#I worked on the opposite version of this first but

[iloveseraphims]

I saw this when I woke up this morning and it's so cuteeee ⚰️🤺 I wrote this quickly instead of getting out of bed. But now I had the chance to translate and send it. I hope you like it @thatanonymouschocolate 💕

I would also like to thank @sunandflame for reviewing my work and helping me out.

!! Words count 2,5k!!

Mihawk was restless. Not because of that stupid clown or stupid guild. It was because of you. He had just had to leave the area for a quick errand and you had disappeared in an instant. He had no idea what the hell you were doing and that worried him.

He wasn't sure how close you was but he knew you would return soon. Deep down, that was all he knew. He missed your voice, your words, your presence, your feeling.

If there was something crazy on your mind by now, he would have noticed and learned it long ago. He rubbed his temples with a small growl. "Like a cat, she goes to whatever she's interested in..." he said as he sat down on a chair with the new newspapers in his hand. He had to distract himself so that he wouldn't go out and look for you. Yes, you were his partner but he had no right to restrict you. As long as you weren't injured, he avoided interfering in your life easily.

All he hoped was that you wouldn’t get into trouble, but he knew that troublelessness and you were as opposite as the moon and the sun.

---

You didn't come as soon as he had hoped. When the night had devoured the sky he had only just seen your face after a long time. Your boat had slowly approached the land. And next to...well, he had heard rumors but he hadn't expected a 2m Vegapunk clone who looked like his childhood. He had secretly hoped that his Seraphim version wasn't real but now his hopes were as empty as his clone's eyes.

"So that's why you deprived me of yourself?" he asked, arms folded, moving closer to watch the efforts to tie up the boat more closely. His eyes drifted to the S-Hawk that had come ashore. His copy sword similar to Yoru's, his eyes with similar shades of color...but the rest of it. No, it wasn't his. Neither his white hair nor his skin tone were his, he wasn't even a part of him. Still, it was like looking at his old self in a mirror. And that just bothered him.

Giving up on tying the rope with his words, you walked quickly towards him and hugged him by bumping into his torso. His hand found your waist without waiting. "I missed you too, Mr. Stoic man~" you said while covering the line of his moustache with kisses. He only grunted at the nickname you gave him. He was tired of rejecting each of your nicknames, but you weren't tired of finding new ones. His eyes went from you back to the copy of him looking at you and him.

You broke your kiss and followed his gaze. “His name is S-Hawk.”

He quickly replied. "An whacky name," he said. His words must have caused a slight frown to form between S-Hawk's brows. "But he's half of you," you said, hoping to erase their attitudes towards each other.

"I don't think I've ever been cut in half." he said, looking at you. You rolled your eyes at his words and smiled a little. Oh this man and his words, you'll never know what they'll offer you.

"You went and stole him from the government."

"I couldn't handle those bastards having even a piece of you. Besides.." You said, even though Mihawk was reluctant to let go, you separated from him and headed towards S-Hawk. "I would never have the heart to leave him with those bastards. Not after I saw him with my own eyes."

"With your eyes?" Mihawk said with a stoic face, raising an eyebrow.

Ah he always managed to hit you somewhere. You growled playfully. “Okayy maybe I saw him from the photo but those eyes saw him? Saw him. ”

"Y/n...you stole a damn Seraphim from the government. You know what you did, right? - And how did you convince him to come here?" His eyes went from you to the weird version of his childhood. These eyes that should never have existed.

"Let's call it trust and recognition at first sight. It was like he recognized me just as I recognized him. And you should have seen it!...he spoke sweetly with that stoic face just like you Mihawk~ my heart was practically being moved away from my body!"

He ran his hand over his face and rubbed his eyes. God, what was he going to do with you? “Does he have a tracking chip or something?”

You pressed your lips together, forming a walnut on your chin. "Uhmmmmmmm." You exchanged glances with S-Hawk then looked at Mihawk, shaking your head. "Nope. We're completely clear with this little friend." Mihawk glanced sideways at S-Hawk, not taking his gaze off of you. Little friend? Yes the 2m tall thing was definitely a little friend. Oh how cute.

"Y/n I'm sure the government will find out the truth sooner or later and come"

"Come on, if it's easy, let them step into Yonko's lands."

“Yonko?” He pointed his finger at the tent far behind him. “Who do you think will be the first to disappear from the island when the marines arrive?”

You chuckled a little at his words, which caused him to sigh. “I don’t mean metaphorically, I mean literally Y/n. This guy would jump into the sea with the first barrel he found as soon as the government men arrived.”

"How beautiful we and S-Hawk will go after him in your boat," you said without losing your cheerful mood.

His eyes narrowed in exasperation at your words. You and being convinced, even if he was the man of your heart were a difficult task. "Anyway it's late and the weather is quite chilly, let's go now." he said. You walked towards him, holding S-Hawk's hand, and held his hand. This wasn't what he had imagined, but it was what it was.

---

"Kahhhhhhh! As if one wasn't enough, you also brought a giant version that half-pint!"

"I can hear you," Mihawk said as he started his morning with his coffee, causing Buggy to jump.

The table was in complete chaos. Even Crocodile, who did not attend breakfast and always ate in his room, when he saw S-Hawk at the doorway made a difference and joined them. Mihawk began to focus on the newspaper in his hand among the loud and curious voices of the crew below.

But his eyes kept drifting to you behind the newspaper and to the S-Hawk you were feeding from your hand. He had just accepted you feeding him from your hand. What is this, a child?

He couldn’t help but think, “This is ridiculous.” Buggy leaned towards you, who were filling S-Hawk’s plate with sweets, “Y/n let me know if you need help.”

"What is that? Is there place for one more in the barrel?"

"What the hell barrel?"

You chuckled softly at his reaction. Maybe Crocodile and Mihawk didn’t like him but that wasn’t the case for you. Sure Buggy wasn’t someone everyone would want around, but deep down he was a man who was hungry to share his feelings and moments, who dreamed of freedom as much as his hair that resembled the sky. So…he was for you. And when you told Mihawk this one night in bed, you were definitely hushed in his arms and forced to sleep. For Mihawk, Buggy was trouble, and you were a chick who followed troubles like a mother.

S-Hawk kept glancing at the others at the table but his focus was always on you. But at the same time, it was also secretly on Mihawk and the only one knew this was Mihawk himself. You watched S-Hawk with excitement as he ate the dessert you put on his plate, he frowned a little while you listening to Buggy's whispers. Seeing that he couldn't control his expressions much, unlike Mihawk...it was so cute. You stood up to pinch S-Hawk's cheeks, who was taller than you and while squeezing his cheeks softly in your hands, you looked at Mihawk, who was reading the morning newspaper. "Mihawk, look at this cuteness!!" His gaze focused on you slightly, then went back to his newspaper. "I don't think what I saw is the same as what you were talking about, my dear."

Crocodile shifted slightly in his chair. He hummed with satisfaction as his chair was pushed back slightly. He watched the scene in front of him silently, lighting a new cigar. He had originally joined the breakfast because he thought it would be useful if they could use a seraphim, but now what was happening in front of him. He looked like he was going to watch a comedy show for free. He grinned as he took his cigar out of his mouth and blew the smoke out.

---

You were sitting with Mihawk on the upper floor of the Cross Guild, drinking wine and reading the newspaper you hadn’t looked at this morning. “They didn’t write anything about us,” you said, turning the newspaper over and looking at the back. Mihawk removed the wine from his lips. “I’m sure they must have lost their minds when their Seraphim went missing. I don’t think they’ll tell anyone about this information.”

You leaned back even more into Mihawk's chest. Even though your eyes scanned the newspaper, what you were thinking about was S-Hawk. After breakfast, he left saying that he wanted to observe the surroundings instead of spending time with you. To be honest you hadn't even thought he would want something like that but you were happy with it. Even though Mihawk didn't accept it, he was more than a weapon. You felt it, no you knew it.

Your eyes shifted from the newspaper to the man standing behind you. You turned your chest towards him, your hands roaming over the skin you had memorized. His hand, which had been resting on your hip so comfortably that you hadn’t realized it, tightened and slowly caressed your flesh through your clothing. “You’re thinking too much again.”

You smiled slightly at what he said and laid your head on his chest, your cheeks squashed under the pressure. “I’m just thinking about the moment I met S-Hawk…” You said, your hand still roaming over his skin.

Mihawk didn't let any words out. He just waited for you to share your thoughts with him. Like he always did. If your thoughts were a storm, he was a lighthouse you could take shelter in. Nothing less, nothing more, just the way it was meant to be.

"I entered the marine base wearing sailor clothes. That way I wouldn't stand out too much while walking around. And to be honest, I wasn't even sure if I could find him. Still, I had to try, Mihawk, even if it was a chance, I was willing. Do you understand?... The moment I saw his picture, the people around me calling him the government's new weapon... there was a huge weight on my heart that I couldn't accept it."

Seeing his childhood that you could never see in a photo...your eyes were silently filled with the weight of the words you said and didn't say. Mihawk must have sensed this because his hand slid above your waist in a silent reassuring manner. This movement pushed you even deeper. You lifted your head from his chest and looked into his eyes. Mihawk's gaze had accepted you just like that. Silent, observant, but so close. He was looking at you with those gentle eyes that belonged only to you, as if he could see everything.

You thought about Mihawk’s situation. Even though his attitude towards S-Hawk upset you, you had to understand him. “I’m sorry Mihawk.” You said. He put the wine glass in his hand on the table, his calloused hands slowly and gently touched your cheek. He wiped your tears. He poured his words with a deep voice that was as soft as his gaze. “Don’t apologize to me for things you can’t control, Y/n. Don’t numb your feelings for things that don’t deserve them.”

You licked your dry lips and wet them. "Neither of you deserved this, Mihawk." Even though the words came out of your mouth, they formed a lump in your throat as if they had gone back. Mihawk stroked your hair and kissed your head for a long time while he gently stroked your back.

You were both grateful for moments like these. Mihawk gently placed his finger on your chin and made you look at him. "You say he's half of me, but half of me is you." he said. His voice may have been very cold or deep but to you it was as sweet and soft as velvet. Only you could know the difference. No one else, yes. Only you.

You looked over Mihawk's shoulder as you heard footsteps approaching from behind.

S-Hawk slowly approached you. It's not known who his harsh gaze was directed at, but it slowly softened when he saw you. He approached you as if he was going to say something. Mihawk watched his movements with the side eye but didn't interfere.

You were expecting words for your ears, not the yellow tulips extended towards your face. You blinked once or twice to reinforce what was in front of your eyes. Your face, which was like a waveless sea, quickly became more and more excited. You took the flowers with excitement and said, "WOAHHHHHH ARE THESE FOR MEEE?! YOU ARE SO SWEET, S-HAWWKKK!" While looking at him with excitement, you noticed the slight blush on his dark cheeks, you couldn't resist anymore and jumped up from the couch and hugged him tightly. Your head was almost touching his chest. "Hehe thanks, I'll take care of these as best as I can," you said with a big smile, looking at him. S-Hawk looked at you with his usual stoic, sullen face. "I know."

At the sound of Mihawk placing the glass on the table you looked at him, still hugging S-Hawk. “Y/n likes daisies more.” He said with that stern face he always presented to others. But you knew better.

"Bring it next time."

Bonus:

[malsmind]

▸002 ⋅˚₊‧ Runaway ‧₊˚ ⋅

𝘤𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘰𝘭𝘰

⚠︎ ∿ smoking weed ∿ regret ∿ emotional unavailability ∿

၊၊||၊ Come Over When You're Sober, Pt. 2 ⌗ 2

𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘱𝘵 𝘰𝘧 ��𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘰 @delilahsturniolo

you always thought you’d be able to figure him out. maybe that was the first mistake. thinking people like him came with a map. chris was all sharp edges and quiet nights, lips that tasted like smoke and eyes that looked like he’d already seen too much. you wanted to understand him.

fuck, you tried.

sat next to him when he barely spoke. waited for the texts he only sent at 2 a.m. laughed at his sarcasm even when it stung. held on even when he pushed. because there was something in him—in the way he looked at you like you were a fire he was too afraid to touch but couldn’t stop staring at.

and you?

you just wanted him to stay. just long enough to learn how he worked. just long enough to make it make sense. but chris didn’t stay. he never stayed.

“you don’t get it,” he’d mutter.

and you’d say, “then make me get it.”

but he never did. not really. he’d just go quiet. reach for the blunt. look away. he hated it when you cried. hated that he was the reason. but he never stopped making you cry either. and that’s the part that hurt the most. you remember the worst one.

the fight.

it started over something small, it always did. he forgot to call. you said you were worried. he laughed.

“worried? for what?”

and you just—you broke.

your voice cracked, “why do you always do this? why can’t you just let someone in for once?”

and he just sat back, eyes tired, as if he’d already lived the conversation in his head a thousand times before. then—he lit the blunt. took a drag. shrugged like it meant nothing.

“life ain’t fair, y/n. everyone’s fake as fuck. no point.”

his voice was flat. detached.

“there’s no need for you to cry. i told you this wouldn’t work.”

and god—you hated him in that moment.

hated how calm he was while your chest was falling apart. hated that you believed him when he said this mattered. because it did matter. you mattered. but maybe not enough. not to him. you left that night. slammed the door. wiped your cheeks with your sleeves and promised yourself not to look back.

and chris?

he didn’t chase you. he sat on the balcony instead, watching the smoke curl into the night sky. pretending your footsteps didn’t echo in his head like a song on repeat.

he never meant to hurt you.

he didn’t know how to be loved. not the way you did it. not so soft. not so all in. you saw him, really saw him. understood things he never said. noticed the way his hands shook sometimes. the way he slept with his back to the wall. the way he flinched when someone raised their voice, even if it wasn’t at him. and you still stayed. that scared the hell out of him. because all he ever wanted was to disappear. start new. runaway from this place, from his past, from the version of himself that couldn’t stop breaking things. but suddenly, he didn’t want to run alone.

he wanted you.

he just didn’t know how to say it. so he said the opposite. because that was easier. that was safer.

“this won’t work.”

what he meant was: i’m scared.

what he meant was: don’t leave.

but it was too late. you were gone. and maybe this time, for real. he doesn’t go out much now. doesn’t talk much either. his friends ask what happened, and he just shrugs. smokes. changes the subject. he still has your sweatshirt, the one you left in his car. he wears it sometimes, it still smells like you. like comfort, like something he never should’ve let go. he plays the song you liked, the one you put on when he was anxious. the one that made you smile while humming out of tune, he wonders if you ever think about him.

if you’re okay. if you’re better without him.

he hopes so.

but he also hopes you miss him a little. because he misses you in all the ways he can’t say out loud. he still wants to run. still wants to disappear. but now, all he thinks about is how he should’ve asked you to come with him.

how he should’ve said, “fuck this place. let’s go. just you and me.”

instead, he let you walk away. and now he’s stuck in a city that feels too big, too loud, too fucking empty without you.

and the worst part?

he did it to himself.

[jessaerys]

watching jack saint's video he just posted about the last of us and he's probably one of like three video essayist i would trust with that hornet's nest of a videogame/tv adaptation to be empathetic and have an understanding of what makes a good, compelling narrative while also critiquing the political influences in the work itself without condemning anyone who finds the work of art meaningful and ANYHOW for the most part i am very pleased with his takes. very comforting, very refreshing, very nuanced, i love you jack saint

BUT there's this section around the 27 min. mark where he says "when ellie tortures one of abby's friends for information (...) she is emulating joel in the first game, so much of the second game revolves around ellie's resentment towards joel as explored by the pain she goes through when she tries to do for joel what she knows he would've done for her. and in fairness i thought the show also flobs(?) this pretty hard with this weird obsession craig mazin has with ellie being some secret sadist who craves torture and murder (...)" and here he overlaps footage of ellie from the show (violence enjoyer) and ellie from the videogame (haunted at what she has done), says, "watch this scene, and tell me ellie is, in any way, enjoying what she's doing."

and his point is pretty well explained, right, and not even incorrect as far as my understanding about the ellie-joel relationship in the game goes: it's all about both of them learning from each other; about joel being both a loving life-changing figure towards ellie and also a bad role model, and emulating what she learned from him is what leads to the tragedy of the second game - later jack saint goes on to talk about how ellie teaches joel to open up to people and how thawing that empathy within him is also what leads to his death when he decides to save abby's life not knowing she would later come back and kill him, right, the mortifying and even deadly ordeal of human vulnerability. he says, "this is part of what complicates ellie's relationship with joel, his behaviors didn't come from some cliche sadistic dark passenger, they came from his desire to protect people. this is the point. the things we often value most in people (love and empathy and loyalty) can often lead us to doing truly depraved things out of those feelings of obligation." he goes on to say, "she loves joel, but also there are things inside of him that terrify her and make her feel like everything else is just another constructed fantasy, and it is her who pays the consequences for those parts of him he was scared to show, because through that love those parts of him become parts of her."

ANDDD it's like. well to be 100% clear he is not wrong. that is a lovely and extremely compelling storyline and character relationship, y'know i get it. BUT as someone who was first introduced to the characters via the show it drives me absolutely bonkers bananas that this is one of the most common critiques i hear of the hbo adaptation, that joel is too soft and ellie is too sadistic, that this dilutes and undermines the above ^ meeting of opposites that is at the center of the game's emotional storyline, ellie's light and joel's darkness and how they affect and stain and change each other and what it says about love and attachment and the epic highs and lows of human connection.

but i don't think changing their characters does that!! adaptations are not a zero sum game!!

like i don't know how why it's SO difficult to find compelling a version of the last of us where ellie is like joel, where she has a penchant for violence inside of her too, where their connection is born out of that recognition of the self through the other and where joel both sees himself in ellie and wants to protect her from this dark passenger (which jake saint uses derogatorily but you know what, it's actually a really helpful shorthand to explain this inherent innate viciousness some people do have! like it is a thing that happens, in real life!) while also accidentally nurturing it in her, while also accidentally triggering the tragedy of ellie abandoning herself to this bloodthirst in part 2, repeating his steps just the way he taught her, because that is how the so-often-mentioned-it's-like-a-broken-record ~cycles of violence~ that tlou revolves around happen within the structure of the nuclear family. how is that not another layer! to the Themes!

like it's such a subtle but crucial difference, right, ellie pursuing revenge because joel has tainted her with his violent ways in the game (which assumes that, had ellie and joel not crossed paths, violence would never be a choice a young ellie would make as she serves this narrative purpose of apotheosis of the innocence of youth born to a cruel world); and ellie pursuing revenge because joel has in his pursuit to protect her from the dark passenger that he is too far gone to excise from himself, ironically enabled the violence within her in this greek tragedy fashion; joel has been dead from the beginning, in trying to change his own fate via the daughter-mirror he has instead condemned her.

and i think that subtle internal difference in both of those emotional truelines is pleasure. what if instead of being afraid of the horrible things joel has done ellie sees herself validated in it? attracted to the precipice of it? doesn't that make her even more of a participatory agent in her own unraveling? doesn't that give her character much more agency and substance when it comes to the ugly thing she twists herself into?

i don't know man it drives me crazy i guess because it reminds me of the whole perfect victim approach people have to similar father-daughter dynamics wherein the dark passenger is instead sexual abuse; how people cannot possibly fathom that the victim can too be an agent in their own desecration, that the disciple-daughter can even enjoy it and ask for it, and it doesn't make them any less of a victim.

show!ellie and joel are wuthering heights, they are a vampire and a fledgling. and it's not that i don't understand the symbolism of game!ellie and it's not that i don't find it compelling i just think making her a little feral is a billion times more interesting for girls who are just like their father! because here's the thing i just SHRIMPLY don't think this would be nearly such a big fucking deal if ellie was a boy!!! if this was a story about a father-son relationship!!! i think if ellie had been an innocent bright eyed boy in the game that is later given this dark passenger in the show, people would be like ooohh so much more nuance!! so it's really hard not to see this critique as gendered!

as if this subtle twist of the knife in ellie's characterization detracts from the marrow of the story rather than simply shape ellie differently around it which is, you know, what happens with adaptations. in jack saint's defense he is busy fighting much bigger demons: male videogame players with the emotional intelligence of roughly a three year old

[rainforestakiie]

an idea that I had and never wrote. it is a Zelda, Majora's Mask AU or theme. basically, when Adam died for the first time, he did not go straight to heaven. instead, he went to Purgatory, a place called Clock Town where versions of people he knew lived, Lilith, Eve, Lucifer, Sera, even Michael. everyone was like the opposite of what they were: the angels were reapers, archangels were grim reapers, and normal angels were phantom reapers.

basically, they had black wings, the opposite shade of hair, and black and red eyes. Lilith was the first human and ran the town, they did not hate Adam and invited him to live with them and all the other humans who were born in Clock Town, Lilith and Eve didn't populate Clock Town.

Adam learns that this place was made before God created heaven; that all the people here were God's first attempt at life. God was disappointed in them and threw them into Clock Town until he was able to create the perfect first beings, i.e. Metatron (first angel), Adam (first human), and so on, who would later become the exorcist girls are Phantom Reapers.

the sinners are monsterous humans who live in Clock Town. Lucifer is tasked to be Adam's guardian grim reaper (the opposite to guardian angel). they grow close and fall in love. Adam becomes pregnant with Charlie while Eve is pregnant with hers and Lilith's first child, Vaggie.

everything is peachy.

time works differently in Clock Town; a mere second in heaven and hell is one hundred years in Clock Town. so, Adam was in Clock Town for over a billion years until one day Metatron is sent to retrieve Adam with God's divine power. she captures Adam and forces him to watch as she drops the moon upon Clock Town, killing everyone he loved and adored. she then seals his memory and returns him to heaven.

later, when Nifty kills Adam and he is respawned in hell, his memory is rebooted and he is able to remember what Metatron has done. he swears revenge and later is able to bring the moon into heaven, forcing Metatron to watch as the moon falls upon heaven, hell, and Earth, making the winners and sinners experience what the people of Clock Town felt when they were hopelessly killed.

um, yeah. a stupid idea i had after playing the game again.

[artsymephy]

Avatar the Last Airbender x Fire Emblem Fates

[buddiequeerbait]

[mariocki]

RIP Christopher Benjamin (27.12.1934 - 15.1.2025)

"That was another reason, in a way, that I decided to give [stage acting] up, because I was getting a bit - a bit dicey with the lines. People sort of wrote down, quite often, the things I said... instead of the things I should have said. They were known as my bloopers: 'Benjamin bloopers'. Some of my inventions were very good, I must admit. My feeling was, if I dried, I had to say something - and so that something was something that amused the rest of the cast considerably, quite often."

[rafyki]

Compilation of all the secret little smiles Jack has for Joke during ep 5

He hasn't forgiven him yet - yeah sure, that's why he keeps looking at him like that, of course

The "i can't believe he got so hurt while trying to help me and now he keeps apologizing to me" smile after treating his wounds

The "secretly listening to him and finding him so cute and nice" smile

The "oh my god he might be talking about me" smile

The "oh woah he's such a good person" smile

And finally the "yeah who am I kidding I had already forgiven him from the start" smile

Really, our boy Jack never stood a chance

[selkiefinalist]

oh to be a mysterious well-dressed woman living in a cave in the side of a mountain

[aphantimes]

i really really really really want sonic prime to just be confirmed to be its own thing bc i can't help but constantly think "wtf this makes no sense this is not how sonic acts this is not game sonic what"

pls just let it be its own thing i would enjoy it way more like that. i don't mind this sonic he's fun but no he definitely is not game sonic he's a different character

[crossbackpoke-check]

when you get this ask could you perhaps maybe bless us with 5 of your fav songs (currently or of all time), and then send this ask to 5 of your mutuals who you think have good taste!

whipping out this old meme to say: sorry i’m basic and also have never once made a ‘favorites’ list without agonizing intensely 😭 so i narrowed it down to ‘favorite songs that have been used in hockey fancams’. HOWMSTEVER i also struggled with that. so. in no order are five songs shuffled from my fc songs playlist:

i cheated already i forgot we need to include anything hippo campus. yes i had to no i don’t even care which song (fc specific… bambi… semi-pro…) they’re my favorite band

sarah - alex g / astrid- glaive (*two songs but same vibes. it’s fine)

make out - julia nunes

junk of the heart (happy) - the kooks

pa’lante - hurray for the riffraff / thy mission - the garden (cheating again but these are both knox songs to me so they can be in one)

good old fashioned lover boy - queen

[rydengg]

a majority of you know nothing about how porn is made and distributed and the people in power are counting on you not knowing. i’m so tired.

one of the major things they count on you not knowing is that tube sites do not produce even a decimal of the content you consume. tube sites are just video platforms. they are access to content that isn’t put behind a paywall in the first place. mainstream studios that can often do put shortened versions of their films on tube sites for advertisement. these only make up a fraction of the content that people actively consume as well - much more of it is independently created than folks realize.

with pornhub’s model program, a MASSIVE amount of the content there is uploaded consensually by independent performers themselves. we get ad revenue and, as previously stated, it makes for decent advertisement. i believe the other big tube sites have programs that are similar. and yes, we are age verified when we apply to become part of the model program. every single thing we upload has to go through approval before it goes public.

i’m saying this because every single time a porn-related post goes around someone brings up tube sites before anything else, and they often bring up dated or entirely false information. PH and all of the big tube sites used to have MASSIVE issues (that we warned people about back then - nobody listened) with non-consensually uploaded content but they’ve long since had to change their stance on this and become fairly strict. i’m not saying there’s zero content of that nature. it’s just not all that different than any platform that has video content. all of them face issues of copyright and non-consensual media. (and i’d say they enforce their rules arguably better than platforms like say, facebook.)

and that’s not even to mention how it isn’t even a small facet of the industry despite the general public grouping it altogether. you cannot accept any kind of profit on onlyfans, manyvids, apclips, etc unless you go through a process that includes identity verification. you cannot upload any content involving another person besides who you already have paperwork for. that paperwork includes age verification. and while i’m absolutely there are people that find ways around this… that’s literally everywhere lol. in no other industry does that small outlier define the whole practice.

like… ALL of the propaganda, all the proposed legislation against sex work and specifically porn paints the exact opposite picture of what i’m telling you and so many of you are eating it up. they want you to have a visceral reaction so you don’t think critically and now - watching it hurt people outside the porn industry - we’re seeing what that does in the long term.

we have warned you. we will continue to warn you. the choice to stay ignorant is the choice to condemn yourself to a discriminatory society that’ll be overall worse off in the long run. it will run you over the moment it sees you as perverse, too.

[leclerc-hs]

lando or charles eating the aphrodisiac chocolate with reader as a challenge to see who will give in first. im going feral thinking abt this…

pairing: lando norris x fem! reader word count: 2.3k warnings: SMUT, like hard fucking SMUT, dirty talk, bad language, lots of cursing, kinda mean lando!, hot hot hot, 18+, like serious fucking SMUT. unprotected sex, p in v…, overstimulation. breeding kink? author's note: ok so i got this request recently but was off of work today so i had a spare few hours to get this written. like I'm telling you this shit is straight up p*rn basically. anyways XOXO. COMMENT IF I SHOULD WRITE A CHARLES VERSION.... ◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤

It started as a joke.

A stupid dare over a few drinks, a stolen box of expensive chocolates laced with some so-called “harmless aphrodisiac”. And whoever begged to fuck first, lost. Simple.

“Bet you’d crack first,” You teased, waving a piece in Lando’s direction.

He snorted, cocky. “You? Lasting longer than me? No shot.”

“You scared?”

And that was how you both ended up stretched across the mattress of his bedroom, city lights glittering through the dark windows. A half-empty box of chocolates between you.

Popping pieces of chocolate like it’s just a normal Friday night. Like it wasn’t burning under your skin.

The first twenty minutes were easy.

He was lounging against the headboard, legs spread, still pretending to be cool. But you saw all the signs. The twitches. And now he was hunched over, sweat forming on his forehead, cock bulging.

It hit slow, like a boiling heat swirling in your belly, licking along your veins.

Minutes passed.

He was now stretched out across the mattress, hoodie pulled over his head with one arm and tossed aside. 

“I’m fine,” you say. Calm and smug. Licking a part of the melted chocolate on your fingertip while you stared at him. “Starting to think it’s not that strong.”

Lando doesn’t reply.

He’s sitting opposite of you. Legs spread wide, forearms on his thighs, glaring.

Like he know’s just how fucked he is.

Like he’s trying to hard to not show it. Not to let you see how badly his cock is fucking aching and leaking inside of his sweats.

But the bulge is obvious. 

“What the fuck was in that chocolate?”

You smile. “Just a little something to make you honest.”

“Honest?” His voice cracks. “Baby, I’m seconds away from fucking the mattress.”

His pupils are blown wide, breathing shallow. And you just smile.

“Aw,” you say. Mocking, tilting your head. “Poor baby. Getting hard already?”

“Shut the fuck up,” His voice is rough. Hoarse.

“Ohhh,” you mutter. “Is Lando gonna lose the game finally?”

He shifts, just slightly, not much. Just a fraction. But it must be too much because a soft, broken sound slips past his lips. Like a whimper.

And you freeze. 

His eyes snap shut. One fist in his hair, yanks. The other drops to his thigh, squeezing.

You lean back, slow and taunting, stretching your arms over your head, the hem of your shirt lifting up just enough to flash the skin of your stomach.

“You’re fucking evil,” Lando rasps. Words dripping like venom. “Sitting there, all wet and fucking needy, pretending you don’t wanna get fuckin’ ruined.”

His hand moved, slow, slipping down his stomach, fingering the waistband of his sweats.

And you watch, breathless, as he shoves his hand under the fabric, grabbing his cock with a loud groan.

“I’m fucking aching, baby.” He hisses, squeezing himself, eyes flutter closed. “Hard as fuck. Dying. And you’re just sitting there, teasing, like a little slut who doesn’t know what she’s asking for.”

You swallow, whole body throbbing at the violence in his voice.

“Go ahead,” you mutter. “Touch yourself.”

He opens his eyes. Dark. Wild.

“Fuck you.” He breathes. “Not touching myself when you’re right fucking there. Perfect fuckin’ pussy’s mine.”

He shoves his sweats down. Just enough to free himself. His cock is thick, red, and leaking.

You whimper. Unintentionally. 

And he grins. Menacingly. Mean.

“You’re drooling, pretty girl.” He taunts. “Want it that bad, hm?”

He fists himself roughly, dragging his hand up his length, smearing his precum down the shaft, a loud groan pushing past his lips.

“Bet you’re soaking that little pussy right now,” he jerks himself slowly, torturing. “Bet you’re throbbing and fuckin’ clenching around nothing, wishing my cock was shoved up there.”

Your thighs press shut. The throbbing between them aching. Burning you.

He laughs.

“Just look at you,” He gasps. “Fuckin needy. Bet you’d ride my cock without a second thought if I told you to.”

You shift forward, like a predator, “I would.” You whisper. “Sit down on you and ride you until you were fuckin’ crying.”

His whole body shudders. 

“Fuck,” his head tips back, eyes squeezed shut as he grinds his hips into his own hand. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You crawl forward, until you were between his legs, looking up at him, inches from his leaking cock.

And he was shaking now. Hands fisting at his sides like he didn’t know whether to grab you or keep going.

You tilt your head, innocently.

“Beg for it.” 

And he chokes on a moan. Lips pressed tight together.

“Fuckin’ hell, baby.” He frowns. “Y’want me to fucking beg?”

You smile. Nod.

His eyes drag down you, breathing so hard his chest is visibly rising and falling.

“Please,” his voice is wrecked. “Please let me fuck you. Please, baby…” he’s fidgeting now. “Need to be inside of you. Need that tight pussy squeezing’ me, fuck,..please”

You lean closer, letting your breath hit the tip of his cock without touching him.

And he fucking whimpers.

“Need to split you open,” He pants. “Fuck you so stupid. Wanna feel you shaking around me. Fill you up and stuff you so full that you can’t walk tomorrow.”

You give him nothing. Just a light drag of your fingers crawling up his inner thigh. Barely touching him. Just enough to torment him.

And his entire body jerks. 

“Stop fucking teasing.” Its a low, guttural snarl. 

“Why?” You mutter. “Y’gonna come from just this? Just my hands on your leg?”

That does it.

He fucking snaps.

One hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back so you meet his eyes. And he looks fucking insane.

Flushed. Sweaty. Pupils blown. His chest is rising.

And his voice?

It’s fucking mean. Angry. Frustrated. Horny.

“Bet you think this is so funny.” He hisses, dragging you up from your knees, tossing you back onto the bed like you weigh nothing. “Y’think I’m just gonna sit here and let you fuck with me while my cock’s fucking leaking for you.”

You laugh, smug. And his control shatters.

“Shut the fuck up.”

He’s on you before you can blink, shoving your knees apart, tearing your shorts down with both hands.

He shoves your shirt high enough over your breasts, not taking it off. He just wants access.

And his eyes land right between your legs.

You’re fucking soaked. Slick and smeared all along your thighs. Pooling.

“Oh my god,” he groans. “Fuckin’ look at you.”

And then his eyes meet yours. Fucking furious.

“All that teasing and you’re this fucking wet?” He slaps your inner thigh, hard enough to make your hips jump. “Pussy’s been begging for me and you’re sitting there like you’re in control?” 

He lines himself up. And shoves the tip in. Just enough to feel your tight, hot cunt suck him in.

You gasp, arching your back into him. And he groans.

“Feel that? Feel how fucking hard I am for you?”

He thrusts even deeper, still not all the way in. Just a little bit more.

“You don’t get to tease me and then not take it,” He grunts. “Gonna fuck you until this slutty little cunt’s dripping with my cum.”

You moan. Loud. But he grabs your chin. Fingers gripping your jaw so tight that you can’t look away even if you tried.

“Uh, uh. Don’t you dare come yet.”

He pulls out. Just a little bit. Still grinding into you. “Wanna feel you clench on me when I’m buried in.”

And then he slams all the way in. One harsh thrust that fucking knocks the air out of your lungs.

You cry out. Hands fisting at the sheets. Legs snapping shut around his hips immediately.

He groans. It’s broken and raw.

“Fuck…there it is. That tight little pussy choking me.” 

He starts moving. Hard. Dragging his cock in and out with a harsh force. Like he’s punishing you.

The mattress moves under you, the headboard hitting the wall.

And his words. They keep coming.

“Gonna fuckin’ breed you baby. Shove it so fuckin’ deep you’ll be leaking with me for days.”

“Made for me. Bet no one will ever fuck you this deep.”

“Y’like when I’m mean, huh? Like when I lose it for you?”

And you can’t even breathe. Cant answer. Can only take his cock as he fucks you deep into the mattress.

“Fuckin’ knew you’d play dirty.” He pants. “And I warned…fucking warned you what would happen.”

And then his hand is trailing down, thumb pressing fast, tiny circles to your clit.

You yell. 

“Yeah, go on.” He says. “Soak my cock. Show me who fucking wins now.”

And you break. Coming hard. Your body arches off the bed, walls squeezing him so tight he only thrusts a few more times before he spills into you.

He keeps thrusting through it, slower, like he can’t stop.

He collapses on top of you. “What the fuck are you doing to me, baby?”

He’s still inside of you. Still thick. Twitching. And still so fucking hard.

Your body is limp under him, thighs trembling with need.

But Lando doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull out. Just stayed buried inside of you, cock so deep inside of you that you swear you can feel it throbbing.

And then you flinch because he’s moving again. It’s slow, just a small roll of his hips.

“Lan,” He grabs your jaw. 

“No.” He breathes. “You don’t get to say my name like that after what you just pulled.”

Your eyes are glassy. 

“Wanted to see me lose it, yeah? Wanted to see what’d I do?” His hips roll deeper, harder. And you whimper.

Pussy swollen, sensitive, full with his cum, and he’s grinding into you like he’s only just started.

“Well here you go,” He hisses. “You asked for this.”

He grabs both of your wrists, pins them above your head with one hand, while the other slips down and wraps around your throat.

“You’re gonna take every fucking thrust. Every drop.”

And he’s fucking you again. Cock still so hard that it feels unnatural.

Your cunt pulses around him. Soaked and clenching like you’re about to come again. 

“Look at you,” he pants. “Still so fucking tight after being filled. Still squeezing me like you don’t want me to pull out.”

He’s thrusting harder, his hips slapping into you.

“Gonna stuff you full again,” His teeth trail your neck. “Gonna fuck you til you can’t say a fucking word.”

And you can’t. You’re babbling. Sobs. Moans. Gasps. And he doesn’t stop. His hand reaches down between your legs again, reaching for your puffy clit.

And you yell. “No..no, Lan!” 

“Oh, now you wanna be shy?” He mocks, nibbling at your throat. “Now you wanna act like its too much?”

He pinches your clit. You cry out.

“Teasin’ me an hour ago. Thighs clenched like a little whore.”

He trails up your neck with his tongue. “You don’t get to quit now.”

And then he’s fucking you faster, his fingers rubbing tight circles over your clit and your body shatters.

You yell, spasming so hard around his cock like it’s milking him.

He groans loud. Spills inside of you for a second time, relentlessly grinding into you.

And even then, he still doesn’t pull out.

He slumps over you, panting and drenched in sweat.

But you feel it. The way his cock still doesn’t soften.

He drags a hand over his face, staring down at you. 

Grinning.

-

You don’t even know what time it is anymore. Sweat is dry on your skin. Slick smeared across your thighs.

The bed is fucking soaked. Sweat, cum, saliva, you. And your legs are still twitching from the last orgasm.

And Lando’s still inside of you. Still throbbing.

And he’s looking at you now. Really looking.

His hand cups underneath your jaw, thumb brushing your skin gently. “You’re so fucking pretty when you cry.” He mutters. He says it like he can’t believe you’re here. That you’re his.

Your eyes flutter shut as he leans down, pressing warm kisses to your cheek, then jaw, then the spot beneath your ear.

And he rocks his hips forward again…it’s slow, deep, grinding into your overstimulated cunt with a soft groan.

You whimper but he presses his thumb to your lips. Shushes you.

“Shh, I know, baby,” He whispers. “I know.”

But he doesn’t stop. Keeps moving like he needs to be inside of you.

“Make me fucking crazy.” He breathes. “Acting all innocent, playing games.”

He kisses you. Slow. Mouth lingering against yours as his hand slips under your thigh, lifting your leg over his hip as he pushes into you deeper.

And when he moans into your mouth, you feel yourself clench around him.

“I was going to fuck you angry again,” he says. “Wanted to keep ruining you.”

He kisses you again, breath shuddering against your skin. “But you look to fuckin’ sweet like this. Messy and fucked under me.”

You gasp when his cock nudges that spot just right in your belly as he flips you over, putting you on top of him.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “You can take it.”

And then he kisses your shoulder. “So good for me.” He groans. “So fucking good for me.”

You moan. It’s shake and desperate, and you start pushing yourself into him a little faster. Thighs burning, body aching.

“There you go,” He’s groaning. “Just like that, baby. Fuck…”

You dig your nails into his shoulder and he loves it. “I wanna come inside you again.” He’s panting. “Need to fill you up.”

And you’re sobbing. Nodding against him. 

“Tell me it’s mine,” He whispers. “All of it. This pussy. These moans. This entire fucking body and soul.”

You breathe, riding him faster. “It’s yours.”

He kisses you again, open mouthed and deep, shoving his tongue in your mouth. He thrusts up against you and you shatter on top of him. Again.

Body convulsing, as he comes with a low broken fuck while spilling inside of you again.

You collapse on him. And he just holds you there.

Shaking. Sweaty. Covered.

He kisses your hair, whispering.

“Yeah, you won.”

[solxamber]

Want You Back with: Housewardens

Where they're still in love with you.

Riddle Rosehearts

After the breakup, Riddle acted like he'd read somewhere that repressing emotion was a perfectly valid coping mechanism. Which, to be fair, he probably had. And so he embarked on what could only be described as a grief management routine so structured and detail-oriented that you almost had to respect it.

First came the part where he behaved like nothing had happened.

He went about his day with all the usual pomp—collaring students, citing arcane dorm rules, and drinking his tea as usual.

If anyone brought you up (on purpose or by accident), he would simply blink, nod, and go back to arranging sugar cubes in a perfect geometric formation. "We are no longer together," he would say, as if it were an administrative change and not, say, a soul-crushing emotional catastrophe.

Then came the coincidences.

He began showing up in places he absolutely did not frequent before. The café you liked? Suddenly, he was a regular. The library on Thursday evenings? There. The very hallway outside your class despite Heartslabyul being on the opposite side of campus? Oh yes. There too. And every time you spotted him lurking (because that was the only word for it), he would give a startled little blink, like you were the surprise.

"Oh. I didn't see you there," he said, the fourth time in a week.

You stared at him from behind your drink. "I've been sitting here for thirty minutes."

"Well," he muttered, "public seating is for everyone."

By week two, he began inventing reasons to talk to you. Weird ones.

He approached you one day, armed with a rulebook and what looked like three sticky notes marking battle locations.

"According to Queen of Hearts rule 42," he said, clearly having practiced this in front of a mirror, "ex-partners must return borrowed items within twelve days."

You blinked. "You lent me a pencil."

"It was part of a set," he snapped, scandalized.

You told him you'll give it back and he looked like someone slapped him.

You thought that might be the end of it. But then, course, it escalated.

He showed up at your door one evening with a paper in his hand. A list. A physical list. Titled, in absolutely unnecessary cursive, "A Non-Exhaustive Record of My Missteps."

"It's not meant to change anything," he said stiffly, not quite looking at you. "Only to… acknowledge."

There were bullet points. Short, awkward, and occasionally baffling.

Should not have critiqued your sock choice in front of your friends.

I apologize for saying 'emotional outbursts are not strategic.' That was, in hindsight, a poor choice of words.

You are allowed to eat dessert before dinner. Even if it is cherry pie.

I realize now that asking if we could schedule arguments during free periods was not romantic.

I should have asked you to stay.

You didn't know what to do with it—him. He was so Riddle about everything. Polite. Procedural. Very slightly insane. But under all the awkward attempts at regulation and paperwork, it was clear he missed you. Badly.

And the truth was, you still hadn't returned the matching pencil.

You kept it. Not because you believed in fate or romance or even well-meaning tyrants who quoted rulebooks like love poems—but because part of you thought, maybe, if he was willing to be just a little more flexible, there might be a version of this that could work.

And you hoped it could.

Leona Kingscholar

After the breakup, Leona made it his personal mission to convince the entire world—Ruggie, his dorm, the mirror in his room, the literal wildlife outside—that he did not care.

He went around saying things like, "Tch. Good riddance," and "Like I got time to babysit someone who cries over movies," even though no one had brought you up. He slept more. Talked less. Got moodier, which no one thought was possible until he started growling at actual potted plants for existing near his nap spots.

Whenever Ruggie so much as hinted at your name—usually while dancing around some scheduling conflict or trying to explain why Leona's mood had tanked again—he'd get cut off mid-word.

"I wasn't even talking about them!" Ruggie would complain.

"Then stop thinking about them so loud," Leona snapped, face buried in the crook of his arm like the concept of you physically hurt his eyes.

But of course, the moment your name stopped being brought up, that became a problem too.

He started acting restless. Less asleep all the time and more awake and clearly trying to look like he's not looking around for someone. He'd frown when someone laughed in the hallway, then look annoyed when it wasn't you. He started showing up to classes he normally skipped, sitting in the back with his legs stretched out and arms crossed like he was doing the entire school a favor just by existing in the room.

And then the things started appearing.

First, it was his jacket—left casually across the back of your desk chair, like maybe gravity had just pulled it there on accident. Then his spellbook, shoved between your textbooks in a way that definitely required premeditated effort. Then a sandwich. An entire sandwich, wrapped up and labeled "Not Yours."

He denied all of it, obviously.

"Must've been Ruggie," he said, regarding the jacket that literally smelled like him.

When confronted about the book: "I don't even read, what're you talking about."

As for the sandwich? "You're imagining things. I didn't make that for you."

By that point, no one believed him—not even himself.

The final blow came in the form of a confrontation you hadn't expected. Late evening, when you were walking back to your dorm from the library. You were alone, or you thought you were, until you turned the corner and found him there—half in shadow, arms crossed, gaze trained somewhere just over your shoulder.

He didn't say hello.

Didn't say anything actually.

Just let the silence stretch until it started fraying at the edges, and then muttered, voice low and rough:

"You still want this, don't you?"

You stared at him. He didn't flinch, but you could tell he wanted to. He held himself like someone who didn't expect the answer to be yes, but still desperately needed to hear it before he gave up entirely.

And you realized somewhere between the jacket, the sandwich, and the way his voice cracked at the end of the sentence—that for all his snarling and attitude, he never stopped loving you.

He just didn't know how to ask you to stay without sounding like he might actually need you.

Which, of course, he did. Not that he'd ever say it out loud.

Not yet, anyway.

But the next time he leaves something behind, you think you might return it in person. Maybe even stay awhile.

Azul Ashengrotto

Azul handled the breakup the only way he knew how: with spreadsheets, surveillance footage, and a truly unhealthy amount of denial.

He claimed to be fine, of course. Said it with a straight face while color-coding inventory spreadsheets and inputting customer satisfaction data at four in the morning like a man unburdened by heartbreak. But when the tweels found the Lounge security footage paused—again—on a scene of you laughing near the bar, they stopped asking.

He'd memorized the timestamp.

And no, he didn't want to talk about it.

Azul had always been prone to spiraling in a unique way. After the breakup, that tendency mutated into something truly concerning. He didn't cry. He didn't wallow. Instead, he opened a blank document and began calculating. How many hours you'd spent together. How often you laughed in his presence. What the average rate of eye contact was in happy couples versus yours. There were charts. Graphs. Some kind of weighted affection index.

Unfortunately, Jade opened the file looking for the March sales report and instead found a document titled:

"Projected Probability of Them Still Loving Me (v6)."

He would not let him live it down.

"Idea," Floyd said. "You wanna run those numbers again but include the variable where you're super pathetic lately?"

Even Jade raised an eyebrow. "The correlation between desperation and appeal might not be as linear as you'd hope."

Azul tried to brush them off. He even lied (very badly) about what the spreadsheet was for ("Just… tax optimization. Personal hobby. Totally normal."), but the damage was done. The eels were smug. He was mortified. And worst of all, he still couldn't stop thinking about you.

So he pivoted.

If direct emotional vulnerability had failed him, perhaps passive-aggressive marketing would do the trick.

You started receiving coupons. Neatly folded, hand-delivered, no return address—but you recognized the ink. And the handwriting. And the aggressively formal tone that somehow still managed to sound like begging.

"One (1) free drink of your choice at the Mostro Lounge. Offer valid for exes statistically proven to be an optimal match."

Another read:

"Your preferred drink has been discontinued. Kidding. Please come back."

And your personal favorite:

"A reminder that our pairing was 94.3% ideal. Come back. For research."

You didn't respond. He didn't expect you to. But every week, a new coupon showed up—some increasingly ridiculous, some borderline romantic, all of them signed with that same flourish he used when pretending he wasn't panicking.

You weren't sure if it was pathetic or endearing. Probably both. The coupons had piled up in a drawer now, next to a coaster you never returned and a little napkin with a sketch he once made of you during a slow night.

You told yourself it was nostalgia. Curiosity. Scientific inquiry, if anything.

And one slow afternoon, you found yourself digging through the drawer, smoothing out the least crumpled coupon, and thinking—just for a moment—that you might stop by.

For research. Obviously.

Kalim Al-Asim

Kalim took the breakup as well as someone who had never actually took a negative emotion in his life to heart could. Which was to say: terribly.

He cried. A lot. At first, it was appropriate—private tears, sniffles in the dorm room, a distant gaze over his drink. But then it started happening at other times. Like during an ad for laundry detergent where the happy couple folded towels together. Or during a weather report where the forecast mentioned rain, which, apparently, you once said made you sleepy. Or during absolutely nothing at all, except that the sun was setting "a little too much like that one day you held his hand, remember?"

He insisted he was fine.

"Totally fine!" he chirped, voice three octaves higher than normal, eyes red-rimmed and suspiciously glossy. "Breakups happen all the time, right? We're both growing and learning! It's healthy!"

No one believed him.

Jamil looked like he was considering reporting you to the disciplinary committee just to end Kalim's reign of emotionally unhinged sunshine. Even Grim asked if someone should "turn him off and back on again."

But Kalim doubled down. If he couldn't be fine naturally, he'd brute-force his way into happiness. Which, in his mind, meant: throwing parties. So many parties. For no reason. His calendar suddenly became a horror show of "themed celebration nights" and "spontaneous joy hours," all of which were weirdly tailored around your favorite things.

"Here!" he said brightly, handing out goodie bags. "Everyone gets this specific brand of chocolates and stickers! Because those are just objectively fun! Not because anyone used to love them or anything!"

It was transparent. Alarmingly so.

Even when he gave someone a little clay charm that looked exactly like the one you wore on your bag, Kalim waved it off with a too-wide smile. "Just spreading the joy! It's important to stay positive, right?"

Everyone knew it was a cry for help. The kind that sounded like party poppers and glitter and repressed sobbing in the school gardens.

The turning point came on a quiet afternoon when he showed up at your door holding a tiny cupcake. It had a frosting heart on it. His hands shook slightly.

"I know this is weird," he said, already teary. "I didn't wanna make you uncomfortable. I just—"

He swallowed, voice cracking like something inside him was giving up the act for good.

"Even if you don't love me again," he said, "can we still be something?"

You looked at him—his earnest eyes, his trembling lower lip—and you felt something soft and painfully familiar unfurl in your chest.

Because Kalim didn't know how to lie to the people he loved. Not well. Not really. He was all impulse and heart, the kind of boy who loved too loud and too fast and never quite knew how to stop once he started.

And maybe you weren't ready to be what you were. Not yet.

But looking at him, at the little cupcake with the slightly smudged heart and the the way he was holding it like he might shatter if you didn't take it—

How could you say no?

You took the cupcake. And maybe his hand, too. Just for a moment. Just to see if something could still bloom.

Vil Schoenheit

Vil did not mourn the breakup. Mourning was for people who couldn't maintain composure under pressure. For people who let emotion smudge their mascara. He was not one of those people.

At least, not publicly.

He was flawless. Unbothered. The exact picture of someone thriving post-relationship, thank you very much. His interviews were polished. His smiles were poised. His posture was impeccable. If anyone noticed that his usual acerbic wit had gone curiously blunt, no one said anything.

They wouldn't dare.

Privately, though, when the cameras were off and the spotlight blinked out, Vil cracked in very small ways.

He started using your favorite perfume. A subtle layer, never enough to be obvious, but just enough to make him feel like you were still somewhere in the room. Like maybe if he breathed in deep enough, he could hold onto something.

He flipped through magazines during lunch breaks, claiming it was for "market research." But every time he lingered on a movie review or a lifestyle spread, it was with the faint, ridiculous hope that you'd read it too. That your fingers might have touched the same paper. That your eyes caught the same line he was rereading for the fifth time.

He knew it was foolish. But Vil had always been prone to beautiful illusions. It was sort of his thing.

The unraveling came, ironically, in the most public of places: a toothpaste commercial.

He was halfway through filming, mid-speech about the importance of a radiant smile, when something in the script triggered a memory—something you once said about how his laugh.

He kept talking.

Kept improvising.

Went off-script entirely.

The crew let him go for a minute—Vil was known for his "emotional depth," after all—but when he hit the line "even the most polished smile can still ache when it remembers someone who made it feel real," the director had to call cut.

"Vil," they said gently. "It's a toothpaste commercial."

He didn't speak for the rest of the shoot. Just touched up his own makeup in silence, eyes a little glassy.

It took him another week to knock on your door.

He showed up in a soft sweater, smelling faintly of something familiar, holding his own hands like he didn't know what else to do with them.

He didn't ask for much. Didn't ask for forever. Just quietly, cautiously:

"Would you like to try again?"

And you thought—looking at him, at the person who once swore he'd never show up like this for anyone, at the vulnerability hiding under all that polish—

Maybe this time, you could make it work.

Idia Shroud

Idia handled the breakup the way he handled most things in life: with a complete and total digital meltdown, buried under forty layers of denial and an emotionally scorched Discord server.

He didn't text. Didn't call. Didn't even leave passive-aggressive emoji reactions on your old posts like a normal ex with unresolved feelings. He simply… disappeared.

Vanished like a ghost into his room, into his code, into the vast and uncaring expanse of the internet, where feelings didn't exist unless they were typed in all caps or conveyed through a crying anime girl gif.

And for a while, it was total radio silence.

Until you logged into that game.

The shared one. The one you used to play together after class, where the two of you ran a little shop in a pixelated fantasy village and spent an embarrassing amount of time farming digital potatoes.

Your shop was still there.

But now there was… a shrine.

Your character's pixel art face, recreated painstakingly in custom tiles and surrounded by in-game flowers, torches, and glowing pink mood crystals that did not exist in the vanilla version of the game.

He'd modded it.

There was a sign in the middle that just said:

"Here Lies Happiness (RIP)"

You stared at it for a long time. Then, just to confirm the ridiculous suspicion building in your chest, you checked the nearby player list.

Sure enough, his username had changed too:

"SadBoy420"

Online. Loitering.

You didn't message him immediately. Mostly because you weren't sure what to say to someone who had quite literally built a shrine to your relationship in a farming sim. But still—you lingered. Logged in more often. Left offerings of rare items near the shrine like it was some strange, silent conversation.

Idia never spoke to you directly, but you noticed the shrine changed a little every day. One day it had a sign that said "I'm Fine." The next, it was replaced with a drawing of your characters fishing together. One morning it was just a massive, pixel-art rendition of the word "SORRY" in bold letters with a sad face emoji.

Outside the game, his silence continued.

But Ortho?

Ortho was not subtle.

"Did you know my brother has been listening to the voicemails you left him on loop for the past 72 hours?" he chirped once in the cafeteria. "Not that he's, like, sad or anything! Just nostalgic. Definitely not crying."

Later: "He made your favorite NPC in our custom server the town mayor! Isn't that cute? I mean, objectively, not emotionally, haha."

Eventually, you got the call.

Your phone lit up with his name and you answered before you could talk yourself out of it.

"Uh—hey," Idia said, voice barely above a whisper. "I didn't, like, mean to call. Or—I did, but. Crap. Okay. Hi."

You waited.

He took a breath.

"I was just wondering," he said, "if you maybe wanted to talk again. Or, y'know. Game. No pressure or anything. It's fine if you're, like, over it and I'm just like a pathetic ghost haunting your social life, haha, classic tragic NPC vibes—"

"Yes," you said, before he could spiral into apologizing for existing.

He paused. Long enough that you thought the call had dropped. Then, quietly—hopeful, almost disbelieving:

"Wait. Really?"

You smiled, even if he couldn't see it.

"Yeah," you said. "Log in."

Malleus Draconia

Malleus did not understand how something so radiant could simply… end.

He didn't throw a dramatic tantrum after the breakup. He didn't disappear in a swirl of thunderclouds or curse the moon or anything out of a tragic love story.

He didn't so much as frown in public, because the full gravity of the breakup hadn't quite hit him yet. Instead, it settled in stranger places—quiet things, strange habits.

Like how he started speaking to the plush bat you gave him on his last birthday as though it were you. Not in a creepy way, more like someone who didn't know what to do with the empty space you left behind.

He asked it questions. Told it how his day went. Laughed, sometimes, as if it had told him a joke—low and fond, the kind of laugh only you had ever coaxed out of him. And when he sat beneath the stars, plush cradled carefully in his lap, he whispered to it with a gentleness reserved only for the lost.

The gargoyles? They weren't even sentient, but even they seemed exhausted. Every night he stood in front of them, musing out loud about the way you smiled or how you always called him weird little nicknames. One of them lost a nose—maybe unrelated.

Lilia, bless him, said nothing for a long while. He simply watched as Malleus wilted, quietly and beautifully, like a flower sealed in ice. But one evening, after Malleus asked in the softest voice, "Do humans ever come back when they leave?", Lilia did not answer. He only wrapped his arms around his ward and held him close.

At some point, he started writing letters. Not to send, just… to say things. Things he didn't know how to tell you, or hadn't said enough when he could. Some were serious. Some were barely legible thoughts written in the middle of the night. But he kept them all, folded neatly in a box that lived under his bed.

And then, of course, Silver found the box.

Silver, ever helpful and half-asleep, assumed it was mail Malleus meant to send and delivered the whole thing to your dorm like it was completely normal to get a hand-bound novel of unsent love letters dropped off on a random day.

You read them all.

You didn't say anything at first. You weren't sure what you were supposed to say. But that night, you left your window open—just a little.

And sure enough, just past midnight, Malleus appeared outside your dorm. Just… standing there. Looking up.

He didn't ask to come in. He didn't even call your name. He just waited. Like maybe you'd hear the quiet, and somehow understand.

And when you finally stepped outside, he looked at you like he'd been waiting centuries.

"May I court you again?" he asked softly. "From the beginning."

And really… how could you say no?

Masterlist

[berryfairyluvr]

hihi I loved the zayne princess treatment post could you do a sylus one as well please 🥹💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝💝

sylus and his princess (queen) treatment

pairings: bf!sylus x fem!reader

warnings: none really, maybe minor mentions of some memories

a/n: thank you for the love and the request xx hope you enjoy <3

With a high bounty on his head Sylus has many enemies. Now having you as his beloved partner in this dangerous life (and all the ones before and after) your life has taken priority over his own. Despite your stubborn tendencies, he always has eyes on you ensuring your safety.

He not so slyly suggests you stay at his place 99% of the time as an answer to any of your complaints claiming he has 'this and that' but really it’s to keep you close by.

You insist on waiting up for him after his many late night outings much to his opposition. The lamps dim lighting catching his eye through the window each time he returns to find you cutely tucked into yourself sound asleep on the plush couch. He’d chuckle quietly and scoop you into his arms carrying you bridal style down the dark hallways to the bedroom.

You often complained about the coldness of his marble flooring even in socks. He’s made sure to have his staff keep you slippers in your most visited rooms ever since.

You thought his shower was huge before? He had it expanded and added multiple shower heads. When you asked why, he responded with “Time is of the essence, now we can save it by showering together sweetie.”

He loves to accommodate you, adding a vanity to his bedroom, his and hers closet, shared armory access personalized just to your liking… The list goes on.

He’s discreetly possessive with his touches but it’s usually masked by his powerful demeanor. For instance, when the two of you are out he’s often guiding you on his arm or with his large hand splayed on the small of your back. At meals and meetings his hand finds its way to rest on your thigh.

He will not stand for any sign of disrespect towards you, those who haven’t learned that are met with something violently unpleasant. (Most times completely unbeknownst to you— Sylus makes sure you’re occupied)

You yap and he listens. Earnestly. And I mean undivided and devoted attention. He is so very fond of the way you light up like a child when speaking about your life.

His attention to detail is remarkable and he shows that in your everyday life. Whether it’s picking up on your favorite scent or noting what things make you relax more than others, he provides you with them as much as possible.

That travel magazine you’d been reading hadn’t gone unnoticed and to your surprise, he’d arranged for the two of you to escape reality and venture out for a vacation.

This man can compliment, and he can compliment goooood. He has no issue expressing his gratitude and respect for you through his words and oh boy is he good with his words.

Seeing you scared or fearful wounded him enough the first few times that it now melts him into a puddle at the first sign of worry from you.

this is his *please don’t be worried/upset* look

He doesn’t mind one bit helping you bathe and dress after a long day of work. He even brushes your hair.

Your words mean everything to him, he wants to hear it. (He praises you for it in return 🤭)

For all the excursions you often clung to him like a backpack atop his bike— he decided a spare motorcycle helmet just wouldn’t do for you anymore and had one made to match his.

His date at any and every auction, he revels in getting to flaunt you around all dolled up and on his arm. Some even say his demeanor changed since you began attending these events with him..

read zayne’s version here

read caleb’s version here

requests open ❤︎

[zhangsfrank]

i agree with this in principle but come on with that last line. its only canon-accurate gender identity? well if it’s all so cut-and-dry, why are we bothering to interpret at all.

the argument for murderbot to choose neopronouns is so obvious you barely even have to make it. murderbot who chose “name: secunit” “gender: not applicable” “other: [null]” as its feed ID? it wants to not be forced into humanity so much that it blew its own assumed cover. murderbot who is unified with its world’s third class by use of a set of pronouns that create a normative social space for it and other machine intelligences? it’s constantly saying it doesn’t understand things about human and augmented human society but it’s never out of its depth with a bot until fugitive telemetry when it’s met with bots assuming roles in human society. murderbot chooses into identifying as a non-human. i don’t think you can say that the only reading is that it does it by accident.

on top of that – you’re assuming that the gendered-language-speaking CR would mirror the pronoun usage of today. but, dude. the english-speaking CR doesn’t even mirror the pronoun usage of today. neopronouns aren’t “neo” in the setting of the story; different sets of pronouns are commonplace and no one is misgendered, even characters who hate one another. i don’t think choosing pronouns in the CR necessarily requires a lot of thinking, and it’s a bit moot anyway because murderbot thinks about itself. murderbot thinks about itself. like, reading the books through a particular lens it’s trivially easy to come to this perspective, and it’s also defensible to come to the opposite reading as you appear to have done.

and that’s what i’m getting at overall. i’m glad you’ve found a reading of the story that you like, but i’m not being live-and-let-live when i say yours is not the only strong view.

My unpopular opinion is that in languages with grammatical gender like french, it does make sense for Murderbot to be referred to by whatever pronoun is usually used for robots or constructs. (In french, therefore, grammatical masculine.) Because there are no traditional « it » pronouns in these languages for objects, and while there are neo-pronouns, they are things one must choose for themselves. Do you honestly think MB actually spent time thinking about its pronouns?! No it didn’t. On forms it picks « non-applicable ». When people ask it what pronouns they should use, its honest opinion is « why do you even need to talk about me. Just don’t fucking do that. Don’t think about me either. Just fucking stop perceiving me altogether! »

Thinking about what pronouns to use probably makes it way more uncomfortable than letting people call it what they’ve already been calling it. Making a conscious choice about its identity? And telling other people about it??? No thanks bye, it’s just gonna walk into the ocean now, see you never.

Lbr it probably thinks the only bots that get fancy pronouns are comfort units, and the pronouns are probably shoved into them by humans same as everything else. MB would meet a bot using a neopronoun and it would wish it could barf. Because in a language like french, he/him and she/her, when applied to objects, ARE fulfilling the function of the english « it ». Nobody is saying the table is a woman or related to feminity in any way outside of stand-up comedy; when it comes to objects grammatical gender really has fuckall to do with human gender even if we use the same words. Even animal species names have grammatical gender and everyone gets that there are male and female turtles even if the word « turtle » is a female word, it’s not that confusing.

(I know this is strange when your language has different pronouns for people and for objects, but understand that english uses the same word to indicate if I’m addressing one or many people, and that is confusing to me.)

TL;DR; stop harassing international fans for not getting the correct MB pronoun in english right off the bat. Yes in english calling it « he » or « her » or « them » is upsetting because it’s projecting an identity unto it. But same goes for trying to get a foreign language translation to use a pronoun intended to express or showcase an identity (or even a lack of one!). Murderbot has not thought about it this hard, refuses to think about it this hard -> and that is its only canon accurate gender identity.