#will i pick up a different language? maybe

[lampridius]

hihii!! may i request anaxa and sunday with a reader who likes putting up fronts? like they would constantly play these roles with vast personalities, put on masks, copy/mirror other’s mannerisms, till the point they don’t even know who they are anymore or their “true self” is? sorry if this doesn’t make sense >_<

🎭 anon

𝙃𝙎𝙍 𝙈𝙀𝙉 𝙒𝙄𝙏𝙃 𝘼 𝙍𝙀𝘼𝘿𝙀𝙍 𝙏𝙃𝘼𝙏 𝙋𝙐𝙏𝙎 𝙊𝙉 𝘼 𝙈𝘼𝙎𝙆 ᯓ★ 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗮𝗰𝘁𝗲𝗿𝘀: anaxa, sunday ᯓ★ rules | masterlist | 𝗿𝗲𝗾𝘂𝗲𝘀𝘁 ᯓ★ 𝗶𝗳 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘄𝗮𝗻𝘁 𝘁𝗼 𝗯𝗲 𝗮𝗱𝗱𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘁𝗮𝗴𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁 ᯓ★ 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲𝘀:

#𝗔𝗡𝗔𝗫𝗔

he picks up on it pretty fast - not because he’s offended, but because he knows the game.

you're a different person around everyone. loud and dramatic with one group, quiet and perceptive with another. even around him, you shift. sometimes you're flirty, sometimes aloof, sometimes overly agreeable in ways that feel just a bit too practiced. it’s like you’ve memorized entire personas and swap them in depending on who you’re speaking to.

most people wouldn’t notice. anaxa does.

he doesn’t call you out right away. he watches. listens. and when you’re quiet - when you finally let the performance drop for even a second - he slips beside you with this low, thoughtful hum.

“do you ever wonder who you'd be if you weren’t trying to be so many things at once?”

you tense up. a mask almost clicks into place, but he lifts a hand - easy, no pressure - and adds, “don’t give me a rehearsed answer. i'd prefer if you give me nothing at all, if that’s easier.”

he isn’t pushing. he’s just there. he doesn’t need a grand confession, or for you to tear yourself apart trying to be honest when even you aren’t sure what that means anymore. he just wants to see the version of you that’s not trying so hard.

sometimes, when you’re tired, when your face hurts from smiling and your voice doesn’t sound like your own anymore, you sit with him in silence.

he likes that version. the one that slouches a little, whose hands fidget with fabric threads, who sighs without having to explain why.

and he’ll keep showing up for that person, over and over. even if they don’t know who they are yet.

#𝗦𝗨𝗡𝗗𝗔𝗬

he’s soft in ways most people don’t expect - cerebral, almost dreamy, but sharp enough to see through the cracks.

when he watches you shift and adjust in every room you walk into - your voice morphing, your body language echoing whoever you’re with - he doesn’t see dishonesty.

he sees someone exhausted.

you joke about it sometimes. how good you are at fitting in. how people always seem to like you. but there’s a hollowness behind it. sunday hears that too.

and one day, when the two of you are walking quietly through a garden or a hallway or some quiet, glass-and-gold room filled with nothing but sun and dust motes, he finally says:

“you don’t have to prove you belong to anyone. not with me.”

you blink. the words hit something raw.

he tilts his head gently toward you. “and you don’t have to disappear into everyone you meet, either. you’re allowed to just be. even if you don’t know what that is right now.”

his tone isn’t pitying. it’s inviting. not trying to strip your masks away, but offering a space where you might set one down - just for a minute.

when you ask, quietly, “what if there’s nothing underneath?”, he only smiles. small and certain.

“then we’ll build it together.”

he doesn’t flinch when you’re inconsistent. doesn’t correct you when your personality slides from one edge to the next. he just keeps showing up, offering softness without condition.

and maybe - just maybe - being seen like that is the first real thing you’ve felt in a while.

©𝗖𝗢𝗣𝗬𝗥𝗜𝗚𝗛𝗧 ● @lampridius 2025

[folkwhoreberry]

Amongst Demigods⁵

A Change Of Plans

f1 x reader

or... the one where a little plot twist wouldn’t hurt, right?

word count : 664

warning : none, english is not my first language!!!

on the radio : the tortured poets department by taylor swift

check masterlist for more parts of the series!!

🏛️🏎️

you don’t answer franco’s question right away. the words hang in the air like smoke, soft and lingering, while the lake reflects the pink-orange sky like nothing’s changed. but everything has. you’ve been claimed. the camp sees you differently now. the boys look at you differently now. and franco - well, franco’s sitting beside you like he’s holding his breath.

“I don’t know,” you finally say, voice quiet. “I need some time.”

he nods, gently, like he expected that. “I figured. just… had to say it.”

you give him a small smile, one that says thank you for being brave, and the two of you sit there a little longer, shoulders brushing.

but things don’t exactly go back to normal after that.

——————

in the days that follow, everything is heightened. lando finds you before breakfast just to walk you to the pavilion. oscar always manages to end up your sparring partner in sword practice - except he mysteriously “forgets” how to go easy, like you didn’t just get claimed by a literal god of the dead. daniel brings you snacks he “definitely didn’t steal from dionysus’ stash,” and charles… charles watches. from across the field, the dining area, the archery range. he watches you like you hold answers he’ll never get.

and franco? he gives you space.

he’s still around. he still smiles. but he doesn’t bring it up again. not yet.

one night, after a long day of drills and a brutal obstacle course (george bet five drachmae you’d beat alex - he won), you sneak away from the cabins. the woods are too loud, the campfire circle too crowded, and the lake too obvious. so you walk, past the strawberry fields and through the torch-lit paths, until you end up near the forge.

you don’t mean to see him. but there he is.

carlos.

shirt slightly damp with sweat, soot on his cheek, holding a freshly finished bronze dagger that glows faintly with celestial bronze. he doesn’t see you at first, too focused on the blade, but when he does, his eyes widen.

“you shouldn’t be here,” he says, not unkindly. “it’s late.”

“I could say the same to you,” you reply, stepping into the warm glow of the forge. “but I guess fire gods don’t sleep either.”

he chuckles, setting the dagger down. “you okay?”

you nod, even though you’re not sure. “too many thoughts.”

“same,” he says. then, after a beat, “is it the five?”

you blink. “the five?”

“charles, lando, oscar, franco, daniel,” he lists casually. “you’re kind of their whole personality right now.”

you let out a tired laugh. “don’t remind me.”

carlos picks up a cloth and wipes his hands. “you ever think maybe they’re all wrong for you?”

you tilt your head, amused. “and you think you’re right?”

he shrugs, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smirk. “not saying I am. but I’m definitely not a follower.”

he takes a step closer. the forge’s glow dances on his face, softening his sharp features. “they circle around you like you’re some prize. I just think maybe someone should see you without the competition.”

you swallow. “and you think that’s you?”

he doesn’t answer - not with words, anyway.

he leans in slowly, gaze locked on yours. it’s deliberate, careful. and then he kisses you.

it’s different. not like lando’s lingering touches or franco’s gentle flirtations. not like oscar’s thoughtful glances or daniel’s confident nudges or even charles’ intense stares. it’s warm, grounding, a little messy with the scent of smoke and metal clinging to your clothes. and when he pulls back, your heart is racing.

you stare at him, lips still parted, stunned.

he smiles, cocky but quiet. “I’ll let you think about it.”

then he walks past you, leaving the forge behind, the faint scent of fire and bronze still in the air.

and you?

you just stand there, blinking, wondering how in the underworld carlos just became a very, very real problem. ————————————————————————————

© all rights reserved to folkwhoreberry. no stealing or copying will be tolerated.

a/n : fav series everrrr

[thegoldencontracts]

Aishiteru—I Love You

—♡ Whispered confessions of love in a language you really should have realized the both of you could understand.

—Characters: Leona, Ruggie

—Warnings: Reader is a bit dense, in case that's not your thing

—Notes: So, uh, I really did mean it when I said I'm back on my bullshit ww (in the voice of someone who surprised even herself); Anyways TIL male lions roar before mating ahahah guess which section that's gonna come up in (difficulty impossible)

Leona Kingscholar

It was very, very stupid to love someone who would so obviously never love you back. A prince of majesty untold with the bright, sharp green eyes of a predator and beauty that watched both his brains and brawn.

But you loved him. Maybe not. Maybe it was just infatuation, a mix of chemicals influenced by hormones bound not to last, but you didn't care.

And he... he tolerated you. The lion was a difficult one to get a read on, apathy masking all the depths of his emotion.

He thought you were scrawny, you knew that much, for he always shoved a packet of snacks into your hands when you spoke, claiming you "needed to get some meat on your bones".

He thought you were troublesome, as he said repeatedly when he helped you with those stupidly difficult homework assignments. There was a magic he seemed to work into his every word, one that made seemingly mind-numbingly complex concepts become clear as day.

And his henchman thought you were stupid.

"Seriously, Kantokusei-kun, you're denser than a pile of rocks..." The hyena beastman had muttered as you accompanied him to Leona's resting spot. "I'll leave you two to do your thing."

Leona was there, tail flicking lazily and hair perfectly disheveled.

"Herbivore," he said, adjusting his mane. He wasn't asleep for once. In fact, he had no hesitation as he stood, pawing at your shoulder. "You're late."

Huh?

"Late?" you asked. "To what?"

"We always meet around now," said Leona simply.

...Did you? Was it, like, something he kept track of?

Leona roared lowly. Was he angry or something?

"Did I do something wrong?" But he just laughed.

"Don't play coy with me, herbivore," he said. "I think both of our intentions are clear by now."

Was he trying to pick a fight with you? Oh, god, you were not surviving this unscathed. But- But you hadn't even said you loved him! You couldn't die without getting this off of your chest?

But you also couldn't put your feelings out there in the open to be so easily rejected...

You had a solution. Just pick a different language, easy as that!

"Ti amo," you said. If you died staring at his beautiful face you would die happy.

But again, Leona just smirked.

"Took you long enough," he said. "I was startin' to think you were just playing around."

Right. He must've thought you were insulting him! After all, he probably wanted to fight, right?

"It's, uh, not an insult," you admitted. Silence.

"...I know."

What.

"What do you mean, 'you know'? It could very well be one!"

Leona, for once, seemed visibly incredulous.

"Do you need to go to the hospital or something? Get your head checked?" He looked over you scrutinizingly. "Your vitals are alright. What's goin' on?"

"Well-"

"Are you tryin' to say you have bad taste or something?" he said, letting out a self-deprecating chuckle. "Guess you'd be right about that."

"I mean, you don't know what I said! How do you know it's not an insult?"

...

Leona's eyes narrowed.

"Do you think," he said. "That a prince like me doesn't know a basic phrase like that?"

Leona was royalty. Right. Royalty. Who usually had to learn countless languages for diplomacy purposes.

Holy shit, you were stupid. And screwed. Very screwed.

"Thickheaded and a coward," he huffed, though his voice softened. "Got no clue why I like you."

Wait. He liked you?

"Why do you look so surprised?" Leona said. "Thought I made it obvious."

He really didn't. Then again, maybe you weren't the best person to decide what was and wasn't obvious, considering you couldn't figure out that a prince would understand a well-known Italian phrase.

"Well, um." you said. "I love you too!"

For a split second, you could've sworn you saw his cheeks flush darker, before he nodded.

"Yeah," he said. "I figured. Now c'mere."

Without letting you protest—not that you would've—he pulled you onto the bed with him.

"After dealin' with your thick head, I definitely deserve a nap."

But even someone like you could notice his tail was gently wagging.

Ruggie Bucchi:

You loved Ruggie Bucchi.

You loved his smile, his greyish-blue eyes, that dirty blonde hair of his that was just so easy to ruffle. You loved the way he would beam whenever he managed to score easy money or food, the way he endured everything life threw at him with a smile.

And there was his odd brand of kindness. He gave you bits of food he scored when he could, always insisting it was just "to make sure you'd owe him later"—but the time where he collected his debt never came. Every chance he could, he brought back food to share with the children back home. Your subconscious took note of each and every instance, whether you wanted it to or not. And each time, it seemed as if this bottomless pit of romantic pining somehow managed to get even deeper. Perhaps that was an oxymoron. Oh, well.

You doubted he loved you back, though. His gifts were friendly, and as was his smile. Nothing more. Those flushed glances you noticed were mere figments of the imagination. Ruggie Bucchi was a pragmatic individual who most certainly did not care for your affections.

So you kept them hidden. You tried, really, you tried. But the thing about romantic feelings was that they were impossible to keep suppressed.

The scene was a stereotypical sort; the two of you beneath a tree, splitting a sandwich. A light breeze.

This was where all the confessions happened, you thought. You sternly reminded yourself to act normal.

"Shishishi, this is good! Where'dja get it from?" He asked.

I love you so much, you wanted to reply. But you held your tongue. Act normal, you reminded yourself.

"I-I made it myself," you said. He beamed, little canines and agh hewassocute-

Damnit. You really couldn't take this anymore. But you couldn't bear to say those three words aloud either.

But what if there was a compromise?

Something other than English. A language he couldn't speak.

"Wǒ ài nǐ," you muttered. I love you, in Mandarin hinese. You'd heard it in a song once. Admittedly, it was a bit intense of a phrase, but still. It wasn't like he'd understand, anyways.

Ruggie stiffened, eyes going wide as saucers.

"What did you say, Kantokusei-kun?"

"Wǒ ài nǐ," you repeated, because it you still weren't satisfied with saying it once. "Just something in another language. You wouldn't understand."

You didn't mention Mandarin, in case he tried to translate.

"Uh-huh," said Ruggie, looking pointedly away form you.

Wait. Did he... think you'd insulted him?

"It wasn't anything mean, I-"

"I know."

His voice was still curt and clipped, red creeping up his cheeks.

"So," Ruggie said. "Do you know what that means?"

"Well, yeah, but-"

Ruggie cut you off with a flick of the wrist, before looking down, quiet as a mouse. After a few seconds, he spoke, slowly.

"Kantokusei-kun," he started. "Did you know," he cut himself off with a nervous shishi. "-That I can speak ten languages?"

"You can?" It was odd how Ruggie wasn't immediately taking the chance to brag about it, honestly. Or mention the skill's use in soliciting job opportunities.

"One of them is Mandarin," he said.

Oh.

Welp, you had a nice run. It was time to dig yourself into the nearest hole!

"Welp," Ruggie said, red-faced and apparently having had his fill of earnest conversation for the day. "That was awkward. Seeya! Don't be so tasteless with your jokes next time, okay?"

"It wasn't a-"

"Seeya!"

You sighed. Seriously? He thought you said it as a joke?

Maybe he was just uncomfortable and wanted to play it off. Yeah, probably that.

But the next day, you noticed the sandwich he brought you as 'payback' was shaped like a heart.

[firefly--bright]

re : the world.

jean kirstein x reader, modern au.

summary ; sasha introduced the two of you as complete opposites, two different worlds. but you'd disagree, especially since it feels like jean creates a new world just for you. warnings ; a little too self indulgent? aka reader likes peach flavoured stuff. also mentions of drinking, nothing graphic. a/n ; erm! haha. sorry for my absence again. i promise im still writing d2d and blooming hearts. pls be patient with me you guys r saints. thank you. enjoy this as i run away. hc reqs are still open hmu babes i lowkey want d2d to blow up a little. like okbambi. throwaway thought. continue reading. thx taglist ; @holding-infinity-and-a-book , @mrsnobodynobody , @hopeless-anti-romantic-again , @jeanscremebrulee , @berrijam , @happxme , @cherrypieyourface , @imgayandshesanime , @moonmalice , @kivernova , @potaho3frog , @xakilicious , @katestrophes , @gojo-ana , @ppushable, @candleohappiness , @zombiefiedskeivy , @1ovede1uxe , @sevriizy

masterlist is in pinned post! ✿ enter my taglist! ✿ headcanon requests are open! ✿

Jean has this habit.

Its not well concealed - hell, you're sure he doesnt even realise it himself, a muscle memory that seems to replay against his tendons, condensing him down to his action. You dont realise it at first either, but patterns have a tendency of making themselves apparent, especially since its about him.

The scene plays out something like this - kitchen lights are warm and shining, clinging onto the apples of your downtrodden cheeks, unheard and tired problems that weigh down your organs now find themselves boring down on your skin, a more physical proof of your labour. The week - scratch that, the month - had been rough. There's a cup of coffee against the palms of your hands, the tips of your nails a little blue from the cold you had just endured outside. Inside, its warm, your friends sit huddled around the coffee table that holds an unnecessarily important game of monopoly. The community chest cards were more than half gone, and Sasha sat with her back resting against the foot of the couch, tongue poking out of her lips thoughtfully, subconsciously. Your eyes blink blearily, steam from your coffee doing the exact opposite of it’s entirety, and Jean mixes just a splash of creamer into his own cup - just how he liked it. 

His eyes have been passing glances across your body, slumped with your back against the marble of the kitchen counter, picking up on something you refuse to be seen putting down. He clears his throat - an opening for a potential conversation, a test to see if you’ll take the bait and turn to him - and when you do, because of course you will, there's a victory that lifts his shoulders and puffs up his chest, muscle memory, tendons tightening. 

But youre so tired. He can see it in your eyes and under them, so when he asks his question, he doest so in the least gentle way possible. So he’ll get you to talk, because he knows that cornering you might be the only way he can get a real answer that lays unfiltered, beating still as it slips out of your mouth. 

“What is it this time?” he asks. His voice covers any unhindered iciness that his statement might hold, making it warm and curious instead of cold and blunt. Or maybe that's just how you see it. Maybe he’s a well meaning asshole who you’re accustomed to, whose language you’ve come to know well. Alphabets memorized.

You sigh. You wonder if your sigh itself could be an alphabet, if he understands all the frustrations underneath it. Your tongue can't conjure up anything else for a brief while, and for the same brief while, jean looks at you. Wholly, fully, more than you’ll ever be, though his eyes scatter themselves across your body. Your nose, your lips, your hair, your clothes, a slight sense of disarray but comfort nonetheless because the disarray meant that you had lived in it long enough and that you trusted your clothes and your hair and your nose and your lips more than enough to be here right now.

“Yknow.” you say, unsure of whether or not its a start of a statement or the end of an unsaid one. You decide to let it linger, staring into your cup until you find the words to say something important, clambering to find meaning that your voice somehow always inherently lacks. Theres a lump in your throat that’s small enough for you to ignore it, and then you begin speaking again, “i don't feel like im… enough for this.” you say. You're aware that it's unimportant, words lacking meaning. They always have, especially now.

“For what?” his voice asks, and you wish his reflection could share the same space as yours in the cup, make his space yours, but he doesn't. Instead, his shoulder presses against yours, which you suppose is better. An anchor, you think to yourself, even though he doesn't realize it. 

“All of it. Like, somehow… i keep trying, right? To be a good student, to be friendly and kind and just… try - like being good at work and at talking and all of it. But i’m not, even though sometimes i think im finally, finally making some progress, it all just comes crashing down on me and i feel so…dumb about it. Like im incompetent. Like all roles are too important for me to get them.”

It doesn't feel like the world is off your shoulders. You wonder why everyone always told you to talk about your feelings; claiming it’ll make the burden lighter. But the process of doing that would include giving it to someone else who’s less likely to have had a bad day and making their day worse by association. It felt like a math formula, another thing you were inherently struggling with.

No, the world feels all too real, all too on-your-shoulders, all too present and pressing against your shoulders, the hurt seeping to the ends of your collarbones.   

“Incompetent.” he says. Its not a reply, neither is it a question. Like he knows exactly what you mean and is contemplating on it. Consider it. Then he shrugs. Sighs through his next statement to make it sound less like a confession of admiration, “you're not incompetent.” 

A pause. You don't believe him, and he knows it. And before he begins his strategy of building you up; he does it. 

Turns his back to everything else. Stands in front of you so he can be the only thing in your eyesight, his back to your friends, to the rest of the world as he makes his attempts to lessen the weight of yours. And surely - and you know he knows it, realises it just as you do - you lift your head up, eyes directed to his, your face pointing to your world, directly to him. In that action, you match each other perfectly well, even if Sasha introduced the two of you to each other as complete opposites. You wouldn't necessarily agree with her, especially not now, when both of you create your own world so easily, with the least amount of the hesitation that easily comes to the two of you.

He speaks quietly. Almost under his breath, as if they are truths that are heavier than his words, “you're not. When you talk, its clear that you're passionate, knowledgeable. Even if you don't realise it. Somehow you convince people to believe in you everytime you speak. It's one of the things i like about you. You-” he weaves his hand into his hair halfway through; an action he only commits to when he’s passionate about the topic he's speaking about, “you could make an atheist believe in god. Maybe because you have bits of truth hidden in there, whatever it is, but you're fully lying if you think you're incompetent. Or dumb. You’re not. You're good. Fucking brilliant.” he says, scoffing as if its a universal fact that youre unknowing of. The sun rises in the east and sets in the west, the earth is round, and jean believes youre ‘fucking brilliant’. 

You blink. Before the gears in your heavy machinery of a brain can move, he says, “i know you wont believe it, so let me do the believing for you. Depend on me a little, yeah?” he asks, like it's a plea. And honestly, you give in, without hesitation. 

His back faces the world and there’s a resolution in your eyes as you face your own world, smiling gently.

The next time is one you can particularly take note of. 

You're at some party that eren was throwing - pre halloween, everyone in costume, the song from the speaker so loud that the ground beneath your shoes was shaking, etching a reminder of tonight on it - a typical college-like event. Everyone was having a bubbling and tipsy conversation amongst themselves, connie and eren arguing over the music that they put on, sasha fawning over mikasa who could be seen blushing lightly even under the flashing lights, reiner with his arm around someone you knew from class - and admittedly set him up with - as you try not to let a proud smile set over your lips at the fact. You had a bet with Marco, another inside conversation that had been had all the way to the party; you bet on reiner finally “getting some” tonight, and marco betted on him not. Which he clarified, was not because he didn't believe in the guy, but because reiner had a way of… being awkward when he was tipsy. Fifty solid dollars over this. You weren't going to lose.

Your head bopped to the argued-over music, scanning the crowd for jean, who claimed he was going to find you a drink you’d actually enjoy sipping on through the night. He knew you well enough, so you’d allowed him to, posing it to him as a challenge that he took with a cocky smile and a self-assured confidence that you were tempted to break.

You weren't going to break it. Of course not. Not unless he won. 

Bert asks you about your plans after the party. You tell him that you’d probably go home with the girls - unless they find their own plans for the night, which, you hope they do - and ask him the same, and he tells you he’ll go home with reiner, unless the obvious were to happen. You shout at him about your bet with Marco because you know your voice wouldn't be carried to his ears otherwise, and he smiles and says, rather wisely despite his slightly slurred speech, that you’d probably win. You tell him that if Marco were listening you’d flex about it. He laughs a little before someone from his class waves him over and you're left to your own devices again, scanning the crowd for a familiar head of soft hair that you imagine far too much running your fingers through.

And you find it. Shoulder the crowd, holding two glasses of his concoction, heading straight towards you, making sure not to spill even a single drop. You applaud his persistence, and he reaches you with the same smile he left you with, eyes sparkling and soft around the edges, looking at you like the world’s been tuned out, handing you your cup.

“Peach sparkling…spirit.” he says, not having had a single thought about naming the drink, but nodding once in satisfaction after it slips out of his mouth. You nod back, impressed, and look down at the ice floating in it. “Ice so your iron deficiency has something to chew on.” he completes with a laugh, one that you playfully punch him for as if your insides dont melt at the fact that the drink is more of a symbol, really, of how much he really knows you. peach , your favourite flavour, to dilute the wretched taste of alcohol. The coolness to keep you awake, and the ice floating at the top just as he said, because you liked chewing on it.

And as if just that much wasnt enough, he does it again.

Back to the world, he faces you completely, now closer than ever. Chest to chest, not because there were people unknowingly pressing your back from both sides, but because you'd be that close by choice either way. He traps you, but youre a willing accomplice, guilty of the same crime, and you create your own worlds with none of the hesitance that you both so frequently carry with everyone else as if this is the easiest thing youd ever do. As if its always been easy.

You tip your glass to his, and he clinks the rim of his cup to yours, lifting it to his lips with the same smile, now softer, gentler, because he knows only you're looking, because he knows he’d let you. 

The drink tastes divine. The completeness of knowing you, fully, wholly, without hesitation, the peach mixing with whatever cheap vodka he could find, knowing just how strong to make it so you wouldn't scrunch your nose at it’s burn but rather enjoy it, knowing you'd nurse the same drink for the rest of the night, close to your chest as it would vibrate not to the sound of the music but to the sound of your quietly beating heart because out of everyone, jean made it. 

Despite the drink's coolness, enough to freeze your fingertips, your insides felt. They felt, every organ - your lungs, your heart, your liver, your kidneys - felt, conscious and whole, flipped inside out and alive. 

Your back to the world, you and jean creating your own. 

Habits have a funny way of catching on, jean noticed, as you made a knowing decision to turn your own back to the world that you knew to be so large and unknown, opting for the warm one that jean hoped to preserve for you.

He notices, too. The first time you do it, its september. Your boots scruff up against the harsh of the pavemented sidewalk, orange and red leaves under your feet, with a cup of coffee in your hand, the one that he happily paid for like it was muscle memory. There could be silence between you, sure, because he knows that even that would be pleasant. But there isnt, and hes glad nonetheless, bringing his cup close to his lips, knowing that yours have touched the same rim to get a taste, hoping it would cover up the small smile that creeped onto his face, threatening to stay against his cheeks for you to notice, because of course you would. 

You finish the end of your sentence. Something about autumn, he knows, and your shoulders are brushing his as they perpetually are, coat against his, and he swears a world is created because of it, the lint of your fabric almost like magic when it presses against his, even if brief, because it cant be anything short of it with the way he’s feeling. Comfortable, whole, significant. He licks his lips, cleaning off the residue of the coffee and tasting the lingering of your lips indirectly on his like a revered devotee, a saint waiting for sacrifice, and says something probably insignificant. About the rain? He’s not sure. And then it turns into, “one time, connie - i think in middle school? Like back when i first met the guy - had his mouth wide open under the sky so he could get a full gulp of direct fucking rainwater in his mouth because we’d just learnt about… the water cycle. I think.” he says, and you laugh.

And then it happens. You do it, and he takes notice, because of course he does, of course, because its you. Turning on your heel, your back facing the world, as you fall into step, still beside him, walking backwards just so you could face him. For a moment he’s concerned - youre not the most synchronised person in the world, he once watched you stub your toe fully on purpose while trying to prove a point of how you’re not that navigationally challenged - but he shakes the thought out of his head as a slew of others fill it instead. You trust him. Enough to be a slight nuisance, enough to know if there was anything blocking your path that your back was facing so you wouldnt stumble, enough to know that he’d find this enjoyable rather than annoying. And then another larger, overwhelming thought.

You noticed. You noticed him doing that to you - turning his back to everything else, willingly, wholly, so you knew his attention was pinned on you and you only - and wanted to repay the insignificant favour.

And then he continues. As if nothing had occurred, as if a world just hadnt opened up and swallowed him up, organs flipping inside out. “And then when i made fun of him, the fucker went out there again, waited for the rainwater to fill his mouth up fully, and spit all of it on me.” he said, your laughter continuing to bubble and pour out of your lips and onto his, infectious as he thought it was, your shoulders shaking, no longer pressed against his, but he felt it anyway. Straight to his heart, his hand aching to cover it because his hesitance was carved onto his bones, but his choice to let it beat for you overwhelmed his tendons. 

He wondered if you knew. If you somehow, in your own way, knew that he’d always hold out for you as a knowing choice. That he’d went out to buy that peach drink for you to mix into the cheap vodka that eren had on his kitchen counter. If you knew that he’d never known what the right words to say were until you taught him a whole new dictionary, a vocabulary he’d somehow been blind to. Hes fluent now, he thinks, because he knows you fully, wholly. A world created and burnt into places, because both your backwere against the world you both knew.

Because jean saw you as his. And he knew - a new vocabulary - that you saw him as yours.

Back to the world, chest to a new one, your steps sync together, smiles the same on your lips as they were on his.

[jks1uv]

𝑀𝑒𝑛 𝐼 𝑇𝑟𝑢𝑠𝑡 ; tasm!peter parker | one-shot |

summary: benjamin pointdexter has chosen his object of affection obsession and it’s you, but not if peter parker can help it!

pairing: gf!fem!reader x bf!tasm!peter parker + platonic fem!reader x matthew murdock + platonic fem!reader x frank castle.

trope: established relationship.

genre: fluff + mild angst + hurt / comfort + some comedic relief.

warnings‼️: crude language + mentions of stalking + mentions of violence / killing.

word count: 1,516.

random disclaimerrr: i think garfield's peter parker / spider-man would be the perfect spidey to interact w daredevil & the punisher. like come on. his quips & no nonsense attitude would make him the annoying little brother to matt & frank but they'd develop a soft spot for the kid bc he's just like them. happy reading! ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ ♡ © 2025 @jks1uv

It was fast, the realization.

Your laptop’s camera light turned on randomly one day, the white light tiny yet glaringly obvious.

You squint your eyes and wondered ‘what the fuck?’.

The only times the light turns on is when you’re taking a test that requires a webcam or if you’re on the app, yet neither of those things were true at the time.

You weren’t too weary but the thought of someone hacking into the cameras of your devices has crossed your mind a few times.

So, you went to the hardware store to get some answers.

The guy hums in thought and checks some stuff on your laptop before scribbling something down on a sticky note.

“So, I can’t see much activity on my end. It’s probably just some manual stuff, minor details that need to be cranked out.”

He slides the paper to you.

“But, if you go to this address or call these numbers; they may be of more service and be able to tell you what’s really going on.”

You look down and see something totally different from his explanation. It makes your heart drop out of your ass.

Don’t panic! You’ve been hacked and there’s a chance of audio being picked up as well. Remain calm and go to your local police station. Stay at another address in case of potential threat.

You had an idea that would yield better results than what the police would have done.

Peter side-eyes your laptop with skepticism, his jaw clenched and lips puckered to the side in thought.

You’ve never seen him this mad before.

If he were animated, you’re sure he would’ve exploded 3 times now and would still have heat fumes above his head.

You nervously blink and fiddle with your rings, growing a bit anxious at his quietness.

“Who’ve you come into recent contact with?” His voice hoarsely drops like a needle on a vinyl.

You clear your throat. “You, MJ, my dad… I met with Harry for lunch earlier this week, and that’s it.”

He nods coolly, trying to keep a levelheaded look.

“You’re sure that’s it? No one from work seems suspect?”

You think about this calmly, intently. You focus on remembering anyone who’d said or did something that made you think twice about it, no matter how harmless the subject may have been at the time.

You do remember something, rather someone.

“Umm… There’s this guy at work, Benjamin. He works on a different floor than me but he asked me out to dinner once.”

Peter’s blood runs cold. “Go on.”

“It was a few months into our relationship and he asked if he could take me out to dinner. I said no and that I have a boyfriend but he told me that he never mentioned it being a date.”

“So?”

Peter had a feeling he knew where this was going but for your sake, he wanted it to be untrue so bad.

“I just awkwardly laughed it off and said that maybe another time as you were expecting me home.”

He sighs heavily and runs a hand through his hair.

“His expression changed for a split second, like he was annoyed or upset. Then he just politely smiled and let me be.”

Peter nods, already knowing.

“Do… Do you think it’s him?”

You want to dismiss that idea so bad because he seemed nice. But maybe that’s never enough.

“Yup.” He responds, not missing a beat.

“But we haven’t spoken since then.”

“Y/n, he’s the only one with a possible motive. He asked you out, you said no, so now he’s doing whatever he can to keep seeing you without you being in his way.”

Without you being in his way.

Benjamin resorts to stalking you because that’s the only way he gets what he wants and you won’t deny his advances.

It makes you feel small, so… small.

Why would he do that?

You were polite when you didn’t have to be. You saw him as a friend so why couldn’t he give you the same courtesy? He can’t just take no for an answer?

Peter can see you spiraling. He sees that distant look in your eyes when you’re thoughts run at a hundreds miles per minute.

He grips your hand on your thigh and interlocks his fingers with yours.

“Hey, hey, hey. Don’t do that.” He softly calls out to you.

You subconsciously hum but he holds you face in his soft yet calloused hands.

“Don't go somewhere I can’t follow.” He tilts your head up to meet his gaze. “Stay here with me.”

You deeply exhale and rub your thumbs up and down his wrists, your forehead coming down on to his.

It's when the tears fill your eyes that he kisses the closed eyelids and hugs you so tight, like you'll fall to pieces.

“I'll make it right." He whispers the quiet vow into your hairline. "I promise.”

You know he will and that's part of the reason you cry.

You've never seen Peter angry but it's personal this time, you don't know what'll happen and you don't know how to feel.

Should you be nervous? Happy? You're scared but the thought of knowing someone out there is willing to take advantage of people like you will be taken care of makes you less afraid.

Maybe Benjamin Pointdexter deserves what's coming to him.

“We've all gathered here tonight because Benjamin Pointdexter must die.”

“Okay, so that was not mentioned in the briefing, like, at all.” The lawyer in Matthew immediately objects.

“Kid's right, Red.”

And of course, it's overruled by Frank Castle.

The hardened man views the picture frame on top of the shelf above the chimney, casing the precious image inside: your gorgeous smile and Peter not-so-nonchalantly admiring it.

“You know he is.” His gruff voice softens a tad as he thinks about you.

You’re like a daughter to him. He believes his Lisa would love you and be just like you.

Frank clears his throat and thoughts away and forces himself to come back to reality.

“Don't encourage him.” The Catholic man sighs and asks, “Why are we really here, Peter?”.

“I just gave you my thesis statement.” Peter doubles down.

“I’m not going to be able to help if I don’t know the whole story.”

Matthew insists and Peter isn’t having it.

“Alright, you really wanna know? Benjamin Pointdexter was stalking Y/n through her computer monitor. So now, I’m gonna kill him.”

Frank isn’t shy about killing but even he has to admit that maybe the idea is a bit of an overkill.

“How about maybe paralyzing him from the neck down momentarily and then dump him in front of the police station?”

Matthew and Peter both look like they've just heard the Frank Castle suggest a non-graphic, non-murderous idea.

“Wow.” Matthew scoffs, a half-smile on his face.

Frank shakes his head and look off to the side. “Yeah, yeah alright.”

Peter calms down and takes his words into careful consideration, his word is kind of law around here.

Everyone loves Spider-Man and if he says that's a stalking criminal, then that guy's a stalking predator.

He nods. “Alright, yeah. I'm fine with that.”

Matt clears his throat and asks for the game-plan but Peter insists to leave that up to him.

“I got it all figured out, thanks guys.”

Matthew didn't think Peter had it in him to be level headed about this but he's impressed with the younger man's honesty.

The Devil of Hell's Kitchen has learned a thing or two about evil and it's that when necessary, must die. To kill or not to kill is simply the matter of principle and one he'll always evade if he can help it.

“I care about her, too. She's a dear friend but she needs you now more than ever.”

Matt knows when someone is lying but he needs to know. He needs to be sure.

Killing is a slippery slope not many get to see the bottom of.

“I know.”

It doesn't take a lie detector test to know Peter's telling the truth, even Frank knew from the organized look on his face.

“Be careful, Peter.”

Frank in dad-mode is always an endearing sight to see and Peter appreciates it.

“Will do, old man.”

Peter goes out that same night, leaving Frank and Matthew guarding you in your apartment.

If there's anyone you and your boyfriend can unanimously agree on trusting after Spider-Man, it's The Punisher and the Devil of Hell's Kitchen.

You're fast asleep in bed, the effects of taking a tylenol kicked your headaches ass hard.

Peter lingers by the doorway, adoring the sleeping beauty in her bed.

He wishes for it to always be like this; you, alive and well-taken care of by him, a strong man who knows his limits and understands what he has to do to be the protector everyone relies on.

It will be, he thinks before donning the mask and taking off into the night and being the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man he was born to be.

[sturnispider]

”read it with me”

warnings:none,just fluff.

this was requested by @taytaysttpd 💘💘

the rain had been falling for hours. not the kind that roars or crashes, just a quiet, steady rhythm against the windows. the kind that made the whole apartment feel still, like the outside world had slowed down. madeline was in the living room, sitting cross-legged on the floor with a half-drunk mug of tea next to her and her laptop open, pretending to work but mostly watching the rain.

chris had been quiet all morning. not in a distant way—more like distracted. she noticed the way he kept glancing at his phone, the way he left the room and came back like he was checking on something. he wasn’t good at hiding when something was on his mind. but madeline didn’t push. she figured he was editing a video or maybe planning something with his brothers. it wasn’t unusual.

but upstairs, in their shared bedroom, chris was sitting on the edge of the bed, a book of poetry in his lap. it was one of madeline’s—she had a stack of them on the shelf by the window, all worn in that very specific, loved way. pages bent, notes scribbled in the margins. he didn’t know what made him pick it up exactly. maybe it was how often she quoted from them without even realizing it, or how her voice softened when she read a line out loud to him. she made it look easy—like understanding poetry was just instinct.

for him, it wasn’t. the first few pages didn’t make sense. the structure threw him off. it didn’t rhyme, the sentences ended in weird places, and he didn’t know if he was supposed to pause or read straight through. but after a few pages, he found something that felt familiar. a poem about distance, not the physical kind, but that weird quiet space that sometimes forms between two people even when they’re close. and suddenly it didn’t feel so abstract. it felt like something he had lived through. something he never had words for until now.

he read the lines slowly, mouthing them under his breath, trying to hear how madeline would’ve said them.

that’s when the door creaked open.

he didn’t hear her footsteps. he didn’t even notice the silence downstairs. but he felt it when she stood there in the doorway.

“what’re you doing?” her voice was soft, not teasing—just curious.

chris looked up, startled. for a second he froze. then he did what he always did when he was caught off-guard: tried to play it cool.

“nothing. just, uh… reading.”

madeline tilted her head. “reading what?”

he held up the book like it explained everything. she stepped further into the room, her eyes scanning the cover.

“you don’t read poetry,” she said, not accusatory, just stating a fact.

“yeah, well. figured maybe i should try,” he said, voice low. “i wanted to surprise you. do something… i don’t know. different. thought maybe i’d get into it. maybe even read one to you if it didn’t sound too dumb out loud.”

madeline blinked, then walked over and sat next to him on the bed, legs folded underneath her. she didn’t say anything for a second, just looked at the book in his hands. his thumb was tucked into a page he clearly didn’t want to lose.

“can i see which one?” she asked.

chris hesitated, then passed it over. she read the poem quietly to herself. he watched her face for some kind of reaction—approval, confusion, anything.

after a moment, she looked up. “this one’s always hit me kind of hard.”

he nodded. “yeah. same.”

“you get it?”

“more than i thought i would,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “some of it still feels like a different language, but that one made sense. it felt… like something real.”

madeline smiled, but not in that big obvious way. just a small curl at the corners of her mouth, a quiet kind of smile.

“you don’t have to get all of it,” she said. “just the ones that mean something to you.”

they sat there for a while, not saying much. the rain kept falling, and the apartment felt even quieter than before. not in a lonely way—just still.

after a while, madeline leaned her head against his shoulder.

“next time,” she murmured, “don’t try to surprise me. read it with me.”

chris didn’t say anything. just nodded. held the book a little tighter.

@sturnispider

[muddyorbsblr]

the kind that makes you proud

'one look and they'll know' collection masterlist See my full list of works here!

Placement: a few years after 'how you light up'

Summary: It finally happened. You called Tom the "D" word.

Pairing: Tom Hiddleston x Reader

Word Count: 1.2k

Warning/s: language (but in a funny way)…and then nothing after that, this is mostly fluff [let me know if i missed anything!]

Things to be aware of: new and final era unlocked; cute married blorbos hours

In a beautiful, lavish estate built in the heart of a forest just outside the city proper of London, a little girl ran around the vast living room of her home, chasing around a brown Spaniel dog, going as fast as her little legs could take her. 

Eloise, "Lulu" to her family, was still struggling to form words "properly", seeing as her mom and dad said things very differently. And as such, now as she tried to form the word "here", her mouth landed somewhere in the middle of her parents' voices and said another word entirely.

"Heeya! Heeya!" she said, walking after the dog. She didn't see her father watching the exchange with an amused smile on his face, seeing the perfect mix of him and his wife in the little girl. 

Barely over a year old and already wobbling around the house with a determination in her eyes that eerily replicated her mother's. 

The brown Spaniel walked away from her again after hearing her "Heeya" draw closer, and Lulu let out a huff, a pout on her adorable little face that quickly faded when she looked up and saw her father on the steps. "Dada!" she said excitedly, throwing her hands up in the air in his direction. 

He was just about to make his way down the rest of the stairs and lift her into his arms when their dog walked past her again and she was back to chasing after him. Her tiny hand just barely brushed at his tail, and once again the little girl formed words. Only this time in a voice that she'd clearly pulled from her mother. 

Words that left her father stunned silent on the stairs.

"Aww fucking dammit".

"This doesn't look right…" you muttered, looking through the various reference photos you'd pulled so that you could sketch out the suits that your husband would be wearing in his next project. Maybe you'd been staring at the pictures for too long, maybe you needed to rest your eyes for a second. Or maybe there was really something just unspeakably lameabout the type of character you had to craft for this series.

The task itself even sounded impossible on paper. To make a character played by Tom look "frumpy". The man was incapable of it, and you were sure that even your best attempts would fall flat. 

"Fucking dammit." You rolled your putty eraser furiously across the paper, the fine lines of the collar design now disappearing from the paper. "How in the flying fuck am I supposed to--" 

"You sound like you need a break, sweetheart." 

Your shoulders relaxed at the sound of Tom's voice at the door to your work studio, a smile stretching across your face as your gaze met his. Leaning against the frame of the open door with such a relaxed stance, an amused smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

"Break…distraction…" you trailed off, setting your sketchpad down and stretching your arms. He took that as a cue to cross the distance between you in three long strides, taking hold of your outstretched hands and pulling you into a warm embrace. You let out a contented sigh as his arms snaked around your back and he pressed a kiss to the top of your head. 

"A nap," he told you, picking you up effortlessly by the backs of your thighs and carrying you out and away from your workspace. "You  haven't been sleeping enough lately." 

"Sweetie, we both haven't been getting enough sleep," you shot back. "Ever since Lulu was born." Your bottom lip jutted in a pout as you looked closely at his unfairly perfect face, barely even a line out of place from under his eyes. "It's just that it shows less on some faces compared to others." 

"Speaking of our darling daughter…it looks like she's learned some new words." 

"Oh?" 

"From you, goddess." 

The sides of your mouth drooped downward in a grimace; you had a pretty good idea where this was going. "Which ones?" 

He sat you down on the chaise lounge near the stairs and gave you a signal to wait and listen. "She's playing with Bobby, you'll hear it soon enough." 

Your heart warmed at the sound of her excited laughter drifting into the area downstairs. But not even a few moments later your eyes bugged out so hard they nearly popped out your head when you found out exactly what words your daughter had learned from you.

"Aww dammit," her little voice filled the room. "Aww fucking dammit." 

You clapped your hands over your mouth to muffle the gasp and chortle that wanted to come out of you. "Good God I've made a tiny menace." You took a breath before you stood up and made your way downstairs, hand in hand with Tom, all thoughts of breaks and naps flying out the window.

Lulu stopped her waddling toward Bobby once her wide eyes saw you both at the end of the stairs, her face lighting up in a mostly toothless grin. "Mumma! Dada!" 

You still struggled on finding what the right approach would be towards your daughter's newfound vocabulary as she slowly made her way to you and Tom. He picked her up as soon as she got close enough, happily giggling and kicking her little feet as soon as she was airborne in her father's arms.

"Oh sweet baby girl," you cooed at her, smiling wide when she wrapped her tiny hand around your finger. "You're way too young to know any better, we can't correct that even if we wanted to." 

"And we do want to," he said, pressing a kiss to her hair. "Don't we?" 

"Of course we do. Just not today." You gave her little kisses to her hand, making her smile and giggle some more. "Maybe in another year, when we know she can start retaining information. Forcing it now involves trauma, and I can't do that to our daughter." 

He only gave you a quiet, solemn nod, telling you he understood and agreed completely. He held you close with his free arm and pressed a quick kiss to your lips, making Lulu break out into a fresh round of delighted giggles as she clapped her little hands together. When you turned to face her, she placed her hands on your cheeks, pressing her nose to yours, and then she did the same with her father. 

"One of these days though Daddy and I are gonna need to talk to you about saying those words in public." 

"Who knew all it took for you to call me that was--" 

You clapped your hand over your husband's arm to stop him mid-sentence. "Don't you f…" Your mouth made a wheezing sound as you tried to hold back the rest of the word, remembering that he was still carrying Lulu. He gave you a playful look as if to tell you 'Keep going, sweetheart. I dare you.'  All you could do instead was let the sound die down and scrunch your face at him. "Hmph." You pointed a finger at him, and he didn't hesitate to kiss the tip of it. 

"Hmph," Lulu mimicked you, a proud little smile on her face.

"I think it's safe to say that between the two of us, we know who our daughter is going to idolize," Tom mused. "Excellent taste. I think she gets that from her father." 

A/N: Eeeee I'm so excited to finally unlock the final era of this couple. Welcome to…the parents era! And pls give little Eloise "Lulu" Hiddleston a warm welcome; she's gonna be every bit the menace her parents are 🥹💖

'everything' taglist: @simplyholl @loopsisloops @imalovernotahater @coldnique @loz-3 @huntress-artemiss @salempoe @athalialaufeyson @lokiprompts @kats72 @kikster606 @asgards-princess-of-mischief @lokixryss @thomase1 @mischief2sarawr @lovingchoices14 @lunarnights95 @goblingirlsarah @iamlokisgloriouspurpose @creationsbyme @maple-seed @mjsthrillernp @ladyofthestayingpower @sititran @glitterylokislut @ozymdias @fictive-sl0th  @lokidbadguy @mochie85 @silverfire475 @joyful-enchantress @elizabethmidnight2017 @holdmytesseract @smolvenger @gigglingtiggerv2 @lokidokieokie @superficialdomina @kmc1989 @november-rayne @buttercupcookies-blog @peaky-marvel @lokiified @dryyoursaltyoceantears @herdetectivetheorist @alexakeyloveloki @lulubelle814 @jaidenhawke @km-ffluv @huntedmusicgardenn @steaa90-blog

[westernsunshine]

This is SO embarrassing but I’m thinking about quitting Arabic already. 🫠 I am already having a hard time just learning the letters, especially the different forms they take when written out, and I just don’t feel like I have a good motivation? I can listen to music in Arabic and still enjoy it without knowing the language.

I guess it’s good it only took me two days to decide that there are other languages I’m more interested in than this one. I hadn’t spent any money or gotten invested, so it’s like the opposite of sunk cost fallacy. It’s just kind of embarrassing.

[fisheito]

portable friend (magic)

[erasedcitizen2]

replaying bg3 again and I just reached the druid grove and the scene after Lae'zel interrogates the tiefling for information... y'know the scene where she mispronounces tiefling as teeth-ling?

I just want y'all to know that I cannot hear the difference between tiefling and teeth-ling. that is all.

[voidimp]

maybe now that i have adhd meds i can attempt Language again

[heretodefyfate]

I haven’t seen any Rom hacks or fangames that use Alakazam the same way they use Gardevoir in rb/rejuv

[cathymee]

one thing about us is. #colonialism

[kindredspiritsnotsorare]

@rubyjewelqueen I'd love to hear your thoughts

Assume you're not actively/consciously making a certain expression or hiding your emotions.

–

We ask your questions so you don’t have to! Submit your questions to have them posted anonymously as polls.

[fingertipsmp3]

I really need to get a proper job so I’ll be too tired to have insane ideas like “what if I learned 5 romance languages all at once”

[rivilu]

Wait. Logistically speaking. Would Elluin even know how to read.