#been burnt out of this site-

[vinehasnohopeleft]

I am sorry if I am sound rude but just think of it as a small Au. I was wondering because considering Gregory’s (from FNAF) reputation of dismantling animatronics, what’s Weaver Children and Sam’s reactions and interactions of him when Gregory was forced to play Wick by Duncan after years of Sam’s disappearance in the true ending?

HI, HOWDEY, fuck. I meant to answer this sooner but forgot-

I think the weavers would treat it like any other game, but Sam would be upset that Duncan brought another kid to the woods. If we are going with the whole 'Sam becomes a ghost' thing.

[eartheats]

sorry i haven't been around much!!! things at the academy have actually been goin' really well, and i've been takin' a lot more time recently to try to study for some more advanced testin' shit; i never thought actually writin' a research paper would ever be in the cards for me, but here i am, actually tryin' to go for it so i can get a proper license for professor stuff. professor ren amaryllis has a nice ring to it, don'tcha think?

but yeah, i may not be around much for a while still!!! super sorry about that everyone :( i miss y'all bunches! but here, have a pic of my good boy in the meantime, lulu's been havin' a lot of fun tusslin' around with everyone when i got time, hee! went and tuckered himself out

[infernalembrace]

Nobody needed there to be tumblr reels. I would make a joke or sarcastic remark but I’m not going to. Instead I’m just wondering why we haven’t gotten group chats back because that was something that people actually wanted/liked in some capacity. Idk

[reverse1999log]

Progress 09/20/2024

Main Page reformatting: adding of the event links, nicer formatting for anecdotes and finished/WIPs list

[furashuban]

I am no longer active on twitter 🎉🎉

[junoinouterspace]

me vs the teacher au doodles and drawings ive been sitting on that i can't post because they include spoilers and/or characters that haven't been introduced yet

[mikazeliscious]

i love how no matter how many years pass i still do ooc rp tendencies of icons when i talk

[beastsovrevelation]

I'd make gifs for more things, but I can't download movies/shows anymore, at least right now.

[inkskinned]

it took me 964 applications. i've been counting, but not well. i don't always add every quick-apply to the spreadsheet. this one was five rounds of interviews. saying my elevator pitch like a parrot, peppy and happy. for a long time, i didn't hear anything from them. i thought it was the same as always - they say where did we find you, seem excited, then ghost me. i had sent three follow-up emails hi, just checking in! excited for this opportunity!

i have a master's degree and over 10 years of work in the industry. i've worked 5 jobs at once. i have worked hard and i tried hard my entire life, no matter how burnt out i got or whatever else happened to me. i am the representation of the american dream.

but i'm not a good fit for an entry-level job, i guess, so i get told a lot we just don't think you're be happy. but they fill other positions internally, instead saying - well, there was another candidate who had 6 more days of experience. if i'm lucky, i get this sad little email back from the recruiter, all saying the same thing: we liked you, but we went with another option, good luck job hunting. that is - if i'm lucky, and they even communicate at all with me.

what a waste of fucking time. i've been counting interviews - i am a fucking master total of 42 fucking hours. can you fucking believe. i would have made rent if they'd fucking paid me.

and now nobody does remote, even though this is a job that for the last five years has been remote-completely. now they are paying 14 an hour for a job that used to be 33.50. now they are saying we are looking for rockstars and mean we don't give you health insurance. "we need someone motivated and a little crazy" translates to you will have one day of PTO annually. every job board filled with the same AI-generated bullshit of "our values/join our family/Make Waves With Us". they need to be constantly growing. who knows if they're genuinely hiring.

sometimes i want to write did you know i saved a life once into the cover letter. sometimes i want to put a little secret in there, a little short story about how when i was a kid i used to dream of speaking to my plants. i have the same six conversations with people and answer the same eight questions. sometimes at the end they'll throw something in there that's completely irrelevant. what is my go-to belting song (and yes, they say, there is a wrong answer). what animal would i turn into. what's the most reactive element i've had direct contact with. do i know how to lift an elephant.

964 feels like a nice number, somehow round and pleasing. sometimes i have nightmares where the spreadsheet grows arms and strangles me to death. i saw an old friend in one of these recently; he said the earth will end and you'll still be applying until you run out of breath. 964 is a lot of time to spend filling out an application on a site that doesn't load properly and just steals my information.

one time in desperation i applied for a supermarket position. just anything to make the ends meet, good lord, i'd take anything. i was rejected from it. i'm not, like, proud. i'd take anything so i can afford to live again. and meanwhile, god! our fucking president!

i can't think about it without shaking. i had to beg for help. i paid my own way through college - i have been working (under the table) since i was 12.

nine hundred and sixty-four. and finally! something! and here's the fucking thing: i had to turn it down because it's in your city. how pathetic to think that 2 months ago, i would have agreed to move out to DC, my hands in your hair. my life splashed on your sheets. how pathetic that 2 months ago, you said you wanted me. 964 fucking jobs later, and how pathetic! i can't say yes because my life is entirely different. holy shit.

it's just hell. because god fucking protect you if you have a breakup or a mental breakdown or health issues or need your meds. you can try for a year and still hear fucking nothing from the job market. i have no idea how many times i've said i give up and i still fucking kept doing it. every moment like sandpaper against a raw wound. lowering and lowering my expectations. watching my savings dwindle to nothing. thank you for submitting your application!

back into the frying pan. over and over again.

[satellite-evans]

all of me (loves all of you)

Pairing: Lando Norris x reader

Summary: When the podium isn’t enough to quiet his self-doubt, you remind Lando that love isn’t earned by perfection — it’s already his, always.

Word count: 2.7k+

Warnings: fluff, self doubt

A/N:

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

Bahrain was finally quiet. The grandstands, once alive with cheers and chants, had long fallen silent. The floodlights still burned bright against the ink-black sky, but the world beneath them felt hollow now — empty seats, scattered tire marbles littering the track, and the faint, lingering scent of burnt rubber riding on the dry desert breeze.

But none of that seemed to reach Lando. He sat slumped on the padded bench tucked into the far corner of the McLaren hospitality suite, as still as if the world had stopped moving around him. His race suit, half unzipped and limp around his waist, clung to him like the weight of the entire day had settled into the fabric. His hands rubbed over his face again and again, palms dragging slow and hard like he was trying to scrub away more than sweat — like he could erase the whole day if only he rubbed hard enough.

You stood by the door, frozen for a moment, watching the man you loved fall apart piece by piece in front of you. There was something especially painful in the quiet — no cameras, no interviews, no engineers offering consolation or stats. Just Lando and the crushing, invisible battle playing out in his head.

Slowly, you crossed the room. Your footsteps were soft, but the hush was so deep that even the sound of your breath felt too loud. You lowered yourself to your knees in front of him, placing a careful hand on his knee, your thumb brushing the edge of the scuffed fabric.

“Lando…” you tried, voice barely above a whisper.

But he didn’t lift his head. His eyes stayed locked on the floor, unfocused and distant, and when he spoke, his voice was low, flat, and bitter.

“I shouldn’t be happy about today. I don’t deserve to be.”

Your heart clenched at the sharp edges in his tone. You knew how hard he’d fought — you’d seen every lap, every desperate overtake, every second shaved from the gap on the timing screen. And yet here he sat, wrapped up in the belief that it wasn’t enough.

“You finished P3. You made the podium,” you said softly, your fingers curling around his knee, grounding him. “That’s not nothing, Lando.”

He let out a dry, humorless laugh, the sound empty and sharp enough to cut through you.

“A podium because I got lucky with the safety car and half the grid got their strategy wrong,” he muttered, shaking his head slightly. “I couldn’t even nail the start. Simple thing. I messed that up too.”

You shifted closer, your hand moving up to trace the deep furrow that had carved its way between his brows. His skin was warm under your touch, but the tension there was iron-strong, unyielding.

“You fought your way through the field,” you whispered. “You didn’t give up. Not even with the penalty hanging over you. You drove your heart out today.”

His eyes flicked up at last, meeting yours, but there was a distance behind them — like he wasn’t really here, like his mind was still out there on the track, replaying every lap on loop, cataloging each mistake.

“It’s not enough,” he said, barely audible. “I’m not enough.”

Your throat tightened at the weight those words carried, the way he seemed to believe them so completely.

“Baby,” you murmured, sliding your hand into his, lacing your fingers through his even though his grip didn’t return the squeeze. “Why are you so hard on yourself?”

He leaned back against the cold wall, his head tipping back, exhaling the kind of breath that sounded like it had been trapped in his chest for hours.

“Because I don’t feel like the guy people think I am,” he admitted quietly. “Everyone looks at me like I’m some future world champion. Like I’m supposed to be special. But every race I just... prove I’m not. I sit in the car and I tell myself I believe — I force myself to believe — but the second something goes wrong, it’s like... I can’t hold onto it. It slips away before I even cross the finish line.”

Your thumb brushed slow circles over the back of his hand, but his shoulders stayed rigid, braced against something you couldn’t fight for him.

“You know I see you, right?” you said after a long silence. “Really see you. Not the results. Not the press. Just you. And I’ve never thought you were anything less than enough.”

His lips pressed into a thin line, and for a second you thought the words might reach him, but he only shook his head, voice cracking as it spilled out.

“You see the best parts of me,” he said, barely more than a whisper. “But I don’t deserve it. I let everyone down. I let him down.”

You blinked, puzzled by the shift in his tone. “Who?”

There was a pause, and you watched him swallow hard, his throat working around the words.

“The kid I used to be,” he answered finally, his voice raw and unguarded. “The one who believed this was all going to be worth it.”

And in that moment, you understood. No amount of comfort, no perfectly chosen words, no pep talk could close the space between the boy who dreamed of this life and the man who now sat doubting it all.

Without another word, you stood and crossed the room, grabbing your phone from the side table. Your fingers scrolled through your gallery until you found it — a photo you’d saved long ago. Tiny Lando, crammed into his too-big karting suit, clutching his very first trophy with both hands. His smile stretched from ear to ear, eyes shining with pride and hope, completely untouched by the world that lay ahead.

You walked back to him and placed the phone in his lap, not forcing him to look, not saying a thing.

But when his eyes finally dropped to the screen, you saw the faintest shift in his expression — the crack in the wall he’d built around himself.

“Look at him,” you said softly, your voice steady but tender, anchoring him even as it wavered with your own emotion. “That’s who you’re talking about, isn’t it?”

Lando’s fingers hovered above the screen, barely grazing the edges of the photo. His thumb traced the outline of the little boy — the oversized helmet cradled in his arm, the too-big karting suit swallowing his frame, and that impossibly bright smile stretching across his face. His throat worked around the lump that had lodged there, but the words never came. He just stared, like the past and present had collided in his hands.

“You’re tearing him apart,” you whispered, your voice cracking like your heart had. “Every time you talk like this, every time you convince yourself you’re not enough, you’re not just hurting you. You’re hurting him. That little boy didn’t grow up dreaming of being perfect, Lando. He didn’t care about mistakes or bad days or people doubting him. He just dreamed of racing. Of standing on that podium, wearing McLaren orange, fighting with everything he had until the very last lap.”

You watched his jaw tighten, his lips pressed into a thin, unsteady line, and his eyes glistened under the harsh fluorescent light. His whole body seemed trapped between holding it all in and letting it all go.

“He didn’t care about grid penalties, or if some commentator called it ‘luck’ on the broadcast,” you went on, your hand gently curling around his, grounding him. “All he wanted was to grow up and do the thing he loves. And today... you did that. You did it for him.”

The tear came quietly, slipping free before he could stop it, trailing down his cheek. His hands lifted to his face, palms pressed against his eyes, his voice breaking as it finally slipped free.

“I just...” His words crumbled around the edges. “I don’t feel like I’m good enough. Like, ever. Not on track. Not for the team. Not for you.”

Your chest ached at how raw he sounded, how honest. You reached for him, gently curling your hands around his face, guiding him to meet your eyes. You didn’t let him look away, not this time.

“Hey,” you whispered, your thumbs brushing away the tears as they came. “You are more than enough. For all of us. For me. I don’t love you because you stand on podiums, or because of the stats, or how many people believe in you on the good days. I love you because you’re you. Even the parts that don’t believe they’re worth loving.”

His lips quivered, his shoulders shaking under the weight of everything he’d carried alone for too long. He let out a fragile, unsteady breath, the faintest hint of a smile flickering through the sadness.

“You know...” he said, voice barely holding together, “even when I lose... I’m still winning. Because I’ve got you.”

You leaned in, pressing your lips to his in a soft, lingering kiss — not to erase the ache, not to fix what couldn’t be fixed in a night, but to remind him you were still here. That you always would be. The kiss was slow, steady, the kind that said more than words ever could. When you finally pulled back, you rested your forehead against his.

“And you’ve got me,” you whispered against his skin. “Always.”

The room fell quiet again. The world outside the walls of the hospitality suite kept spinning — engineers packing up, transporters rumbling to life, the desert wind sweeping away the last traces of the night. But inside, the quiet was different. His hand stayed wrapped around yours, fingers holding on like he’d finally stopped freefalling, the photo of his younger self still glowing faintly on the phone screen beside him.

Eventually, his head tilted against your shoulder, the weight of the night catching up with him, exhaustion finally tugging at the frayed edges of his posture. His voice was quieter now, stripped of the sharpness from earlier, soft and almost childlike.

“Do you think... he’d be proud of me?” he asked, barely louder than the hum of the air conditioning.

You turned your head, resting your cheek against his hair.

“I know he would,” you murmured. “Because you’ve done everything he dreamed about. And you’re still the same kid at heart — still chasing it, even on the days it hurts.”

Lando’s exhale was slow, and for the first time all night, it wasn’t heavy. Just tired. Just human.

You sat there until the voices outside faded entirely, until only the night remained pressing against the windows, quiet and vast. It was you who finally shifted first, gently squeezing his hand.

“Come on,” you whispered. “Let’s get you out of this suit. You’ve done enough for one night.”

Reluctantly, he let you pull him up from the bench, his body stiff from sitting so long, but when he stood, it was like some invisible part of the weight had lifted. You helped peel the rest of his race suit off, folding it neatly and setting it aside, and he changed into the soft hoodie you’d brought — the one he always reached for when the world felt too loud.

As you both made your way back to the hotel, the silence between you wasn’t heavy anymore. It was easy. His hand found yours again as you walked through the dim, empty corridors, and you could feel the difference in the way he held it — like he was no longer gripping to stay afloat, but just holding on. Because he wanted to.

Later, when the hotel room door clicked shut behind you, he didn’t say much. Just dropped his bag on the floor and sat at the edge of the bed.

“Will you... stay with me a bit longer?” His thumb brushed absentmindedly over your side, almost like he was afraid you’d slip away if he didn’t ask.

You leaned your head against his, answering without hesitation. “Always.”

A long pause followed, his breath steady but his body still tense, like sleep wasn’t ready to fully take him yet. After a while, his voice came again, quieter this time.

“Can we... I don’t know. Just—be close. I don’t wanna think. I just... need you.”

His honesty cracked something new and tender open inside your chest. You tilted your head, pressing a soft kiss against his temple.

“Let’s wash the day off, hm?” you murmured, running your fingers through his curls. “You’ll feel better.”

He nodded slowly, almost childlike in the way he let you guide him off the bed, his hand never leaving yours as you both padded toward the bathroom.

You turned on the shower, waiting for the water to warm as the steam began to curl into the quiet space. When you glanced over your shoulder, Lando was still standing there, hoodie sleeves pushed up slightly, eyes flicking to you and then away like he was still stuck somewhere between the racetrack and the little boy in that photo.

You reached for him again.

“Come here,” you said softly.

He stepped closer, close enough that your hands could slide up beneath the hem of his hoodie, helping him peel it away, and then the rest — each layer like shedding a little more of the doubt clinging to his skin. You slipped out of your own clothes too, and when the water was ready, you guided him in first.

The heat wrapped around both of you, and for a long moment neither of you spoke. You stood chest-to-chest, the sound of the water filling the space, your arms sliding around his waist, holding him steady. His forehead dropped against your shoulder, and you felt the way his chest rose and fell, slow and deep.

“You don’t have to say anything,” you whispered into the wet curls at the nape of his neck. “Not tonight.”

But after a few quiet beats, his voice broke through, hoarse but honest.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, brushing your fingers across his cheek. “You didn’t have to do anything to deserve me, Lando. You just have to be you. That’s enough. You’ve always been enough.”

His throat worked around another wave of emotion, and his arms slid around you, holding you tighter now, more grounded.

“You make it easier to believe,” he whispered.

You smiled, pressing a kiss against his damp shoulder. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”

The rest of the shower passed like that — quiet, simple touches. Your fingers combed gently through his hair, rinsing the day’s sweat and grime away, while he let his hands trace slow, absent patterns along your back. Not rushed. Not complicated. Just the kind of closeness he’d been aching for, the kind that told him, without words, he wasn’t alone.

When you finally stepped out, you wrapped him in one of the oversized hotel towels, your hands smoothing it over his damp shoulders. He let out a soft, tired laugh under his breath — the kind that wasn’t about being fixed, but about finally breathing a little easier.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, voice scratchy but warm. “For all of this. For you.”

You cupped his face again, gently, looking at him like he was the only thing that mattered. “There’s nothing you could do that would make me stop choosing you. You don’t have to be perfect. You just have to be you.”

He leaned into your touch, eyes closing for a moment, and when he opened them again, the weight in them was still there — but softer, not so sharp.

You climbed into bed together after that, the covers pulled up, his body pressed close to yours, limbs tangled like he couldn’t quite bear to let the space grow between you. His head nestled into the crook of your neck, breath evening out little by little, and as the minutes passed, you felt the tension finally slip from his muscles.

Before sleep finally claimed him, he murmured one last thought against your skin.

“Maybe I’ll start trying to believe it. If you do.”

You smiled, holding him tighter. “I already do. And I’ll keep reminding you until you do too.”

The night settled fully around you both, and this time, it wasn’t silence filled with doubts — it was peace. And even if tomorrow brought the doubts back, for now, this was enough.

And for him, that meant everything.

[5starluvr]

Camera on!

pairing: jeongin (idol au) x reader (camgirl au)

genre:smut,angst, slow burn, idol!jeongin, digital intimacy, strangers-to-obsession

summary:

Jeongin’s burnt out, wired, and alone when he stumbles into a camgirl’s live stream late one hot summer night. He doesn’t mean to stay. But hearts.for.y/n speaks softly, moves slowly, and makes him feel seen — maybe for the first time in weeks.

warnings:

Explicit sexual content (camgirl themes, masturbation, dirty talk), idol burnout, parasocial tension, voyeurism, loneliness, stress relief sex, mild angst. 18+ only.

a/n: This has been sitting in my drafts for ages but bear with me because I'm working on a 300 follower special!

The heat hit different at night.

June wasn’t supposed to feel like this — like breathing through cotton, like walking through syrup. It clung to Jeongin’s skin, glued the fabric of his hoodie to the slope of his back. The air outside wasn’t much better, even though it was half-past nine and the sky had already dipped into its navy black.

The streetlights glowed like sickly moons above the cobbled path that led back to his building. Their reflections shimmered in puddles left by some late-afternoon storm, still warm enough to steam.

A mosquito buzzed past his ear.

He flinched, half-heartedly swatting it away, one earbud dislodging. His phone dangled from the cord tucked into his pocket, playing some playlist he’d put on shuffle just to drown things out. Drill-heavy bass and synth distortion. Not even music anymore. Just white noise with a beat.

His body ached.

His thighs felt like taut wires. Ankles swollen. His neck cracked every time he rolled it. He’d taken two painkillers after rehearsal, but they hadn’t done shit. His brain still buzzed with the tempo of today’s dance routine. Four hours in the practice room and he could still feel the mirrored walls watching him, like they expected more.

Comeback season was hell. It always had been. But this one? This one was worse.

Fan expectations, choreo revisions, back-to-back filming and live promotions. Their label didn’t believe in slowing down. And Jeongin? He didn’t believe in stopping. Not even when it felt like his lungs were folding in on themselves.

He just needed to make it home.

His apartment was a few blocks from the dorms. Management knew he needed his own space sometimes, and tonight — after rehearsals, after the screaming match over harmonies, after the latest toxic DM from a “fan” telling him to smile less — tonight, he’d taken it.

When the elevator doors finally opened to his floor, Jeongin didn’t breathe. Not until he shut the door behind him, keys rattling, breath hitching in his throat.

His apartment was small. Clean enough. Dimly lit. Silent.

He dropped his bag on the floor with a dull thunk, kicked off his shoes, and peeled the hoodie off his body like second skin. His undershirt was damp with sweat. He could smell himself — deodorant and heat and the faintest trace of cologne.

He stood in the dark for a moment, listening.

The silence wasn’t peaceful. It felt like pressure behind his eyes. Like a scream he was holding in his jaw. His limbs wouldn’t stop buzzing — not from adrenaline, but from the absence of it.

He needed to come down.

He needed something to pull him out.

His phone buzzed. A few Discord notifications from friends he hadn’t seen in weeks. A message from Chan hyung — a check-in he wasn’t ready to answer yet.

He let the phone fall onto his bed, screen up. The light cast shadows across his room — soft, blue, clinical.

He sat on the edge of the mattress, leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, head hanging low.

Then he layed back.

His hand found the phone again.

And without thinking — truly, without even a plan — he opened the app. Not Instagram. Not Twitter. Not anything anyone would expect.

The icon was simple. A pastel pink heart inside a dark square.

Sugary.

A cam site. One of the sleek, newer ones. He’d only ever browsed once or twice — curiosity, boredom, too much time in hotel rooms between shows. It wasn’t like porn. It was closer. Less pixelated, more real. People talked to each other. Names were said. Faces were visible. You could pretend, for just a second, that it was for you.

The home screen loaded.

Dozens of thumbnails. All live. Some neon-lit, some blurred. Some with girls squatting in latex. Some with couples. A few dudes.

Then — his thumb stopped.

Username: Hearts.for.y/n

LIVE NOW

The thumbnail was a softly lit room, golden fairy lights curling behind a silk curtain. A girl sitting on a plush velvet chair. Dark hair falling over one shoulder. Skin lit like candlelight. Black and purple lingerie — delicate, almost too pretty to be real.

She looked directly into the camera.

Jeongin hesitated.

Her face wasn’t the kind he usually stared at in passing. She didn’t pout or pose. She looked… calm. Soft. But with this confidence — like she knew she was being watched and liked it. Like it wasn’t performance — it was control.

He tapped the screen.

It opened.

And suddenly, her voice filled his room.

The stream buffered for half a second. Just a flicker.

Then her room bloomed into his screen.

Low lighting. Golden fairy lights wrapped along the back of her headboard. The camera was angled slightly from below, centered on her knees — bent loosely, parted just enough to hint, not show.

She sat with her legs folded beneath her in a high-backed chair. Her lingerie looked even more delicate up close. Black lace with sheer purple accents, scalloped just under her breasts, tied at the front with a small satin bow. Her skin caught the light like honey. Smooth. Bare. She wore no jewelry except for a thin chain around her neck that disappeared into the dip between her collarbones.

And her face—fuck.

She wasn’t smiling. Not yet. Just gazing into the lens like it was someone’s eyes. Like she was waiting for a response.

Then she spoke.

“Hey, babies” she murmured.

Jeongin’s breath caught.

Her voice was like velvet over glass. Soft, smooth, but with a quiet tension, like she was holding something back. She licked her lips slowly, eyes flicking between chat messages popping up in the corner.

“Oh, you guys showed up early tonight,” she said with a small smirk. “And needy, as always.”

Someone in the chat sent a rose emoji. Another user dropped a comment: God, I missed you.

Jeongin watched the chat speed up. It was fast, but not so fast that she couldn’t keep up.

And then — without warning — she reached for something off-camera.

A bottle of oil.

She poured a slow stream onto her hands. It glistened as it dripped between her fingers. Then she leaned forward and pressed her palms to her thighs — dragging them upward, spreading the oil in slick circles as she exhaled into the mic.

“I want you to watch every second of this,” she said. “Don’t look away.”

Jeongin’s breath hitched again.

His hand moved instinctively to the waistband of his sweatpants.

He shouldn’t. He knew that. It felt a little too personal. Too close. But his cock was already hardening — straining, twitching, reacting to nothing more than her tone, her touch, the way her fingers moved in slow, teasing loops around her inner thighs.

She hadn’t even taken anything off yet.

This wasn’t some rapid-fire porn loop. She was dragging it out. And fuck — she was good at it.

“I had a long day,” she whispered. “Thought about this all through dinner. Couldn’t stop. Kept picturing how hot it gets in here when I make you beg.”

A small whimper left her mouth as she trailed her oiled hand between her legs — over the lace, not under. Teasing.

Her breath faltered, just slightly. Real.

That sound went straight to Jeongin’s dick.

He shoved his sweatpants down, boxers too, and hissed softly as his cock slapped against his stomach — flushed, leaking, desperate. He grabbed it with one hand and started stroking, slow and tight at the base.

She hadn’t touched herself properly yet — and he was already half gone.

“You’re watching, right?” she asked the camera. “You better be watching.”

He was.

He didn’t blink.

She slid two fingers down the seam of her panties. Pressed. Gasped. Her other hand cupped her breast through the mesh — thumb rubbing slow circles over her nipple until it stiffened visibly through the fabric.

“God, I’m so wet already,” she whispered. “Should I take it off?”

The chat exploded.

She laughed — not a giggle. A low, rich laugh, like she knew exactly what power she held.

Jeongin’s hand sped up slightly, his hips twitching upward. He bit his lip hard.

She rose to her knees, her chest heaving. Then — she pulled the bow loose at her sternum.

The top peeled open like a gift. Her tits fell free — soft, flushed, nipples tight. She didn’t cover them. Just ran her slick hands over the curves, lifting them, pressing them together, fingers pinching her nipples until she moaned into the mic again.

Jeongin was close. Too close. He squeezed tighter, groaning under his breath, hips stuttering up into his fist.

She looked into the camera and said — almost gently:

“Touch yourself for me. Like you mean it. Like you need this more than anything.”

His stomach tightened.

He came.

Hard.

The orgasm ripped through him, his toes curling, body shaking, cum striping across his bare stomach as his mouth fell open in a silent curse.

On screen, she kept going — but slower now. Softer. Her body glistening, hair tousled, her breath shallow and satisfied.

“I’ll stay for a little longer,” she whispered, eyes half-lidded. “Just for you.”

His body was still twitching.

A few seconds passed before his brain caught up to what had just happened. Before the room settled back into stillness, and he realized — in the aftermath of it all — he was still gripping his cock, now soft and wet in his hand, a ribbon of cum cooling on his stomach.

Jeongin exhaled.

Not in relief.

In confusion.

He let go of himself, arm dropping beside him like a dead weight. His breath was still heavy, uneven. The room felt hotter now, though the AC had kicked on somewhere in the background. He could hear it humming faintly, battling against the summer night that pressed like a second skin against the windows.

On-screen, Hearts.for.y/n was still speaking.

But softer now. Slower. She’d pulled her top back up loosely, the bow hanging undone, hair falling over one shoulder. Her voice had shifted into something quieter — not sultry, not performative — more like she was confiding something.

“I always feel warm after,” she said. “Like the room holds onto the heat. You know what I mean?”

Jeongin stared at her face.

Not her chest. Not her thighs. Her eyes.

They weren’t pretending anymore.

He reached for the tissues on the side table, wiping himself down in a practiced motion. Muscle memory. Not proud. Not ashamed either. Just numb. But this wasn’t like the other times. Porn didn’t leave you with a heartbeat like this. Porn didn’t leave a voice crawling inside your chest long after the body cooled.

She leaned forward to end the stream.

“I’ll be live again tomorrow,” she said. “Midnight. Same place.”

Then — she looked right into the lens, and smiled.

Not sexy. Not coy. Genuine.

“Sleep well, baby.”

The stream ended.

His screen returned to the Sugary homepage. A dozen other girls loaded into the slots beneath where her stream had been, but none of them even touched the part of his brain that was still on fire. That voice. That smile.

That strange, stupid illusion that she’d been speaking to him.

Jeongin wiped his hands on his sweatpants and tossed them into the laundry basket. He rolled over, stared up at the ceiling. The fan above him spun lazily, doing nothing.

He knew what this was. Camgirls made you feel seen. That was the trick. Nothing magical. Just attention, well-disguised.

It wasn’t personal.

But he couldn’t shake it. That feeling — the one in his chest that wasn’t just sex. The one that crawled through his ribs and settled like guilt.

He wasn’t lonely, not really. He had friends. Members. Hyungs. A fandom. Millions of people who watched his every move. What he ate. What he wore. How he breathed.

But tonight, in the silence of his apartment, it wasn’t his schedule or his fans or even his exhaustion that haunted him.

It was her.

The screen.

The way she spoke like she meant it.

Jeongin sat up again, eyes catching on the tab still open at the top of his browser.

He hovered over it. Closed it.

Paused.

Opened a new one.

Typed her name into the Sugary search bar: hearts.for.y/n

Her profile loaded. Basic info. Bio: “Soft things for hard nights.”

He didn’t follow her.

But he read the stream schedule.

Tomorrow — 12:00 AM — “Slow Burn.”

He stared at the words for a long time.

Told himself he wouldn’t be there.

Told himself this was a one-time thing.

——

Jeongin lasted until 11:52 PM.

He told himself he wasn’t going to watch. That last night was a fluke. A moment of weakness. He hadn’t gotten off properly in days. He was tired, sweaty, stressed. He’d needed release.

But it wasn’t about getting off. Not really. Not anymore.

It was the way she’d said goodnight. The way her fingers had touched her skin like she liked it. Like she knew what it did to him. Not the performance — but the control.

And tonight, he was already in bed, laptop propped on his thighs, browser open to Sugary’s home screen before the clock hit midnight.

He wasn’t proud of it.

He was wired.

The lights were off. AC running. A single desk lamp cast a warm circle behind him — not for reading. Just in case his face reflected on the screen.

12:00 AM sharp.

Her icon went live.

hearts.for.y/n — LIVE NOW: “Slow Burn.”

He clicked.

This time, she was sitting in front of a mirror.

Her room looked the same — fairy lights, silk curtains, everything soft — but the angle was new. The camera showed her back now, her reflection in the glass. She sat on the edge of a low bed, knees pulled up, her silk robe falling open just enough to tease the curve of her thigh.

“Hey,” she whispered. “You’re back.”

Jeongin stiffened.

It was irrational — she couldn’t see him — but her voice still hit like a pinpoint to the chest.

She turned toward the lens.

“I figured you would be,” she smiled, barely. “You were quiet last night, though. No comments. Just watching.”

His heart dropped.

That couldn’t be about him. She had hundreds of viewers. Thousands sometimes.

Coincidence.

Right?

She uncrossed her legs and reached for her phone.

“I got a few anonymous messages today,” she said, scrolling. “A lot of them were sweet. A few were filthy. And one was… different.”

She tapped a few times. Looked up again.

Jeongin’s hands curled into fists under the sheets.

She started reading:

“I watched you last night. Not just to jerk off. I needed something quieter than my own head. I don’t even think I came for you. I think I came because you made the noise stop.”

Jeongin forgot how to breathe.

That had been his message. Sent anonymously. Half on impulse, half confession. He’d typed it after lying in the dark for twenty minutes, staring at the words “Soft things for hard nights.”

She licked her lips.

Her eyes shimmered, even through the screen.

“I read this one a few times today,” she said softly. “More than a few.”

Jeongin’s throat closed.

She looked down again. Her fingers played idly with the tie of her robe.

“You said I made the noise stop,” she whispered. “That’s… kind of beautiful, baby.”

The robe slipped from her shoulder, exposing the smooth slope of skin, the dip of her collarbone.

“I want to do that again tonight,” she continued. “Not just make you come. I want to make you quiet.”

Jeongin’s hand was already under the sheets.

She looked directly into the camera.

“Tell me you’re here,” she whispered.

He didn’t type.

He didn’t have to.

She reached for the tie at her waist, pulled it loose, and let the robe fall.

[blueiscoool]

Tiny House with Elaborate Frescoes Unearthed at Pompeii

Archaeologists have uncovered a tiny house in Pompeii that is filled with elaborate – and sometimes erotic – frescoes, further revealing the ornate way in which Romans decorated their homes.

Situated in the central district of the ancient city, the house is smaller than normal and unusually lacks the open central courtyard – known as an atrium – that is typical of Roman architecture, the Archaeological Park of Pompeii, which oversees the site, said in a statement Thursday.

This change could have occurred due to shifting trends in Roman - and particularly Pompeian - society, during the first century AD, archaeologists said.

Pompeii was destroyed by the eruption of Mount Vesuvius in AD 79 when its buildings and thousands of inhabitants were buried beneath layers of ash and pumice. This coating perfectly preserved the city for millennia, making it one of the most important archaeological sites in the world as it offers an unprecedented insight into Roman daily life.

This latest discovery spotlights the ornate decorations that rich Romans enjoyed in their homes – several frescoes depict mythical scenes and others are decorated with plant and animal motifs on a white background.

One small square painting set against a blue-painted wall depicts intercourse between a satyr and a nymph, while another shows Hippolytus, son of the mythical Greek king Theseus, and his stepmother Phaedra who fell in love with him before killing herself when he rejected her in disgust.

One fresco likely portrays the Judgement of Paris, though it has been damaged by previous excavations, and another shows Venus, the goddess of love, and Adonis, her mortal lover.

Erotic and elaborate frescoes like this have been uncovered in Pompeii before. One house covered in erotic frescoes reopened to the public in January 2023 after being closed for 20 years while another fresco depicting an erotic scene from the Greek myth “Leda and the Swan” was uncovered in 2018.

Elsewhere in this newly excavated house, the last ritual offerings left before the eruption still remain at the household shrine, known as a lararium.

“We have archaeologists, restorers, archaeobotanists here to understand exactly how the ritual of the last sacrifice was carried out before the eruption,” said Gabriel Zuchtriegel, the park’s director, in a statement. “There are still the burnt remains of this ritual, there is the knife that was used.”

This excavation, Zuchtriegel added, “takes place under the eyes of the public” who can access the site on suspended walkways and watch archaeologists working.

By Issy Ronald and Sharon Braithwaite.

[marcuspikegf]

joel miller x single mom! reader

𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐝, 𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐛𝐥𝐮𝐞

wordcount 2.7k | requests are open | about me + masterlist | harry castillo x singlemom!reader here if anyone is interested....

reblogs and comments are appreciated!!! comment if you want to be tagged! send me asks about this! asks/ideas/anything! inbox is always open :) everyone who reblogs i love you so VERY much

summary: sometimes, living with the grief of sarah and her mother's death haunts him. and one aimless drive leads to meeting a single mother who ran away with her six month old baby. no outbreak au. warnings: like one MENTION of breastfeeding. because...baby... but no actual scenes of it. mentions, but no actual direct scenes of spousal abuse (from reader's husband. NOT joel...joel is a sweetheart.) mentions of death and grief. apart from that? so much fluff. tooth rotting, dentist calling fluff. oldman joel swandiving in love. age gap? joel is 40/50 and reader is 25/30? afab reader. reader's husband is an abusive asshole. authors note: it's 2am....so i'm not just in the baby fever trenches, i've become a lieutenant in the baby fever trench. idk what to tell you i’m actually possessed, hiding behind my hands etc. i think i just want a baby and a big strong man to save me.  i don’t know what to tell you. i give up i’m not strong enough to resist baby fever. i am also not american, i actually do not know anything about america. tbf. reader could be read as an immigrant who is new to the country, if you wish, because that's how it is in my mind. again this is a new style of writing...no capitals just vibes. this might have a continuation...idk pls tell me if this is bad so we can just scrap it. this is so self indulgent.... reblogs and likes and comments and follows are actually just love. joel as we ALL know is a girldad, and deserves a second chance at being a father and a parent again. i've just been yapping to my poor friends about this, and one of them was like "i was having these exact thoughts did i bluetooth them to you" LMAO. i was writing the harry castillo x single mom fic and then this idea jumped into my head, i am a slave to my whims. reader loves her daughter so very very very much. why do i only post in random hours of the night...idk i actually need to sleep more. goodnight readerss

the sun is low in the sky at this time of day, when the orange mixes with the purple of the night. evenings like these are when the loss of sarah and tess haunt his memories, the crash site photos burnt into the back of his eyelids. so he sits in his truck, and drives. aimlessly. he’s too old to wish for better days, the life he had built torn away from his hands. this is the after, and he doesn’t want to think about what is in the after. he drives on the highway at an easy speed, watching the leafy suburbs turn into sand and farm, acres of corn, bales of hay. everything is rougher in small towns, and everyone knows everyone. that’s why he had to leave, couldn’t stand the pity in people’s eyes when they spoke to him. that’s why he moved closer to austin

the contracting company has done well for itself, he wishes he could tell tess that. tell her that they finally made it out, and moved into a cushy house in the suburbs, him and tommy having done well for themselves. 

there isn’t a tess to tell, nor is there a sarah. the house is too big for one man to live in it alone. 

at least tommy has maria to go back to, and there’s something hollow in the pit of his stomach that reminds him that he must have done something truly terrible in his past life, to have him live this one instead. sickeningly lonely, with the sound of the birds to keep company. 

a car sits at the edge of the road. a light blue and unassuming, like it’s just been parked off and left there. it catches his eye, pulling him out of his thoughts. a hint of a pink bow, through the windows. 

he pulls over to the side, concerned, the car doesn’t look like it’s in good shape either, a mirror’s busted and a light broken. he turns off the engine, and steps out of the truck, keyring around his finger as he scans the surrounding area. it’s still evening, still quiet, and still a lonely stretch of road.

“excuse me..?” he calls out, voice as polite as he can manage it to be. rough from being choked up, but still kind. he hears a hesitant step from the other side of the car, and then hushed murmuring in another language. the door closes gently, and he hears shoes on the gravel, and his eyes turn to you. 

he’s never seen eyes as enchanting as yours, caught in the amber sunlight, worried as they keep flicking back to whatever is inside the backseat of the car, and him. he wears a t-shirt, green and worn, with flannel over it. cargo trousers that hold tools and his phone, that pull down his pockets. he can see your eyes narrow, and search him, before they turn wide as a doe, and then back to the backseat.

“excuse me, ma’am.” he will never not be polite, the southern manners baked into him, and he knows he must look a sight right now, but the road is forlorn, and your car does not seem to be working. 

his words make your eyes harden, and you raise a finger to your lips. he must be louder than he thinks he is, “sorry about that ma’am.” he adds, quietly. but whatever damage he was going to do, is done. 

a wail from the backseat, and you hastily open the door, unbuckle something, and pick up a baby from the back seat, rocking it against your body as you shush it gently. you smooth its head with gentle hands, making circles on the back of the little bodysuit with yellow ducks printed on it. 

he presumes that’s what you were looking at when your eyes kept moving to the backseat. a pink bow in your hair, that you gently place in the mop of curly black hair of your child, a baby girl. 

the baby, the girl, quietens down after a few minutes, and she curls up into your arms, pressing against the skin of your neck and chest, exposed by the dress you wear. it’s long, past your ankles, a square cut, with a cute strawberry print. its only then he realises how much shorter you are, he towers over you. your hair pulled back into a low bun, barely any wrinkles marring your face.

you’re younger than him.

obviously, he almost wants to hit himself on the head for coming to that conclusion so late. and somehow your eyes carry something indescribable, something too heavy for someone like you to carry.

the baby squirms in your arms, “you are fine my dear, i love you my dear.” you whisper sweet nothings into her hair, but he doesn’t know who it calms more. 

it’s rude to just keep staring, but he does anyway, he hasn’t seen someone as soft as this since…

you turn your head to babble at your daughter, and there is a purple bruise on your jaw. and his stomach drops to a pit. who could have done that to you? 

“ma’am?” he tries again, and takes a step closer. you flinch back from him, arms wrapping around your daughter protectively. your eyes are as wide as a deer caught in headlights. 

he raises his hands in surrender, no fists, nothing in his hands. just palms facing the sun, and a comforting smile on his face.

you swallow thickly, wobbly on your legs with the adrenaline that is crashing, “my car, it. i think it’s leaking petrol.” you don’t mention the broken mirror or headlights, and he has a feeling it’s the same person who’s given you that bruise. 

he nods once, and then crouches at where the spill of petrol is, the smell of gasoline is obvious as it crouches closer. the tyres look worn with use, a thought flashes through his head, the gasoline cannot be good for the baby. 

strange how worry grips his throat. 

“you can’t drive this, darlin’” he drawls, driving this around could lead to the whole car bursting into flames, killing everyone inside.

he has only known you for ten minutes, and the worry is gripping his throat like a vice. 

“i need to.” you say, so determined in your words. you need to drive this car, keep driving. he can see that you are running. 

“i can drive you to the closest town, get a towing service and a mechanic to look at that.” he wipes his hands on the corduroy of his cargos. 

your baby snuffles in your arms, and your breath hitches. the child you carry in your arms is your world, and the way you look down at her. his heartbeat stutters. 

“i can’t…” you say, gently. like the gentleness is forced, like it has been beaten into you, “i don’t have a lot of money. i’m sorry.” 

the gentleness warms his heart anyway, and he comes a little closer. this time you do not flinch back so hard.

“ ‘s okay.” he says, with a small smile on his face, like he’s trying to be gentle too. he has not been gentle in years. cruel and isolated from the world, he has grown older and not kinder. 

but you, you make him wish to be kind. 

“wouldn’t want to see your baby sit on the side of the road at night.” he adds, and the mention of your child must have worked, because you start walking towards your broken car. 

you open the door with a heavy click, and place your daughter into the child seat. you take the seat out with the handle, and she reaches out to you with her tiny hands, joel gets to see her face for the first time. 

jesus, she can’t be older than a year. maybe even younger. she’s tiny, a life, and has your nose. 

you heave the seat with a huff, and you look thin. like you haven’t eaten well in days. your hands shake holding the heavy carseat, and suddenly he is there, placing a hand over yours as you grip the handle.

“ma’am, look.” he says, all polite again. hopefully the crack in his voice doesn’t give away the fear he’s feeling, the fear that you will drop the seat in your exhaustion, “i got it.”

he takes the handle from you, even if your hands grip it. his hands are so much bigger than yours, and so so much bigger than your daughters as her attention focuses on him. she babbles nonsense as he starts his walk towards the truck, and you hurry behind him.

“can you secure the seat in your backseat?” you ask, and he just gives you a hum in agreement. 

you follow him to his truck, your baby in his hands, under the orange light of the summer evening. 

he keeps turning back, to see if you follow. foolish of him, of course you’ll follow your own damn baby to the ends of the earth and back. your eyes are always on him, constantly watching in the short distance to his truck. 

he opens the door, and you start clearing away the junk in the back seat to make space for the car seat. he can see your eyebrows raise as you see all the tools.

“i’m a contractor.” he mentions, and you frown at him. perhaps english is not your first language. “i build things.” he makes a hammer motion with his hand, and your daughter seemingly loves it. she claps her hands and giggles, and the giggle sounds so much like sarah that his heart might just shatter into a thousand pieces.

“oh, i see.” is all you say, and continue moving the tools from the backseat to the floor, a safe distance away from your daughter.

you are quiet. 

he takes a sharp breath in. 

you buckle your daughter’s seat into the truck, and then look at her for a long while. he recognises the look, it’s one of love, so much love that 

it hurts. 

his heart hurts with the pain, but he doesn’t know if it hurts at the jagged edge of the memories, or of the fear of something else bubbling up in his chest.

suddenly, you unclip your daughter from her seat, and hold her in your arms.

“can i sit at the front with her?” you ask, softly, “i was driving for a while before i…”

“of course.” he says, before he even processes what he said. 

you smile at him, your first real smile. the smile that was directed at your daughter a few times now turned onto him. it makes his insides goo, and his heart thud in his chest faster. he didn’t even know his heart could reach speeds like that anymore. 

sitting into the truck is easy, it feels like something that you three have done before. even if this is the first time you are in his truck. the scent of pine freshener wafts through the air, and he turns the ac on to blow against your daughter’s face. 

her eyes brighten up with the cool wind, and she’s content with playing with the vents, opening them and closing them. you on the other hand, hold her tightly on your lap. but you look exhausted, dark circles under your beautiful eyes. ashen skin, exhaustion in every line of your face.

his eyes linger on the bruise on your jaw, before they turn back to the road. your daughter plays with the buttons of the ac, wind is blowing onto his feet, and then suddenly not. 

“look outside bubba.” you say, delicately, turning her towards the window. the sky is darkening, a beautiful purple, with the moon large and white against the sky. 

your voice is so sweet, it reminds him of tess, of memories buried deep under years.

“see the moon bubba?” you continue, stroking her hair as she rests her head on your chest again, “can you say moooooon?”

“ ‘ooon.” she mumbles, sleepily, face smushing against your chest.

you smile down at her, “yes bubba, moon.” 

“she not speak yet?” his drawl is so gravely, so deep that it almost scares you in the silent. 

“no, not yet.” you answer, politely, and then have the need to add, “but she’s very smart.”

“i can tell.” he nods, eyes on the road again. if tess was here, twenty years ago, holding sarah like that…he would have said “smart like your mama.” 

but this is not tess. this is a strange lady sitting in his truck. and this is not sarah, this is the lady’s daughter sitting on her lap.

“never got your name.” he says, idle conversation.

“i never gave it.” your voice is quiet.

“ ‘m joel, joel miller.” he offers an olive branch, “millers construction? you might have heard of it? i run it with my brother tommy.”

“(y/n).”

you take it.

“and precious there?” he adds, and you laugh, a gentle thing. 

“her father wanted to call her his mothers name.” you say, sullenly, and then kiss her head, “but i…i didn’t want that. her father is not…a very good man.”

you lick your lips, “her name is violet, right bubba? violet’s like your mommy’s favourite colour."

a blank slate, a completely blank slate, full of kindness and nose kisses and where did you run from?

the phone rings, and his brother’s contact photo lights up his phone. it rings, startling your daughter, but he quickly opens it and puts it on speakerphone.

“hey tommy.” 

“hey joel!” his brother’s voice is tinny in the phone, “i was just wonderi’ where you were, did you get back home safe after the job?”

“yeah, no ‘m fine, i promise.” 

your eyes flick between him and the contact photo. you mouth “tommy?” and he nods affirmative. 

“okay well, i’m just checking up on you man. i want to know you’re safe.”

“yes tommy.” he says it like he doesn’t mean it in the slightest, and then a “goodbye.” with more feeling. 

the flashing lights of the town sparkle in the distance, and in these idle words, a town is probably there. 

“no mechanic would be open at this hour.” a cough, as he tilts his head out to the night.

you frown, and and your daughter curls her hand around your finger. 

she needs to feed, and you need to eat. if not for yourself, then at least for her. 

it’s as if he can tell, see something in your expression bounce. “hey, i can get us coffee, maybe some pancakes?” 

and then, a little bit more kindly, “i’m in the suburbs of austin, it’s another fifteen minutes away… i can get you a motel there?”

“i don’t…” you trail off, throat bobbing. “i don’t…” 

the money, you don’t have the money. 

“it’s fine.” 

“it’s really not.” but your daughter is fussing and she’ll cry if she’s hungry. you don’t want your daughter to go hungry all night.

his heart breaks at your daughter’s cries, and he parks the car at a stop, large hands gentle over your shoulders. so much bigger than yours, so much warmer than yours. 

he knows how it looks, a strange man, bigger than you, offering help. but nothing is ever free, and you don’t know what will happen to you or your daughter.

it’s desperation, he can see it written all over your face, in the tears in your own eyes that make them glossy. you grab his fingers with your hand, and tighten it. 

“i’m trusting you.” perhaps those are not the three words every man dreams of, but you with your bambi eyes, it’s as if you hand him the keys of your heart. 

he squeezes your hand back, “thank you.” he doesn’t know what you’re running from. but at that moment, looking at you with your daughter in your arms, he wishes to take those keys, and keep them somewhere safe in his heart. 

your daughter sighs happily, and turns to him with her big eyes. she gives him a smile, “ ‘ooon!” pointing at him.

“that’s not the moon bubba, that’s mr miller.” you correct her.

“joel.” he corrects you.

“joel then.” you nod, and then boop your daughter on her nose. 

“ ‘ooooon!” she repeats, and when you laugh at her single word, he laughs too. he is not too old, that his life is over. not yet anyway.

thank you so much for reading!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!1 any comments on this are very much appreciated! my requests and inbox and everything is so open please talk to me about this fic, or any of my other fics!! ok i am going to BED NOW. the 4 hours of sleep last night rlly are catching up to me....

[orellazalonia]

May I please request for a part two of My Light in The Dark? LIKE WITH A BIT OF A TIME SKIP?

like post thunderbolts where they're married and the team finds suddenly finds out about reader and their kid. IMAGINE THE CHAOS? ESP WITH ALEXEI

Hello there! I do love this idea, but I have to give a big disclaimer that I haven’t watched Thunderbolts yet and am not confident that I can get their personalities right. However! I tried my best and if something is inaccurate, feel free to let me know! Thank you for the request and I hope you enjoy. Happy reading!!!

Her Secret Exposed

Summary: You’ve been Yelena Belova’s secret wife for a few years now, raising your toddler quietly away from her chaotic world and team until a poorly timed FaceTime call exposes everything to the Thunderbolts. Now, your once-private home becomes the site of an unplanned (and unhinged) family dinner. (Thunderbolts!Yelena Belova x reader)

Word Count: 1.6k+

Main Masterlist | Part 1

The safehouse wasn’t much to look at honestly. It consisted of dim lighting, outdated tech, and a persistent smell of burnt coffee and gun oil. However, it was secure, off-grid, and for the Thunderbolts, that was enough.

Scattered throughout the debrief room, the team looked like a dysfunctional family forced into a group project.

Ava stood stiffly near the table, arms crossed as her eyes kept flicking toward the windows as if scanning for threats. Bucky stood with a tactical pen balanced between his fingers as he pointed at the projected map on the wall. John nursed a coke that was likely out of date, muttering something under his breath about planning being overrated.

Alexei was pacing, limbs too long and energy too loud, like he was preparing for a dramatic soliloquy that no one had asked for. And Bob… Bob was cross-legged in a chair, quietly humming to himself and occasionally nodding like he understood what was happening. He didn’t.

Yelena, however, sat leaned back in her chair, lazily flipping a knife. Her brow was furrowed in concentration, but it wasn’t on the mission briefing. Instead her mind was elsewhere, thousands of miles away in a cozy apartment where lullabies had replaced gunfire, and laundry was a more pressing threat than grenades.

“–which brings us to the extraction point,” Bucky was saying, eyes scanning the digital layout. “Three entrances: west, north, and a tunnel below the street–”

A buzzing noise cut through the air. Yelena’s phone vibrated across the table. She didn’t even glance at it.

“Ignore it,” She muttered.

The buzzing returned. Then again and again. Persistent and urgent.

Bob leaned forward, his brow creasing as he peered at the screen lighting up. “Um… Yelena? It says… ‘Sunshine & Stinker FaceTime’?”

She looked up, wide-eyed. “Bob, don’t–“

But Bob, always wanting to help, had already reached out. His thumb accidentally hit accept.

The phone screen blinked. And then, projected to the big display behind Bucky, the call successfully launched.

A small, squishy face took over the entire screen. Round cheeks, messy curls, and serious eyes.

“MAMA?! Maaaamaaaa! Where are you? You left your sock here and the toaster broke again!”

The room froze.

The toddler’s face pressed too close to the camera, making only a blurry nose and blinking eyes visible. Then a soft voice followed, warm and groggy with sleep:

“Sweetie, don’t mash your face into the camera. You’re gonna call–oh.”

You came into view and picked up the toddler, holding her gently at your hip. You were wearing one of Yelena’s old hoodies, your hair unkept and eyes wide with startled confusion.

The background was peaceful and homey. A couch covered in blankets, a toy lion resting on the armrest, and a sippy cup balanced on what appeared to be a plastic-looking grenade paperweight.

“…Hi?” You said, voice cautious but soft.

Yelena was frozen, standing now with her hands hovering mid-air like she could rewind time with pure will. “…Гавно,” She muttered.

Onscreen, the toddler spotted something. A tiny gasp.

“THERE’S BUCKY!!”

And without hesitation, she hurled the slice of bread in her hand at the screen, as if offering it as tribute.

Alexei’s breath hitched like he’d been shot. He clutched his chest. “Is—Is that my grandbaby?!”

“Your what?!” John barked, nearly spilling his drink.

Bucky blinked slowly, then turned to Yelena. “You have a wife?”

Yelena stayed silent, her jaw clenched.

Ava narrowed her eyes. “I knew she was hiding something. She smelled like baby wipes and apple shampoo last week.”

Bob added hesitantly, “They seem nice.”

Yelena dragged a hand down her face. “I was going to tell you. I just…” She hesitated.

The screen flickered again as the toddler squirmed. “Mama? I spilled juice on the tiny vest again.”

You sighed, clarifying. “She means your tactical vest. Sorry, she pretended it was a cape.”

Alexei’s lip wobbled. “She is just like me! Strong! Glorious! Creative with costuming!” He then pointed accusingly at Yelena. “You kept a whole family from me! From me!”

“Shut up, Alexei,” John muttered, rubbing his temples. “This is insane.”

Bucky leaned toward Ava. “So… is she soft now?”

Ava didn’t look away from the screen. “Soft? She’s got a Disney princess secret family.”

Yelena turned to face them better, her expression unreadable. “Yes. That’s my wife and my daughter. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want this team– this life anywhere near them.”

The room stilled.

Your voice came gently through the speaker: “The call is still connected by the way…”

Yelena flinched like it was a dagger to the ribs. “I’ll be home soon. I promise.”

The screen faded to black. Silence.

Then Alexei looked like he was about to vault over the table with the strength of a man powered entirely by dramatic declarations. “We are having a family dinner! I will cook! I–we–they must meet me!”

John threw his head back. “I need an actual drink.”

Bob leaned toward Bucky and whispered, “Do you think I should bring a gift? I have a fox puppet that sings.”

Yelena dropped back into her seat, face buried in her hands, muffling into her palms:

“…I should have run.”

You had exactly two hours to prepare.

That was all the warning Yelena gave before muttering something like “they’re coming,” tossing her comm on the counter, and running to change into something that didn’t smell like gunpowder and regret.

You had stared at her, blinking. “They? Who’s they?”

And Yelena had just groaned into your neck and mumbled, “All of them.”

And so you did what any slightly sleep-deprived parent and secret-wife-of-an-assassin would do: panic-clean the apartment, bribe your toddler with a lollipop, and pray Alexei didn’t bring a live animal to the dinner table.

Because of course he would do something extravagant like that. He was the first one to arrive after all and probably the most excited.

It started with a loud pounding on the front door. Not knocking– pounding, like someone was trying to break it down using enthusiasm alone.

Yelena opened it just a crack.

“YELENA!” Alexei bellowed before the door was even halfway open. “Where is the star child!? The beacon of my legacy!”

You winced from the kitchen. “She’s napping.”

“What?!” He shouted back. “But I have GIFTS!”

Yelena muttered, “Keep your voice down or she’ll wake up screaming. Again.”

Alexei barrelled into the apartment anyway, arms full of a casserole dish, a disturbingly lifelike bear plush, and what appeared to be a child-sized Red Guardian vest.

“She must wear this! It will protect her, spiritually.”

“She’s three.”

“Exactly! Prime age for armor and style!”

Yelena looked like she was reconsidering her entire life.

Next came Bob, who knocked once, then entered with a gentle, “Hello? Is it alright if I sit on the floor? I brought puppets and salad.”

The salad had gummy bears in it. No one commented.

You liked Bob though. He was sweet, in a vague, foggy sort of way. The kind of man who probably talked to plants and cried at Pixar movies. He set up his puppets on the coffee table, humming softly to himself.

Then came Walker, who showed up late, annoyed, and holding a bottle of whiskey like a peace offering. “Didn’t know what the hell to bring to a spy’s secret family dinner. So here.”

You nodded and accepted it. “Whiskey’s good.”

“Yeah well. I’m great at parties.”

He looked around the apartment like it might explode then he spotted Bob holding a singing fox puppet.

“… Actually, I might have my first glass now.”

Ava was next. She was silent, slipping in without knocking. She offered a curt nod, then handed you a small stack of children’s books. The covers were in another language and mildly terrifying.

“She should learn a second language,” Ava said flatly.

“She’s… three.”

“Exactly.”

Yelena grunted from the kitchen, “I told you this would be weird.”

“Too late now,” You murmured, finding a place to put the books.

Finally, Bucky arrived with a store-bought pie, his usual scowl, and a soft “Congrats. Thank you for hosting us.”

He set the dessert onto the counter and accepted a plate of food like a soldier in a ceasefire and sat next to your toddler, who had just woken up and was clinging to Yelena’s leg like a koala.

“…You’re Bucky,” She spoke in awe.

He blinked. “Yeah.”

She tilted her head. “Do you live in the TV?”

Yelena groaned. You smiled. Bucky just gave her a nod. “Only on Tuesdays.”

Dinner was chaos.

Alexei insisted on telling tales of his “heroic youth,” pausing dramatically every few bites to declare something like, “You see, small one, your mother once took down three armed men with a spoon and a glare!”

John and Ava had a weird side conversation about fighting styles, which somehow devolved into arguing over whether a tactical vest could double as a diaper bag. (You quietly admitted it already had.)

Bob made the fox puppet sing to your daughter, who was delighted. Then he made it propose to her sippy cup, which she accepted. Now apparently they were married. You were considering calling a priest.

And Yelena barely ate. She just watched the room, half horrified and half… touched. Her hand rested gently on yours under the table.

Later, while Bob helped your daughter tuck the bear plush into a colorful napkin-blanket and Alexei bellowed about carving dessert with a dagger to show off, Bucky leaned over to Yelena and said softly, “You did good.”

She looked at you, then at the toddler now demanding that John wear a crown made of napkins.

Yelena smiled, just a little.

“…Yeah,” She whispered. “I think I did.”

[thelunaticself]

ACCIDENTAL TENDER

simon riley x reader

hookups have consequences.

a/n: gawd i caved. price fic soon promise

cw: mentions of sex, masturbation, age gap

Simon thought he fell asleep in a construction site last night when the first ray of consciousness hit him. A whirlwind of sensory overload accompanied by a banging headache. Never again. He has to learn to say no to that stupid Scot next time the bastard dragged him to the bar and fixed up a bird for him. 

“Yer gonna die alone at this point, Lt.”

Yeah. Right. 

His eyes dart over next to him on the bed, half expectant to find nothing, the other half hopes it’s still nothing. The cold pillow and hollow space greet him in delight. Except the whirring sound of his washing machine snaps him out of his hungover daze. It’s not laundry day yet. His pillow hits the ground with a thud as Simon rolls out of bed with an annoyed sigh. Did someone really lose their mind to try to break into his house this early? Even the neighbors follow the silent rules to let the man do whatever he wants around here, eyes and mouth shut tight. Never get invited to community dinner. Simon expects that much. He sighs again when he stumbles into the kitchen, mid-way to the laundry. There is no thief. Well, not the bad kind at least. 

“Um, good morning…I made pancakes.”

A screech of the chair and dishes clashing. Soft delicate fingers brush against his calloused one when she presses the plate with a heavy stack of pancakes in it. She steps back a bit to look at him, trying to gauge his emotion. Simon stares at the plate for a bit. The bits are a bit burnt, there are uneven and rough edges, like someone flipped them too clumsily. He hasn’t even commented on how she unashamedly took one of his shirts and wears it so pretty like that. So much for a hookup.

Words flow smoothly with a full stomach. It’s as smooth as it gets for Simon at least.

“ ‘S that my shirt?”

“I kind of uh… My dress got funny stains on it y’know… and it reeks of alcohol so I um…”

“Oh alrigh’.”

“If you want me to return it-”

“Nah, shit’s too old anyways. Been sittin’ in the closet.”

“I also used your washing machine-”

‘Mkay.”

Simon takes a fat bite out of the very last pancake.

“And I might use up your shampoo…”

“Don’t mind it.”

Half a cup of coffee gone. 

“What’s your name by the way?”

   ౨ৎ ˖ ࣪⊹ •✸•⊹₊ ⋆୨ৎ

Simon knows his dick is one of his many talents. Something he thought about every so often and gives himself a pat on the shoulder. But surely it must not be that good. Not good enough for emotional attachment. He hopes it’s not the case because you’re still lazing around the house, finding all sorts of things to do constantly.

“I need to wait to get my dress out of the washer.”

An answer to a question he didn’t even ask. You mumble as you wash his mug. Eyes drifting everywhere but him. Simon doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t want to call you out just yet. Sundays are boring anyways. Either smoke in the yard or rewatch that football match yet again. Sometimes, if he’s feeling generous with himself, he’ll drag Johnny to go fishing in the lake that is an hour drive away. This time, however, he doesn’t even have to change out of his worn out sweats.

“So where’s your butler? Is he on leave? It’s hard to cook so early in the morning.”

Simon cocks his head, eyes finally bother to leave the newspaper. Is she mentally ill too? Where the hell did Johnny even get one like this?

“What butler?”

“Huh? The one who cooks and cleans so you don’t have to do it yourself?”

“I didn’t ask for a definition.”

This time you really turn around and look at him for the first time in the morning. Hands gripped the sink behind, eyes wide:

“You don’t have one?”

Simon lets out a mean snort.

“The hell are you on about?”

“I mean… I thought it’s a necessity? My mum told me that.”

Simon is about to reply with something equally mean and equally ludicrous if his eyes didn’t drift back to the half open page of his newspaper. “CEO OF TOP #3 OIL COMPANY THROWS BIG PUBLIC PARTY FOR DAUGHTER’S 20TH BIRTHDAY IN ITALY.” There she is. Expensive pearl necklace wrapped around the neck that his very own hands choked last night. Hair all shiny, eyes full of glitter, one hand holding a purse with a logo that he can’t identify, the other a glass of champagne. All giddy and spoiled. He’s about to read the line of text underneath the bold printed picture if strands of hair didn’t obscure his view. You have taken the liberty to rest your elbows on the arm of the sofa to lean over to peek into what he’s reading, seeing that he stopped responding. 

“Yeah, I had a blast there last month. Too many people though. But I would have invited you.”

Simon gets flashed with your toothy grin when you turn your face around to look at him, eyes crinkle slightly. He didn’t really pay much attention to what you’re blabbering next, too busy comparing your face with the one in the picture. One hand reaches out to brush out a stubborn strand of hair that covers bits of your eyes, making it hard for him to continue his silent quest. It doesn’t take long for Simon to decide which one is better.

   ౨ৎ ˖ ࣪⊹ •✸•⊹₊ ⋆୨ৎ

He finds it eerie that you turn silent when you open the washing machine door to take out your dress along with the rest of his clothes. You’re even more silent as you start to hang them up.

“Didn’t ask ya to do it. Just leave ‘em.”

Simon leans against the wall, trying to create some sense of normalcy. 

“It’s okay. I probably bother you too much at this point.”

The sudden awareness caught him a bit off guard. You’re not as clueless as he’d like to think. 

“Daddy kicked you out or something?”

That makes you slow down your movements, shoulders tensed.

“It’s not like that…”

“How so? Hard to imagine a thing like you go sleeping ‘round with men like me.”

“It is not.”

Your pout makes him stop. Simon is not that close to press on that much anyways. Not yet. 

A similar pout appears on your face when he pulls up at your house - mansion. At some point, he swore a guy just scrunched his face in discomfort just from the sight of his car driving in this neighborhood alone. You, however, claimed the passenger seat full of glory. Simon is used to the sight of rowdy men (sometimes injured) occupying this seat. He never thought it could look so good with your pink dress, pretty heels dangle on your fingers as you hold them by their courier. 

“Thank you for everything. Really.”

You say as you hastily strap the heels back on. With one last smile at him, you push the door open. The grand black metal gate swallows you in but your scent lingers in his car. Simon lets out a chuckle. Look at him in his 30s, gets played by a spoiled rich brat who is probably as fresh as a fawn. Soap is right after all. He takes a deep breathe, taking in all that leftover sweets.

Simon has never felt so frustrated in his life. Usually, he gets it done pretty swift and fast. For some reason, even with the shirt that you borrowed that morning on his nose, your scent mixed with expensive perfumes blocks out all the other senses, his cock never softens. Simon even generously puts on a video and nothing happens. His rough hand goes languished, tired and desperate. Maybe that's the problem. His hand. Not yours. Even his ears begin to find the moaning coupled with wet slaps more annoying than arousing. Then his phone vibrates, temporarily putting the video in the background of his attention. Your name flashes on the screen. 

Fuck. 

Relief floods over him in an instant. Thick white spurts land on his stomach. And Simon has yet to read the text.

   ౨ৎ ˖ ࣪⊹ •✸•⊹₊ ⋆୨ৎ

“But where do you park your second car?”

“Sweets, for fuck’s sake-”

“Oh god, I didn't-”

“Nevermind.”

It has been your fifth trip to his house and your questions only grow. He supposed it's fair since you never stepped on anything but fine marbles. A hand squeezes his bicep. 

“But I really wanna try.”

“You sure ‘bout that? Never take you for that type.”

“Well, I don't have to be a specific type to go on a fishing trip.”

“Fine. Just don't whine too much.”

Your fingers curl around his bicep again, failing to wrap them all the way around. You tend to do that a lot. Excited or anxious. His cock chubs from the sight alone but he can't force you into another round. Instead, Simon pulls the blanket higher, trying to distract himself. It's silent for a while before he gives in and asks the question he had been mulling over since the news came crashing down.

“Has your old man talked to you again?”

A nail digs into his bicep.

“Not yet… He’s still in shock. I don't blame him but what did he think was gonna happen?"

“I suppose you're right.”

Simon can't think of a better ending anyways. If that night you didn't yield before your bodyguard's insistent request to meet up with his “typical military” best friend, he is sure you wouldn't be lying here but probably somewhere in Hawaii on a honeymoon with your newly wed husband. 

“I mean I get to marry whoever the hell I want right? Even if I did decide not to run off and meet that bloke, divorce would be certain in less than a year.”

“Heh.”

   ౨ৎ ˖ ࣪⊹ •✸•⊹₊ ⋆୨ৎ

It is a miracle that he manages to find a hotdog stand still opened past 2 am. All the other vendors are starting to pack up and calling it a day. Simon supposed when you're a daughter of a billionaire, everything naturally goes your way. Because he never would have agreed to being woken up to abandon his sleep and “quench the gut wrenching hunger that eats at the soul”. It is also raining hard. He forgot his umbrella. But the way your legs are skipping when they walk back to his car makes it all worth it in the end. You don't seem too bothered by your wet hair and coat.

“These are so nice! My dad never lets me eat these stuff.”

The way you look at the hotdog in your palm is exactly how one would look at their newborn.

“Mm. They sell it ‘round here a lot.”

You halt your steps and plant a kiss on his cheek. Simon ruffles your hair when you pull away to smile at him cheekily. He hopes you would do the same when he slips a ring on your finger.

a/n: first time adding anything that is nsfw in my work so i tried to make it as light as possible but im VERY anxious abt it though

⌯⌲ buy me a coffee?

[squidsquidsquidsquidsquidgame]

Hii!

Could you please write about what Hyunju and the female reader's life would have been like after the games?

(I absolutely refuse to believe that she's dead.)

of course! <3

A day in the life

Character: Cho Hyun-Ju X fem!reader

Summary: Above in he request🌺🩷

Warnings: None

Sunlight broke through the blinds like a nosy neighbor — a hot, blinding streak right across your face.

"Goddamn it," you groaned, rolling onto your stomach.

"Mmm." Hyunju was awake. You heard her yawn, voice still husky. "Blinds again?"

"Yup. Still broken. Still attacking me."

A pause. Then her laugh — soft, warm, stupidly contagious. “I told you to close them before you got in bed last night.”

"I was tired...can't help it’" You mumble

"Then don't complain pretty girl."

You peeled one eye open and looked at her. She was on her side, propped up on one elbow, hair an adorable disaster of bangs and sleep. Her T-shirt was one of yours — loose at the collar, sleeves rolled. You wondered, briefly, if she had ever looked this good when you first met her in those awful green tracksuits.

"You're staring," she teased.

"You're pretty. Shut up."

Her cheeks pinked. “Okay, fair.”

-

The kitchen smelled like burnt toast and bananas. Hyunju had flour on her cheek. And you were pretty sure she just dropped an eggshell into the pancake batter.

"You know, pancakes are not supposed to have eggshels, love"

"Yesyes," she said slowly, very concentratedon picking the shells out with her slender fingers. "M'fixing it..."

"Okay baby, i trust you."

"Okay, all out!" she chipped softly, tossing the shells into the trashcan.

Then she started cooking them.

"That was a 7/10 landing," you said, sipping your coffee, watching her flip the pancakes in the pan.

"7?! That was at least an 8.2."

She looked over her shoulder and winked. “Besides, you said you like my disasters."

"I said I like you despite your disasters."

"And that’s love, baby."

-

Then it was time for laundry.

She hated folding fitted sheets.

"No, seriously, it’s a scam," she grumbled, holding the elastic blob up like it had personally wronged her. “No one knows how to do this. Not even the people who made theese.”

“Okay, but how did you survive the Games,” you said, snatching it from her arms, “and yet a bed sheet is your mortal enemy?”

“I was trained to disarm bombs and scale walls,” she said matter-of-factly. “Not do origami with bed linen.”

You snorted, leaning over to kiss her on the cheek. “Good thing I love you for your biceps and not your folding skills.”

Her smile dropped slightly — just for a second. You knew that look. That flicker of disbelief, like she still couldn’t believe she had this now. A home. A normal errand. Someone to kiss her in public.

She looked at you and said, quietly, “I love you too.”

-

Later, You two were assembling a bookshelf from a suspiciously affordable furniture site.

Hyunju held up two pieces and said, “A goes into B, right?”

“That’s what the instructions say.”

“But what if B’s upside down?”

“Then you probably built a bookshelf for hell.”

She dropped both pieces dramatically. “We should’ve just bought a pre-built one. With all the money we—”

You shook your head gently, touching her knee. “No. I like this. Screwing up furniture together. It's fun, gets my anger out too” You giggle, Hyunju looked at you. The pieces in her hands, the cluttered floor, your earnest face. She set them down carefully.“I like it too.”

-

At night, She fell asleep first. She always did.

But tonight, she held you tighter than usual — arms wrapped around your waist like you might disappear if she didn’t.

You listened to her breathe. Watched the shadows on the ceiling. Wondered how something so normal could feel this sacred.

She stirred once and mumbled, barely audible, “Are we… okay?”

You kissed her forehead. “Yeah. We’re okay.”

Her arms tightened, and she fell back into sleep.

And you thought:

Maybe this is what winning actually looks like.