felt weightless, pliant with a deep fatigue.

your knees slide against the leather, the couch creaking beneath you as he arranged you just right—in your hands and knees, back arched, ass lifted.

the cushions dipped behind you, a subtle shifting of weight as nanami knelt up. you hear the slow, metallic “zrrpp” of his zipper lowering, noticing his belt didn’t jingle. 

he’d probably already undone it while his mouth was still between your thighs.

a soft breath hisses through nanami's nose as he fists himself behind you—stroking, just once, the wet sound slick before he presses forward.

“breathe in for me,” nanami enticed, voice steady, one palm braced warm at the small of your back.

his other hand guided himself to your entrance, the tip nudging sweetly between your sobbing folds. “just a little more, sweetheart.”

he eased forward, thick inches dragging into you, stretching you inch by staggering inch.

and it ached, yet in the sweetest way—your hot, slicked walls hugging him so tight, making him curse low under his breath.

“there you go,” he murmured. “such a big girl.”

he wasn’t too long, but god, did his girth make up for it.

a thick, weighted base broad enough to stretch you wide already, the head flaring just slightly as it breached you.

by the time he bottomed out, you were trembling beneath him, hips flush, his pelvis pressing soft against the curve of your ass. stretched full. he paused, both hands gliding down to grip the lush swell of your hips.

his hips drew back, the broad head of his cock dragging slow and heavy along your sensitive walls, before rolling forward again with a deep, deliberate stroke.

“s-sooo, hngh— big,” your voice broke into a sob as your fingers curled into the cushions beneath you. your ass bounced back against his waist, cunt snug around his cock as your moans pitched higher.

the silk of his tie—still looped loose around his own throat, slid free with a soft whisper of fabric. nanami tugged it off carefully, slipping it around your throat instead. the silk hugged the delicate line of your neck as he tied it loosely, gathering the longer end in one hand.

“just so i can hold you steady, heh,” he whispered, almost like he was reassuring himself more than you.

“look at you,” nanami panted softly. “so pretty on my dick— just, hah, imagine what my son would think.”

his breathing was ragged now, heavier with each roll of his hips into yours. the tie pulled snug against your throat every time you rocked back. the next thrust was deeper this time, angling up just right as it punched a sob out of your throat.

“he didn’t know what he had,” he gritted out between strokes, the words dragging rough from somewhere deep in his chest. “i-idiot—threw away something this perfect.”

and if you didn’t know any better, it almost sounded like nanami was angry— jealous even. like the thought of you being mistreated was something he just couldn’t fathom.

his free hand dropped to your waist, steadying you as his rhythm began syncopating. the fog on his glasses was nearly opaque now, slipping low on the bridge of his nose.

and then—

your phone buzzes, followed by your tinny little singsong ringtone, the screen lighting up bright in the dim lighting of the room.

[incoming facetime: 🗑️]

you dazedly blink, barely able to register it through the heat and the fog filling your head.

“p-pick it up,” nanami murmured behind you, voice low, steady, almost too composed. you barely had the coordination, fingers fumbling for the phone. your thumb dragged across the screen, and his face filled the camera.

red. wild-eyed. breathing heavy.

“where the fuck are you? you think this is funny? i’ve been texting and calling all night—”

your face was all he could see at first. hair sticking to your damp temples. your breath shaky. eyelids heavy, barely open.

“answer me,” he barked. “are you with someone? don’t fucking lie—”

you smiled. slow. coy. “oh, i’m with. . . someone.”

“who?” he demanded, voice cracking. “tell me who it is right now, or i swear i'll be both of your asses!”

you tilt the phone. just enough.

the camera catches nanami in his perfect, damning glory— broad chest flushed with exertion, work shirt still open, tie wrapped snug around your throat. his hands heavy on your hips, muscles flexing beneath skin as he fucked into you.

your ex’s jaw dropped. “wait. is that—” his voice pitched. “is that my dad?”

you smiled wider. teeth flashing.

“what the fuck—are you out of your mind?! psycho bitch, you’re fucking insane—”

click.

call ended.

“he’s gonna lose his fucking mind,” you whispered, giggling into your own shoulder.

nanami chuckles deep and out of breath. “let him.”

you feel the way his strokes start to grow heavier, a tremble blooming deep in his thighs, hips snapping forward with less precision now.

nanami’s breath stuttered, grip flexing hard around the tie as if it was the only thing keeping him grounded to your pussy.

“i’m—ah, i’m not gonna last.” he husked, his hips jackhammering into you languidly, making you feel the full thickness of him with every stroke. your slick gushed every time he bottomed out, wet sounds shameless in the otherwise quiet room.

he was so painfully close, yet he wanted to savor this moment. wanted to have this memory seared behind his eyelids long after the night was gone.

your cries were turning breathless, slurred, the pleasure cresting sharp, almost unbearable as you felt that tightness coiling in your stomach once again. “k-kento, please—can’t—”

“don't hold back,” he husked, his breath catching in his throat. “you earned it, sweetheart. let go.”

you nodded frantically, unable to form anything coherent as your release slammed into you hard. violent. white flashes of pleasure detonating in your stomach and ripping through your body.

“fuckfuckfuckfuuck— ” your lashes batted, tiny choked whines spilling from your mouth as his cock twitched deep inside you, swelling thicker, the heavy weight of it pressing into every sensitive nerve as your walls milked him greedily.

nanami's hips faltered, pace stuttering into a sloppy rhythm as he scrambled, releasing the tie from around your throat with a quick, careful tug as he pulled out.

before you could even whine, you feel the heavy weight of his cock dragging up—resting thick and flushed against the dip of your spine.

his breath is broken into low moans, and you barely had a second before the hot, sticky ropes of his release spilled across your back, striping messy against your skin.

just in time.

nanami’s head bowed, blonde strands falling loose from where they’d slipped behind his glasses. you could feel the tremble in his thighs, rolling through his entire body as his climax overcame him.

and for a moment, all you could hear was both of your breaths—deep, messy, syncing. the air smelled like sex. musk. your juices still wet between your legs.

he lingered there for a second longer, hips pressed forward, until he finally exhaled slow.

“shit,” nanami muttered breathlessly. “did i— was that too much?”

his voice cracked gentle now, worried.

your laugh came out light, breathless, sweet—finding his worriedness nothing short of sweet. “no. not at all. felt so good.”

he hummed, quiet relief softening the crease of his brow as he leaned down and pressed a tender kiss to the back of your neck.

“but i guess uh, father’s day is ruined. oops.”

@ssorenz™ do not, copy, repost or translate anywhere without my knowledge.