#they will be alienated. they will feel alienated

[luludeluluramblings]

SugarBaby!Neglected!BatSib!Reader x Tony Stark - Part Two

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

A/N: I started this while inspired by Pregnant!Reader. But, it’s just fluff and possible comfort. I had the dialogue written for the past few months, but just got around to finishing it. I’m worried I’m both rusty and still amateurish. 🙃 Sorry if this ain’t what y’all had in mind!

Previous Reader x Tony Stark

Warnings: Fluffy, wholesome, unplanned pregnancy, GN!Reader (or at least attempted), bedroom activities mentioned.

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

You had taken multiple test. Multiple. Gone to at least two private doctors. You even had Jarvis do a full body scan before telling him not to tell Tony.

You needed to be the one to do it.

So in proper fashion, you decided to tell him as soon as possible. Before anything else blew up or there was some Alien robot monkey attack.

It just happened to be on movie night.

“Tony, love. My dearest husband.” You start as you walk into you fancy penthouse kitchen, holding the box filled with multiple test in your arms since you know the man will need all the proof he can get his hands on.

“Oh no, I don’t like that tone. That is not good not good tone at all. Nope. I don’t want to hear any bad news on Star Wars night.” Already he can catch on that something is up as he personally mixes a few drinks for you both while reading some research articles for one of his projects like multitasker he is.

“It might be good news.” You sheepishly say as you set the box on the counter and move to wrap your arms around his waist.

“Not with that tone.” He snorts out as he starts to make your favorite drink, only for you to lightly touch his arm to stop him.

“Alright, it’s just news.” You murmur into his back, a bit more serious.

Tony can feel the shift happening. Picking up on one of the social cues that something was going on. He put down the bottles and turned off his glasses, setting them on the counter.

“It’s bothering you isn’t it?” He asked, catching on as he spun in your arms and wrapped his own arms around you.

“Yep.” You look up at him, resting your chin against his chest and taking a moment to breathe him in.

“Is it good news?”

“Just… brace yourself.” You give him a pleading look, trying to think of the best way to say it.

“Oh boy.” He gives a playful wince as he tries to alleviate the tension he feels under your shoulder blades.

“So, the barebacking kinda bit us in the ass.” Probably wasn’t the best way to say it, but you thought he would get it.

“What?”

Apparently you were wrong. Modern lingo was a flop.

“The barebacking kinda bit us in the —“ You try again, awkwardly.

“No. I mean, sweetheart, you’re gonna have to explain—“ Confusion and playful annoyance washing over him. You always liked to use modern slang and memes on him to be funny. But, it wasn’t translating well until you finally blurted it out.

“I’m pregnant.”

“Oh.”

“Oh.”

“Oh, shit! Are you sure it’s mine?” Was the first thing he blurts out as it sinks into him.

“Tony!” You admonished him, giving him a glare as you looked up at him.

“Sorry, habit! Sorry! Just… What do you want to do about it?“ He pulls away, and it stings. But, you know he’s just trying to cope with the information.

“I— I don’t know… What do you want to do about it?” You echo the same sentiments, just as lost as him in that moment.

“I— I’m not good with babies, or toddlers, or kids, or pre-teens — Hell, I’m not good with people in general.” Hearing him say that makes you soften. You knew his insecurities. You shared some of them yourself. And, seeing him like this made something in you shift from uncertainty to acceptance.

“Tony…” You tried to get his attention, but he continued to spiral like a falling plane.

“And- And, I have daddy issues, with minor mommy issues. On top of all other sorts of issues.” Mayday. Mayday.

“Tony.” You try to be a bit firmer.

“I overwork. I’m an ass— you said that just last night too.” You almost want to laugh at how animated he’s being. Pacing back and forth, using his fingers to count out each and every little or large reason.

“Tony.” However, you do find yourself growing exasperated at his spiraling.

“Hang on, I’m trying to make a point here. Anyway, I’d be a—“

“Good dad.” You interrupt. Saying it all confident and nonchalant. Like he did the day he said he loved you.

You can tell it stuns him. Which is rare. It only last for a second before he starts to try to spiral again.

“Babe—“

“No. I’m serious. You’d be a good one.” You verbally take the helm. Something you rarely did in your relationship.

“Just because you call me daddy in bed— Actually that might have tempted fate here. Do you think Thor or one his divine buddies had something to do with this?” Humor. His favorite way of coping. But, it’s a decent sign. It means he is actually processing this. So you add your own comment.

“Pretty sure it was you busting a nut in—“

“Hey, knock it off or we’ll end up defiling the counters again.”

You do laugh at that. It’s how you both have learned to ease into things. The hard topics are easier to digest with a bit of laughter and time.

“Tony.” His name is softer as you reach for him.

“Sweetheart.” He almost teasingly says, but his voice it a little raw. However, he doesn’t pull away. A good sign. A great sign.

But, you know it’s not all over yet. There’s still more to say and Tony is as jumpy as a jack rabbit when it comes to his feelings.

“Tony, you’d be a great dad.” You whisper gently.

It’s easy to tell it’s gotten through by he goes completely still. You can barely even see him breathe. Another one of his tells you’ve learned since loving him.

“How do you know?” He asks. His voice doesn’t break. But, it’s fractured. There’s cracks in it, but it doesn’t fall apart.

“Because you would actually try.” You start to say. Tony rarely accepted praise despite his ego. So you had a limited opportunity to work with this and only your relationship to back it up.

“We both a millions of issues between the two of us. Hell, we could probably be a case study for a couple of psychologists. But, I want to give a part of you and a part of me something we didn’t have.”

And, that’s the conclusion you’ve come to when remembering your time in the manor. Growing up never being good enough for Bruce. Watching your father pick everyone in a city you didn’t know over you again and again. Watching your siblings do the same. How they had their exclusive club that you were never allowed yo be apart of.

A feeling of inadequacy that you developed even after you told yourself over and over again that it was fine.

You felt your resolve start to form. As if all those childish things that weighed you down were insignificant in making this decision.

“I’m not going to do this without you though. If you want to do this I’m all for it. If don’t think you can I’m still going to love you, regardless.” Even if you felt yourself come around to it, you knew it would take time for Tony too.

He wasn’t going to leave you. You knew that. You had learned that. Maybe from the way he had firmly told you that you were stuck with him forever and he’d crawl back to you no matter what.

You’re pretty sure he had been quoting a movie or something because you had laughed at how ridiculous he sounded. But, that look in his eyes made you realize he was completely serious about what he meant.

A long moment of silence washes over you. You can tell he’s uncomfortable by it even though you aren’t. You don’t rush him though. Giving him the chance to crack another joke and move on like nothing happened. Or, to find the words he wants to say.

“I think… I want to do this. I don’t know. You’re giving me those mushy feelings again. The ones that make me want to cry.” A smile breaks out on your face as you rest your chin on his chest to look up at him.

It’s not a no. It’s not a yes. Hell, it’s not even a maybe. It’s just an idea. But, Tony is great with ideas. You’ll probably have to deal with him locking himself in his workshop for a week. However, you’ll be waiting outside for him ready to hear anything has to say.

“Want to bone me against the window and possibly cause a small public scandal, then ignore the PR team while we watch Star Wars? You know, to help cope with the mushy feelings?” You offer with a wiggle of your eyebrows and a mischievous grin. One that earns you a relieved smile and a kiss in return.

“God, I love you.” Is all he says before he takes you up on that exact offer. The kisses growing more heated as a trail of clothes begins to form towards the window of the penthouse.

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

A/N: I didn’t expect people to like my previous Tony work at all. It was just a brain worm that I pulled out and splattered on my keyboard. So, I applied the same method here, but with a bit more finesse. I think.

A/N: This is basically a prequel. Before the Batfam finds out and goes Yandere for SugarBaby!Reader.

[evelineastrology]

𝕬𝖕𝖍𝖗𝖔𝖉𝖎𝖙𝖊 𝕻𝖊𝖗𝖘𝖔𝖓𝖆 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖗𝖙 (1388)

this is about the 1H, the 1H is you, Aphrodite in the Persona Chart refers to the beauty you have, the style you have, the aesthetic you have. So check your 1H. Check Sidereal if you want to really have an accurate perspective of your appearance.

𝕬𝖕𝖍𝖗𝖔𝖉𝖎𝖙𝖊 𝖕𝖑𝖆𝖓𝖊𝖙𝖘 1𝕳

𝕸𝖆𝖗𝖘 1H : you have an intense beauty, you love red, you often wear red, you have a passionate appearance, a strong appearance, you probably also like red lipstick, and intense make up choices, you have a sexy appearance a raw one, you could have a very athletic figure, a beautiful figure, probably on the lean side.

𝖁𝖊𝖓𝖚𝖘 1H : very beauty, beautiful hair, eyes, beautiful body, you must wear a lot of pastel colors, beautiful pink, you really like feminine things, glitters, makeup, you must wear a lot of makeup. You have a beautiful appearance, a charming appearance. Princess beauty.

𝕸𝖊𝖗𝖈𝖚𝖗𝖞 1H : you can look younger then your actual age, but you have this intelligence air around you, you have a very beautiful baby face, a beautiful skin, very healthy, very healthy hair, beautiful facial features, beautiful small. You love to wear formal clothes, clothes that give you a mature air.

𝕸𝖔𝖔𝖓 1H : beautiful round eyes, beautiful full lips, beauty of the moon, round features, really a feminine appearance, a soft appearance, you love wearing silver probably, and you love wearing soft colours, not too bright. Beautiful breasts.

𝕾𝖚𝖓 1H : very a a bright beauty, love wearing clothes that bring you into the spotlight, very beautiful thick hair, hair of a lion, beautiful manes, having this confidence, shiny appearance, giving of Queen like appearance, confidence air.

𝕻𝖑𝖚𝖙𝖔 1H : dark beauty, dark features, probably black eyes, black eyelashes, pale skin, dark hair, alluring appearance, addictive appearance, exuding sexual air, appearance can cause obsession in others. Love wearing dark makeup, dark clothes, often black clothes, black nails. Occult air, mysterious, alluring eyes.

𝕵𝖚𝖕𝖎𝖙𝖊𝖗 1H : you love to wear the colours that give you a feeling of optimism, you have open eyes, a open air, I see you wearing colours like purple, orange, it suits you so beautiful, you have beautiful face, a beautiful way of movement, full of energy, full of optimism, a express full face.

𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖚𝖗𝖓 1H : you could have a cold beauty, a little hard beauty, you love wearing cold clothes tones, you have a very serious beauty, a very serious expression, you have a structured clothing style, you don’t go for the informal clothes, you might love to hide your body.

𝖀𝖗𝖆𝖓𝖚𝖘 1H : you have a unique beauty, little bit like a alien, unique facial features, you love to dress different, you want to be unique, you have this star like appearance, you could do modelling. You love wearing colours like blue probably, or unique colours.

𝕹𝖊𝖕𝖙𝖚𝖓𝖊 1H : ethereal beauty, beauty of a fairytale, dreamy beauty, people projecting fantasies on you, you love wearing dreamy clothes, you probably love wearing spiritual colours like purple, silver, white, also pastel colours you have beautiful eyes, beautiful dreamy eyes.

[tiramissyoucake]

Omni-man Mark hnnnn, piv, fem reader, he gets to bust inside

MINORS + AGELESS BLOGS DNI

Omni-vincible Mark lucked out the best when it came to you in his universe. You weren't an enemy, a friend, a superpowered phenomenon, you were his wife.

His adorable, obedient little wife. He comes home from a long day doing heroics and he sees you prettying up the house, clad in a comfortable shirt with an apron hugging your figure, adorably tied at your back. You always greeted him with a hug and a kiss and an offer for lunch.

He thought people were weak, sure, but he loves how weak you are compared to him. Mark was already a powerhouse Viltrumite, but watching you easily comply as he handles you never failed to excite him, you were weaker than him and eager to please him, like a good pet.

Your ring glinted, squeezed between his fingers as his hand intertwined with yours, his mouth over yours as he kissed you so deeply it made your head spin, his hips repeatedly pistoning into your warmth. Deep. Deep. Deep. It's like his body was trying to swallow you whole.

He parts from your lips, saliva coating your and his lips as his arms move to bracket your head, watching your expression as broken moans were forced out of you with every thrust of his cock. "That's it," he pants against your lips. "That's a good little housewife." It's impressive how stable his tone was compared to how quickly his hips slapped against yours.

The sound of sheets rustling and skin plapping against skin echoed in your shared bedroom, you were going cross-eyed at your husband's onslaught as your hands trembled and clung to his shoulders, legs helplessly locked around his waist. He loved having you like this, seeing just how much he affected you in its rawest form.

This was the best reward he could ask for, he didn't care for civilian applause, medals or appraisals from anyone outside this home, as long as his adorable wife would welcome him home with a kiss, a warm meal and a warm bed he can fuck you in, he's happy.

Mark had already brought you over the edge twice and it still wasn't enough, he wasn't sure if it's alien stamina or if he was just that horny, but he wouldn't stop until he'd filled you, his dick slamming into you relentlessly as the bed groaned and creaked. "You still with me?"

"Mmmh..! Mmaaark...!!" You looked like you were in cloud nine, every thrust he'd bottom out before another would be delivered, you knew marrying a half-Viltrumite would be tricky but you didn't know he was so... insatiable. But you never had any trouble taking him, he makes sure of it.

He needs to feel you cum and squeeze him in at least twice or three times if he really wanted you drunk with his cock, then he'd take it easy. Pausing to make sure you're looking at him before he'd pepper gentle kisses on your lips, his hips now moving slowly but hitting the same depth in your quivering pussy, a squelching noise replaced the skin slapping as he took his time to finish.

"Who's my adorable pet?" It was sweet, never mocking. You whimper in response, oversensitive and spent as he chased his own orgasm. "M-me... I am...!"

"Mmmh- yes, yes you are..." He pants against your lips, watching your features turn to bliss as he pins his hips to yours as close as possible, finally filling you. "There you go..." He nestled his hips into you with a groan that was overlayed by a moan from you. "Nice and deep, just how you like it.." he murmured, a breathless chuckle escaping him as you whined. "I love you, sweetheart."

he was always so thorough, he wanted to make sure his cum would be embedded into you, globs of white that overflowed threatened to leak past his cock, leaving no room for doubt, a good husband should keep his wife full and satisfied, always.

[invincibledc]

🕷🕸️ 𝑴𝑨𝑹𝑲 𝑮𝑹𝑨𝒀𝑺𝑶𝑵 𝑿 𝑺𝑷𝑰𝑫𝑬𝑹𝑴𝑨𝑵!𝑹𝑬𝑨𝑫𝑬𝑹🕷🕸️

✩°★°⋆warning！suggestive but nothing wild happens

✩°★°⋆ synopsis: a simple spider human and a half alien in a room. They’re lovers? Worse.

✩°★°⋆ genre: Drabble

“So you’re telling me, there’s a ripoff Spider-Man named ‘agent spider?” Y/n said, he munched on a burger mark got him.

“I mean… yeah… I’m sure in your multiverse you wouldn’t really call it… a rip off?” Mark question himself as he munched on his fries. Y/n rolled his eyes, “listen bud, I didn’t mean to come to your universe. I meant to go to my headquarters of other Spider-Mans. But jeez, the name of this one sucks.”

Mark couldn’t help but awkwardly chuckle at the male infront of him. The male was oddly attractive, like real attractive. But in a nerdy way. Even William gave y/n a second look.

“Yeah.. yeah.. I agree..” y/n didn’t bother to look up to the half vilturmite. “Stop being nervous mark, I ain’t gonna bite you.” Looking up, he smirks. “Not if you want me to.”

Yep mark choked on his soda as y/n laughed his ass off and web shot a tissue over. “Jeez, I was joking.” He gave it to mark who grabbed it from him and wipes his mouth as he finally got the left over soda from his windpipe.

“Jokes are suppose to be funny dude!” Mark exclaims. “Well I thought it was, plus… I was being serious.”

Mark glanced at y/n, a dominant aura reeking from him, he felt his cheeks heat up. Y/n leaned close to mark’s ear. He could smell the spider’s woody scent.

“A spider’s prey, is always theirs to devour.” And with that, the male finished their burger, got up, and thew it away. “Alright tell ya mom I said hi. I’m going to my multiverse.”

He left the male broken as he swore he can feel his little friend peak up.

[reignpage]

Bubble Bubble

Summary: in which alien!reader splashes around with Gojo Word Count: 3.4k Warnings: smut, 18+, not really a standalone, find the other parts in my fics masterlist, not proofread

Day 14

“Yeah, so then I told Yuji, ‘You just gotta go with your gut,’ y’know? He didn’t get it, but eh, he will, eventually.”

You hum. 

The two of you are in the bath. More specifically, sharing a bath. It’s not something he’d ever share he does to anyone, since, well, he doesn’t exactly feel proud of his decisions. 

It’d been two weeks by now, since he first met and took you in, and you’ve gotten along splendidly. Maybe, a little too splendidly if the fact that boundaries have been crossed majorly is anything to go by. And what Satoru means by this, of course, is how, since that fateful night where he had shoved his foot in his mouth and sparked a curiosity for pleasure in you, you two had been sleeping in bed together. 

Something about humping each other like dogs on the sofa seemed to mean all bets were off. 

Honestly, Satoru doesn’t sleep very often. He still has duties to attend to but also, he really likes watching you snooze — the man hates how creepy that sounds, how creepy all of this sounds but the blue lights that hum beneath your skin just demands his attention. So, at night, he traces his fingers lightly over your bare skin, following the lights as they journey back and forth from your heart. They follow blood flow, he figures, though he’s no doctor. 

There’s also something else: you and him have now developed a routine of dry-humping before bed. It’s terrible and Satoru should be ashamed, he knows that. His relationship with you was never supposed to be like his. You were supposed to be friends and he’s gone and taken advantage of you at your most vulnerable. 

He wants to stop. Really. 

But when you hold his arm, pressing them between your soft and warm breasts, and look up at him with those pretty eyes, how is he ever supposed to say no?

“But it’s your job, no? To teach?”

Your Japanese has gotten so much better. All those movies are really paying off — if only he could put a movie on for his students and let them figure it out. It’s great to be able to communicate with you better. Now, you two actually have discussions about what you’ve watched and what you want for dinner. You even tell jokes sometimes. They’re terrible and cheesy but when they come out of your mouth, they’re hilarious. 

One problem though: you hold him accountable.

Defensively, Satoru, answers, “I do. I teach all of them. I’m a great teacher!”

“But if Yuji confused, then you not teach well.”

He groans, head thrown back over the foot of the tub. You’re sat in front of him, between his legs with your head resting on his wet chest. "Why is no one on my side? Not even you."

"Maybe you teach us," you reply, following it with a giggle over your own joke. In spite of himself, he chuckles, admitting defeat. Then, playfully rolling his eyes, he tickles you as revenge. Whirring sounds out from your chest as you laugh uncontrollably.

This is nice, he thinks. He wishes he could stay here, in this tub, with you forever, even if his whole skin becomes wrinkly.

Your relationship is developing quite fast, so is your general capabilities. Soon, he'll have to open the door and let the world know who you are, let the sun graze your skin, the wind kiss your lips, and the ground feel your weight.

Satoru can only hope that day is far, far in the future.

"Whad'ya want for dinner tomorrow? I'm going shopping in the morning on my way back from my mission."

"Hmm, ramen?"

Playing with a lock of your hair, he notes, "We've been having ramen too often, E. Let's try -um- something healthier, m'kay? L-leave it to Toru."

The steam rises up and floats in the air, blurring his vision ever so slightly. Lovely as it is, the heat is getting to his head, short-circuiting his brain, making it difficult to focus, especially when you’re flicking your own nipples. 

“Hey, don’t do that,” he scolds, grabbing hold of your mischievous hands.

Oh and another thing, you two have gotten a little more adventurous than over the clothes humping. Satoru started off with wanting to make your ride, no pun intended, smoother by stimulating your chest — that had been an experiment to see if you have nerve endings there and you most certainly did because you writhed faster and moaned his name deliciously. 

At first, it was over your shirt for the friction, which you love. But then he couldn’t help himself and his wandering hands found themselves under your shirt and groping your breasts. They were warm and heavy and so soft. Since then, he hadn't been able to get his hands off your tits. And apparently, neither could you.

“No,” you say. “I like it.”

Satoru makes a noise of embarrassment, like the consequences of his horniness is catching up to him. “No, E, baby. You don’t do that in front of other people.”

“No other people. Just Toru.”

“Okay, yes, good. But you only play with yourself during special times.”

You shuffle around and with your head tilted, you ask, “What ‘special times’ mean?” 

Oh great, yet another dirty thing to teach you. If the government ever found out he’s harbouring an alien and he didn’t attempt to find out the secrets of the universe but instead chose to molest said alien, he’d be arrested, convicted, and he'll go down in the history books as the most perverted human in the world — no, the universe. 

“Forget it, E. Let’s just get washed up, okay? I’ll do your hair.”

Water splashes around when your fist smacks against the surface, more bubbles forming. “No, Toru is teacher. You teach. Not fair you teach Yuji but not me. I want to learn too. Tell me special times, Toru!”

How does he even begin to explain the distinction between teaching the kids versus teaching you? Because he really wants to make clear that he does not teach the kids anything remotely resembling this. Let that be known far and wide. 

Raking a wet hand through his wet hair, he sighs. 

“Alright, E. This is another thing we don’t talk to other people about, okay?”

You beam, a wave of blue lights running through your body just once, making a krrrrrrrrr sound that he finds just so endearing. “Secret?”

“Yes, secret.”

Soft lips meet his. 'Secret' is code for the intimate moments you share where you’re not alien and human caretaker, but rather just E and T. As soon as that word is uttered, you'd reach up and kiss him, tracing the seam of his lips with your tongue before plunging in, melting against his body. 

Satoru holds your head close, spare hand clasping your wet neck and then falling down to one tit, groping it the way you like. When you arch your back, he takes that as a sign to flick your nipple. It never fails to make you gasp into his mouth. 

Groaning, he deepens the kiss impossibly further, chasing the sweet taste of your lips like it might be his last meal. Though you two have never humped against each other completely bare, being naked like this hasn’t been new for almost a week now. Still, when his cock hardens even more, you giggle. “Toru boner? Want me to make it go away?”

“No, not yet, E,” he mutters. “First, I gotta teach you about ‘special times,’ remember?”

Manoeuvring you back into facing the front, he holds your knees and widens them until they’re resting against his thighs perfectly. He’s never taken a proper look at your pussy before and even from this angle he can’t really see much. He knows you have a slit, bare and smooth, and everything on the outside looks fine. But he’s never felt more. Since you like grinding so much, he figures you must have a clit, right? So surely this wouldn’t be too hard to do. 

“So, E, special times refers to masturbation. It refers to when you make yourself feel good alone. Do you wanna know how women masturbate?”

Breathless, you nod. 

He skims one hand down your stomach, tickling you for a second, before he spreads your lips and feels with his middle finger what you have there. Oh. “Feels pretty normal to me. Are you sure you’re an alien, E?”

“Yes. I come from stars. Far away. You can’t fly to. No air up there. You die.”

Right, okay, well he wasn’t planning on doing that, so he focuses back onto your pussy. He finds your clit easily; it’s exactly where women’s tends to be so he wastes no time in rubbing around the area, laying feather-light touches to your clit here and there. 

Blue light is shining under your skin again. He must be doing a good enough job. 

“You rub this. It’s called a clit. Can you say that for me?”

“C-clit. I rub clit for special times.”

He hums. "Good. Now if you ever want some time alone, just tell me you want to play with your pussy, 'kay?"

"I play with pussy?"

Satoru kisses your head, a smile pulling at the corner of his lips. You’re growing wetter under the water, your pussy warm — hotter than he remembers the average pussy to be — and he’s growing breathless too. You feel so good. “Play with your titties, baby. Just like earlier. Go on.”

Your hands fly up, groping hard. He watches the fat pool between your fingers and his mouth suddenly feels empty; he hasn’t tasted your tits yet. What a shame. 

Venturing lower, he feels the divot in your pussy and he knows you also have a hole. He tests it with one finger at first, poking and waiting for any sign of pain. There is none. Instead, you jut your hips out, encouraging him. So, he pushes that finger in. 

“Oh, fuck, E. W-what are these?” There’s pleats inside your pussy. They’re moving. Withdrawing in a haste, he examines his finger. It’s still there so he knows your pussy juices aren’t corrosive or something, though he does feel some tingling. Oddly, there's a light sheen of blue in the translucent liquid. “Baby, do you know anything about this? Do you know if we can do this? Like, I don't know, did you learn anything from your home?”

Still playing with your nipples, you throw your head back and whine. “It’s okay, Toru. Safe. Just make me feel good, p-please.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to hurt you. And I don’t exactly want to get hurt too but I can turn my infinity on.”

“Shield?”

“Yeah, shield.”

Grabbing his wrist, you lead it back to your pussy and press it hard against the entire area, humping his palm unashamedly. “No. Safe, Toru. Listen to E! My people say we are—“

And then you proceed to make alien noises that confuses him even more but he trusts you. You may not know much about Earth but you aren’t stupid — you just find it difficult to communicate. 

Hesitantly, he pushes two fingers in, testing your stretch. It’s a tight fit for sure but somehow your moving walls are massaging his fingers, welcoming him in and urging him deeper. The sensations are new and odd but somewhat addictive. He wonders if you have a G-spot. 

Curling his fingers, he presses against where it usually is and you whimper, body tensing. Okay, so G-spot check. Good.

“‘We are’ what, E? I didn’t understand.”

Your chest makes a thrill sound. 

“How say, okay together? Match?”

“Compatible?”

You shrug like that’s a good enough synonym. Resuming playing with your breasts, you let Satoru explore your insides, thrusting his fingers in slowly as his thumb rubs your pussy. 

Definitely hotter inside than usual, Satoru also notices something else. Actually a couple things, all driving him absolutely wild: one, every spot inside you is a G-spot, he knows that because your eyes fly open and both your skin and your eyes glows brighter in pulses every time he presses in at any spot.

Two, your canal is longer than average because not even his ‘freakishly long’ fingers (as Shoko called them once) can reach your cervix when usually that had always been the case with the women he’d been with before. 

Maybe you don’t have a cervix. You haven’t had a period at all and though he knows a month hasn’t passed, you also haven’t brought it up even when he tried to teach you about menstruation. Maybe you don’t have a womb either. His dick throbs. Yeahhhh, he’s a terrible human being. There’s no way he’s getting turned on by the prospect of having as much unprotected sex as he wants with your beautiful body, pussy leaking his cum and making your thighs sticky. 

“Can you have babies, E? Y’know, little humans.”

Beginning to thrash around, you’re more than distracted. He has to nibble on your ear to get your attention, and then, you, with very little patience, respond, “N-no. Babies made different way. Ah, T-toru! I feel good again. More, please!”

“Alright, alright. Sorry, baby. Didn’t mean to withhold an orgasm. Tilt your head this way, E. Wanna kiss you. You know how much I love it when we kiss whilst you cum.”

Ever so obedient, you hurriedly turn your head around, wrapping your arms around his neck and kissing him desperately. Every kiss, every touch of your tongues together is interrupted with high-pitched moans, splashing water, and vibrations from your chest, that telltale humming growing louder and louder as the pleats in your pussy wrap around his fingers in a tighter and tighter hug. 

They hold onto him like they’d be very upset if he removed them for too long as he thrusts and presses all your sensitive spots over and over again, the water sloshing around and spilling over the tub, creating a mess he'll have to deal with.

“T-toru! Fingers soooooo long. I feel full!”

“I know, E, baby. You like feeling full, don’t you. Your pussy doesn’t want me to leave, does she?”

Satoru fails to mention one other thing he’s noticed and he really can’t spend too much time thinking about it because it’s threatening to make him bust his load prematurely: your pussy emits light. 

Seriously, it’s like something from some shitty hentai. But there’s no doubt about it; blue light is shining onto his pale fingers, making the water and the bubbles an even darker blue. Everywhere he looks, there’s you. You are blue. When he stares up at the sky, he feels his chest ache. And when he sees stop signs and cars resembling any shade of blue, his cock is growing in his trousers. 

Fuck, even when he catches sight of his eyes in the mirror, unobscured by his blindfold, all he sees is you. 

“You’re so hot inside. Do you hate me for wanting to fuck you right now, E? Hmm? Would you hate me if I just lifted you up and dropped you down on my cock? No, probably not, right? ‘Cause you want me too, right, E? You want Toru?”

“Y-yes, Toru. Want -ngh!- you. Always”

He coos, “Aww, you’re such a sweetie-pie, aren’t you? My good girl. Go on, then baby, show me h-how much you want me. R-ride my fingers.”

Smelling like roses and bath salts, the steam fills his nose and Satoru thinks he might just pass out from the overstimulation — your soft breasts pressed against his bare skin, your lips wrapped around his, your hot pussy pulsing, and flashes of light casting blue shadows around the room. “You gonna cum, E? You feeling good? Is this better than humping my cock, baby? We — ha yes just like that, ride my fingers, baby— we can do b-both now. Just gotta tell Toru when you want to —ngh- feel good, yeah?”

“Yes, Toru. I tell you. Oh, I’m close! That good feeling coming. Don’t stop!”

Even from his angle, your body is rubbing against his cock which he had been steadily grinding against you the entire time. 

Together, you cum. 

“Ah, fuck, E. Ah, shit, oh yeah, baby. So good.”

Your nails are digging into his wrist as you ride out your orgasm, the glow under your skin thrumming devastatingly. He can't help himself; Satoru tilts your head back, lips skimming against each other but not quite pressed together, just gulping down your moans. He loves seeing your eyes too.

In these moments, he sees himself reflected in your eyes the way he sees you reflected in every breath, step, and move he makes. It's like a brand, a punishment for making him so weak. Those glowing blue eyes are his only reprieve for his crimes, the consolation for his depravity, and the very thing that convinces him he's doing right by you.

"T-thank you, Toru," you sigh out, body relaxing and lights shutting off.

He almost misses the pretty lights. "Mmm, you're welcome. Not like I didn't get anything out of it. But I have to say, your pussy took me by surprise. I didn't expect for there to be moving things. And the light! Damn, do you just glow everywhere?"

You hiss, nails digging into his thighs.

"Youch! Hey, what was that for?"

Pushing away from him, you shuffle over to the other end of the tub, holding your knees together as you dip lower into the water, your eyes the only things visible.

Poor baby's sulking and he doesn't even know why.

"Hey, E. Talk to me. What's wrong? I didn't hurt you, did I? I didn't scratch something?"

Flicking water at him, you growl, "No."

"Okay, so what's wrong? Uh, hey, don't look at me like that. If you don't talk to me, I'll take away movie privileges."

"No movie?"

"No. Movie."

SPLASH!

Dumbfounded, Satoru sits there, soaking wet, water dripping from his hair with his mouth open. In front of him is a woman who's playing with some bubbles, the picture of innocence. "Alright. Fine. That's how you wanna play? Stay here by yourself then."

He's out of the bath and towelling off by the time you get to him, arms wrapping around his waist as you smush your face against his chest. Forcing his limbs to not embrace you, he waits patiently for your next move.

Though he would never want to upset you or make you feel like he's mad at you, he has enough tact to know permitting your bad behaviour even once would only spell trouble for him in the future.

"Come." You urge him to bring his face closer and so he does. Then, with gentle hands, you wipe the suds from his cheeks and grab a small towel to dry his hair. He lets you ruffle it around with the 'swooosh swoosh swoooosh' sounds he makes when he does yours.

Once dry, he peeks out from under the towel and his gaze softens. "Talk to me, baby. Tell me what I did wrong."

You sigh. "You make fun of me. My body. You think I'm...weird. Am I not pretty like women in movies? Like Rapunzel?"

His heart breaks. Literally. He feels it give up on him and shatter into tiny little fragments, like mere reflections of stars on a dirty puddle on the road.

"Oh, no, E, baby. Hey, listen," he urges. Grabbing your face, he presses a kiss on your nose and smiles a little when you crinkle it. "I think you're pretty. Very pretty. Prettier than Rapunzel. Prettier than everyone else. I'm sorry I made you think that I think your body's weird. No, of course not. Sure, it's different but so am I to you, I'm sure. I was just taken by surprise because of how new it all is. I think it's very cool. I think you're cool, okay? Tell me you understand, sweet thing."

"I pretty?"

"Gorgeous. Stunning. Ethereal."

Flattening your bare body against him, he feels every curve and has to will his dick to stay asleep. Then, with a much lighter tone, you ask, "You like me, Toru? More than movie girls?"

He whispers against your head, "Yeah. I like you more than them. I like you more than anyone else in the world. In fact, I like you too much to let anyone take you away."

"Someone take me away?"

Then, with a fierce resolution burning in his eyes, he swears with all the cursed technique swirling in his veins, "No. Never."

[lokisgoodgirl]

Only For You [Loki x Reader]

A Link to my Masterlist is HERE Summary: Just Loki in your pants and in his feels. Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI. Smut. Fluff. Mentions of violence. Language. (w/c 1k)

Loki’s lips trace over your neck with hot, reverent breaths. His hips rock up with each careful gasp, his hands fixed on your lower back like you might vanish.

You knot your fingers deep into the lengths of his hair, grazing his scalp, drinking in the heat of his cautious lust as he buries into the curve of your neck with a biting groan.

He has to be careful when he returns from battle and his blood’s up. Going from using his full force, to handling you, is dangerous. Irresistible—but dangerous. The thought alone sends a new thrill lighting up your spine.

The straight line of his nose runs against the sweep of your skin, his kiss landing on the angle of your jaw.

“Talk to me,” you whisper, all vowels, lost in the soft moan as he pulls your ass closer to his crotch and his cock sinks deep.

“What would you like me to say?”

It’s a goad, a growl, and he tips your chin towards him with one, long finger. Loki’s eyes are glittering black in candlelight; two pools of fresh tar spilling from irises deep enough to drown in. You could choke on him; feel that black delight of his gaze gurgling in the back of your throat and beg for more.

“That I’ve burned for you since I’ve been gone?” he murmurs, calculated and glacial, “That I thought only of you while hoards of enemies fell beneath my prowess...That I would have traded the mantle of victory in a heartbeat for one night with my sword sheathed in your perfect, dark, heat?”

His stomach clenches in sync with a staggered gasp which rushes over the nape of your neck. "That I'd trade it all for you?"

You gasp as he punctuates the final word with a targeted buck of his hips. “Something like that?”

“Yes.” More. It’s implied.

He hums against the vein straining at your neck. Your fingernails sink into the hard muscle of his shoulders as he lowers you backwards to the rumpled sheets now cool and damp under your flushed skin. There's a groan of discontent as he slides from the dark heat he loves.

Streaks of black are plastered against Loki’s forehead; a sheen of perspiration glistening on flawless, milky skin as he crawls up your body, kissing every several inches up your midsection until his cock is pressed against your slit and his lips hang over yours... just out of reach.

“More,” he whispers.

It isn’t a question, and you can’t stifle the smile. Loki grins, and something inside you twists with fierce anticipation.

“I love you,” he says, savouring the alien syllables as though each one might be overheard by some unseen foe, “More than my black heart thought it was possible; crawling from the shadows of my own indifference.”

He kisses you once—chaste—and your mind scrambles, heart pounding between your ribs.

Did he really say...?

His chest is pressed to yours, and his hand slides beneath your head on the pillow and works through your hair. Loki’s eyes narrow lightly.

“I love you the way a beast cannot control the urge to hunt; to fuck; the way lungs need to breathe— the way poetry craves to be spoken.” His mouth crushes down—hard—and he draws your bottom lip between his teeth as he draws away.

The confession is so sudden, so unexpected, and you seem to float above your body while the air feels too thin to breathe. He loves me. It was beyond anything you ever imagined—a delusional fantasy confined to the unspoken quiet of the night where darkness shrouded hope. The sudden thought that this was a cruel dream lands like a punch in the midst of the joy blossoming cautiously in your gut.

“Loki…I—”

The god pulls his hips back and teases forward, sliding himself to the hilt. The anxious question building in your throat evaporates as his eyes flutter shut and he rolls his hips.

With one hand, he works his thumb against your clit while the other slides from your hair to your neck. It rests there, thumb slotted into the hollow, fingers spread against the swell of your breast as skin slaps gently against skin and a chorus of pants grow louder; filling the air like fog.

“I love you,” he says again, breathless. His eyebrows draw tighter, lips parting, small gasps escaping before he adds, “Is not that tragic?”

You reach up and cup the sharp angle of his jaw; pulling him down. Loki’s hands fly to either side of your body, the weight of him dipping the mattress as his length plunged so deeply inside you it shunts you further up the bed. “Loki, I love you…” you say, kissing him harshly. His lips don’t move against yours and when you break, his eyes are glazed.

“You…do? Are you quite sure?”

You slap his shoulder, and his features soften immediately. “Of course I’m sure. Or did you leave your wits on the battlefield as well as your dagger.”

One of Loki's brows tweaked at the playful jibe. He'd been furious about that dagger. Unless your clothes vanished, that was. “It’s scarcely gentile to insult a man when he holds your pleasure under such…” Loki bucked his hips so tightly your eyes rolled back, “compromising circumstances.”

He was a rogue. And arrogant. And dramatic. But you did love him, for all those things, not in spite of them, and so you said, “Perhaps. If he didn’t love me....That covers all manner of sins."

Loki’s mouth falls on yours—the depth of his kiss widening with each heavy exhale. “You’re a terrible influence on me, darling,” he murmurs as you push him onto his back and straddle him. His pale skin is painted a lustrous amber, and shadows nestle in the long, lean lines of his chest.

A groan chokes in Loki’s throat as you mount him. “People will whisper I’m going soft. ‘Where is the warrior’, they’ll say? ‘Where is the dark prince of Asgard, and why is this goon in his garb who insists on smiling all the time’?”

You kiss his forehead, enjoying the muffled grunt of satisfaction as he burrows against your cleavage. “Do you care?” You clench around him to drive the point home. He reclines with one hand thrown behind his head and the other guiding your hips; fingers tightening with every calculated roll.

“Never,” he growls, dimples crushing into his cheeks. “And even then, my love, only for you.”

❤️Tags in comments, come say hi! 🤗

[chubby-p1nk]

I feel like- Outside of the whole hero aspect, Kon is one of those friends who are very close, very physical, but—in a somewhat brusque and annoying way LAKSDASK That kind of friend who, when he pats you on the back, accidentally break you like a stick.

Kon is like that, AND HE KNOWS IT- THAT ALIEN TANK KNOWS IT, AND HE KEEPS DOING IT BECAUSE HE'S LIKE A HUSKY MIXED WITH A ROTTWEILER.

[corsairier]

dc x dp prompt: in which Danny accidentally becomes an alien

So I'm not super caught up on the modern day dp fandom lore, but what i am very familiar with is pre-2016 dp fandom lore. And that lore tends to take a much more sci-fi slant than a lot of the current magic stuff I've been seeing circulating around, so... what if we took that and put it in a batfam crossover?

Picture this: Danny is sixteen, he's told his parents he's a halfa, and despite all his fears, things actually went... well? They apologize for how they've treated Phantom, they reaffirm they still love him as their son, and things are surprisingly okay.

Except... ghosts are still their biggest interest in life, and researching ghosts is their entire passions and careers. And they've got a kid right there who not only is a ghost, but a rare type of half ghost who could give them a completely different set of data than any of their previous research! And he's their kid, so why not just go and ask Danny how he's feeling about helping them out with their research?

And Danny is, well... his friends and Jazz are all super happy for him that Maddie and Jack accepted him, and they think it's sweet at first that they're trying to bond with Danny over this. So he feels a bit pressured to go along with it, even though it feels incredibly invasive to have his parents asking him all these things. But they're his parents, and he does feel grateful for them not trying to vivisect him, so it can't be that bad, right?

But it just escalates.

His parents have never really been great with boundaries, especially when it comes to ghosts, and at some point Danny realizes that there's not really a point where either of them will truly stop. They keep asking him for blood samples, skin samples, hair samples, marrow samples, anything that can help understand him inside and out. They know ectoplasm can bring inanimate things to life or infuse life into the dead, so it quickly becomes Hey Danny, what if we injected human blood into a ghost? And Come watch us infuse ectoplasm into these frozen mice! and Danny, come help us out with this project!

Vlad won't even come in between any of this, not after Danny let slip that he wasn't the only halfa out there. Maddie's affections are a lot less attractive to him when it feels like being a lab rat under her microscope, and the coward seems more than happy to leave Danny to his fate while he goes and lives it up in his mansions. His friends are sympathetic, sure, but they don't really get it beyond usual "parents suck" complaining. it's not like Danny is actually in any danger.

Jazz at least takes it seriously, but she's off at university by then and she can't just drop everything to get into fights with their parents telling them to leave Danny alone. So Danny starts spending a bit more time than he probably should exploring the Ghost Zone and tumbling through portals, just to see where it leads him. It's stress relief, you know. Jazz would approve of him getting out of the house to clear his head.

The fact that some of these portals happen to connect dimensions isn't something he's expecting.

Neither is the fact that dimensions have their own rules, and in order to pass between dimensions, they must undergo changes as needed to fit those rules. Someone with magic cannot exist as is in a dimension without it, and the dead cannot walk in a dimension where the rules of life and death are drawn by different lines.

Danny winds up in Gotham with a body that feels unlike his own, the majority of his powers and his ghost half seemingly beyond his reach. He still thinks he's human (probably), but something about him isn't quite right. He feels odd, where he lands, and something about the air and the weather just doesn't sit right in his bones.

He's hungering for... ectoplasm, maybe? He can't put a finger on it, only that he's starving without it. Danny can't quite figure out how to get his way back—and he's not sure if he really wants to, if it means going back to playing house with his parents.

Then the Bats, from their own perspective, stumble across a medical mystery—one that doesn't want to be solved.

One that's absolutely sick of people trying to research everything about him.

And there's no way a being like him could be from Earth, right?

Batman is convinced he's an alien seeking amnesty on Earth. Tim's got his bets on an experiment escaped from some dark and corrupt lab somewhere. Dick's thinking the kid's a Meta with the kind of powers those with bad intentions would kill to have.

Jason, for what it's worth, really just wants to know how this bandaged and ill kid ended up in one of his safehouses—especially considering it's not accessible from the ground floor.

---

I've been chipping away at a fic for this, but I'm not sure if it'd be something modern dpxdc fans would be interested in? Feel free to use this idea yourselves for anything if it piques your interest LOL, just credit me in the AN if you post it to AO3. I just think it's really funny to have Danny having incredibly boring "i feel i can't enforce boundaries with my parents" problems and then the Batfam seeing what it all looks like from an outsider's POV and coming to some very severe conclusions based on what they can pick up on because it's really not a good look.

Danny voice. No my parents are fine except for all the experimenting on me. Jason voice. THE WHAT.

[delusi0ns-of-grand3ur]

my adhd makes me feel like an alien that was born on this planet

does anyone feel the layer of plexiglass between themselves and the rest of the world or is that just a me thing

[kissthesunandmoon]

Cellmates by proxy (Yautja x f reader SMUT MDNI)

(You were abducted by an intelligent unknown species who wish to study other forms of intelligent life, due to limited space however you are forced to share a cell with none other than a Yautja. You earn his respect which turns to fondness, which turns to more when your ovulation shifts your hormones.)

Being abducted by aliens was nothing like how they depicted it in the movies, there was no beaming light that pulled you from your bed, no flying saucer that engulfed you, no tiny bug eyed men with grey skin and bulbous heads. You had simply set your alarms, snuggled up under your covers and fallen asleep in your bed as you did every other night. It was routine. What was not routine however, was what greeted you when you finally awoke.

It was the lights that stirred you, so bright that they infiltrated even your closed eyelids. Then the feeling of being without your blanket, you had reached for it still half asleep but of course it wasn’t there, instead your hand brushed against a cold floor. You slowly opened your eyes, still feeling groggy and confused, however the instant realisation that you were clearly not in your room sent a surge of adrenaline into your body bolting you upright.

The room was bright and sterile, you felt your heart stutter in your chest as you attempted to process your surroundings. Where the hell were you? You practically jumped to your feet walking forward to press your hands against what appeared to be a white sealed door, you could see the line in which the two halves met in the middle and attempted to pull it open with your hands. It was a futile attempt, a cheap shot at that.

You could feel your breathing quicken as panic was setting in, and just when you felt this situation couldn’t get any worse, you heard something from behind you. From the back half of the room which for some reason you had neglected to check, erupted what sounded like a low animalistic growl. Shit. That couldn’t be good.

You turned slowly and just as soon as you did, you stumbled backwards, your back hitting the sealed doors. Sat against the wall at the other side of the room was, something, it had a body very similar to a human but with almost reptilian skin, and you could see plenty of it considering all it wore was a loin cloth. As your eyes travelled up, they fell on its face, deep predatory eyes and mandibles which clicked and chittered occasionally under your scrutiny, you could see what appeared to be dreads which dangled down, laying against its shoulders. Across its neck was what appeared to be some kind of metal collar that looked to you like some form of shock collar. Considering its body, you could only assume that it was male, whatever it was.

You felt your chest heaving, could hear the blood pumping in your ears, and feel your legs trembling underneath you. Whatever it was, it stared back at you. You swallowed feeling your mouth go dry, opening your mouth you let out a breath you didn’t even realise you had held before speaking “Where am I?” Was all you managed with your shaking voice. He didn’t respond, he just stared at you.

After about an hour, you had moved to sit on the wall next to the door, too terrified to go near him as he continued to just sit in silence. Finally the door opened and in came your apparent captures, you had never seen anything like them. They looked how you would imagine the offspring of a human and some kind of jellyfish, humanoid bodies with nearly transparent skin, they seemed to absorb the colour of the room as they entered.

They took you that day from your shared cell and into some kind of medical room, they poked and prodded you, weighed you, measured you, took blood from you and inspected you from head to toe, although you were grateful that they never made you remove any clothing. Afterwards, they shoved you into a shower room with a bag full of human toiletries where they allowed you to clean yourself before you were escorted back to your room. Of course, he was there when you returned, his eyes studied your body as if trying to determine just what they had done with you.

This routine continued for the next few days, they took you every single day, studied you for an hour or so, made you wash yourself and then brought you back to your cell. You had stopped resisting by now, you never got your way, they would simply drag you out with rough hands, or you would be convinced by the idea of a warm shower. You hated them with every fibre of your being, but it just wasn’t worth the fight. Never once did they attempt to take your roommate, apparently these beings feared him too. You wondered if they had tried in the past and he had reacted in a way which had earned him the collar, you had never seen him in action but from his stance alone you could guess that it would have ended in blood shed. Perhaps they had bitten off more than they could chew abducting him, you on the other hand were nice and docile. You were no longer scared of him however, you didn’t mind sitting near him now and you finally felt safe enough to sleep around him. Although you could feel his watchful gaze on you constantly, but you reminded yourself that If he wanted to hurt you, he would have done it by now. He had still not spoken a word to you of course and you weren’t even sure if he could, but you didn’t mind, it was a comfortable quiet as you tried to adapt to your new reality.

—————————

On the third day they came into your cell around mid day, bringing both yourself and your roommate some food. It wasn’t good food by any means, but it was food nonetheless, they set yours down in front of you before moving towards him. You watched them, they were acting unusual today. They looked almost nervous, exchanging glances between them before moving towards him, and that’s when you saw it. One of them, behind its back, was holding a syringe, a big one. It placed the food down in front of him trying to act as nonchalant as possible, your eyes widened as you saw its grip tighten, its thumb moving to the end of the syringe ready to plunge it into him. You figured they must have been trying to sedate him, so that they could finally study him as they did you.

The collar allowed them to keep his behaviour at bay, but no amount of shocks could convince him to leave that room with them. You didn’t have to intervene, it wouldn’t make any difference to you. But you were cursed with something that none other in the room inherited, humanity. You had come to terms with what they did to you, after all they never did anything too invasive to you. But even you would not want to be completely unconscious around them. And as you saw that disgusting creatures arm twitch, you lurched forward almost involuntarily, your hand wrapping around its rubbery skin. It whipped round to face you, dropping the syringe in the process which rolled across the floor and directly in front of him. His eyes flickered towards it, and then back to you, with that creatures wrist still locked in your hand.

Before you could even speak it brought its other hand up and with its fist gave you a strike right across your face, a hard one at that. You stumbled backwards with a sharp gasp, falling to the floor. You brought your hand to your face feeling blood trickle from your nose, running down your face and to your neck. Before you could even wince at the sight, your cellmate stood, grabbing your attacker by his neck and smashing his head open against the wall. They shocked him with a simple flick of a button, and by the roar he let out, the voltage must have been extremely high. Not that it mattered, that thing was already dead, a crumpled mess on the floor. The others grabbed you by your arms ready drag you out of the room, perhaps to punish you, but he lunged forward startling them enough to let go and scamper out of the room, the braver ones staying only a moment longer to drag out the dead body of their friend with them. You felt his eyes on you as you stayed crouched on the floor, trying to cup your nose, the pain had completely dulled your senses. The whole ordeal had happened so fast, in a matter of seconds, you barely had time to process any of the events that had just unfolded. He came to you slowly, not wanting to frighten you, and took your face between his hands, tears and blood running down it. He helped you wipe off the blood and analysed your injuries, your nose wasn’t broken thankfully but you both knew you would be sore for a while. As he looked into your eyes, you saw something gentle behind them and for the first time, he spoke. “Why?” Was all he asked. You couldn’t believe that this whole time not only could he understand you, but could speak to you. You didn’t dwell on it however. You could taste the blood in your throat, and trying not to spit any out you replied “It was going to hurt you” he just stared at you once again.

—————————

It had been two weeks now in this place, and you and your cellmate had bonded significantly since you had saved him from being drugged and he had finally spoken to you, not long after your incident he had told you his name, T’orak. He never said it out loud, but he felt a great deal of respect for you for defending him, and also a little shameful that he hadn’t noticed the creatures intentions, if he had you would have never had to have intervened, and he could have saved you the pain and blood loss. After that you two slowly began to speak about anything everything, he told you about his species and their customs, his home planet and his “brothers” who he claimed would be on their way for him by now. You spoke of yourself, of course he already knew a lot about humans, but he was always interested in hearing about you. He had also become far more protective of you, your captures were no longer allowed to touch you at all, at least not within your cell. He had killed for you once and he would do it again.

He was starting to grow quite fond of you indeed, and one day when they had taken too much blood from you making you far weaker than you had been, he had held you. Without a word he pulled you sideways into his lap and let you rest, without question or protest you allowed yourself to curl into him and drift off, when they tried to take you the next day he simply gave them a warning growl as you slept against his strong chest. They didn’t challenge him, not after they had witnessed just what he could do. It was funny, his kind always valued strength and courage, however in your vulnerable states he felt increasingly drawn to you, that urge to protect you had festered deep within him. And you had started to enjoy his company more than you would like to admit as well, his protectiveness over you was comforting, and a little alluring.

—————————

On this particular morning when you awoke, you knew something was up with you. You felt warm, even warmer than this room typically made you feel. Your breasts were slightly tender, and on top of everything, your libido was through the roof. You were confused for a moment, trying to wrap your head around what was happening to you. Then you had a thought, you calculated how long you had been here and aligned it to your cycle. This was around the time you should be ovulating. Fuck. The hormonal changes had hit you like a truck out of nowhere, and you could feel it. You tried to ignore it, to force it down, but you could feel it building within you. Sitting around with nothing to occupy you was only making it worse, you needed a distraction, or a remedy. It was starting to make you feel uncomfortable how aroused you were slowly becoming. You felt relieved when they came to take you, at least their irritating curiosity with you would distract you, and a shower would surely help? Wrong. The hot shower on your skin only made you feel worse, so much worse.

When you returned to your shared room you had sat slightly further away than you usually did, a little embarrassed by your own primal feelings. Especially around a male, a male outside your own species no less. He watched as you fidgeted, trying to get comfortable, his lingering eyes certainly offered you no relief. “You are restless today” he began, his voice snapping you from your thoughts. “Did they hurt you again?” There was something to his tone, a glint to his eye that told you that if you said yes, collar or not, severely outnumbered or not, he would rip out as many throats as he could before he fell.

You shook your head, biting the inside of your cheek slightly. “Do not lie to me little ooman, you are clearly distressed, did they do something?” You just shook your head again, I mean how could you tell the dangerous alien that you shared a room with that you were overrun with hormones that were turning you on. However, he was clearly not satisfied with your answer as he stood, moving towards you. You backed yourself further into the wall, “I’m fine I swear, they didn’t do anything-“ you were cut off when he crouched down grabbing one of your wrists. Subconsciously you pressed your legs together, he noticed, his eyes studied you for a moment before you saw them fill with rage. “Did. they. touch. you” he asked motioning to your thighs pressing together. “what? No? NO they- they didn’t do anything I swear” you replied after realising what he was insinuating. He still wasn’t satisfied, wrapping his large hands around your calves he gave you a tug towards him, and then he began throughly inspecting you. Checking your body for marks, bruises, anything that would explain your discomfort.

The entire time you continued to struggle against his grip, attempting to swat his searching hands away. You wriggled so much that you ended up flat on your back on the floor with him practically on top of you. Unsurprisingly, this little game of his was not helping your condition, now frustrated, he decided to just pin your wrists on either side of your head, leaning down to look at you. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong or-“ he cut himself off with an inhale, and then another one. Oh god, could he scent you?

You tried squirming harder, he removed his hands from your wrists and used them to pin your hips stopping you from moving. “Your pheromones smell different” you didn’t say anything, but continued to try to struggle away from his grip. He pinned you harder now. “You are….in heat?” You could hear your heart drumming in your ears, but there was no use lying to him, he knew. “No! Well…kind of? I’m just ovulating, I’m fine” He let out a sound you hadn’t heard from him before, a deep rumble, almost like a purr. “I see, and this is causing your discomfort, you are wanting” you would have denied it, but it wasn’t a question, and it also would have been a lie. God this was embarrassing. “It’s nothing, really, it will pass” he studied your expression for a while “interesting, your kind handles this sensation with much higher composure than the females within my own, they would have demanded my cock by now”

His words stunned you momentarily, forgetting briefly how blunt he was, you didn’t even know what to say and so instead you just continued to look up at him, waiting for him to let you go. Instead however he moved himself further down your body. “Wait- What are you doing?” You asked watching his descent until he parted your thighs, sitting between them. “I can sense your discomfort ooman, your arousal is causing you great frustration, I can help ease it.” You blinked at him for a moment, your lips parted but no words came out. “With your permission of course, if you tell me to stop, I will obey” he said softly, looking at you. You knew you shouldn’t entertain this, you should tell him to stop, but that ache between your legs was only growing with his words, you couldn’t even deny that you wanted it. After a few moments of your silence, he reached to hook his fingers in the band of your pants, pulling them down before reaching up and removing your top at well.

He didn’t shy away from your body, letting his eyes soak up every inch as he spread your legs again. He purred. “Do I have your permission?” You barely even registered what he was saying before you felt yourself nodding, and without another second, he took the underside of your thighs in his large hands, putting your legs on his shoulders and lowered his head to you. He started gingerly licking you, and then once he allowed himself to taste you, he let out a low growl before pressing himself into you, his tongue exploring you skill-fully. You let out a breathy moan as you felt your back arch, your hips pressing yourself into his mouth. He brought his hand up to press on your stomach, holding you still, his other hand on your thigh. “Oh fuck, you’re good at this” you let your fingers intertwine with his dreads, holding him to you. But by how he was lapping you up, you didn’t think you’d even be able to pull him off.

His tongue caressed your clit, before sliding to explore inside of you, he had now moved both of his hands to hold your hips, helping you roll them into him. You could feel his mandibles digging into your thighs, but you didn’t mind, if anything you found it added a delicious pressure to them. He pulled away momentarily to look at you from between your thighs, “when my brothers come for me, I may have to bring you with me, I have grown fond of you little ooman, and now I will crave this sweet pussy every day” you whimpered at his words, and you knew that you would crave him every day. “When we are on my home planet, I will mate you, provide for you, protect you and eventually breed you” and with that he was back down devouring you. You felt your legs begin to shake, and he felt it too. He pulled you impossibly close against his mouth, bringing you closer, the room was filled with your pants, moans and the wet sounds of his tongue against you. With one final roll of his tongue, you felt your muscles tense as your orgasm crashed down on you, your head tilting back and your body arching, he continued to lick at you until you were whimpering and moving away from his mouth.

Before you could even regain your composure you felt him lift your hips again, he had removed his loin cloth and was waiting for your consent once again, you nodded. He began pushing himself in, the stretch was like nothing you had ever felt before, it set your nerves alight and numbed them all at the same time. Once he was half way in, his large hand came to rest next to your head, and you clutched onto his forearm to ground yourself. You panted wildly, partly due to the pain, partly due to the pleasure that was building with each inch he pushed into you. It took a few minutes, but eventually he had managed to push himself completely inside of you. He hooked your leg on his hip, looking down at you. And then he began to move, your jaw went slack at the first grind of his hips and his name rolled off your tongue. He growled at the feeling of you, rocking himself in and out of you at a pace that was dizzying. Locking eye contact with him you asked “did you really mean that about-“ you were cut off by a brutal snap of his hips choking a moan from you, before you continued “about me being your mate?” He slowed his hips for a moment, leaning down closer “I have wanted to make you mine since you took a fist to your face for me”.

(I hope that you all liked this one as much as you liked my last one. This is part 1 and is mainly just a back story/gentle ease in. I will be making a part 2 in which reader and T’orak go to yautja prime and become official mates, and YES there will be lots of mating and more graphic SMUT than in this one, this was just the taste test, a free sample of you will ;) )

[miedei]

the bau come over to dinner at you and roommate!spencer's apartment and make some observations <3 (aka spencer is sososo used to receiving love from you and they can't wrap their heads around it)

drabbles mlist | roommate!spence fic

The BAU team knows Spencer Reid. They know him to be brilliant, sweet, and kind. They also know him to be excessively clumsy, like a puppy unaware of it's now-long limbs.

They see him flounder in the office, in various police departments. They see him knock over chairs, mugs, stacks of paperwork.

They see it so often, that this sight in front of them is truly alien.

Spencer is moving through the kitchen with practised ease. His hands move without his eyes following them, grabbing and organising little jars on the counter. And, of course, he weaves his way around you, as if his body was crafted to work alongside yours.

Emily and JJ sit on the well-worn sofa, each half-heartedly holding up a conversation as they stare unabashedly through the open kitchen door. Their eyes track him as he passes behind you to get to the sink, softly brushing his hand over your back to let you know that he's there. They watch him handle plump tomatoes with care, washing them under the water with deft fingers as he rambles to you.

It's a strange feeling, to watch him so comfortable. To have never seen him in such a state. The two of them love Spencer, and they know he loves them, but this is something they've never experienced with him. They lock eyes, exchanging small smiles as they settle in to watch further.

Hotch and Derek are arguably the members on the team who have worked the closest with Spencer. From the day Gideon recruited him for the team, they've worked case after case with the younger man. Although they are so close, they've never been able to spend much time at his home, usually opting to gather at Rossi's.

It's a shock to finally see inside his apartment, and see this.

The two stand on the balcony, leaning against the railing as they take in the room beyond the french doors. Spencer has now floated to the cabinets in the living room, calling out softly to you as he attempts to locate the dish you're looking for.

"Is it the flat one we got last weekend? The one with the Delft Blue artwork?"

"No, the one next to it! Same size, but different— Oh, that's it! Thanks, Spence."

They observe as you appear in the doorway, delighted smile spreading over your face as you're presented with said dish. You turn back into the kitchen after planting a peck to Spencer's cheek.

The two profilers watch intently, expecting a flush to creep up Spencer's face any second, but— nothing. He barely acts as if anything is out of sorts.

They look on incredulously as Spencer doesn't cease his chattering, now delving into the history of Delft Blue pottery as he wanders back into the kitchen after you.

The endearing sight of Spencer in his home clues them in. This is his element, here in this apartment, with you. The disconcerting actions don't deter them. Instead, they also wander into the kitchen, playing at getting refills as an excuse to glimpse more.

Penelope is seated across from Spencer, Rossi across from you. The small dining table is barely big enough to fit the eight of you, but no one seems to mind. The surface is overflowing with plates, a seemingly random mish-mash of dishes laid out in front of them.

A record is playing softly, a rendition of Hungarian Dance No.5 melding in with the conversations that float around the room.

Both David and Penelope were just in a heated debate about the taste of scotch (she insists it's disgusting, despite allowing him to refill her glass every time), but their attention has been snagged elsewhere, and neither seem to be in the mood to look away.

Across the table, two heads huddle in closely. Spencer is angled towards you, his hands coming out to grasp your cutlery, and repositioning them repeatedly around your plate.

"...and if you place your knife horizontally, then your fork with the tines pointing to the top of the plate and the base of the knife, that means you don't want to engage in the conversation. A Victorian noble would never say it out loud, so they signalled instead."

Spencer is leaning into you without a care in the world, his entire body focused solely on his demonstration. He bends at the neck, bringing his face closer to yours as he shifts the cutlery again.

Rossi can't help but elbow Penelope, gesturing to your face when she looks at him questioningly.

Your eyes flicker from the plate to Spencer's eyes, wholly captivated by his words and movements. The lack of space between the two of you doesn't seem to register, or you don't care about it. Instead, you're listening carefully, interjecting with soft questions as he cycles through multiple iterations of cutlery placement.

The two of them can't seem to tear their eyes away from the domestic little scene. You are comfortable, not bothered by anything as the pair of you reside in your little bubble.

Penelope can't help but grip Rossi's arm when you reach a hand to brush a lock of hair away from Spencer's eyes, but he doesn't miss a beat. The sight in front of them is evidently commonplace, unremarkable to either of you.

It's run of the mill, comfortable and intimate. But not for a pair of roommates. Something else.

[soft-obscenities]

I cannot just hook up with someone .. fuck... Ufhg

[al-n-cartoons]

As a Ben 10 fan who watched two main characters' personalities go up in flames because of “”””romance””””, I think I can explain this one. (I'm aware you spoke in jest, but this is a drum I will never stop banging.)

Okay! So! You know what a crush is? You know what a crush is.

My answer is attraction preceding interaction, and that attraction (normally sexual or romantic but occasionally platonic) is what causes the characters to want to engage. How they view each other doesn’t matter at all, whether or not they're in any way compatible doesn’t. Matter. At all. Most characters this applies to will bend over backwards or change what they claim to believe so as to maintain access to the source of their attraction, full stop.

In Ben 10 Alien Force, Gwen originally had a mutually supporting relationship (platonic, I feel like I shouldn’t have to point that out) with her cousin, whom she'd been raised alongside. A few episodes in and she's effectively disengaged from that relationship in favour of someone who repeatedly puts herself and those around her at risk. Their values do not match, their communication doesn’t match, he routinely berates and bullies the main person he knows from her life directly in front of her, but they ignore all of that because they think eachother's hot.

At one point Kevin steals the mobile home of her missing grandfather and she automatically assumes he has good intentions in spite of the fact that he has a recent and substantiated history of betraying her.

I guess my answer to the question of ‘what happens when two characters have little to no grounds for a relationship other than infatuation’ is that they either minimize their interactions while maintaining access, or they find an outlet for frustrations. In Gwen and Kevin's case, they mostly see eachother for work (patrols/fighting) and Ben is Kevin's outlet for his frustrations.

If you want an example of an… interesting contrast, take a gander at Omniverse's pairing of Ben and Kai, in which Ben arguably has no interest in his prospective romantic partner but everyone else in their lives continuously tries to force them together, effectively acting as the narrative saying “And now, they love each other :))))))”. The result of this is that the two are always at eachother's throats and are utterly vehement.

It has been posited that Ben just likes to fight, but we've seen him with previous romantic partners (Julie and the wheelchaired piano player) and know his take on relationships is a lot quieter and understated.

A counterargument could be his brief relationship with Rex, which started out incredibly adversarial, but the two weren’t on friendly terms at that point and, when they eventually came to see eachother more positively, shared only a few mild jests at best. This would serve as a case where two people did not have the narrative say “They love each other” and instead they found common ground (hobbies, values, life experiences) which they then took as a cause for friendship.

Summary: Using ‘romance’ as a substitute for character work sucks. If you're going to have infatuation play a role, regardless of what kind of relationship it is, it would be best to keep in mind the consequences of such a relationship.

a lot of stories treat romance like it makes the relationship between two characters self explanatory and to be honest it doesn’t

[revelboo]

WAIT!!! those little blokees are coming to walmart!? Ahhh i need them so bad! can't wait to see who I'll get! 🙏😫

I’m so ecstatic to see Blokees in a store, they’re getting more mainstream so hopefully they’ll keep making them. I need the Scavengers, TFP versions, more bugs…

Coin-Operated Boy Pt 6

Steve x Reader

• Nose wrinkling when your eyes are drawn inexorably to the glowing thing Steve had gifted you and really hoping that glow isn’t radioactivity, you’d ended up using it as a side table for your favorite chair. And it doubles as an only slightly unsettling nightlight. That might be irradiating you. Sighing, you head into the kitchen to get a glass of water. Sleepily yawning, you catch a flash of red glow through the window a foot from your face and scream, dropping the glass to shatter in the sink as your heart races. It’s like you’d summoned him just by thinking about him. Mouth open as Steve lifts a hand.

• Backing away at the sound of your muffled scream, his plating flares slightly before settling. Hadn’t meant to scare you, but Soundwave’s little pet had given him so many ideas. And Soundwave himself hadn’t hurt him for talking to them. Just stared him down, an arm lifting to point at the door after finding him, those tendrils of his lashing behind him. Threatening, but not punishing him. Shifting to try and track you through your little dwelling, he shifts on his peds. Finally, the door opens and he hesitates. What are you wearing? It’s very short, very thin and those fluffy things on your feet have faces.

• “Steve, sweetie, it’s one in the morning,” you manage, heart still pounding as he slowly kneels in front of you in the dew soaked grass. And his head tilts to make you think that time probably doesn’t matter that much to him. But at least it’s only him and not a bunch of his buddies to stare at you with that weird, almost reverence. And he’s lifting an arm toward his chassis and just pulling stuff out of nowhere like a magician as your mouth falls open. A fistful of boxed candy, stuffed animals, and part of someone’s rose bush is held out to you.

• Offering you the gifts he’d spent so much time finding and secreting away in his subspace, he waits as you just stare. “You didn’t seem to like my other gift,” he says, holding his hand closer, waiting. Doesn’t any of it appeal to you? The other human had seemed so sure these things would be liked. Needs to properly thank you for your kindness, his little human. He’s altered his patrols to include your dwelling so he can look after you, convinced some of his brothers to do the same so you’re protected at all times.

• Because you have no idea what his other gift even was, but he’s bending, leaning over you, visor dimming slightly. Will it hurt his feelings if you refuse? Reaching, you pick up a stuffed dog, smoothing a thumb over its soft face. “You don’t have to thank me for helping you. It was the right thing to do.” And his head tips, alien and unreadable. Like he doesn’t understand someone being kind, reminding you of how he’d reacted when you’d helped him. That he hadn’t seemed to trust that you weren’t going to harm him. Like he’s really not used to any kindness and your heart aches for him.

• Watches you shuffle to the side as he reaches past you, movements slow so he doesn’t spook you and deposits the rest of your gifts inside your dwelling. “You’re under Vehicon protection,” he says and you hug the stuffed animal to yourself, staring up at him. “Debts must be repaid in kind.” Hesitating, he slowly brushes the back of his servo against your arm, nudging you back into your dwelling. “I’m watching over you.”

• Why does that sound more like a threat than anything else. Not sure what to say as he gently nudges you inside and you hear his servos scraping the door as he tries to close it until you end up pushing it closed with a foot. What does he mean by watching over you? Peeking through the blinds, you see him fold up, transforming into a car in your yard a foot away from your door with his front wheels in your flower bed on your pansies. Oh, yeah that looks normal. The neighbors are going to think you were drunk. Wait. Is he staying the night? Too tired to try and figure out how his mind works, you grab a box of chocolates and shuffle upstairs to your bed. Not about to deal with the half a rose bush in your living room this early in the morning.

Previous

[kathaelipwse]

Signed, Sealed, Delivered | Bangchan

500+ followers special 🎀🐥

Trope: Slow Burn, Idol x Fan, Comfort & Healing, Love Through Letters Warnings: Mentions of insecurities, body image struggles, self-doubt, chubby!reader, NO PROOF READING WAS DONE Word Count: 9068 words {Reading Time: 33 mins-ish} Songs to listen to while reading: My pace, youtiful, connected, mirror, you can STAY, hold my hand, grow up, hellevator, side effects, social path, cheese, time out, aliens, 19, 24 to 25, haPpy, stars and raindrops, sorry, I love you, I hate to admit, RUN, lonely st. , winter falls, railways Synopsis: What starts as a simple fan letter to Stray Kids thanking them for their music turns into an unexpected connection with Bang Chan. Through heartfelt letters, you share your deepest thoughts, fears, and dreams—never expecting him to truly see you. But when fate brings you face-to-face, you realize some words are meant to be more than just ink on paper. Author’s Note: This story is for anyone who has ever doubted their worth or felt like they didn’t belong in a love story. Chan’s warmth and kindness are a reminder that love isn’t about appearances—it’s about feeling seen. I hope this brings you comfort and a little bit of hope.

The silence in your room was thick, broken only by the soft hum of the desk lamp and the gentle melody of Stray Kids' "You Can STAY" playing on repeat. The melody, a comforting balm, swirled around you, a gentle embrace in the solitude. The scent of old paper mingled with the faint, lingering aroma of lavender incense, creating a serene, almost sacred atmosphere.

Your fingers, slightly chilled, traced the delicate embossed flowers along the edge of the stationery. It was a special set, reserved for moments of profound emotion, a gift from your grandmother, who always believed in the power of handwritten words. The paper, a creamy ivory, felt smooth and cool beneath your fingertips, a stark contrast to the warmth that was beginning to spread through your chest.

You closed your eyes, taking a slow, deep breath. The music resonated within you, a silent symphony of the soul. Each note, each lyric, was a testament to the power of vulnerability, the courage to lay bare one's innermost thoughts and fears. You were about to do the same, to entrust your deepest insecurities to the very people who had given you the strength to face them.

The pen hovered over the pristine paper, trembling slightly. You were about to write a letter, a confession, a thank you note that carried the weight of years of unspoken pain. How could you possibly articulate the profound impact their music had had on your life? How could you explain the way their words had pierced through the layers of self-doubt and insecurity that had built up around your heart like a fortress?

Dear Stray Kids,

The words, simple and direct, felt woefully inadequate. They were a mere whisper in the face of the storm of emotions raging within you. You paused, the pen resting on the paper, and allowed the memories to flood your mind. The cruel taunts, the disdainful glances, the relentless pressure to conform to a narrow, unattainable standard of beauty.

You remembered the way you used to avoid mirrors, the way you would flinch at your own reflection, seeing only flaws and imperfections. You remembered the way you would shrink into yourself, trying to become invisible, to disappear.

But then, you discovered Stray Kids. Their music, raw and honest, spoke to the unspoken pain, the hidden insecurities. Bang Chan’s lyrics, in particular, resonated with a depth that felt almost personal, as if he had peered into your soul and written a song just for you.

I don’t know if you’ll ever read this, but I needed to say thank you. Your music has been a constant companion, a source of strength when I felt utterly lost. Especially your songs, Bang Chan… they spoke to me in a way no one else ever has.

A lump formed in your throat, and tears welled up in your eyes. You had never shared your insecurities with anyone, not even your closest friends. It was a vulnerability too raw, too painful to expose. But writing to them, to the voices that had given you strength, felt different. It felt like a release, a way to acknowledge the pain without being judged.

I’ve struggled with my body image for as long as I can remember. The world seems to have a very narrow definition of beauty, and I’ve always felt outside of it. Your words, though, they reminded me that I’m not alone. That even in the midst of doubt, there’s strength to be found.

You remembered the first time you heard "My Pace," the way the lyrics had urged you to embrace your individuality, to walk your own path. It was a revelation, a gentle reminder that you were not alone in your struggles. Others felt the same way, others grappled with the same demons.

You wrote about the small victories, the moments of self-acceptance that had begun to sprout like fragile seedlings in the barren landscape of your self-esteem. You wrote about the way their music had given you the courage to look in the mirror and see not a distorted reflection of your flaws, but a person worthy of love and acceptance. You described the way a particular song, "Grow Up," had helped you to understand that it was okay to make mistakes, to stumble, to learn and evolve.

The pen moved across the page, a silent dance of emotions. You poured your heart onto the paper, each word a testament to the profound impact their music had had on your life.

I never expect a reply. I just wanted to express my deepest gratitude. You’ve helped me more than you know.

The words felt inadequate, a mere whisper in the face of the storm of emotions raging within you. But it was all you had, a simple expression of thanks from a heart overflowing with gratitude.

You sealed the letter, the faint scent of lavender clinging to the paper, and placed it in an envelope. It was a small act, a message in a bottle cast into the vast ocean of the world. But it was also a declaration, a testament to the power of music to heal, to connect, to transform. As you placed the envelope on your desk, a sense of peace settled over you. You had released a burden, shared a part of yourself that had been hidden for too long. And in that act of vulnerability, you found a quiet strength, a fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, your words would find their way to the hearts that had inspired them. You felt lighter, like a weight had been lifted from your shoulders, ready to accept the unknown.

Then the arrival of Bang Chan’s letters became a sacred ritual, a lifeline in the often-turbulent sea of your days. Each envelope, thick and bearing the weight of his words, felt like a tangible piece of him, a bridge constructed of ink and emotion, spanning the vast, silent chasm between your worlds. The subtle, lingering scent of his cologne, a complex blend of sandalwood, warm amber, and something uniquely, undeniably him, clung to the paper, a sensory echo that made him feel impossibly close, a whisper of his presence in your quiet room. It was a detail so minute, yet it amplified the intimacy of your correspondence, turning each letter into a cherished artifact, a testament to a connection forged in vulnerability.

As you carefully unfolded his words, the elegant script flowing across the page like a gentle, meandering river, a sense of profound connection washed over you, a warmth that spread through your limbs like sunlight after a long, cold night. He didn't offer platitudes or dismiss your insecurities with empty reassurances. Instead, he acknowledged them, validated them with a sincerity that resonated deep within the core of your being. He spoke of his own vulnerabilities, the weight of expectations that pressed down on him like an invisible, suffocating burden, the fear of falling short, of disappointing those who looked to him for strength and guidance. His honesty was disarming, a breath of fresh air in a world often choked with artifice and pretense.

Your replies became a sanctuary, a space where you could shed the armor of pretense and reveal the raw, unfiltered truth of your emotions. You shared your dreams, the fragile aspirations that bloomed in the quiet corners of your heart like delicate, unseen wildflowers, the small, everyday moments that painted your life with shades of joy and sorrow, light and shadow. You told him about the books that transported you to other worlds, the music that resonated with your soul, the way the simple act of watching a sunset could fill you with a sense of quiet wonder, a profound appreciation for the beauty of the world.

He, in turn, opened up about the complexities of his life as an artist, the relentless pursuit of perfection, the sleepless nights spent in the studio, the constant pressure to innovate and create, to push the boundaries of his art. But he also spoke of the exhilaration of performing, the electric connection with STAYs, the profound sense of belonging that came from sharing his art with the world, the feeling of being understood and accepted.

“Sometimes,” he wrote, his words etched into the paper with a raw honesty that made your heart ache, a vulnerability that mirrored your own, “I feel like I’m carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders. I want to be strong for everyone, to be the anchor that holds us all together. But sometimes, I just need someone to tell me it’s okay to be vulnerable, to admit that I’m not always strong, that I’m human too.”

His words resonated with you on a visceral level, echoing the silent battles you fought within yourself. You understood the constant pressure to project an image of strength, the fear of revealing the cracks in your armor, the vulnerability that lay beneath the surface. You shared your own vulnerabilities, the way you flinched at the cruel comments about your weight, the way you avoided mirrors, the way you sometimes felt like a ghost, invisible and unseen, a whisper in a crowded room.

The letters became a lifeline, a sacred space where you could lay bare your soul without fear of judgment. They were a silent symphony, a delicate dance of words and emotions, a testament to the power of human connection, a bridge built on shared vulnerability. You shared your deepest fears, your most cherished dreams, your quietest hopes. He shared his, the pressure of leadership, the loneliness that sometimes crept in even amidst the adulation of millions, the longing for a connection that transcended the boundaries of fame and expectation.

One night, as you sat bathed in the soft glow of your desk lamp, the words spilled onto the page, a torrent of unspoken pain, a confession whispered into the darkness. “People like me don’t belong in love stories,” you wrote, the words heavy with the weight of years of self-doubt, the echoes of cruel words and dismissive glances. The darkness of your room amplified the quiet despair in your heart, making you feel utterly alone, adrift in a sea of unspoken pain.

His reply arrived a few days later, and it was longer, more heartfelt than any before. The ink on the page seemed to shimmer with an unspoken emotion, a raw vulnerability that made your breath catch in your throat, a testament to the depth of his empathy.

“(Your Name), love isn’t about a number on a scale, or the shape of your body, or the way the world perceives you. It’s about the soul, the heart, the connection between two people. It’s about seeing the beauty that lies within, the strength that shines through even in the midst of vulnerability. You are worthy of being loved, exactly as you are. Don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise. And please, never say you don’t belong in a love story, because you do. You deserve the world, and all the love it has to offer, a love that sees you for who you truly are, a love that celebrates your strength and embraces your vulnerability.”

His words were a balm to your wounded spirit, a gentle caress that soothed the scars of years of self-doubt, a gentle reminder of your inherent worth. You reread his letters, the words etched into your memory, a constant reminder of your own strength and resilience. The rhythm of your correspondence became a comforting constant, a quiet symphony played out in the still of the night. You would write, pouring your heart onto the page, and he would reply, his words a gentle echo of your own emotions, a testament to the profound connection that had blossomed between you.

With each letter, the connection between you deepened, a fragile thread woven from words and emotions, a testament to the power of shared vulnerability, a bridge built on honesty and understanding. You felt seen, understood, cherished. But the thought of meeting him, of bridging the gap between your worlds, still seemed impossible, a distant dream. He was Bang Chan, the leader of Stray Kids, a star in a universe that felt light years away from your own.

Yet, a small, fragile hope bloomed in the quiet corners of your heart, a delicate flower pushing through the cracks of uncertainty, a whisper of possibility. It was a silent promise of something more, something deeper, a connection that transcended the boundaries of fame and expectation. The letters were more than just words on paper; they were pieces of your souls, shared and cherished, building a bridge between two worlds, two hearts, one word at a time, one shared vulnerability at a time.

The fan sign event loomed like a seismic shift in your reality, a terrifying yet exhilarating precipice. Winning the ticket had been a surreal dream, a distant, impossible star. Now, it was a stark, unavoidable truth. You were going to meet Bang Chan, the man whose words had been a lifeline, whose understanding had been a sanctuary. You were going to stand before him, face-to-face, after years of exchanging letters, of baring your soul in the quiet intimacy of written words.

The anxiety was a tangible entity, a cold, heavy weight that settled in the pit of your stomach, a knot of nerves that refused to unravel. You wrestled with the impulse to back out, to invent a sudden illness, to send a friend in your stead. But the thought of relinquishing this opportunity, of allowing fear to dictate your actions, felt like a profound betrayal—a betrayal of the connection you had painstakingly built with him, a betrayal of the fragile hope that had blossomed in your heart, a betrayal of the vulnerability you had shared.

The day of the fan sign arrived, a surreal blur of nervous energy and frantic preparations. You meticulously selected your outfit, striving for a delicate balance between comfort and confidence, wanting to feel seen but not overly conspicuous. You arrived at the venue hours before the scheduled start, the queue stretching around the block, a vibrant tapestry of faces buzzing with anticipation, a chorus of excited whispers.

As you waited, your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence of your inner turmoil. You clutched your album, its cover worn from countless replays, a tangible representation of the emotional resonance you felt with his music. You rehearsed the words you would say, the carefully crafted phrases you had formulated in your mind, but they all felt inadequate, hollow echoes in the face of the overwhelming emotions that threatened to consume you. The scent of the venue, a mix of sweat, perfume, and the faint, metallic tang of stage lights, swirled around you, adding to the sensory overload.

Finally, your turn arrived. The line inched forward, each step an agonizingly slow descent into the moment of truth. You observed the interactions of the fans with the members, their faces illuminated with joy and adoration. You witnessed the warmth of Bang Chan's smile, the sincerity in his eyes, the genuine connection he forged with each person who approached him. The sound of his laughter, the gentle cadence of his voice, filled the room, a tangible echo of the man you had come to know through his letters.

Then, it was your turn. You stepped forward, your legs trembling slightly, and approached the table. The cacophony of the crowd receded into a dull hum, and the world narrowed to the figure seated before you. Bang Chan.

His eyes met yours, and the world seemed to hold its breath. The familiar warmth of his smile, the intensity of his gaze, it was like stepping into the pages of his letters, a tangible manifestation of the emotions you had shared across the distance. But there was something else in his eyes, a flicker of recognition, a silent question that hung in the air like a whispered secret, a tangible echo of the connection you shared.

He froze, his pen hovering over the album, his smile faltering for a fleeting moment. His gaze searched yours, a deep, probing look that seemed to penetrate the layers of your being, to see into the depths of your soul. He whispered your name, the sound barely audible above the din of the crowd, yet clear as a bell in your ears, a hushed acknowledgment of your presence.

"It's really you. Finally."

The words hung in the air, a silent declaration, an unspoken acknowledgment of the connection you had built, the profound understanding that had blossomed between you. His voice was soft, intimate, a gentle caress that sent shivers down your spine, and the intensity of his gaze made your breath catch in your throat. The faint scent of his cologne, a subtle blend of sandalwood and warm amber, filled your senses, a tangible echo of his presence.

The moment stretched out, an eternity suspended in time, a silent symphony of eyes and unspoken words, a tangible echo of the connection you shared. You managed a shaky smile, your voice lost in the whirlwind of emotions that threatened to overwhelm you. The fan sign became a blur, a series of fragmented images and sensations. You remembered the warmth of his hand as he signed your album, the delicate brush of his fingers against yours, sending a jolt of electricity through your body. You remembered the intensity of his gaze, the way he seemed to be searching for something in your eyes, something that transcended the boundaries of fan and idol, something that spoke of a deeper connection, a shared vulnerability.

He asked you about your day, your favorite songs, the details you had shared in your letters. His voice was soft, intimate, as if you were continuing a conversation that had never been interrupted. He listened intently, his eyes never leaving yours, and you felt a sense of being seen, understood, cherished—a feeling that had been so elusive for so long. The sound of his voice, the gentle cadence of his words, was a tangible echo of the comfort you had found in his letters.

As you moved away from the table, a sense of disorientation washed over you. The world seemed to tilt on its axis, the familiar reality of your life shifting and rearranging itself. You had met him, the man behind the letters, the voice that had comforted you, the soul that had resonated with yours. And he had recognized you, not as a face in a crowd, but as the person he had connected with through words, a tangible echo of the connection you shared.

The days that followed were a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. You replayed the moment of recognition in your mind, trying to decipher the unspoken meaning behind his words, the intensity in his gaze. You wondered if he felt the same connection you did, if the letters had meant as much to him as they had to you. The lingering scent of his cologne, the warmth of his hand, the sound of his voice—tangible echoes of your encounter—filled your thoughts.

You hesitated to write, afraid of shattering the delicate balance of your relationship. What if meeting him had changed things? What if the intimacy of your letters was lost in the awkwardness of a face-to-face encounter, replaced by the stark reality of your physical presence?

Then, a final letter arrived, slipped beneath your door, the paper slightly crumpled. The scent of his cologne was stronger this time, a tangible reminder of his presence, a whisper of his nearness.

“I don’t want to be just your pen pal anymore. Let’s write our own story together.”

The words were a declaration, a silent promise, a bridge extending across the chasm between your worlds. The fear and uncertainty that had clouded your mind began to dissipate, replaced by a fragile hope, a quiet anticipation.

You wrote back immediately, your heart overflowing with emotions you had kept hidden for so long. You agreed to meet him, to explore the possibility of something more, something deeper. The moment of recognition had been a turning point, a silent symphony of eyes and unspoken words, a tangible echo of the connection you shared, that had set your hearts on a new course, a journey into the uncharted territory of your shared story. You were ready to write your own story, together, one chapter at a time, one tangible echo at a time.

The decision to meet Bang Chan outside the structured confines of a fan sign event was a leap of faith, a plunge into the uncharted waters of a relationship that had blossomed in the quiet intimacy of written words. The anticipation was a tangible thing, a nervous energy that vibrated beneath your skin, a mix of excitement and trepidation that made your heart race.

The designated meeting place was a small, secluded café, tucked away in a quiet corner of the city. The warm, inviting aroma of freshly brewed coffee and pastries filled the air, creating a cozy, intimate atmosphere. As you entered, your eyes scanned the room, searching for a familiar face. Then, you saw him, seated at a corner table, bathed in the soft glow of a nearby lamp.

He looked different in person, more real, more tangible. The soft lines of his face, the warmth in his eyes, the gentle curve of his smile—they were all magnified in the intimacy of the moment. The faint scent of his cologne, the same woody fragrance that lingered on his letters, filled your senses, a tangible reminder of the connection you shared.

The initial awkwardness was palpable, a silent tension that hung in the air like a delicate thread. You stumbled over your words, your cheeks flushed, your heart pounding in your chest. He, too, seemed slightly flustered, his usual composure momentarily shaken. But as you began to talk, the familiar comfort of your letters returned, a silent understanding that bridged the gap between your nervousness.

You spoke of your dreams, your aspirations, the small, everyday moments that painted your life with shades of joy and sorrow. He spoke of his fears, the weight of responsibility, the loneliness that sometimes crept in even amidst the cheers of thousands. The conversation flowed effortlessly, like continuing a dialogue that had never been interrupted.

The quiet intimacy of the café, the soft murmur of conversations, the clinking of cups, created a sanctuary, a space where you could be yourselves, unfiltered and unedited. You shared your vulnerabilities, the insecurities that had haunted you for years, the fear of not being enough. He shared his, the pressure to be perfect, the longing for a connection that transcended the boundaries of fame.

With each shared confidence, the connection between you deepened, a fragile thread woven from words and emotions. He listened intently, his eyes never leaving yours, his gaze filled with understanding and empathy. You listened to him, your heart aching with the weight of his burdens, your soul resonating with his honesty.

As the hours passed, the initial awkwardness faded, replaced by a comfortable silence, a silent understanding that spoke volumes. You found yourselves laughing at shared jokes, reminiscing about the contents of your letters, discovering new layers of connection that transcended the written word.

He walked you home, the quiet streets of the city bathed in the soft glow of streetlights. The silence between you was comfortable, filled with unspoken emotions and shared understanding. At your doorstep, he hesitated, his eyes searching yours.

“I had a really good time,” he said, his voice soft, a gentle caress.

“Me too,” you replied, your voice barely a whisper.

He smiled, a warm, genuine smile that made your heart skip a beat. “Can we do this again?”

“Yes,” you replied, your voice filled with a quiet certainty.

The days that followed were a whirlwind of stolen moments and whispered confidences. You met in secluded cafes, quiet parks, hidden corners of the city, creating a world of your own, a sanctuary away from the prying eyes of the public.

You shared your favorite songs, your favorite books, your favorite memories. He shared his, the stories behind his music, the struggles and triumphs of his career, the quiet moments of reflection that fueled his creativity.

He listened to your fears, your dreams, your insecurities, his gaze filled with understanding and empathy. You listened to his, the weight of responsibility, the longing for normalcy, the quiet ache for a connection that transcended the boundaries of fame.

He became your safe space, a haven in a world that often felt cold and unforgiving. You became his, a source of comfort and understanding, a quiet anchor in the chaos of his life.

The connection between you deepened, a silent symphony played out in shared silences and whispered confidences. You found solace in each other’s presence, a quiet understanding that transcended words.

One night, as you sat in a quiet park, bathed in the soft glow of moonlight, he reached for your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours. The touch was electric, a jolt of energy that sent shivers down your spine.

“I feel like I’ve known you forever,” he said, his voice soft, a whisper in the quiet night.

“Me too,” you replied, your voice barely audible.

The silence that followed was filled with unspoken emotions, a quiet acknowledgment of the connection that had blossomed between you. You leaned against him, your head resting on his shoulder, and he wrapped his arm around you, holding you close.

A few months later, he introduced you to his members. The initial nervousness was quickly replaced by a warm welcome, a sense of belonging that made you feel like you had always been part of their family.

Seungmin’s playful jabs, Felix’s infectious enthusiasm, Changbin’s protective warmth—they embraced you with open arms, their acceptance a testament to the bond you had formed with Chan.

“He’s been talking about you for months,” Seungmin teased, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “We were starting to think you were a figment of his imagination.”

“He’s happier,” Felix added, his eyes sparkling with genuine joy. “He smiles more.”

Changbin, the quiet protector, offered a warm smile and a silent nod of approval.

Through it all, Chan never defined your relationship. You were just friends, a label that felt both comforting and inadequate. The unspoken emotions, the shared silences, the whispered confidences—they spoke of a connection that transcended the boundaries of friendship.

The days turned into weeks, the weeks into months, and the connection between you deepened, a quiet symphony played out in stolen moments and whispered promises. You found solace in each other’s presence, a quiet understanding that transcended words.

You were becoming a part of his world, a silent anchor in the chaos of his life. He was becoming a part of yours, a gentle presence that filled the voids you had carried for so long.

The beginning of your story was a delicate dance, a slow burn that ignited with each shared moment, each whispered confidence, each stolen glance. You were writing your own story, together, one chapter at a time, one shared silence at a time.

Three years. Three years since the hesitant first meeting, the quiet sanctuary of the secluded café, the moment of recognition that had shifted the axis of your lives. Three years of stolen moments, shared silences, whispered confidences, and a love that had blossomed in the quiet intimacy of your shared world, a love that had become the silent heartbeat of your existence.

The initial awkwardness, the tentative steps of your budding relationship, had long since melted away, replaced by a comfortable familiarity, a silent understanding that transcended the need for words. You had become an integral part of each other’s lives, a constant presence, a quiet anchor in the ever-shifting tides of your respective worlds. The silence between you was no longer a void, but a language of its own, a symphony of unspoken emotions and shared understanding.

The stolen moments, once a necessity born of secrecy, had transformed into cherished rituals, sacred spaces in the chaos of your lives. Late-night calls, hushed conversations in the quiet hours, impromptu visits to secluded corners of the city—they were the threads that wove the intricate tapestry of your shared life. You had created a sanctuary, a world of your own, where you could shed the weight of expectations, the masks of public personas, and simply be yourselves, vulnerable and authentic.

He called you when the pressure of leadership became an unbearable weight, when the weight of expectations threatened to crush him beneath its enormity. You listened, offering a quiet strength, a gentle reminder that he was not alone in his burdens. You reminded him to breathe, to find moments of peace amidst the relentless chaos, to remember the human being beneath the idol.

You called him when the insecurities that had haunted you for years threatened to resurface, when the cruel whispers of self-doubt echoed in your mind, a relentless chorus of negativity. He listened, offering a gentle reassurance, a quiet reminder that you were worthy of love, exactly as you were. He held you when the fear became a suffocating presence, his arms a safe haven in a world that often felt cold and unforgiving, a tangible echo of the comfort you had found in his letters.

The members of Stray Kids had become a second family, their acceptance a testament to the profound bond you shared with Chan. Seungmin’s playful teasing, Felix’s boundless enthusiasm, Changbin’s quiet protectiveness—they were the constants in your life, a reminder that you were loved, accepted, cherished, not as an outsider, but as an integral part of their family.

You had become a silent observer of their world, a quiet confidante in their moments of vulnerability, a witness to their triumphs and struggles. You saw the dedication, the passion, the unwavering commitment to their art. You saw the sacrifices they made, the pressure they endured, the unwavering support they offered each other, a silent symphony of camaraderie.

But through it all, Chan never defined your relationship with a label. You were just friends, a term that felt both comforting and woefully inadequate. The unspoken emotions, the shared silences, the whispered confidences—they spoke of a connection that transcended the boundaries of friendship, a love that had blossomed in the quiet intimacy of your shared world, a love that had become the silent heartbeat of your existence.

The years had passed, and the connection between you had deepened, a silent symphony played out in stolen moments and whispered promises. You found solace in each other’s presence, a quiet understanding that transcended words.

On his birthday, October 3rd, you sat down to write him a letter, a culmination of the three years you had shared, a testament to the profound impact he had had on your life. The words flowed effortlessly, a silent symphony of emotions, a tapestry of shared memories.

The years had passed, and the connection between you had deepened, a silent symphony played out in stolen moments and whispered promises. You found solace in each other’s presence, a quiet understanding that transcended words. You were becoming a part of his world, a silent anchor in the chaos of his life. He was becoming a part of yours, a gentle presence that filled the voids you had carried for so long, a tangible echo of the comfort you had found in his words.

The beginning of your story had been a delicate dance, a slow burn that ignited with each shared moment, each whispered confidence, each stolen glance. Now, you were writing a new chapter, a chapter filled with love, acceptance, and a quiet sense of belonging. You were writing your own story, together, one chapter at a time, one shared life at a time, one silent heartbeat at a time.

Chan,

Three years. Three years since the hesitant beginnings, the quiet sanctuary of our shared words, the silent language that blossomed between us. Three years since you became my sanctuary, my home, a quiet anchor in the ever-shifting tides of my life. I remember the first letter, the hesitant words of gratitude that sparked a connection I never dared to dream of, a fragile thread woven from vulnerability and honesty, a testament to the power of shared souls. You listened, Chan. You saw me when I felt invisible, a ghost in a crowded room, a whisper lost in the noise of the world. You understood me when I felt lost, adrift in a sea of self-doubt, a silent echo of the pain I carried. You cherished me, exactly as I am, flaws and all, a gentle reminder of my inherent worth, a beacon in the darkness.

You’ve held my hand through storms, both literal and metaphorical, your presence a steady comfort in the chaos. You’ve whispered comfort in the quietest of nights, a soothing balm to my wounded spirit, a gentle caress that healed the scars of years of self-doubt. You’ve shown me what it means to be seen, to be accepted, to be loved, not for who the world wants me to be, but for who I truly am, a soul laid bare. You’ve given me a home in your heart, a place where I finally belong, a sanctuary in the chaos of the world, a tangible echo of the comfort I found in your words.

And now, on your birthday, surrounded by the echoes of our shared memories, the silent symphony of our intertwined lives, I can no longer hold back the words that have been whispering in my soul for so long, a quiet chorus of unspoken emotions, a silent declaration of my heart.

Chan, I’ve loved you for so long. Maybe I always have, from the moment your words reached into the depths of my soul and pulled me from the darkness, a tangible echo of the connection we shared.

Happy Birthday.

The final words hung in the air, a silent declaration that filled the room with unspoken emotions, a fragile bridge between your hearts, a testament to the years of shared vulnerability.

The momement he read it he looked up, his eyes searching yours, a silent question in their depths, a tangible echo of the connection you shared, a quiet symphony of unspoken promises. The air crackled with unspoken tension, a fragile thread woven from years of shared vulnerability, a silent symphony of intertwined souls.

He rose, his movements deliberate, and crossed the room, his gaze never leaving yours, his presence a tangible echo of the comfort you had found in his letters, a silent promise of something more. He reached out, his hand gently cupping your cheek, his touch sending a shiver down your spine, a jolt of electricity that resonated through your body, a tangible echo of the connection you shared.

The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken emotions, a quiet acknowledgment of the love that had blossomed between you, a silent symphony of hearts beating in unison, a tangible echo of the connection you shared. He leaned in, his breath warm against your skin, a gentle caress that sent shivers down your spine, and then, he kissed you.

The kiss was soft, tender, a culmination of three years of unspoken emotions, a silent declaration of the love that had been simmering beneath the surface for so long. It was a gentle exploration, a tentative acknowledgment of the unspoken language that had defined your relationship, a tangible echo of the connection you shared. His lips moved against yours, slow and deliberate, a silent promise of something more, a fragile bridge between your hearts.

Inside your thoughts: It’s real. It’s finally real. The years of unspoken emotions, the shared silences, the whispered promises—they had all led to this moment. His lips on mine, a gentle caress that sent shivers down my spine, a silent acknowledgment of the love that had been simmering beneath the surface for so long. It was a moment of pure vulnerability, a fragile bridge between our hearts, a tangible echo of the connection we shared. He tasted of warmth, of home, of everything I had ever longed for, a tangible echo of the comfort I had found in his words, a silent promise of forever.

He pulled back slightly, his eyes searching yours, a silent question in their depths, a fragile hope that whispered of a shared future, a tangible echo of the connection you shared.

"I've loved you too," he whispered, his voice barely audible, a confession as fragile as a whispered promise, a silent echo of the love that filled the room, a testament to the honesty that had defined your relationship. "For so long."

Inside Bang Chan's thoughts: Her words, a confession as raw and honest as the letters she had written over the years, echoed in my mind, a silent symphony of shared vulnerability, a tangible echo of the connection we shared. Three years. Three years of shared silences, whispered confidences, and a love that had blossomed in the quiet intimacy of our shared world, a love that had become the silent heartbeat of my existence. Her kiss, a gentle caress that sent shivers down my spine, a tangible echo of the connection we shared. It was a moment of pure vulnerability, a silent acknowledgment of the love that had been simmering beneath the surface for so long. She tasted of home, of comfort, of everything I had ever longed for, a tangible echo of the comfort I had found in her presence. She was my safe space, my anchor, the one person who saw me for who I truly was, flaws and all, a silent promise of forever.

He pulled you into a tight embrace, his arms wrapped around you like a lifeline, his warmth a comforting embrace, a tangible echo of the comfort you had found in his presence, a silent symphony of intertwined souls. The silence that followed was filled with unspoken emotions, a quiet acknowledgment of the love that had blossomed between you, a testament to the years of shared vulnerability.

"You're my home," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, a silent echo of the feelings that resonated within you, a raw vulnerability that mirrored your own, a tangible echo of the connection you shared. "You're my safe space. You're everything."

"You're mine too," you replied, your voice barely a whisper, a silent promise of forever, a tangible echo of the love that filled the room, a testament to the years of shared vulnerability.

The members groaned in the background, a chorus of playful complaints, a silent acknowledgment of the love that had been simmering beneath the surface. "Finally! Now, can you please get a room?"

The moment was a turning point, a silent acknowledgment of the love that had been simmering beneath the surface, a love that had finally found its voice, a love that had become the silent heartbeat of your existence. The years of unspoken emotions, the shared silences, the whispered promises—they had all led to this moment, a moment of pure vulnerability, a fragile bridge between your hearts, a tangible echo of the connection you shared, a silent symphony of intertwined souls.

The days that followed were a whirlwind of emotions, a mix of joy, relief, and a quiet sense of belonging. You were no longer just friends, no longer just pen pals. You were partners, lovers, souls intertwined, a silent symphony of shared lives, a tangible echo of the love that filled your world, a silent promise of forever.

The unveiling of your relationship, the whispered "I love you too" exchanged in the quiet sanctity of his birthday, was a cataclysmic event, a pivotal moment that irrevocably altered the landscape of your shared existence. The quiet sanctuary you had painstakingly constructed, a haven where vulnerability and honesty reigned supreme, was about to be exposed to the relentless scrutiny of the public eye, a silent battlefield where emotions clashed and perceptions warred. The weight of that exposure was a tangible thing, a nervous energy that vibrated beneath your skin, a silent tremor of anxiety that threatened to shatter the fragile equilibrium you had painstakingly achieved, a storm brewing on the horizon.

The news, as it inevitably does in a world saturated with digital echoes and insatiable curiosity, leaked. A grainy photo, captured from a distance, of you and Chan sharing a quiet moment in a secluded café, accompanied by a sensationalized article that painted a distorted and often malicious picture of your relationship, spread like wildfire across social media platforms, igniting a firestorm of reactions. The responses were immediate, varied, and often volatile, a cacophony of voices echoing across the digital landscape, a symphony of scrutiny that threatened to drown out the quiet intimacy of your love, a silent war waged in the digital realm.

Some STAYs, the loyal guardians of Chan’s world, were overjoyed, their comments brimming with warmth and unwavering support. They celebrated your love, seeing it as a testament to Chan’s happiness, a beacon of hope in a world often shrouded in cynicism and negativity. They shared your photos, wrote heartfelt messages, and created fan edits, embracing you as part of their family, a testament to the transformative power of shared joy and acceptance, a silent chorus of support.

Others, however, were less accepting, their words sharp and cruel, their comments laced with jealousy, resentment, and often, a deep-seated sense of possessiveness. They questioned your worthiness, scrutinized your appearance, and accused you of seeking attention, of exploiting Chan’s fame for your own gain. They saw you as a threat, an intruder in their idealized world, a disruption to the carefully constructed image of their idol, a silent battleground of conflicting emotions where personal desires clashed with the reality of Chan's life, a storm of negativity.

The online vitriol was a constant hum, a relentless barrage of negativity that threatened to drown you in a sea of doubt and self-doubt. You found yourself retreating into the quiet sanctuary of your shared world, seeking solace in Chan’s presence, his warmth a comforting embrace against the coldness of the world, a silent refuge from the storm raging outside, a fragile haven in the chaos.

He stood by you, unwavering in his support, a silent protector against the storm of public opinion. He addressed the rumors in a live broadcast, his voice calm and steady, his words filled with sincerity and conviction, a testament to the unwavering strength of his love, a silent declaration of his commitment.

“Yes, I am in a relationship,” he said, his eyes meeting the camera, his gaze direct and unwavering, a silent declaration of his unwavering love and commitment, a beacon of truth in a sea of speculation. “She is important to me. She makes me happy. She sees me for who I am, not for who the world wants me to be.”

He spoke of your kindness, your strength, your unwavering support, the qualities that had drawn him to you in the first place, the silent language of shared souls. He spoke of the connection you shared, a bond built on honesty, vulnerability, and mutual respect, a testament to the power of shared souls. He asked for respect, for understanding, for the privacy to navigate your relationship away from the relentless scrutiny of the public eye, a silent plea for empathy and understanding, a fragile hope for peace.

His words were a balm to your wounded spirit, a testament to his unwavering love, a silent promise of protection and unwavering support, a beacon of strength in the darkness. But they also ignited a fresh wave of reactions, some supportive, some vitriolic. The online discourse became a battleground, a clash of opinions and emotions, a silent war waged in the digital realm, where words were weapons and perceptions were shields, a storm of conflicting emotions.

Chan's Instagram, once a carefully curated collection of artistic shots and candid moments, became a testament to your love, a silent declaration of his affection, a tangible representation of your shared world, a beacon of hope in the chaos. He shared silly selfies, cozy nights, handwritten notes envelopes, each post a silent echo of the love that filled his heart, a tangible representation of your shared world. He wanted the world to see his happiness, to understand that you were his safe space, his anchor, his home, a silent sanctuary in the chaos of his life, a testament to the power of shared love, a fragile hope for understanding.

The members of Stray Kids, your chosen family, rallied around you, their support unwavering and unwavering, a silent fortress against the storm. Seungmin’s playful teasing, Felix’s infectious enthusiasm, Changbin’s quiet protectiveness—they were your shield, your fortress, your constant reminder that you were loved and accepted, an integral part of their family, a testament to the power of chosen bonds, a quiet chorus of support.

“He’s happier,” Felix said in a live broadcast, his eyes sparkling with genuine joy, a silent testament to the transformative power of your love, a beacon of hope in a world often shrouded in negativity. “He smiles more when she’s around.”

“She’s good for him,” Changbin added, his voice gruff but his eyes warm, a silent acknowledgment of the strength you brought to Chan’s life, a testament to the power of shared understanding, a quiet declaration of support.

The public scrutiny was relentless, a constant hum of judgment and speculation, but your bond with Chan grew stronger, forged in the fires of adversity, a testament to the enduring power of love. You learned to navigate the complexities of a public relationship, to filter the noise, to focus on the love that surrounded you, a silent sanctuary in the chaos, a fragile hope for peace.

You found solace in the quiet moments, the stolen hours when you could be yourselves, away from the prying eyes and the relentless scrutiny, a silent refuge in each other’s arms, a haven of peace. You found strength in each other’s presence, a silent understanding that transcended words, a tangible echo of the connection you shared, a quiet understanding of shared souls.

You learned to appreciate the supportive voices, the fans who embraced your love, who saw your relationship as a testament to Chan’s happiness, a beacon of hope in a world often shrouded in cynicism. You learned to ignore the hateful comments, the cruel words, the attempts to tear you down, a silent battle against the negativity, a testament to your inner strength, a quiet declaration of resilience.

The years passed, and your relationship became a part of the fabric of Stray Kids’ story, a testament to the enduring power of love, a beacon of hope in the chaos. Fans watched you grow, watched your love blossom, watched Chan’s happiness radiate like a warm glow, a silent symphony of shared joy, a testament to the power of shared souls. They saw the way he looked at you, the way his eyes lit up when he spoke your name, the way he found solace in your presence, a silent acknowledgment of the love that filled his heart, a testament to the power of shared souls.

They began to understand. They saw the vulnerability, the honesty, the unwavering love that defined your relationship, a testament to the power of shared souls. They saw the way you supported Chan, the way you understood him, the way you loved him for who he was, not for who the world wanted him to be, a silent declaration of your unwavering love, a fragile hope for understanding.

And in the end, that was all that mattered. You had found love in the midst of chaos, a quiet sanctuary in a world of noise, a testament to the enduring power of shared souls. You had built a home in each other’s hearts, a love that transcended the boundaries of fame and scrutiny, a silent symphony of intertwined lives, a tangible echo of forever, a testament to the power of shared souls. You had written your own story, together, one chapter at a time, a testament to the enduring power of love, a silent echo of forever's embrace.

--

[stareiiez]

nsfw alphabet for sinister mark

based on this ask <3

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

HA. idiot. there's no aftercare, you think you're getting aftercare?? from him?? the most you get is a snide comment and a towel thrown your way to clean yourself up.

B = Body part 

Sinister Mark loves your thighs, and breasts. He's not much of an ass man, but if he see a pair of juicy thighs that have good amounts of fat? his mouth waters, he drools over cellulite and stretchmarks, it brings more flavor to his delicate meal.

C = Cum 

loves to cover you in his cum, creampies are his favorite, cherry cream pies are even fucking better. he doesn't let you get dressed most of the time after so he can watch his cum dry against your skin and leave obvious proof he was with you. weirdly thick and stringy, the kind you see in porn, he cums gallons.

D = Dirty secret 

he whimpers when you praise him and call him 'my lord' or some regal title. has a huge praise kink.

E = Experience

experienced as hell. after all viltrumites fuck to breed and expand their species, so he knows what he's doing from alien autonomy to human bodies. he know's where the clit is babe, don't worry.

F = Favorite position 

doggy. easiest way to shut you the fuck up because you cry too loud when he hooks a thumb in your ass and bullies squishy tight muscle. he hates seeing your face look all stupid and dopey, he wants to watch your pussy cum, that's it.

G = Goofy 

he's here to fuck and to feast, there's no jokes here. mohawk mark took all the goofy ass tendencies out of all the variants.

H = Hair 

depends. wasteland sinister? there's no hygiene, he smells of sweat, blood, oil, rot and other putrid smells. pubic hair is as wiry and long as his hair on his head, he doesn't give a fuck if he makes you gag on it when you suck him off. normal sinister? he's clean, shaved. thinks it's dirty if he doesn't care for himself always.

I = Intimacy

lol.

J = Jack off

jacks off after committing genocide. likes to lay on the bodies and fuck himself because he feels so good he can't help his boner. he's a suck fuck that gets off on murder. jerks off to you, sometimes . . i guess.

K = Kink 

bondage, gagging, choking, crying, blood and weapon kink. LOVES to make sure his bitch is half way on the brink of passing out, that's when he knows he's doing good.

L = Location 

anywhere, he isn't picky. you think of it? he's probably thought of it, and done it to you.

M = Motivation 

power. loves to exhert his power over little things like you. also curiosity, lets see how much you can take till it kills you, kay?

N = No 

affection. telling him you love him? immediate no. he's soft and clambering off you. watersports are disgusting to him, you wanna be gross? do that somewhere else.

O = Oral 

LOVES GIVING because (ie bloody eating out post I made). loves receiving as well. he doesn't know when to stop.

P = Pace 

rough. hard. fast. there's other option.

Q = Quickie

doesn't believe in them. you should be satisfied enough after ten rounds with him. stop being greedy.

R = Risk 

fucking the man is risk enough.

S = Stamina

Viltrumite stamina is crazy. he doesn't give you a chance to breathe. you end up going comatose because your body can't keep up with his own. he still ends up fucking you even while you're passed out.

T = Toys 

He destroyed your toys, sorry. He's better than those machines, but he likes to see you masturbate and loves a good show.

U = Unfair

Incredibly unfair. he will stop in the middle of sex to go deal with whatever is suddenly more threatening or distracting to him. Will completely pick back up with you, if he's bored. The sex isn't the same after.

V = Volume

he's quiet, except for making grunts and growls through clenched teeth. your moans and wet pussy noises are the loudest things during sex.

W = Wild card 

LOVES A GOOD HAIR PULL. Even when his hair gets longer in the wastelands, and you're there to be with him. he loves it when you gather the hair in your palm and yank as hard as you can, it at least makes him groan a bit more louder than usual.

X = X-ray 

thick, uncut pretty pink eight inches. he's got the girth of nearly a soda can, he's a monster that hurts you in every single aspect. he's not veiny, but burns hot red at the tip when he's hard and throbbing. he's shaved and clean, slightly musky at drooping sac. his body is more built, unrealistically chiseled, like it hurts to be this buff in such a lean frame.

Y = Yearning 

very high, after he gets a good blood lust going. thankfully that's nearly every day since he has a plethora of lowlifes to be wiped clean off the earth and co-exisiting planets.

Z = Zzz

after whatever round he's lost track of, he sleeps rather peacefully on his bed. you're reserved to sleep on the floor or the couch if he thinks its fitting for you after how good you've been to him.