#the difference between these two posts for me is like two seconds but for you it'll be about three hours

[starfruitii]

cws & notes. fluff. post-timeskip. iwaizumi hajime x gn!reader, + special guest appearances from the seijoh 4 because i love them. 800+ words.

“Wait. Wait a second.” Oikawa squints at you, then at Iwaizumi, then back at you again. “Something's different.”

“First time we see you in almost a year, and you're already acting weird.” Iwaizumi rolls his eyes, pulling out two chairs for you both to sit down. “Nothing's different.”

“Glad to see leaving Japan hasn't changed you, Oikawa.” You chime in, sliding into your seat. It was a nice little cafe, not too crowded, but not empty either. The table Oikawa had chosen was tucked away in the back, right by a window overlooking the street, giving you a perfect opportunity to watch the people walking by.

“No.... no, something is definitely off.” Oikawa looks over to the other two occupied seats, searching for some sort of agreement from his companions. “You two see it, don't you? Something has definitely changed since our last meet-up.”

“Our last meet-up was last September. I think it would be weirder if we hadn't changed a little since then,” Matsukawa laughs, waving him off. “I mean, look at Makki's haircut.”

Hanamaki looks thoughtful for a moment, nodding at Oikawa. “Nah, I think he's got a point. You two seem a little—Wait, what do you mean? What's wrong with my hair, asshole?”

“Hey, I didn't say it was bad! Just... different.”

“So, different in a good way?”

“Uh... sure, if that's what you want to go with.”

“You—”

“This isn't about Makki's hair!” Oikawa interrupts, pointing an accusing finger towards Iwaizumi. He looks up from the menu in his hands, glaring back at Oikawa. “It's about them. Something happened between you two, didn't it?”

“Maybe they got engaged.” Hanamaki suggests.

“They have to be dating before they get engaged.” Matsukawa pauses, realization on his face. “Wait, is that it? Did you guys actually start dating? Do I owe Makki ¥2000?”

“You're all imagining things.” Iwaizumi says bluntly. “Now, are we going to order or not?”

Oikawa's suspicion doesn't waver, but the mention of food distracts him enough to begrudgingly let the topic go. He waves over a waitress, ordering drinks and snacks for the whole table. Once she is gone, the conversation shifts to Matsukawa's work, then Hanamaki's lack of work, then everything Oikawa has been up to in Argentina.

Throughout the visit, you sit back and relax, chiming in with your own anecdotes and comments every now and then. For the most part, you keep quiet, content with listening to your friends as they catch up. Ever since graduation, when you all went your separate ways, reunions with all five of you were few and far between, so you were just happy to be together once again.

You barely notice the time passing at all, until Oikawa is five-minutes deep into a rant about his new team. Iwaizumi looks at his watch and balks, standing up from his seat.

“It's already five.” He says, cutting off Oikawa's voice. “I gotta get going soon.”

“Me too,” You sigh.

“Already?” Matsukawa groans.

“Both of you?” Hanamaki asks, raising an eyebrow. “You have plans you'd like to share?”

“He's my ride home.” You shrug, gathering up your things. “It was great seeing you guys though. We'll have to hang out again when you're all free.”

After your goodbyes, the two of you leave the cafe and walk the short distance to Iwaizumi's car. Once you're alone, you settle into a comfortable silence, accompanied by the quiet sounds of the city in the background. Without your friends' scrutinizing gaze, Iwaizumi walks a little closer to you, until your shoulders lightly brush. The slight touch sends a shiver down your spine, but you make no effort to move away.

“So, Oikawa seems to think something is up.” You say casually, watching Iwaizumi frown at the mention of his friend.

“He can think whatever he wants to think.” He rolls his eyes, holding open the side door of his car. “We don't owe him anything.”

“We do have to tell them at some point, don't we?” You continue, as you climbed into the passenger seat. “You of all people should know he's not going to shut up about it until we do.”

“Of course I know that.” Iwaizumi grumbled, as soon as he was sat in his own seat.

“So...?”

“So what?” He adjusts his mirrors, glancing over at you.

“Is he right?” There's a smile tugging at the corner of your lips. It's clear you find it much more amusing than he does. You lean closer, whispering the words like they're a grand secret. “Is something different, Hajime?”

Iwaizumi shakes his head a little, but can't hide the small smirk on his face. His hand reaches out to grasp your chin, tilting your face upwards so he can press a slow, sweet kiss to your lips. As he leans back, there's a light pink dusting his cheeks. “I don't know. Has something changed?”

You laugh lightly, savouring the taste of his lips on your own. “Nope. Nothing at all.”

do not copy, repost, translate or use my work to train ai. reblogs are appreciated <3

[veerbles]

Pynch Fic Rec Wrap-Up

35 fics you would be doing yourself a favor by reading. divided into 5 (+1) neat categories for your convenience.

GOATs

the best to ever (ever ever) do it.

Free as a Bird by pinkhorizon rating: M | wc: 31k (10 chapters) | musician au this fic is at the very top of this top tier list not because my heart was pounding and I was giggling and teary-eyed and overwhelmed and emotional throughout it - although it's all true; but because I obsessed over it non-stop for a week after reading it, and still think about it with alarming frequency. this is, truly and embarrassingly, my roman empire. if you ever read an au from this fandom, please dear lord: let it be this one.

Ronan is the lead guitarist of the Ravens, and Adam is a roadie. Romance ensues.

Friends We Keep by pinkhorizon rating: M | wc: 56k (10 chapters) | non-magical future this section of the list only has three recs, and this is the second one by pinkhorizon. this is not by mistake. in this case, ronan and adam are occasionally friends with benefits but continuously deeply in love; this fic gives you the kind of good pain that puts a lump in your throat but keeps you so, so hopeful for that happy ending because it earns it. for bonus points, it deals with mental health issues and trauma and just all the heavy stuff from canon in a truly superb way.

Adam doesn’t know what he wants, and Ronan wants whatever he can have.

Fall Back by flightspath rating: E | wc: 14k (6 chapters) | college au unlike free as a bird, I didn't fall into obsession with this fic immediately. I read it once and enjoyed it, found myself craving a reread shockingly soon thereafter, and loved it more and more each time. I only noticed how special it was when I easily passed the 10+ rereads. much like adam and ronan in this fic, friends with benefits whose feelings creep up upon, my deep pure love for this fic creeped up on me.

Adam, at the library, scanning books with a pen behind his ear. Adam, trudging across the quad in the snow. A recurring dream, all throughout fall semester, a bright spot in Ronan’s days.

Canon Compliant

* compliant with the original series; I tend to ignore td3's existence.

Of Being the Tenders of Gardens by shaenie rating: E | wc: 85k it's honestly beyond my comprehension how this fic isn't its own classic in this fandom, if only for its arguably unparalleled focus on the magic system and adam's powers and the connection to cabeswater. in short, it's a post-canon take on adam and ronan trying to bring cabeswater back, but not by dreaming a new one.

It's Adam Ronan takes to what he thinks might be a remnant of Cabeswater first.

Rock Me Like by zephfair / @zephfair rating: E | wc: 6k I read many fics about different aspects of adam and ronan cohabiting during the summer after high school, but I specifically liked how this fic alludes to their different upbringing in the more practical ways.

When bad weather threatens the Barns, Adam does his best to take care of his loved ones.

negative capability by smileymikey / @smileymikey rating: G | wc: 3k the general consensus is that these two find it easier to communicate through touch than through words, so I really liked how this tackles the way touch may present its own issues as well.

If Adam were poetic, he and Ronan would be spinning planets, constantly drawn together by gravity and the sheer power of the universe, sometimes aligning so they would be both at the furthest points of their orbits at the same time with millions of miles of emptiness and dust between them, but sometimes aligning so they would be at the other edge of their orbits, hovering inches away from one another, the dust between ionised and pulsing with tension. But he’s not. So they’re just assholes.

lavender and burning skin by deathlessaphrodite rating: E | wc: 8k very early in their relationship, spending time in the barns with the lynch brothers and fumbling around sex and communication the way god intended.

To: Adam Parrish From: Ronan Lynch Subject: (no subject) come round tonight? not if you’re working obv r. Adam stared at the email for several seconds before he could even begin to comprehend it. Ronan Lynch and email did not belong in the same sentence.

Between Eternities by BeautifulSoup / @thebeautifulsoup rating: T | wc: 12k (10 chapters) actually fucking brilliant vignettes of moments from the year after trk ended.

The world is waiting for them. Not the world they saved last night, but the other one. The solid, undreamt and undreamlike world of Aglionby and Ganseys.

Wringing Out the Hours by quietcoast / @sentimentalspiders rating: T | wc: 8k one of the very few future fics which gave me that exactly-right feeling.

It felt irresponsible to leave. He had willed the thought away, and breathed in the sleep-sweat of Ronan’s neck instead. He thought about the scratch of Ronan’s jaw, and the soft fury of his mouth. He thought about how far into the drive his first exit would be. He thought about Opal, who had hidden herself in the enthusiastic buttonbush that grew alongside the house; she had taken to crouching there whenever it looked like Adam and Ronan were doing things related to Leaving, and had gnawed an entire branch clean. She watched them as they swayed and whispered, and Adam had thought she would stay in the bush and not come see him at all, but he was wrong: at the last minute she had been unable to stand it, and had burst out to wrap herself around his legs. It was impossible to leave them. He had gotten in the car.

The hang of being alive again by Goshen (applecrumbledore) / @goshen-applecrumbledore rating: E | wc: 13k I can say with a good amount of authority that I've read every single iteration of immediately-post-canon pynch, and every single take on their first time, and this is just the most heart-stopping and disarming and gorgeously written one of them all.

Falling for Ronan had felt like going to speak at the same time as someone else after a long silence, two people bumbling over their words to say, no, sorry, go ahead before one of them says what they were going to say.

Roses in Between My Thighs by orphan_account (*) rating: E | wc: 6k I marked this with an asterisk because technically speaking, it's not canon compliant - it was written before the series was completed. but its grasp on the characters is so good that it's honestly impossible to tell it wasn't written post-trk, so I'm counting it.

Four things that could have ruined them but didn't.

Canon Divergence/Non-Magical

where the setting is close enough to the original universe, with minor changes.

Never Knock by burn_it_slow / @burn-it-slow rating: E | wc: 28k | non-magical adam goes off to college and unintentionally loses touch with his best friend ronan, all the while realizing he's in love with him. a summer later they meet again. also: all the emails adam never sent, but probably should have.

“We good here?” Ronan sweeps a knuckle across his lower lip and glares at Adam as if daring him to say something about… any of this whole situation. Whether it’s the destroyed car, the forgotten phone number, or the gratuitous kiss from a super hot dude with an expensive motorcycle, Adam can’t exactly determine.

A Strange and Complicated Thing by ungoodpirate / @ungoodgatsby rating: T | wc: 39k (12 chapters) | non-magical a retelling of select parts of a non-magical canon if adam and ronan started sneaking around to hook up first and became friends and boyfriends later - with a slow and excellent build of emotional intimacy.

Didn’t Adam Parrish deserve nice things? Didn’t Adam Parrish deserve to be pushed against the back wall of Boyd’s and be kissed like he was addictive by a boy who had the cheekbones of a model? Didn’t he deserve hands grasping at his waist with an eagerness to be held close that Adam had never known? Adam Parrish didn’t have many nice things in his life, and he wasn’t going to question this one that had happened unanticipated this one random, Saturday afternoon.

every dream i've ever had has been of myself by cloverspies / @parrishh rating: T | wc: 8k a different version of how their first kiss could've gone that literally had me breathless and kicking my feet.

Chasing down a mysterious address left behind by a dead psychic was much more attainable than getting ice cream, which was all sorts of messed up but also the truest thought Ronan had had all day, so he shifted into reverse and peeled out of the two spots the BMW had been taking up without even bothering to glance at his mirrors. He was already burning rubber, practically drifting around the corner of the parking lot exit, when he asked, "Where to?"

Every Stupid Little Thing by Diana_Dreams / @diana-dreams rating: M | wc: 10k a canon-divergence vaguely placed in the timeline in which floundering teenagers struggle through expressing their emotions. more importantly, this has a first kiss car scene that still lives rent free in my brain.

Courting. Jesus. It sounds like an awful joke. Parrishs don't court. They get girls knocked up and beat the shit out of the people they're supposed to love.

Alternate Universe

A Moment in Time by pinkhorizon rating: M | wc: 132k (20 chapters) falling in love, getting together, breaking up, pining, getting back together, all crafted by pinkhorizon's masterful hand. if you're still not convinced to read all of their works: why, and also, do.

Ronan likes being alone. Adam's looking for summer work.

(i’ll clean up) the mess that you are by ecoterrorism / @bartskull rating: M | wc: 5k there's just something about baseball au's and soulmatism.

It will work because Adam willed it so. Even when Ronan doubts God, he still knows better than to doubt this.

go running by thesehands / @ahotknife rating: E | wc: 72k (5 chapters) emotionally unavailable rich professional adam starts having kinky sex with his co-worker's brother ronan and somehow convinces himself there are no feelings involved. then it blows up in his face.

most of the time, ronan takes his crucifix off when they have sex. sometimes, he doesn't. sometimes, adam thinks he might be ready for a relationship. most of the time, he doesn’t.

light by paintedpolarbear rating: T | wc: 3k a paramedic au with the tangible sort of attraction that makes you want to read meet-cutes in the first place.

When the tones drop at four in the morning, Adam briefly entertains the fantasy of rolling over and getting more sleep. Then he puts his boots on.

seek ye the living by charactershoes / @charactershoesfic rating: T | wc: 40k (9 chapters) a fleabag au that I enjoyed with all my whole ass self despite committing the cardinal sin of not really enjoying fleabag. this deals with grief and religion and god-slash-magic and purpose versus autonomy in a way that changed my interpretation of trc forevermore.

Ronan says, “What’s the church’s stance on fratricide?” “Frowned upon,” says the almost-priest. He’s got a remote, orphan-eyed face like something off a prayer card, but his voice is as Henrietta as cicada song. “Although there’s precedent.”

gets late early by charactershoes / @charactershoesfic rating: G | wc: 18k I've already made my point about baseball au's and soulmatism, so let me add this: there is just something about authentic depictions of teenage boys and their repressed emotions. also, like, essentially everything by this author is gold.

That year, Ronan was Declan Lynch’s Little Brother, The Kid With The Dead Dad. That year Adam Parrish was The Public School Kid. That year Adam Parrish was God’s Gift To Southpaws. That year they went to the league championship and blew it badly. Next year, Ronan was Academically Ineligible. Next year, Adam Parrish was gone. Now, Ronan is a senior and starting catcher on the Aglionby Ravens. Now, Adam is back on the clubhouse bench, tightening the ragged laces on his cleats.

A stillness at once awful and sublime by Wisteria_Leigh / @purrincesscatitude rating: T | wc: 18k adam experiences a crisis and applies to be a fire lookout on an isolated mountaintop in montana. this is a truly remarkable lesson in interweaving canon into a completely alternate setting, which manages to be both beautiful and poignant.

It’s a momentary lapse of emotional regulation, if one is generous. An absolute fucking meltdown, if one is honest. When Adam comes back into his body, he’s lying on his bed, empty styrofoam staining his duvet with red chili oil, blank-eyed scrolling through his LinkedIn feed of job openings at Harley-Davidson for motorcycle engineers. He doesn’t want to work for Harley; he’s got brand loyalty to Honda. Also, being a mechanic again would be backsliding, and he is absolutely, most certainly, not backsliding. No, he just needs a sabbatical. A break from reality. Something temporary. Remote. Far from Virginia. Then he sees it: "Fire lookout."

The Course of Certain Stars by quietcoast / @sentimentalspiders rating: T | wc: 9k truly an exemplary take on adam's characterization and the existence of demons and the catholic church.

Once upon a time, Adam Parrish had not - if you’ll pardon him - given a good God damn about God or the devil. At eleven, Adam took for granted that praying did not mean an answered prayer. At twelve, he understood that devil was just another word for the man who lived in his house and shared his eye color. At thirteen, Adam realized that, actually, he was fucking wrong, that the devil was literal and maybe so was God. He knew this because one day, a demon crept into his parents’ trailer. As an adult, unmaking the rules of good and evil consumed Adam Parrish. Proving his experience was the undercurrent to everything he did. That was why it was so absolutely fucked up that when he did finally encounter a demon for the second time, he wasn’t even trying to do it.

Careful the Tale You Tell by shinealightonme rating: T | wc: 26k (4 chapters) if there's one thing I like, it's trope subversion. this had that misty, fairytale-like grimms vibe and incredible relationship development, but more notably, it managed to not be at all what I was expecting.

Ronan makes a deal with a witch. It's okay, though. He'll never have to go through with his end of the bargain.

This Is Canon To Me

a collection of short fics-turned-headcanons that you could not pry from my cold dead hands.

How To Train Your Fire-Breathing Reptile by pinkhorizon rating: T | wc: 1k if you weren't hoping for this during the end of tdt, idk what is up with you.

If you asked Adam, Ronan's latest dreamthing is absolutely not a dragon. (If you asked Ronan, it totally is.)

worship by ssstrychnine / @oneangryshot rating: T | wc: 1k do you ever remember that ronan canonically worships adam like his god. because I sure do.

ronan dreams stained glass.

oreos and peanut butter by lizpaige / @lizpaige rating: G | wc: 1k this is actually bronan in a pynch disguise, and I fully mean that in a complimentary way.

Adam shows up at Monmouth after work and Gansey is breathing into a paper bag while Blue pierces Ronan's ear with a sewing needle and an apple Parent Trap style.

Dog Days by cheeryos / @cheeeryos rating: T | wc: 1.5k I legitimately wondered about this while reading trb and was sad it never came up again.

Ronan picks up a surprise for Adam.

Unfold Me by cherishadamparrish / @cherishadamparrish rating: N/A | wc: 1k the idea of ronan pulling embarrassingly mushy things out of his dreams, especially after they have sex, is so important to me (you can also find this scenario referenced in another fic on this list, and it's great both times).

The entire bedspread was covered in a canvas of rose petals.

like a dog with a bird by charactershoes rating: G | wc: 3k so many attempts have been made at what this conversation would be like, but none have stuck with me quite as much as this one, so this is the Canon one to me.

The bruises at Ronan’s neck are fading, the pools of dark green and purple dispersing. Adam knows intimately the phases of a bruise, how the brutal press of fingers washes out dingy and yellow. Still, if he looks, he can discern where his nails bit in, where his thumbs pressed hard against Ronan’s windpipe.  “I’m sorry,” he says. His hands shiver.  “Don’t start,” Ronan says.

out of the dark day, into the brighter night by York / @ellipsesetcetera rating: G | wc: 4k I always wished we'd seen more of their st. agnes sleepovers and their burgeoning friendship moments.

"Blink and you'll miss it. I'm not doing this shit all night, so when it does happen, don't be fucking daydreaming and gripe about it later like some —" "I won't miss it," Adam promised. "It's not a circus act." "Ronan. I won't miss it."

Honorary Mentions

made me laugh / surprised me somehow.

i told the moon about you by broyals rating: T | wc: N/A (10 chapters) mixed media fic, told through fake social media images

ronan lynch and adam parrish grew up together on the set of the strange case of jane armstrong, and as their careers took very different paths the media couldn’t help but compare them every step of the way, creating a rivalry that wasn’t quite there. as they accidentally feed into the rumors, they must now get along publicly to dispel them, and get to know each other once again.

vanitas vanitatum, omnia (pro Adam) by JayJEx rating: T | wc: 11k in a truly unhinged post-canon universe that somehow almost feels plausible, ronan becomes instagram famous.

“You can’t really blame him,” Ronan hears Adam shifting on the other end of the call, like he’s moving into a more comfortable position. “You’re using your phone. Willingly. That’s gotta be, like, a sign of the apocalypse, or something.���

should've left my phone at home ('cause this is a disaster) by shinealightonme rating: T | wc: 4.5k the only thing you need to know is that I laughed out loud through the vast majority of this fic.

Most of the interesting customers that Adam meets are terrible interesting rather than fun interesting. The hot guy who can't keep a cell phone alive might be both.

[wanderingblindly]

just thinking about past!oscar seeing how seemingly normal future!oscar is about fucking lando and being flabbergasted. How can you be so normal about this! This is Lando Norris! and you're so casual and normal and how do you do this because I can barely look him in the eye. Anyways oscar being jealous of himself because he gets to fuck lando regularly and oscar has to go back to silently pining and liking Instagram posts

idk if this made any sense but I don't think I'll ever move on from future past

(future past)

oh my god I'm literally sooooooooooooo excited to figure out what baby oscar's dynamic is gonna be with older landoscar, you don't even know. Because part of me is like "oh well if he thinks this is all a dream, maybe he'd be more like the Prema oscar we saw in the challenge videos" but then it's, like you said, important to consider the debilitating crush he has....... the possibilities.....

you KNOW that lando is going to torment the fuck out of both of these oscar's. He's going to revel in how easy it is to break past oscar compared to current oscar, and he's going to teasingly ask oscar "so this is why you turned out like that huh?". I can feel it in my bones (they say, the one who can choose what Lando does)

I've also written a teensy bit of the intro (as a DRAFT) if anyone is interested :)) it's not the same universe at all, just the same idea applied to a new version of landoscar

Prospective Aspect

To be more accurate, Lando realizes with a shaking breath, two Oscars wake up and search for him – rubbing their eyes the exact same way, jaws stretching into twin yawns.

Except the other Oscar, he's –

Lando gapes at them, seconds away from slapping himself. "Oscar, tell me you've got like, a secret little brother."

"No?" They say at the same time – voices different in pitch, both lazy with sleep.

That wakes them up, bolting upright at the same time and whipping to face each other with a glimmer of panic that fades behind a carefully schooled neutrality.

"That's…" Lando whispers, almost inaudible over the sound of his heart racing in his chest, his pulse swimming in his ears. "You?"

"Yeah, um." Oscar – his Oscar – clears his throat, shaking his head like he's still trying to wake up. "Y'wouldn't happen to be like… you're at Prema, right?"

Oscar – the other Oscar, smaller, softer – blinks at him before answering. "Are you…?"

"You, yeah."

"Me."

"You but, like, older."

"You're…?"

"Thirty-two, and you're –"

His voice cracks, "Nineteen."

Lando's eyes flicker between them, looking but not really seeing. He's too frenzied, thoughts racing at a million miles per minute. Had someone slipped him something before he fell asleep? Was this just a bizarre dream?

Why the fuck was Oscar so casual about this?

The boy looks over at him, his Oscar following suit, when it hits him; younger Oscar's eyes widen just a hair, his Oscar's brow twitches.

"And you're –" His tone is reverent, almost breathless.

A slow smile spreads across Lando's lips. They're panicked, the both of them. "Lando Norris, yeah." He watches the boy's Adam's apple bob as he swallows.

[mountaesan]

mend me, love me ; k. leehan 

pairing. bad boy!leehan x nursing student!reader genre. hurt/comfort , pining , fluff , a twinge of angst , set in the 80’s but it’s not rly mentioned and it’s not essential to the plot synopsis. leehan was your first ever patient as well as your most frequent, treating him has always been second nature for you. so when he shows up at your window once again, unannounced, bruised and bleeding, you begin to wish that you could see him in different circumstances word count. 4.1k warnings. kissing , mentions of blood / fighting , one mention of a knife , leehan is injured , probably unrealistic and unsafe medical practices  playlist. fallingforyou by the 1975 , meet me in the hallway by harry styles , the night we met by lord huron , like real people do by hozier notes. these two are so precious to me . not proofread

The rain came down in a steady rhythm, a soft patter against the windowpane, threading through the quiet of your room like a soft lullaby. It’s the perfect Friday night. One of those rare evenings where everything feels settled, where there was no unfinished work tugging at the edges of your mind and no looming responsibilities weighing down your shoulders.

The state of your room was pristine, the scent of freshly laundered sheets mingling in the air with the faint herbal aroma of your tea, the steam still curling in the air from where you placed it on your nightstand. The air was cool from the rain, but the warmth of your post-shower skin seeped into the plush comfort of your blankets. It cocooned you in a delicious contrast of warmth and chill.

The dim glow of your desk lamp flickered slightly, its light casting long, slanted shadows across the room. It danced over the neatly stacked textbooks and scattered notes that—for once—weren’t demanding your attention.

With a deep breath, you nestled deeper into the comfort of your mattress, pulling the covers just a little higher as you opened your well-worn copy of Emma in your hands. The spine creaked with familiarity, the pages soft beneath your fingertips, the edges slightly frayed from years of love. You traced your thumb along the words, sinking in the world Austen so carefully crafted; where meddling and misunderstandings unfold within the genteel drawing rooms of Highbury.

The rain continued its ceaseless drumming, a quiet accompaniment to the turning of each page. The weight of the week melted away, dissolving into the hush of the storm and the safety of solitude. 

You’re glad to escape the world of responsibility and work; at least for a little while. In this moment, you were free: free to lose yourself in the clever and playful words of Jane Austen, warmed by your tea as you wrapped yourself in the comforting embrace of the quiet, rainy night.

The world outside is distant, softened by the misty glow of streetlights and the gentle patter of raindrops against your window. The steady rhythm soothed  you, lulling you deeper into—

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Faint at first, barely enough to steal your attention from the pages between your hands. A soft, rhythmic tapping. Your brows furrowed, eyes flicking up from the curling pages of your beloved novel, confusion and caution pricked at your skin.

For a moment, you wondered if it’s just a loose branch from the storm, swaying against the glass. But then, the sound came again, more deliberate this time.

Tap. Tap. Tap. 

Tap. Tap.

TAPTAPTAPTAPTAPTAP—

And then—you saw it.

A face.

Pale against the rain-streaked window, dark eyes peering through the glass and strands of wet hair clinging to sharp cheekbones. 

Your breath caught in your throat, a strangled sound escaping before you could stop it. For a long moment, you simply stared, heart hammering against your ribs as you struggled to make sense of what you were seeing. 

The golden glow of your desk lamp flickered against the raindrops of your windowpane, catching on the sharp planes of his face—pale from the cold, his usual smirk replaced with a tight grimace. His fingers flexed and strained against the wet wood of the sill, and another gust of wind made the familiar looking boy—or ghost—sway precariously. 

“What the—” you spluttered. Finally snapping out of your daze, you scrambled out of bed.  You practically threw the book aside as you rushed to the window, fumbling with the latch. When you shoved it open, for a split second, you simply stood there, the wind howling through the open window as rain splattered against your cheeks and the cold air bit at your skin.

The sight before you was utterly absurd—Kim Leehan, soaked to the bone, clinging to your fourth-floor window for dear life. 

“Are you out of your mind? This is the fourth floor! How did you even—”

“A guy…” Leehan grimaced, tightening his grip on the slippery windowsill as his fingers began to slip. “Never reveals his secrets.” 

He was visibly struggling, his knuckles turning white as he fought to keep himself from plummeting to his death—or at least an expensive visit to the hospital. Your stomach twisted when you glanced down, seeing nothing but the slick, empty space between him and the ground below. His dark eyes, sharp as ever despite the rain dripping into them, flickered up to meet yours.

“Nice to see you too,” he drawled, though the slight shake in his voice betrayed him. “I’d love to catch up, really, but I think hypothermia is knocking on my door—along with the whole falling to my death thing, so—”

“Okay, okay, shut up,” you grumbled, planting your feet as you hauled him in with as much strength as you can muster. He was heavier than you remember—lean but packed with muscle—and the rain didn’t make it any easier (can you tell that he’s done this a few times). Leehan groaned as his torso tipped over the edge, crashing into you as you staggered back onto your heels.

With a final, graceless heave, he tumbled in, landing in an unceremonious heap on your floor and rainwater seeped into your freshly vacuumed rug. A long silence stretched between you two, save for the steady drip, drip, drip of water pooling onto your pristine hardwood floor. You stared at him, breath still uneven from the exertion. He looked up at you through a mess of wet hair, breathing just as heavily, rainwater glistening along his jaw.

“What the hell, Leehan?” you finally said, hands still trembling slightly from the adrenaline. “Why are you scaling buildings like some kind of delinquent Spider-Man?”

Leehan groaned, lifting his arm weakly before letting it drop back onto the floor. “One,” he started, voice hoarse, “never insult the best superhero like that ever again.”

You opened your mouth to retort, but before you could, he sluggishly sat up and peeled his drenched hoodie over his head. It takes a second for your to register what you’re seeing—but then, your stomach twists.

A deep, angry gash cuts across his torso, fresh and bleeding.

“And two,” he finally finishes, lips quirking into a weak, humorless smile as he gestured toward the wound.

Your frustration immediately morphed into something heavier, something sharper. “Leehan,” you breathed, crouching down beside him, “you need stitches.” 

He shrugged, feigning nonchalance, but you could see the exhaustion etched in the lines of his face, the slight tremor of his fingers as he pressed them into his side. “That’s why I’m here, doc.”

You exhaled through your nose as you rubbed at your temples. You should be used to this by now—Leehan showing up in the dead of night, bleeding and bruised, flashing that same reckless smile like it’s all just a joke. But it never gets easier. Not when it’s him.

“Bathroom,” you said with a firm voice. “Dry off, you know where the towels are. I’ll grab the suture kit.”

He nods, pushing himself to his feet with a wince. As he made his way to the bathroom, you pulled open a drawer to retrieve the spare clothes he’d left behind last time. (Which, coincidentally, had been because of the same exact reason.)

By the time Leehan emerged from the bathroom, his hair damp and a towel draped around his neck, you were already setting up the supplies at your desk. But the moment your eyes landed on him, you froze.

Bruises scattered across his arms and collarbone, blooming in shades of purple and blue. A fresh cut lingered just below his cheekbone and his bottom lip had been bloodied up, a stark contrast against his pale skin.

Your fingers twitched at your sides, the words sitting heavy on your tongue. You wanted to scold him. You wanted to demand why he always did this; why he never thought about himself.

But instead, you gestured toward your bed and muttered, “Lie down.”

He obeyed, settled back against the mattress and lifted his shirt without a complaint. You took a deep breath and steeled yourself, ignoring the tightness in your chest as you pressed a sterile cotton pad against the wound. His skin was warm beneath your fingers.

Leehan didn’t flinch. He never does. 

Instead, he watched you, head tilted against your pillow and dark eyes following every movement of your hands with a quiet sort of intensity. The kind that made your throat dry, the kind that made you wish you weren’t so used to this—patching him up and stitching him back together in the dim glow of your desk lamp while the rain sang against the window panes.

A tired cycle. A routine written into your friendship.

The room was quiet, save for the rain drumming against the window. You worked swiftly and precisely, and your hands moved with the familiarity of routine. Leehan didn’t flinch, doesn’t even so much as wince. He just stared at the ceiling, fingers tapping idly against his ribs. 

Finally, you broke the silence. “What was it this time?”

He exhaled slowly, his hand pausing mid-tap. “Just a small scuffle,” he muttered. “Some guys were messing with Woonhak. Thought it’d be fun to pick on him.”

Your brows furrowed. “So you decided to take them all by yourself?”

“It wasn’t like that.” He shook his head, eyes trained back on the ceiling as his jaw tightened. “I just threw a few punches to scare them off. But then someone pulled a knife, and then there were sirens, and, well…” He let out a breathy, humorless laugh. 

You pursed your lips as you knotted the last stitch a little too firmly. He hissed but didn’t complain.

“You’re an idiot,” you said, voice quieter this time.

“Yeah,” he muttered, head tilting slightly to look at you again. His lips twitched into something almost fond. “But that’s why I always come to you. Steadiest hands in all of Koz Uni’s nursing program.”

You didn’t look at him, didn’t let him see the way your expression wavered. Instead, you pressed a final piece of gauze over the wound, taping it down with the care of someone who wished they never had to do this in the first place.

“Yeah, well,” you murmured, smoothing down the bandage, “maybe next time, use that reckless head of yours for something other than getting it bashed in.”

Leehan hummed, the corner of his lips tugging up despite the exhaustion weighing heavy in his eyes. “Where’s the fun in that?”

You didn’t dignify him with a response. Instead, you pressed the heel of your palm into his forehead—not pushing, gently—until he groaned and swatted your hand away, muttering a curse under his breath. 

With a small smile, you leaned back, letting out a slow exhale. No matter how many times you gave Leehan stitches, you were always nervous like it was your first time. “You should rest,” you said. “You lost a lot of blood.”

After giving the typical ‘seek professional medical help in the morning’ lecture, you moved on to the rest of his minor injuries.

Your fingers moved with careful precision, the cotton ball, squeezed tightly between the tweezers in your grasp, was soaked in antiseptic as you dabbed gently at the wounds on Leehan’s arms. The scent of alcohol lingered in the air, sharp and sterile, as it mingled with the lingering traces of rain and something distinctly him.

Leehan didn’t make a sound as you worked, though you could feel his eyes on you—dark, steady, and unwavering. The weight of his gaze pressed into you, searing like embers against your skin, but you refused to meet it. 

You focused on the task at hand instead, the rhythmic motion of cleaning, dabbing, and wrapping. Anything to ignore the way your pulse quickened with each passing second.

But it’s hard to ignore him when he’s so close.

The space between you was barely a breath. The warmth of his body radiated through the air, despite the damp chill that still clung to his skin from the rain. His hair was a mess, black strands falling over his forehead in uneven waves, and there was something disarmingly soft about him like this. Battered and bruised and yet, undeniably alive, existing in your space as if he belonged there.

And maybe he did.

You swallowed down the thought and willed yourself to focus. 

Your hands were steady as you finished treating the cuts on his collarbones, brushing over the bruises blooming across his skin with careful fingers. But when you reached his face, your confidence faltered.

The cut along his cheekbone was shallow but angry. A thin, jagged line that caught in the dim glow of your desk lamp. And then there was his lip—split and bloodied, the wound stark against the soft curve of his mouth.

You exhaled quietly, steeling yourself once again.

Leehan must’ve sensed your hesitation because he tilted his head slightly, giving you better access to his face. His lips curled into the ghost of a smirk, but his voice was quiet when he murmured, “You’re overthinking again.”

You didn’t dignify him with a response, too focused on pressing the cotton ball to the cut on his cheekbone. He didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink. He just watched you, his expression unreadable, eyes dark and glittering beneath the low light.

It’s unbearable.

The room felt smaller, the silence felt heavier. The storm outside softened into a quiet drizzle, but the air between you crackled with something you couldn’t quite name. Something warm and unspoken, coiling between the spaces where your hands nearly touched, where your breath nearly mingled with his own. 

Finally, you moved to his lip, hesitant as your fingers brushed against his chin, tilting his face ever so slightly toward you. His lips parted just the tiniest bit, his breath warm against your wrist as you dabbed at the wound, trying your best not to linger.

Your thumb grazed his bottom lip—barely there, light as air.

Leehan inhaled sharply.

Your stomach flipped, heart stammering violently against your ribs.

You didn’t dare to look at him. You couldn’t.

Instead, you cleared your throat, voice barely above a whisper as you muttered, “Almost done.”

Leehan didn’t reply. But when you finally, finally gathered enough courage to glance up at him, his gaze was already waiting for you. And in it, you saw everything.

The weight of every unsaid word. The years of late-night visits, quiet comforts, and silent understandings. The way he looked at you now, like you were something fragile and precious—something he had spent too long pretending he didn’t want to hold on to.

Your breath was caught in your throat.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Neither of you breathed.

And then—

“There,” you whispered, pulling back, severing the moment before it could unravel completely. “All done.”

Leehan watched you for a second longer, gaze lingering and unreadable. Then, his lips twitched—barely a smirk, more like an exhale of something unspoken.

“Thanks, doc,” he murmured. 

And just like that, the tension splintered.

But the weight of his gaze still lingered—on your skin, in your breath, in the quiet thrum of your heart against your ribs. 

And you don’t think it’ll ever leave.

Leehan stayed the night, like he always does. It was an unspoken tradition, a ritual that neither of you ever acknowledged out loud but followed without question. After every fight, every wound you stitched up, he stayed—like your dorm was the only place he knew to go.

The bed was too small for the both of you, but neither of you made a move to change it. You laid next to each other, bodies barely touching. Only the occasional brush of an arm, a shift of weight, a shared breath in the darkness. The air was thick with the scent of rain and the sharp sterility of antiseptic still lingering faintly between you.

The world outside was still now. The storm had passed, leaving only the rhythmic dripping of water from the eaves, the occasional rustling of tree branches against your window. Moonlight spilled in through the glass, casting fractured shadows across the ceiling, across the sheets, across him.

Leehan was lying on his side, turned toward you, and you should tell him to be careful. You should remind him that his stitches need time to set, that his body needs rest, that lying like this is only going to make it worse. But the words don’t come.

Because he’s watching you.

And you’re watching him.

His face was half-lit, half-hidden in the dim glow of the moon, his dark eyes softer than you’ve ever seen them. You trace over the curve of his nose, the sharp edge of his jaw, the way his damp hair clings stubbornly to his forehead. Your gaze caught on his lips—split and swollen, still stained with the faintest trace of blood.

Before you even realized what you were doing, your hand moved on its own.

Your palm found the coolness of his cheek, thumb grazing over the cut on his lip with barely-there pressure. The moment your skin met his, Leehan exhaled softly, his eyes fluttering shut like he was melting beneath your touch. His body relaxed, tension unwinding in slow, steady waves, as if he’d been waiting for this.

You whispered into the dark, "I wish you didn’t keep coming to me like this."

Your voice barely carries between you, but Leehan hears it. You know he does, because his fingers twitched slightly against the sheets, because his breath caught just enough for you to notice.

After a beat, you added, "You know it breaks my heart… right?"

Leehan’s eyes opened again, slow and heavy-lidded, the shadows deepening in their depths. His gaze was unreadable, something between sorrow and something else— raw and tender. He lifted his hand, covering yours where it rested against his cheek, his fingers curling gently around yours.

"… I know," he murmured. "I’m sorry."

The weight of those words settled between you. There was something unspoken in the silence that followed, something fragile and uncertain yet wholly understood.

Neither of you moved.

Neither of you breathed.

The only sound in the room was the soft, rhythmic ticking of the clock on your wall, the occasional drip of rainwater outside. The world felt impossibly small, folding in on itself until it was just the two of you, here, now.

Summoning every ounce of courage left in you, you whispered, "Please don’t make me worry like this."

Leehan didn’t respond right away. Instead, he shifted, fingers tightening ever so slightly around your own before he slowly brought your hand to his lips.

Your breath stuttered.

His lips—soft despite the split, warm despite the cold—pressed gently against your knuckles, lingering for just a moment too long.

Your heart ached.

"I always knew you were going to be a nurse," he murmured, voice low, words melting into the space between you. 

Your breath stilled for a moment. “What?” you asked in a quiet voice.

“I could tell back in high school,” he continued, his fingers further interlacing with yours. “Every time I got into a fight, you were always the one patching me up. Cleaning my cuts, scolding me and clucking over me like an old mother hen. You liked making people feel better.”

You swallowed as something warm bloomed in your chest. “I liked making sure you didn’t bleed out on the pavement,” you muttered.

You shook your head, staring at the faint glow of the streetlights pooling against your ceiling. You remembered those days vividly—him showing up at the doorstep of your childhood home with bruised knuckles and split lips; you pressing antiseptic pads to his wounds in an empty janitor’s closet while you muttered under your breath about his recklessness.

Maybe he was right. Maybe you had always been like this—drawn to fixing things, to soothing the ache in others, even when it hurt you in turn.

“You were always my favorite patient,” you admitted, turning your head to look at him again. He still had your hand pressed against his lips.

He exhaled slowly, and when he met your gaze, there was something lingering in his eyes. Something that made your stomach twist and your heart clench.

“Yeah,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “I know.”

Another kiss—this time to the back of your hand, his breath featherlight against your skin.

Leehan lingered there, lips against your skin, like he was afraid to move, like this was something fragile that could shatter if he so much as breathed too hard. His grip on your hand tightened just slightly, as if grounding himself, and for the first time, you saw it—really saw it.

The way his eyes softened when they met yours. The way he always came to you, no matter how bruised and battered, no matter the hour or distance. The way he let himself melt under your touch, let himself be taken care of in a way you were sure he didn’t let anyone else.

He loved you.

And maybe—no, definitely—you had always loved him, too.

You weren’t sure who moved first, if it was you or him, but suddenly the space between you vanished. His forehead pressed against yours, his breath warm and slow, mingling with yours in the stillness of the room. Your noses brushed, the barest hint of touch, but neither of you pulled away. 

You let your fingers slip from his just enough to trail along his wrist, feeling the steady beat of his pulse beneath your touch. Your hand traveled higher, skimming up his arm, over the curve of his shoulder, before settling against the side of his neck. He let you. He always let you.

Leehan swallowed, the movement shifting beneath your palm. His lips parted, but no words came. You could see it—the hesitation, the fear of breaking whatever fragile thing existed between you. 

“If I tell you something,” he whispered, voice unsteady, “will you promise not to run?”

Your throat felt tight. “Leehan…”

“Promise me.”

Your thumb brushed against the corner of his jaw, just barely tracing the line of his throat. “I promise.”

A shaky exhale. Then—

“I think I’ve loved you since the first time you pulled me into that abandoned janitor’s closet and shoved a crumpled up band-aid into my hands. ” He let out a quiet, breathy laugh, though it sounded more like a sigh. “Maybe even before that.”

Your chest ached.

Maybe it was the way he said it—like it had been sitting inside him for years, waiting, festering, like he’d carried this love in his bloodied knuckles and broken skin, in every glance and in every touch that lingered just a second too long.

Or maybe it was the way you had always felt it, too.

Leehan swallowed, his lips parting like he wanted to say something else, but you beat him to it.

“I love you.”

It slipped out, simple and certain, like breathing, like a truth you had always known but never dared to say.

His entire body went still.

And then—slowly, cautiously, like he was afraid you might disappear—he let out a soft, disbelieving laugh, his nose nudging yours. His fingers found your waist beneath the blankets, tentative, uncertain. His touch was barely there, but it burned all the same.

You felt, more than saw, the way his eyes softened.

“Say it again,” he whispered.

You smiled, your heart stammering in your chest.

“I love you.”

Leehan exhaled shakily, pressing his forehead harder against yours like he was trying to memorize the shape of you, the warmth of this moment. His hands—scarred and calloused, always rough, always bruised—cupped your face, thumbs brushing tenderly over your cheekbones.

“God,” he murmured, voice thick. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear you say that.”

And then, with all the gentleness in the world, he kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed, wasn’t urgent—it was slow, careful, full of years of quiet longing and late-night patch-ups, of stolen glances and words left unsaid. He kissed you like he was afraid you might slip through his fingers, like you were something sacred, something he had no right to hold but was holding anyway.

When he pulled away, his lips were trembling against yours.

“You break my heart too, you know,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

“Then let me be the one to mend yours,” you whispered back. “Just like I’ve mended your wounds since we were sixteen. And I promise, I always will.”

A breath.

A soft, breathless chuckle.

And then—Leehan’s lips found yours again, sealing the promise between you.

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[luvrsrck]

first post! pre gaia battle angst cause i was listening to triassic love song by paris paloma and kept thinking about jason

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cw: fluffy smut, unprotected piv (use protection this is solely fictional!), sprinkle of angst

jason grace x reader (964 words!)

you frantically poked your boyfriend awake from his slumber.

"jason?"

"yeah sweetheart?" his voice was raspy from being woken up so late.

"do you think we’ll make it tomorrow?" your voice broke as your upper lip trembled. he rose up, turning on the lamp that sat on the bedside table.

he slowly leaned forward, like you were a deer in the middle of the road. when he cupped your face the dam broke. tears spilled as you looked up at him with pleading eyes.

"i just have this gut feeling that everything’s going to go wrong when we fight gaia" you hiccuped through sobs that broke his heart.

there was a second where no words were exchanged. it was just the two of you, jason stroking your cheeks with his thumbs in gentle, soothing motions.

he emphasized his breathing, taking deep breaths in and out until you followed him and your breathing evened out.

jason pulled you closer to him, away from your kneeling position and into him.

he kissed you so softly, like you were made of glass. there was no lust in it. just love and desperation.

you deepened the kiss, pulling him closer by his shirt and climbing into his lap. after pulling away, jason’s hands were still holding your face. you slowly took one of his hands off of your cheek and placed it under your shirt to squeeze your tit. he blushed.

"i need you. please."

his eyes widened.

"are you sure?"

a curt nodded confirmed it. he placed his other hand on your waist and ran his fingers over the warm skin.

you took it a step further, reaching under your shirt to pull it off entirely.

"you’re so beautiful…"

he laid you down and moved to leave wet kisses down your jaw and down to your neck. everything was so gentle and intimate.

you whined and tugged at his shirt, wanting it off. he complied and slid it off his body to reveal his muscles that you loved so much.

the tears were still falling, but your mind was more focused on your handsome boyfriend kissing and sucking at your neck.

he revelled in your soft whimpers as you pressed your thighs together. jason smirked against your neck and wedged his thigh in between your legs, gasping when you teasingly grinded against his hardon.

"kiss me again." you pleaded.

he wasted no time in pressing his lips to yours again, with more feverity this time. he kissed you like you were his last breath.

he then pulled away to kiss down your sternum all the way to your stomach, pulling your pajama pants and panties down in one go.

you impatiently kicked them somewhere across the room. jason pulled down his sweatpants, his dick aching to be inside you. if this was the last time he would ever feel you, he needed it to count.

you pulled away from the kiss to whine at him, glancing down to his pants that were still on. he got the hint and pulled them off, discarding them on the floor.

he rubbed his tip against your folds, until he deemed you wet enough to take him without prep. you were already stretched out to his size anyway.

you pulled him back into your chest to kiss him over and over again while he slowly pushed into you.

he paused for a minute to let you adjust, and when he thrusted in and out you felt like absolute heaven.

you hugged him close to you and locked your legs around his waist.

he wasn’t fucking you. no, this was different. he was making love to you.

you loved him so much. nothing could ever take jason grace from you.

he began to speed up his thrusts and you could feel how deep he was in you. your higher pitched whimpers and his groans were in tandem, you tracing the toned muscles on his back from years of training and fighting.

"do you know how lucky i am to be with you?" you choked out through moans.

you needed to have him as close to you as possible. he was putting his full body weight on your chest but you didn’t care. you needed him.

his thrusts were at a fast speed, but still not rough or hard. the tears of fear were gone now, all that were left were tears of pleasure falling from your eyes.

he could feel himself getting closer to filling you up. he grunted in your ear to warn you.

suddenly you pulled him in front of you and looked him directly in the eye.

"i love you so much jason. don’t you ever leave me."

you whispered before pulling him into a searing kiss to muffle your moans as the coil in your stomach snapped.

he fucking whimpered into your mouth, cumming inside of you with a gasp. the two of you were panting as he gently slid out.

you tackled him backwards onto the mattress, enveloping him into a hug, holding onto him as if he were gravity itself.

he chuckled raspily and wrapped his arm around your waist, placing a hand in your hair. after laying there holding you for a few minutes, he noticed your breathing had evened out and you were fast asleep in the crook of his neck: jason then hooked his hands under your thighs and gently hoisted you back under the covers.

his cum was dripping down your thigh but in your state you didn’t care. you needed to be as close to him as possible.

he slid himself under you and you subconsciously snuggled into his side, moving to lay your head on his chest.

he kissed your forehead before turning off the lamp and falling asleep himself.

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reblogs appreciated!!

[midi-san]

Golden Cheese and Smoked Cheese and hey who that?

Soooooo I’ve been meaning to post this for a while but just never got to it. So better late than never here you go!

I also wrote a little (1,900+ words) fic to accompany this so here’s that too!

Golden Cheese stared at the crumbled remains of Burning Spice’s temple. To think, this place was once somewhere you can voice your opinion to a kind and knowing deity. It became a breeding ground for a tyrant’s rampage of destruction, and now, it’s nothing. To think, all this carnage, all the lives lost, kingdoms brought to ruin…

Was because one cookie wanted to satisfy his boredom.

She couldn’t help but grit her teeth at the thought of it.

“...My… en… My Queeeeen?! Hellloooo? Are you still there?” Leave it to Smoked Cheese Cookie’s snark to snap her out of her thoughts. Golden Cheese let out a mixture of a guffaw and a scoff.

“Yes Smoked Cheese Cookie, I am alright.” She said, staring back at the ruins, back at…

“You know…” Smoked Cheese started, “for all your posturing and provacity, you really do wear your heart on your sleeve.”

Golden Cheese raised a brow, “Where are you going with this?”

“Something is bothering you: what is it?”

———

The secret passageway Elder Kulfi showed them was as barren as ever. They should be using this to find the Kulfi but instead they are doing… something else entirely. The canyons patterned with different colored rocks looked like they touched the sky from a worm’s eye view. From a bird’s eye view however, it just made things harder to see, with all the twists and turns made by rivers long gone. Golden Cheese was looking for something. For what? Smoked Cheese didn’t know. All he knows is that it was something important that the Golden Sovereign couldn’t ignore. And knowing Golden Cheese, it’s probably something inconsequential, like always.

A few minutes of being carried by the overgrown bird later and they land, right in front of a foreign red crater that stuck out amongst the white sand like a lesion. Smoked Cheese scanned his surroundings: rubble, rubble, that giant crater Burning Spice made, even more rubble— wait where did his Radiance go? To the side he Golden Cheese near multiple piles of boulders, walking over each and every one of them. She was standing over them as if she was trying to…detect something. She eventually came across an indistinguishable pile of rubble near the crater. After a few seconds of staring at it, she begins to dismantle the heap of stone, pushing the smaller rocks away and breaking the larger ones with her spear.

The abruptness made Smoked Cheese flinch. He’s rarely seen Golden Cheese act with such haste. “Whu— My Queen! What are you doing? What is so important in this forgotten canyon that you’d waste time trying to dig it up from…!” He was going to try and convince her to stop whatever inconsequential thing she wants here. He was going to tell her to focus her energy on finding the Kulfi so they can get back home.

But then he saw her face.

Her expression was so… unreadable, yet her furrowed eyebrows gave way to this forlornness in her eyes. She mumbled, “Do you think you can help me with this?” He was alarmed by how soft her tone was. A few minutes ago she was flying high, cracking jokes and arguing with him on how the Kulfi would definitely want to join her kingdom. Now, she’s standing in an abandoned graveyard, a foot on one of the rocks she moved with her spear wedged between some boulders with this air of melancholy around her. He silently nods, sighing in his head.

And so they began shoveling heaps of stone and rock. Smoked Cheese was wheezing from  heaving up a particularly heavy boulder, his hands chafed from touching their coarse surface. They made good leeway, the sun was still in the sky as the two cookies made a noticeable dip in the rubble. Throughout this endeavor, that same little question prevailed in the back of his mind: What was Golden Cheese Cookie looking for here? 

He was snapped out of his thoughts when he saw Golden Cheese Cookie drag… something out of the rubble. It wasn’t a rock, it was too long to be rock. Not to mention it was too green and pale to be apart of the layered rocks that made the canyon and—

And then he felt his heart stop as he saw bits of cilantro flaking off and onto the ground.

Golden Cheese heaved the body of Cilantro Cobra Cookie a ways away from boulders. The snake woman’s body has certainly seen better days, chips and cracks littered all over her dough. Her snake half had quite a few places where it bent abnormally. Her leafy, cilantro hair was torn and damaged in multiple places. But the real kicker came when Golden Cheese gently flipped her over on her stomach, careful as to not agitate any loose crumbs on her dough. What he saw made him visibly lurch.

The dress she used to wear was in tatters, revealing the nasty wound on her back that was akin to the crater that crushed her. She must have gotten hit from the fallen debris before being buried by the rocks. Instinctively, Smoked Cheese reached for her wrist, checking for a pulse he knows isn’t there: it wasn’t possible. There’s no way someone could survive being buried under an avalanche for so long, let alone after sustaining a serious injury like that. But then he heard a thump, and a few seconds later, another thump. It was weak, it was slow but cheeses, it was there. She was alive. 

But his hope was instantly dashed when he thought about it. There was no way she’d survive long without medical treatment. Even if by some miracle her warriors were able to her, she would surely crumble during the long arduous journey back to the tribe. His face shifted to that of pity, there was nothing they could do. 

He sighed, “Her pulse is present but it’s weak, too weak. I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do.”

“Correction Smoked Cheese Cookie: there is nothing you can do,” she said, picking up and holding the snake’s body, her chin perched on the golden queen’s shoulder with her back exposed to the open spicy air, “But there is something I can do.” Before Smoked Cheese Cookie could say anything, she lifted her free hand and focused her magic. Soon, bits of sand and rock began forming around her palm. But knowing what he knows now, it wasn’t just sand and rock.

Smoked Cheese never considered His Radiance a magic user. The most he ever saw her use magic was from creating her spears from the earth. Any other time she was using her strength, smarts, flight, and… ‘charming personality’ to get by in the world. No, Smoked Cheese never saw Golden Cheese as a magic user.

But then the Dark Flour War happened.

Smoked Cheese was the first to wake up. Why him and not Mozzarella? He’ll never know (she was in fact the last to be awakened in the virtual world). Golden Cheese showed him the ropes, how the virtual world worked, her plans for this virtual world, its systems…

And more importantly, how she did this in the first place. He saw her focus her energy, her magic, and meticulously sorted every crumb of cookie that had a part of a soul into a soulcheese. The soulcheeses would then be stored in a cellar for safekeeping until she could get the server running. 

It was the most innovative, yet macabre way of using magic he has ever seen. And now he’s seeing it first hand. But instead of picking out cookie crumbs and infusing them into soulcheese, it was picking out cookie crumbs and reinfusing them with a barely living body.

A golden, geometric shield formed around the three cookies, coating the snake’s wound in a thin layer of gold. Her magic placed the crumbs on the wound like a jigsaw puzzle, making sure each was in its rightful place. Naturally, it was impossible to recover every bit of crumb and dust from the earth, which is why any leftover cracks and chips were filled with gold instead. 

“May the Radiance of Gold shine upon you…” Golden Cheese muttered softly, tracing the cracks with her fingers as the dome slowly faded. As the Radiant Queen set the Spice chief down, Smoked Cheese noticed Cilantro Cobra Cookie’s breathing seemed to have stabilized. Golden Cheese gently patted the snake woman’s now ruined, messy hair, “She will wake up in a couple hours. The rest will depend if anyone finds her.” She said as she stood up, dusting herself off.

Smoked Cheese stepped forward, “How do you know anyone is looking for her?” He remembered when Burning Spice crashed down, sending the weakened naga flying somewhere. He heard a few of the Cilantro Cobra tribesmen call out her name before being silenced by the destructive tyrant, scared stiff. 

“Oh,” she started off, a hint of playfulness coming back to her voice, “I just know.” She leaned to the left as she looked at something from behind Smoked Cheese Cookie. Earning a confused look from the general, he whipped his head around just fast enough to notice a blur of leafy green quickly hide behind a canyon wall.

Whu— were those—when did—how’d she—HUH?!

His stunned dumbfoundedness was quickly interrupted as the Golden Goddess scooped him up bridal style, “Now my dear general, let us go find the Kulfi for their aid!” She announced, flapping her magnificent wings as she laughed. All Smoke Cheese could do was sputter about as Golden Cheese flew up and out of the canyon. He also couldn’t help but steal a glance of the two cobras still hiding behind the rock wall, slowly coming out to approach their alive, but still incapacitated leader.

“I must ask this once again, are you sure leaving her here was a good idea?” Smoked Cheese finally managed to say.

“Did you not hear me earlier? She’ll be fine, probably won’t remember any of this happened. She’ll be back to her merry little destructive life in no time.”

“But why? Why help her? The last time we saw her, she was threatening our most —and only— beneficial allies with blackmail! How could you possibly have sympathy for someone like that?!”

Her ever gleaming eyes dimmed just a smidge, “A life, a bright gleaming, shimmering light. And just as it’s about to reach its pinnacle, it’s cruelly snuffed out by the power-hungry. I have seen too much of that happen already.”

Oh.

…Oh.

“…I see.” Was all he could say

The silence that permeated the skies after that was deafening. It left the vizer to ruminate on his thoughts. For all her self-absorbed arrogance, she was surprisingly empathetic, almost to her detriment. She was an amazing ally if she found you as someone important to her. Golden Cheese was also, however, a cookie absorbed in nostalgia. So the real question was: Why did she save the leader of the Cilantro Cobras? Was it out of the goodness of her heart, or out of some peculiar way of self soothing the part of her that wishes she could’ve been there for her subjects sooner?

Whichever it was, he didn’t have the time to ponder, for he was snapped out of his thoughts by the golden queen carrying him. Apparently she thought the mood was much too dreary and continued on with her essay-long speech as to why the Kulfi would and should join her kingdom.

All Smoked Cheese could do was roll his eyes with a sigh as an exasperated smile formed on his face. He was already mentally preparing his rebuttal as the two of them flew out of the canyon and towards the sunset (which is hopefully the direction the Kulfi went).

Fin.

[snowseasonmademe]

Let love set you free

warning ‼️: angst, breakup

word count: 3,370

paring: levi colwill x black female reader

summary: you both tried to run and hide from it but the weight of time crushes your love into dust

tag list: @sucredreamer @irishmanwhore @whoevenisthiz @iamquiantrelle @dexastres @coffeevacation @goldenngt @btslover117 @kennasutopia @jessnotwiththemess

note: this song is one of my favorites of all time. i think it’s really beautiful and i thought levi would be perfect for the storyline so here it is! i know this is my second angst for him lol but he just fits. i’ll write something fun for him soon, i promise. actually i’ve written quite a few angst fics that will be posted soon, so be ready for that. anyway, as always enjoy and tell me what you think🤍🤍!!!!!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There was a time when loving Levi felt like second nature, like breathing—something you didn’t have to think about, something that just was. The two of you fit together effortlessly, your souls woven into each other with a quiet certainty. It was in the way he’d wake up before you, pressing soft kisses to your shoulder before slipping out of bed, letting you sleep in while he made coffee. The way his voice would soften whenever he said your name, like it was sacred. The way his hand always found the small of your back in a crowded room, as if reassuring himself that you were still there, still his. It was easy back then, simple in a way that felt rare. Love had been an unspoken promise between you—constant, unwavering. But even the most beautiful things can fracture under the weight of time.

You both felt the shift before you ever spoke it into existence. It started with the little things, the ones that seemed insignificant on their own but built up like cracks in a foundation. The calls that went unanswered for longer than usual. The texts that felt more like obligations than conversations. The quiet moments that once held comfort but now felt strained, like neither of you knew what to say anymore. He would come home later, exhaustion etched into his features, and you’d be waiting, hoping for something—anything—to remind you of what you once had. But it never came. His kisses were still there, but they were different. Routine. A habit rather than a desire. And that scared you more than anything.

Levi had always been the type to carry his emotions carefully, tucking them away where no one could reach them. But you had always known how to read him. And the truth was, he had been pulling away for a while now. Maybe not intentionally, maybe not even consciously, but you could feel it, like a slow, inevitable tide pulling him further and further out of reach. He still loved you—you knew that. But love wasn’t always enough. Not when the silences between you stretched longer than the conversations, not when you felt lonelier with him than you ever did alone.

You had tried to fight for it, for him, for what you built together. You had tried to remind him of the love that once felt like home, like something neither of you would ever have to question. You planned dinners, showed up at his training sessions, left little notes in the pockets of his jackets, just like you used to. And for a while, it almost felt like things were getting better. He’d kiss you longer, pull you closer, whisper things that sounded like hope against your skin. But it was fleeting. A temporary fix to something deeper, something neither of you wanted to name out loud.

And now, standing in his apartment as the golden light of the setting sun washed over everything, you realized that the fight was over. Not because you didn’t love him anymore, but because you loved him too much to keep holding on when you knew it was hurting you both. Love, in its truest form, wasn’t supposed to feel like this. Like waiting for something that would never come. Like grasping at something slipping through your fingers no matter how tightly you held on.

Levi hadn’t said much, but he didn’t need to. The silence between you told the story neither of you wanted to speak aloud. You could tell he was trying to find the right words. Words that might soften the blow, that might make this hurt less. But there weren’t any. You had both known this moment was coming. You had both felt the ending long before it arrived. And that was the hardest part—not the anger, not the fights, not even the pain. Just the quiet acceptance that love alone wasn’t enough to keep you together. There was no need for words between the two of you—everything had already been said, written in the spaces between your breaths and the pauses in your conversations.

The golden hour light filtered softly through the large windows of Levi’s apartment, casting elongated shadows that stretched across the sleek, polished wooden floors. The soft amber and rose hues of the setting sun bled into the room, bathing the space in a gentle warmth. Everything was tinged with that fleeting glow, transforming the otherwise simple, modern apartment into something dreamlike—like a scene from a painting. There was a quiet stillness to the air, almost as if the whole world outside had slowed down, leaving the two of you suspended in time. You stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, arms wrapped tightly around yourself, not for warmth but for comfort, as you gazed out at the London skyline. The city stretched out beneath you, its buildings sprawling like giants in the distance, bathed in the last remnants of the sun’s light. The sky above had taken on a gradient of colors, with the softest shades of amber and rose slowly merging and shifting, stretching toward the inevitable night. You watched as the light began to fade, but there was something inside of you—an ache—that wanted it to last longer.

Just a little longer. If only time would slow, just for a few minutes, enough to hold onto the way this moment felt before it all slipped through your fingers. You wanted to capture it, to freeze it in place. The beauty of the scene outside was starkly juxtaposed by the heaviness in your chest. You could feel the weight of the finality in the air, and it was suffocating, even in the midst of the quiet beauty.

Behind you, you could sense him before you heard him. Levi sat on the edge of the couch, his posture rigid, elbows resting on his knees, head slightly bowed as though the weight of the situation had pressed him down. The light caught the sharp angles of his jaw and the dark strands of his hair, falling messily against his forehead. You could feel the quiet tension between you, so thick it almost seemed to hang in the air like a heavy fog, making it hard to breathe. He hadn’t spoken much since you arrived, and you realized, with a sinking feeling in your stomach, that he didn’t need to.

You exhaled slowly, shifting your weight slightly on your feet. Finally, you felt him move, his voice breaking through the heavy stillness. When he spoke, his words were quiet, almost tentative, as if he were unsure whether he wanted to break the fragile silence that surrounded you both. “So this is it then?”

His voice sent a fresh, sharp ache through your chest, a painful reminder of the reality of it all. You stood frozen for a moment, not sure how to answer, not sure if you could answer. Slowly, you turned to face him, and the moment your eyes locked with his, it felt like the wind had been knocked out of you. For the first time, you saw him—really saw him. Levi, usually so composed, so controlled, now looked entirely different. There was a weariness in his eyes, a quiet exhaustion that had nothing to do with football. The weight of everything between you was too heavy for him to bear. The sharp line of his jaw was tense, his brows furrowed in that familiar crease that spoke of worry, of something deeper than just the surface of a football game or a training session. His dark brown eyes, usually filled with the usual quiet confidence, were instead clouded with something you couldn’t quite place—rawness, vulnerability, maybe even regret. It wasn’t just his eyes that gave him away. His hands, usually so steady, were clenched in tight fists on his lap, his knuckles stark white in contrast to his skin. The air between you was thick, charged, and all you wanted to do was reach out to him. But you knew that if you did, you’d never be able to let go.

You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat tightening as you fought to steady your breathing. His question hung in the air between you, and the weight of it pressed down on you, suffocating you in ways that no words ever could. You had known—both of you had known—that this moment would come, but saying it out loud felt like a betrayal. “I think we both knew it was coming” you whispered, the words tasting bitter as they left your lips, laden with the sorrow you had been holding inside for so long.

Levi let out a slow breath, a low sound that seemed to carry all the weight of the conversation, all the years of unspoken emotions and fractured moments. He ran a hand down his face, the action almost mechanical, like he was trying to rub away the exhaustion, the grief that clung to him. He shook his head softly, a humorless chuckle slipping from his throat. “Yeah… maybe. I just didn’t want to admit it” he admitted, his voice rough and strained, like he was fighting back something that was much larger than either of you. It wasn’t just the end of your relationship, you realized—it was everything, all the weight of the unsaid things, the unfinished stories that would never come to light. The ache in his voice mirrored the ache in your chest, a jagged wound that you couldn’t fix.

You took a step forward, each movement slow, like the ground beneath your feet might crack open if you moved too quickly. You were terrified that getting too close would shatter the fragile thread that still connected you, but your heart was already betraying you, pulling you toward him, against your better judgment. Levi didn’t move, didn’t retreat. He stayed there, sitting on the couch, his eyes never leaving you as you came to stand between his parted knees. His presence was suffocating in the best and worst ways, the space around him charged with the weight of everything unsaid. You stood there for a long moment, your fingers twitching at your sides, aching to reach out for him. You wanted to touch him, to smooth over the tension that had taken root in his shoulders, to hold him like you had so many times before. But you couldn’t. You knew you couldn’t.

Instead, you inhaled deeply, trying to steady the tremor in your chest, trying to make sense of the swirling emotions that were threatening to overtake you. Your words were soft, but they held so much weight as you whispered, “I don’t regret any of it” The confession fell from your lips like a quiet promise, one you weren’t sure you’d ever be able to fully keep, but you said it anyway, because it was the truth.

His lips parted slightly, and for a brief moment, his eyes softened, the walls he’d built around himself crumbling just enough to reveal the vulnerability beneath. His breath hitched, and before you could even think to pull away, his hand lifted, warm and familiar. It wrapped around your wrist, his fingers curling around you with a quiet intensity that made your heart skip a beat. He didn’t grip you tightly—he never did—but it was enough. Just enough to make you feel the pull, to make you hesitate, like the weight of his touch had an invisible tether that you couldn’t ignore.

“Then don’t go” he murmured, his voice so soft, so pleading, that it sent a tremor through your body. The words were laced with desperation, with a longing that twisted your insides. The space between you both seemed to close in, the air thick with something you couldn’t name, something that held you in place even as every part of you wanted to move, wanted to give in to the urge to stay. But you couldn’t. You knew you couldn’t.

Your resolve wavered, just for a moment, the invisible force between you so strong that it almost overwhelmed you. The connection, the history, the intimacy you had shared—it all came rushing back in a tidal wave. You had spent so much time memorizing him, every detail of him—the sharp cut of his jaw, the way his dark brown eyes would soften when he was being serious, the fullness of his lips when he would smile, the way his gaze would darken when he was thinking. You had cataloged every inch of him, every moment, and now, standing here, you could feel yourself pulling toward him, the magnetism of his presence impossible to resist.

But you had to resist. You had to.

You let out a shaky breath, forcing yourself to shake your head, to put distance between you that neither of you seemed willing to close. “You deserve someone who can meet you where you are” you said, your voice barely above a whisper, cracking under the weight of the words. “And I deserve to be the person I’m meant to be” Saying it out loud felt like ripping off a bandage, but there was no other choice.

Levi’s jaw tightened, his features hardening for a brief moment, and you saw the way his grip on your wrist loosened, just enough to let you go. But he didn’t fully release you. His fingers lingered, brushing the inside of your wrist, his thumb gliding slowly, almost absent-mindedly, over the sensitive skin of your palm. It was a touch that spoke louder than words—muscle memory, something deep inside him that couldn’t stop himself from reaching for you, even now, even when he knew it was too late. The slow, absent-minded stroke was like a quiet confession in itself, a final, fleeting reminder of everything you had been. The air between you was heavy with unspoken longing, and for a moment, you weren’t sure if you could walk away.

The silence between you stretched, thick with longing, saturated with the ghosts of things left unsaid, the weight of your shared history hanging in the air like a heavy, fragile thread. Neither of you moved, each of you caught in the stillness, knowing that one of you had to make the first move, but neither of you ready to do it. The tension was unbearable, thick enough to suffocate you, but at the same time, it was the one thing that kept you anchored to this moment, to him.

Then, as though drawn by the same invisible force that had kept you tethered here, Levi moved. Slowly, he stood, rising to his full height, his presence swallowing the space between you, commanding attention in the quiet room. He was so close that the air between you seemed to shimmer with the pull of his gravity. The scent of his cologne, warm and familiar, still clung to his skin, wrapping around you like a memory, like something that had always been a part of you. It was the kind of scent that felt like home—deep, comforting, with an edge of something sharper, more complex. The kind of scent you’d never forget.

Your breath hitched as he lifted his hand toward you, his fingers brushing against your cheek in the lightest, most delicate touch. It sent a shiver racing down your spine, a tingling warmth spreading from the point of contact, spreading like fire across your skin. Your heart thudded loudly in your chest, each beat sounding like a drum, a rhythm you couldn’t escape. His gaze was heavy, searching, as if he was trying to memorize every detail of you, every curve of your face, every line of your body, as if he were trying to hold on to something that was slipping through his fingers. His eyes traced the shape of your lips, lingering there for a moment too long, and you could feel the tension building between you, the magnetic pull that had always existed.

You barely realized you were swaying toward him, your body betraying you, moving on its own, as if it knew something your mind was too afraid to admit. Your fingers twitched, curling into the fabric of his shirt as if you could hold him in place, as if you could stop time, stop yourself from walking away. His nose brushed against yours, the touch so featherlight that it felt like it was the only thing keeping you grounded, the only thing tethering you to reality. His breath hitched, and you felt it—felt the hesitation, the way he was fighting the urge to lean in, to close the space between you. There was an undeniable pull, something so raw, so desperate that it nearly consumed you both. But then, in that suspended moment, you realized that all it would take was the slightest tilt of your chin, the faintest movement of your lips, and you would be kissing him. You would be tangled in the softness of his lips, in the warmth of his touch, and you weren’t sure if you could walk away from that.

But then, just as suddenly, reality came crashing down. It was sharp, unforgiving, and harsh in its clarity. The weight of your decision pressed down on you, cutting through the longing, through the desire, through the history that held you together like chains. You exhaled sharply, forcing yourself to pull away before you could cross that line, before you could do something you would never be able to undo. You couldn’t give in. Not like this.

Levi’s eyes flickered, and in that brief moment, you saw everything—the pain, the understanding, the frustration—tangled together in a storm that you couldn’t fight. He dropped his hand from your cheek, fingers flexing at his sides like he was struggling to let you go. His eyes held yours, unblinking, his gaze unreadable, but there was something in it. Something raw, something almost desperate. A quiet plea for you to stay, even though you both knew you couldn’t.

Your throat tightened, a lump forming that made it impossible to speak. But somehow, you managed to get the words out, your voice trembling as you said, “Goodbye Levi” It felt like the hardest thing you’d ever said, like each letter was a weight that you couldn’t carry.

His jaw clenched at the words, his lips pressing into a thin line, his whole body stiffening with emotion. But he didn’t speak. He didn’t say anything. He just held your gaze, something unreadable swimming in his dark eyes, something that you couldn’t quite place but felt deep in your bones. And then, after a long moment, he gave you the smallest nod. It was almost imperceptible, a subtle movement that meant everything. An unspoken okay, a silent acceptance of the decision you’d made, even if it hurt him. Even if it killed him.

You turned away before you could change your mind, before the pull of his gaze could drag you back to him. Your steps were slow, each one feeling heavier than the last as you moved toward the door. The weight of your decision was starting to settle in, pressing down on you, making every movement feel like it was taking everything you had left. Your fingers trembled slightly as you reached for the door handle, the cool metal grounding you, reminding you that this was real, that this was happening. Your heart was racing, but it wasn’t relief. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But there was something else—a strange, unsettling sense of lightness.

It wasn’t the freedom you had imagined, but there was something freeing in knowing that love, even the deepest kind, didn’t always have to end in ruin. Sometimes, love meant knowing when to let go, when to walk away, even when every part of you screamed to stay.

As you stepped out into the cool evening air, the London cityscape stretching out before you, the soft hum of the city blending with the rhythm of your heart, you felt it. You couldn’t explain it, but you swore you could feel them—the wings, unfolding, lifting you, carrying you toward something new, something different. Pretty wings, light and delicate, but strong enough to carry you away from this moment, this love, and toward the future waiting for you.

[front-facing-pokemon]

[skrunksthatwunk]

just finished the original devilman manga. wuh!!

[fogwitchoftheevermore]

decided to rewatch oli's christmas song stream from last year and remind me again why the fuck oli/sausage is a rarepair again. he sings no less than five romantic songs about sausage (admittedly two of those are just different versions of santa, baby). one of them is him and sausage singing baby it's cold outside together. oli literally left heaven to find this man. what. what am i seeing that everyone else isn't hello.

[vividgoth]

Going through the Fleabag tag and every post is about that fuckass priest and not a moment of the wonderful fucking heartwrenching season of television I just watched

[tweekspaperhat]

hey, people who claim kyle is just as bad or somehow worse than cartman? its a joke right? you're just being silly? you wouldn't genuinely have such a bad take right..?

[icewindandboringhorror]

Various images from the past year or so... posting my evil little photo diary collections once again..

[maaarine]

Why are British teenage girls so unhappy? Here’s the answer (Caitlin Moran, The Times, Sep 13 2024)

"The report, by the Children’s Society, found that British 15-year-old girls are the most unhappy in Europe.

British girls aged 10-15 are “significantly less happy” with their life, appearance, family and school than the average boy — and their happiness is still declining.

Boys’ life satisfaction, meanwhile, remains broadly stable. (…)

But I still didn’t have an “aha!” moment about why this so disproportionately affects girls until… I talked to some teenage girls.

It was at a party, and I went to vape with them on the patio. Because I take my nicotine like children do.

“Duh — it’s the boys,” one said when I brought it up, as all the others agreed.

“The boys?” I asked.

My last book, What About Men?, had been all about how much boys struggle these days: their loneliness; their suicide rates. I’d spent the past year feeling very sympathetic towards boys.

“Yeah, well, who do you think they’re taking out their unhappiness on? It’s us,” another girl said.

“One boy at school used to draw a picture every day of how ugly I was,” a third girl said. “Every day for two years.”

“They’ve all got ‘Rate The Girls’ polls on their WhatsApps,” the first said. “They mark you down for weight gain, haircuts, what you say.”

“But then, if you’re hot, it’s just as bad, in a different way, because they’ll be talking about how they want to f*** you.”

The girls discussed coping techniques. Bad news: none of them worked.

“The only way you can stop them is if you become ‘one of the boys’ and hang out with them. But then,” the second girl said with a sigh, “all the other girls call you a slut. Because you’ve gone over to the boys’ side.”

“Surely it’s not all the boys?” I said. “There must be some nice boys?”

“Oh, yeah,” one girl said. “But they keep their heads down. Because… well, look.”

She showed me the Instagram account of her friend. Under every picture she posted of herself — smiling in a new dress; with her dog — dozens of anonymous accounts had replied with the most rank abuse.

“Fat.” “Slut.” “You gonna try and kill yourself again, for attention?”

“They’re all boys from her school,” she said. “And look, this one boy tried to defend her.”

I saw a series of messages from a brave teenage boy, posting things like, “You’re all big men, leaving these replies under anonymous accounts.”

As I could see, this boy immediately became a target too. Mainly accusations that he was “white knighting” this girl: “You wanna f*** her, bro?”

“So,” I asked, “you don’t think it’s social media pressure to be beautiful, or the economy, that’s making girls so sad?”

“Well, yeah, them too,” the first girl said. “But, Monday-Friday, 9-3, I’m not on social media. I’m not… in the economy. I’m just with these boys. And no one talks about how horrible they are.”

I thought about another recent report, showing a 30 per cent ideological gap between Gen Z men, who are increasingly conservative, and Gen Z women, who are increasingly progressive.

I thought about Andrew Tate, who has nine million mostly young male followers — and faces human trafficking charges, which he denies.

And I thought: maybe these girls are on to something. Maybe more people need to vape with teenage girls and ask them for the school gossip."

[transkingcobra]

Hm

[boygirlctommy]

watching ark: tas and <3 the animation is so bad even my dad can tell