#and that actually became a real relationship

[dakusan]

T h e   L e t t e r   C.

Tattoo Artist!Bang Chan x Reader | Ink-stained hands. Hoodie mornings. He marked you with his initial and fucked you like he meant forever

🔞synopsis: Tattoo Artist AU. One letter. One fucking letter. You sit on his counter in his hoodie, typing invoices, and Chan can’t stop staring — at your bare skin, at the way you’ve never let anyone touch you like that, at the way you’re about to let him mark you. His initial, on your ring finger. C. It’s supposed to be quick. Clean. Just a tattoo. But Chan’s a menace with veiny hands and a filthy mouth, and you’re his — his girl, his wife-to-be, his baby mama before either of you even realize it. Tattoo ink, sweat, messy kisses, and him whispering filth against your skin like he’s worshiping you. And later? Sunlight, pancakes and a velvet ring box.

💌a/n: WOW. WE FUCKING DID IT. The last fic of the Tattoo Artist AU is HERE, and holy shit, what a way to close it out. Yeah. I wrote this grinning like a menace the whole damn time. Thank you for riding this ink-stained, veiny-handed rollercoaster with me, you whores and sluts — you’ve been feral, loud, and absolutely unhinged in the BEST way, and I love you for it 💋. Chan’s fic had me extra soft and disgusting in love because he’s so domestic while still being THE filthiest man alive. So yeah, I hope you love this sticky-soft mess as much as I loved writing it. p.s. Reblog like your life depends on it, sluts🖤 p.p.s. Next stop: SQUID GAME AU because clearly I clearly can't stop. p.p.p.s. No, I’m not normal about this man and no, I won’t ever be. Thanks for asking.

⚠️ warnings: 18+ ONLY | MINORS DNI | Established relationship / long-term domestic filth | Tattoo scene (consensual, soft Chan being meticulous) | Oral (f. receiving), fingering, overstimulation | Protected? LMAO nope. Breeding kink. Creampie. Pregnancy. Wrap it up in real life whores | Praise, possessiveness, soft feral Chan energy | Counter sex (shop & kitchen), messy kisses, filthy dirty talk | Chan being clingy, soft, and lovesick to the point of feral | Proposal + pregnancy reveal (domestic fluff overload)

📌 Please read responsibly. Hydrate. Breathe. Thank your tattoo artist. Sit on his lap later.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » Be Together— BTOB « 0:58 ─〇───── 4:25 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

You’d known Bang Chan long before the words NO SAINT INK ever got painted across the front window.

Back then, it was just an idea — a rough sketch in one of his notebooks, coffee stains on the corner, his messy handwriting scrawled next to crude machine diagrams. He was still working out of a cramped backroom studio at the time, doing flash tattoos for cheap just to save enough for something bigger. He’d talk about it constantly, eyes lighting up in that way they always did when he believed in something too much to let it go.

"One day, I’ll have my own shop. Not just a shop — a family. A place people feel safe walking into. Somewhere that feels alive."

You’d smiled at him from across that coffee-stained notebook, already half in love with him then.

And somehow, you became part of it all before you even realized what was happening.

You weren’t a tattoo artist — you weren’t even in that world at first. You’d met through mutual friends, hit it off instantly, and before long you were the one keeping him company during late-night sketch sessions, organizing his invoices when he couldn’t figure out his own system, and ordering takeout when he forgot to eat.

Chan had this way of making you feel like you’d always belonged in his life. He’d tease you endlessly, call you his “unofficial business manager” even when you weren’t actually on his payroll. Somewhere between long nights spent helping him research licensing laws and drunken 2 AM confessions about your dreams, you’d fallen for him.

The first time he kissed you was on the shop floor of what would later become NO SAINT INK — back when it was still just an empty building with peeling paint and dust on the windows. You’d been sitting cross-legged on the bare floor, laughing about how ugly the place looked, and he’d just leaned in, kissed you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Guess we’ll make it pretty together, huh?" he’d said after, forehead pressed to yours.

The years after that were a blur of paint-stained clothes, takeout containers, and the kind of exhaustion that only comes from chasing a dream. You helped him sand down tables, choose paint colors, set up booking systems, and — maybe most importantly — keep his books balanced when the shop finally opened and started booming.

By the time he’d hired Jisung, Minho, Seungmin, and the rest of the crew, you were already his. Not just his girlfriend — you were the person who made this entire world possible for him.

He’d tell you that all the time.

"This place wouldn’t exist without you." "You’re the only reason I haven’t burned out." "You’re my home, you know that, right?"

And you believed him because you felt the same. You lived together now, shared a quiet little apartment above a bakery a few blocks away, and most nights ended with you curled against his chest while he sketched designs in bed.

The thing about Chan was that even after all these years, even after all the late nights and busy schedules, he still looked at you like he couldn’t believe you were real.

And yet... Despite living with one of the most talented tattoo artists in the city, you didn’t have a single piece of ink on you. Not one.

Everyone at NO SAINT INK teased you about it. Jisung had made it his personal mission to convince you to let him do a little flower on your ankle. Seungmin swore you were secretly afraid of needles. Minho had bet Chan a week of free lunches that you’d cave eventually.

But Chan?

Chan loved it.

"You’re perfect like this," he’d murmur sometimes, brushing his fingers over your bare skin. "Untouched. Mine to mark first, whenever you let me."

And you’d roll your eyes, laugh it off, because you weren’t avoiding tattoos out of fear — you just hadn’t found anything that felt right. You’d promised yourself that your first tattoo would be something that mattered. Something permanent, like a milestone in your life.

You didn’t know it yet, but tonight would be that milestone.

The shop was quiet now, just the low hum of the lights and the soft tapping of your fingers on your laptop keys. You were perched on the counter, cross-legged in one of Chan’s hoodies, glaring at the screen as you typed in numbers.

"Channie, do you seriously need to order this much black ink? You’re going through cartridges like water."

Chan, leaning against his workbench with his arms folded, just grinned at you — that soft, amused grin that made his dimple peek out.

"You know I’m still not over the fact you don’t have a single tattoo? My own girlfriend — living with me, dating me for years�� and still pure. Untouched."

You glanced up, arching a brow. "Well, you never had the time to do it, Mr. Overbooked Shop Owner."

He tilted his head, smirk deepening. "Oh, I have time tonight. I want to be the first, baby. The only."

You closed the laptop, heart thumping for reasons you couldn’t quite explain.

And then you said it.

"Then… give me your initial. Right here."

You held up your left ring finger.

"C."

Chan froze. His eyes widened slightly, his playful grin faltering into something softer, almost stunned. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. "You’re gonna kill me, you know that? My initial, on your finger… you’re actually trying to ruin me, huh?"

You watched him carefully — the way his fingers flexed against his folded arms, the way his mouth opened just slightly like he wanted to say something but couldn’t.

"Chan?"

He blinked, snapped out of it, and his grin returned — softer now, almost shy around the edges. "You’re serious? You actually want my initial? On your finger?"

You shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal, though your heart was hammering against your ribs. "Why not? Seems fitting. You’re the one drowning in ink all day, anyway. Might as well leave your mark on me properly."

The look he gave you then? Wrecked.

"You have no idea what you just did to me, baby." He his hand came up to gently hold your wrist, thumb brushing your ring finger as if he was already tattooing it in his mind. You rolled your eyes and turned back to your laptop, typing a little too quickly to hide your own flustered grin. "Yeah, well, you can have your emotional breakdown later, Mr. Clingy. I need to finish these numbers before you overspend on needles again."

Chan didn’t move away. Of course he didn’t — he never did.

Instead, he dragged one of the rolling stools closer and sat right next to you, his knee bumping yours. He was always close, always touching — even now, he leaned his arm against your thigh as if the contact grounded him.

But his mind was clearly elsewhere.

You heard the soft rustle of paper, and when you glanced down, Chan had already grabbed a fresh sheet from his sketchpad.

"What are you doing?"

"Shhh," he murmured, already grabbing a nearby pencil. His brows furrowed in concentration, lips pressing together. "Cursive or block? Thin line? Micro script or thicker strokes? I want it to look perfect."

You snorted. "Chan, it’s literally just the letter C."

"Not just a letter," he shot back, not even looking up, pencil already gliding over the page. "It’s going on you. It’s… fuck, it’s going to be on your hand, angel. Everyone’s gonna see it. It has to be right."

You bit your lip to hide the smile pulling at your mouth, watching as his fingers moved quickly, sketching out variations of the letter like he was designing a whole damn mural.

You’d seen Chan sketch a million times before, but this was different — he was dialed in, hyper-focused.

Chan’s tattooing style had always been clean precision combined with emotional storytelling. Somehow he always made it perfect. His line work was razor-sharp, soft where it mattered and it was needed, even his boldest designs felt delicate. His specialty? Fine-line realism mixed with abstract accents. Imagine feathers that looked like that they could blow away in the wind, roses with petal tips melting into geometric shading, animal portraits with splashes of watercolor ink behind them. His signature touch? Hidden details only the person having the tattoo would notice. They could be tiny initials woven into a flower stem, microscopic constellations tucked into shading, and so on. They were always meaningful but discreet.

And right now, Chan was pouring all of that into a single letter.

"Your hand is small, so micro-script will suit you better. But if I make the serif too sharp, it’ll look harsh, and I don’t want harsh on you," he murmured half to himself, scratching out a version before starting again. "Cursive feels more… personal. But if I make it slanted too much, it might age weird. No, no, I’ll—"

"Chan."

"Hmm?"

"You’re overthinking a single letter."

"I’m tattooing my fucking initial on my girlfriend’s finger, babe. I’m allowed to overthink."

You laughed, shaking your head, but you didn’t stop him. Honestly? Watching him obsess over it like this made your chest ache in a way you couldn’t explain. Chan finally glanced up, brown eyes soft, voice dropping lower. "You trust me with this? Really?"

"I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t."

His jaw tightened for a moment, and he gave you a look that made your heart flip. "Okay, honey," he said quietly, thumb brushing your knee. "Let me mark you."

You watched him as he switched from the paper sketch to his iPad, pulling it closer with a determined little huff. His brows furrowed in concentration, his lower lip caught between his teeth as he dragged his Apple Pencil in smooth, decisive strokes.

It was ridiculous, how serious he looked — this was one letter, and yet he was treating it like he was designing a full back piece for a celebrity client.

"Stop staring," he muttered without looking up, voice soft, teasing.

"Can’t help it. You’re cute when you’re obsessing."

Chan’s ears flushed, but he didn’t break focus, swiping through brushes until he found the exact weight he wanted. "Not cute. Perfect. This has to be perfect."

"For a C."

"For my C," he corrected immediately, glancing up with that look that always made your stomach flip — the one that was soft and wrecked all at once, like he couldn’t believe you were real. You tried not to smile too much, leaning back slightly and pretending to focus on your laptop. But your fingers hovered over the keys instead of typing, watching as he tilted the screen toward you.

"Okay, look — final version. Clean cursive, micro-script, no harsh edges. Soft curves to match your hand. What do you think?"

The letter was delicate, elegant — a tiny looping C that looked like it had been written by hand just for you. Which, of course, it had.

"It’s perfect."

The corner of his mouth lifted, just slightly, but his eyes softened in that way they always did when you said something that got to him.

"Perfect on you, yeah," he murmured, hitting print before you could respond.

The little thermal printer by his workbench spat out the stencil sheet, and Chan moved, slipping it into his setup like he’d done a thousand times before — except this time, every motion felt slower, more deliberate, because it was you.

"Save your work, honey," he said suddenly, glancing at your still-open laptop.

"I—what? You’re really doing this right now?"

"You think I’m gonna let you change your mind? Not a chance." He grinned, soft but sure, already pulling on his black nitrile gloves. "Come on. Let me mark you before I lose my mind."

You couldn’t help laughing, shaking your head as you hit save and closed the laptop. The reality of it was starting to hit you now — you were about to let Bang Chan tattoo you.

Not just any tattoo — his initial. On your ring finger.

He offered you his hand like you were going somewhere far more serious than just across the shop. His palm was warm and he squeezed your fingers gently as he guided you toward the main studio room. The air in there was cooler and smelled like disinfectant and ink — Chan’s world, his kingdom.

He motioned for you to sit on the padded chair, pulling his rolling stool close. Of course he was close, always close, his knee brushing yours as he adjusted the footrest for you.

"Comfy?" he asked softly, his usual teasing tone replaced by something almost reverent.

"You’re acting like I’m about to get a whole sleeve."

"You’re letting me put my initial on your hand, angel. That’s bigger than a sleeve."

You rolled your eyes, but your chest felt warm in a way you couldn’t ignore.

Chan pressed the stencil gently to your ring finger, his thumb brushing the side of your hand as he smoothed it down. His touch lingered even after he peeled the paper away, leaving behind the faint purple outline of the letter.

He stared at it for a long moment, quiet, his gloved fingers tracing the air above it without touching.

"Looks good on you already," he whispered, mostly to himself before moving away to start preparing.

Chan snapped on a fresh pair of black gloves, the sound sharp in the quiet room. You watched him move through his setup with practiced precision — disinfecting the area, lining up his ink caps, adjusting the needle depth like muscle memory. He was in work mode now, but his eyes kept flicking back to your hand like he couldn’t believe this was real.

“Won’t take long,” he murmured, voice softer than usual. “But I want it clean. No rushing.” He glanced up at you, the corners of his eyes soft, before bending back to his work.

The machine buzzed to life, low and steady, and Chan adjusted his stool closer until his knee pressed against yours. He rested your hand gently in his gloved one, thumb brushing over your knuckles before he spoke again.

“Tell me if you need a break, okay? Even if it’s just for a second.”

“Chan, it’s one letter. I’ll survive.”

He smirked, head tilted, dimple flashing for half a second. “Doesn’t mean I won’t take care of you.”

And finally, he lowered the needle to your skin. The first sting made you inhale sharply, and immediately Chan glanced up, the machine pausing mid-line.

“Too much?”

You shook your head quickly. “No, keep going. Just… feels weird.”

His mouth quirked slightly, a soft, amused look flashing across his face before he focused again. His left hand steadied yours while his right moved with quick, sure motions — the way he always tattooed, precise but fluid. Watching him like this was different. You’d seen Chan tattoo other people countless times, but there was something about the way he worked on you — the way his thumb kept rubbing slow circles against your palm, how his eyes softened every time they darted up to check on you.

“You’re doing good, honey,” he said quietly over the hum of the machine. “Almost done with the outline.”

You couldn’t help smiling. “I told you I’d survive.”

Chan huffed a quiet laugh, leaning closer as he wiped the excess ink away. His gloved thumb lingered for a second longer than necessary before he dipped back into the cap.

Every line he pulled felt heavier than usual. Not because of difficulty — this was easy work for him — but because of what it meant.

You. His name. On your ring finger.

His mind kept flashing with thoughts he couldn’t say out loud:

My initial. On her hand. Forever. She’s really letting me do this. She’s mine. She’s really mine.

And worse — he kept thinking about the little velvet box hidden in his desk drawer at home, about how he’d been planning to propose soon anyway. Now? He had to actively fight the urge to pull the ring out tonight.

“Done,” Chan finally said after another careful wipe, voice quieter than usual. He switched off the machine and set it aside, holding your hand up gently like it was something fragile.

The tiny cursive C sat perfectly on the side of your ring finger — simple, clean, elegant.

You tilted your head, smiling softly. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” he echoed, still staring at it. He didn’t let go of your hand, his gloved fingers tracing just above the fresh ink, not daring to touch it yet. His throat worked as he swallowed.

“Chan,” you said with a laugh, “you’re staring at it like you just won an award.”

He looked up at you then, and his expression made your heart skip — soft, overwhelmed, a little wrecked.

“Feels like I did,” he said simply.

He finally peeled off his gloves, tossing them into the bin, but his hands were back on you immediately, holding your wrist like he needed to ground himself.

“Gonna clean it and wrap it,” he murmured, his voice dropping lower now. “Then… then I’m probably gonna kiss you stupid, just warning you.”

You laughed, cheeks warm. “You’re ridiculous.”

Chan’s grin turned into something softer, hungrier. “You just let me put my name on you, baby. You have no idea what that does to me.”

He reached for a clean pad of gauze, his hands moving with that same tattoo-artist precision — but his eyes never left yours. He dabbed gently at the ink, careful not to press too hard, and you could feel how soft his touch was, how deliberate.

“Does it hurt?” he asked quietly.

“Barely,” you said, smiling. “You’re good at this, you know.”

His mouth twitched into a small, crooked grin. “Better be. I’m not letting my first piece on you heal ugly.”

He set the gauze aside and grabbed the ointment, squeezing out the smallest amount before rubbing it across the fresh ink with slow, tender strokes. His fingers lingered, spreading the balm with feather-light movements, and for a moment, it didn’t feel like he was working — it felt like he was touching.

You tilted your head at him, amused. “You do this for all your clients, or am I getting special treatment?”

Chan didn’t even look up, his thumb brushing over your hand with an almost possessive weight. “No one else gets this soft. No one else gets me like this.”

When he finally wrapped the finger with clean film, he pressed a kiss to the bandaged spot before he could stop himself.

“There,” he murmured against your skin, his voice low and reverent. “My C. Looks right on you.”

You laughed softly, trying to tease the tension away. “Chan, it’s literally a letter. You’re acting like—”

But before you could finish, his hands were on your thighs, sliding up slowly as he stepped between your knees. His gaze locked on yours, darker now, his usual soft warmth edged with something else entirely.

“Like what?” he asked, voice dropping, rougher now.

You blinked up at him. “Like… like you’re losing your mind.”

He leaned closer, his forehead nearly touching yours, his hands gripping your waist now. “That’s because I am, honey. You don’t get it, do you?”

“Get what?”

His thumb brushed over the bandaged finger, lingering. “You just let me put my name on your ring finger. My initial. Forever. And you’re sitting here acting like it’s casual.”

You opened your mouth to say something, but Chan cut you off with a quiet, frustrated groan, his lips brushing your jaw as he spoke again.

“You’re mine, angel. Always were. But this? Fuck—this is proof. You marked yourself for me, and now I can’t stop thinking about how much I want to…”

He trailed off, pulling back just enough to look at you, his eyes blown wide and hungry.

“Want to what?” you asked, heart hammering.

“Worship you. Ruin you. Both,” he said, voice low and trembling slightly, like he was barely holding himself back. “Can I?”

You didn’t even get to answer properly — the second your hand slid up his chest in silent permission, Chan kissed you. Hard.

He grabbed your hips, pulling you forward on the padded chair until you were right against him, his hands gripping like he was terrified you’d slip away. His mouth moved against yours with the same obsessive precision he tattooed with — deep, focused, possessive.

When he finally pulled back for air, he pressed his forehead to yours, breathing hard. “You have no idea how bad I’ve wanted this. Years, angel. Years of staring at you in my hoodies, doing my books, taking care of me… and now you’re sitting here with my letter on your finger—fuck, you’re perfect.”

One of his hands slid under the hem of your hoodie, warm against your skin, his thumb brushing teasing circles on your waist. For a moment, he stared. Stared at you before suddenly, picking you up with ridiculous ease, sitting you back on the counter where you’d been earlier, his hands gripping your thighs possessively. His kisses turned messier, desperate, his mouth moving from your lips to your jaw to the spot below your ear that made you gasp.

“That’s it,” he murmured against your skin, his voice rough, his words spilling out in a low, feral growl. “Gonna make you feel how much I love you. Gonna make you remember this every time you look at that little C.” Chan’s hands were firm on your thighs as he stepped between them. His mouth was everywhere — hot, urgent kisses along your jaw, nips at your neck that made your breath hitch.

“Chan—” you gasped between kisses, trying to catch your breath as his hands slipped under your hoodie again, palms spreading over your waist. “Wait, what if Minho’s upstairs? He’s gonna hear us—”

Chan pulled back just enough to look at you, his grin crooked and sinful, his breath already rough. “Nope. He isn’t. He’s out with Jisung and Felix—fuck knows where, probably terrorizing someone at karaoke. We’re alone, angel. Completely alone.”

Your protest died in your throat when his fingers curled into the hem of your hoodie, tugging it upward.

“Then—Chan—”

“Then nothing,” he interrupted, voice low, almost a growl. “You’re mine tonight. All mine.”

And with that, he pulled the hoodie off in one smooth motion, tossing it carelessly to the side. His hands were immediately back on you, tracing the curve of your waist like he couldn’t decide whether to worship or devour you.

“Fuck,” he breathed, his eyes drinking you in. “Every time I see you like this, I wonder how I got this lucky. My girl. My everything.”

You opened your mouth to say something, but the words melted into a soft gasp when his lips found your collarbone, kissing down slowly, deliberately, as if he was marking you everywhere.

His hands roamed everywhere — palms sliding over your back, fingers squeezing your hips, his thumbs brushing circles on your thighs like he couldn’t stop touching you for even a second.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured against your skin, his breath hot where his mouth pressed against your neck.

“I’m not—”

“You are,” he cut in, smirking against your skin, his voice dropping lower. “You’re worked up just from me touching you.”

You tried to roll your eyes, but it came out more like a whimper when his hand slid higher, fingers brushing under the band of your bra.

“Chan,” you warned, though your tone was anything but serious.

“Yeah?” His grin was pure trouble as he finally slid the strap off your shoulder. “Something you need, honey?”

His fingers hooked into the waistband of your leggings, tugging teasingly.

“Gonna take these off,” he said, his voice low and rough, eyes flicking to yours for permission even as his hands moved. “Need to see you. Need to feel you.”

“Chan, we’re in the shop,” you tried again, though your body betrayed you by lifting just enough to help him pull them down.

“Exactly,” he murmured, leaning close enough that his lips brushed your ear. “Our shop. My walls. My counter. I’ve wanted you here since the day I opened this place, honey.”

You let out a shaky breath, and that was all he needed. He slid your leggings down, tossing them aside with the same careless ease he’d discarded your hoodie. Now you were perched on the counter in just your bra and panties, his hands everywhere — gripping your thighs, sliding up your sides, thumbs brushing over every inch of exposed skin.

Chan looked wrecked already, his breathing uneven, his eyes dark as he dragged them over you slowly. “God, you’re perfect.” he whispered, almost to himself.

Then, with one smooth motion, he hooked his fingers into your panties and tugged them down.

You gasped, heat rushing to your face as he slid them off your legs, tossing them to join the growing pile of your clothes on the floor. His hands came right back to you, spreading over your bare thighs like he was claiming you.

“Fuck,” Chan groaned under his breath, his eyes dragging down between your legs, lingering, his jaw tightening. “You’re already dripping for me.”

Your breath hitched, but before you could answer, his long, veiny fingers trailed upward slowly, teasing, skimming along the inside of your thigh without giving you what you wanted yet. Chan leaned in close, ips pressing hot kisses to the soft skin just below your hip.

Fingers finally sliding higher, brushing you lightly, and you gasped, your hips jerking instinctively. “Shh, baby,” Chan murmured, his free hand gripping your hip to hold you still. “Let me take care of you.”

Those hands — god, those hands. Large, warm, veiny, the same hands that just minutes ago held a tattoo machine with precision now moving over you with something close to worship.

One hand stayed firm on your hip, grounding you, while the other moved slowly, teasing, his long fingers sliding against your soaked folds. He groaned low, almost like he was in pain, when he felt how wet you were.

“Fuck, you’re so wet for me already,” he rasped, his thumb brushing gentle circles over your clit while his fingers teased lower, slipping just barely inside before retreating. “So good for me, angel. Always so good for me.”

Your head fell back slightly, a soft whimper slipping out, and Chan’s mouth curved into a wrecked grin against your thigh.

“That’s it,” he murmured, kissing higher, closer to where you needed him. “Give me more sounds, honey. I want to hear you.”

Two of his fingers finally slid into you, slow but sure, curling just right as his thumb pressed to your clit. You gasped, your hands gripping the edge of the counter, and Chan’s breath hitched at the way you clenched around him.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he groaned, his forehead dropping to your thigh as he moved his fingers faster, deeper. “You feel so perfect. So tight for me.”

Chan couldn’t stay away for long. His mouth moved from your thigh to your hip, kissing, nipping, his breath hot against your skin. Then he looked up at you, eyes blown and desperate.

“Wanna taste you,” he murmured, his fingers still moving inside you, his thumb circling slow, deliberate patterns on your clit. “Can I?”

You nodded breathlessly, and that was all he needed.

He pulled your hips closer to the edge of the counter, his fingers didn’t stop, but now his lips were on you — kissing your inner thighs first, soft, reverent kisses before finally leaning in to press his mouth against you. The first flick of his tongue made you moan, and Chan groaned against you, the sound vibrating where his mouth moved.

“God, you taste so good,” he rasped between licks, his pace quickening as he sucked lightly on your clit. “My perfect girl. All mine.”

His hands gripped your thighs tight, holding you in place as he devoured you, his fingers thrusting in time with his mouth. Every time you whimpered, his groans got louder, more desperate, like he was addicted to every sound you made.

“Gonna make you cum just like this,” he mumbled against you, his words hot and filthy. “Wanna feel you fall apart for me, baby. Come on, angel — give it to me.”

Chan's tongue sucked your clit into his mouth, groan vibrating against your cunt and the sound alone made your hips jerk, but he held you firmly in place. “Stay still, angel,” he rasped between licks, his voice wrecked already. “Lemme take care of you. Lemme… fuck—lemme have you.”

His fingers now curling up just right, just the way he knew you liked, just the way he knew your body would react. Finger-fucking you with a steady pace, wet obscene sounds filling the quiet room. His thumb occasionally pressing harder against your clit when his mouth pulled away for breath.

You gasped, your fingers gripping the edge of the counter, but Chan wasn’t letting you get away from him. His free hand slid to your hip, pushing you flat against the surface while he leaned in deeper, tongue flicking against your clit with increasing intensity.

“Ch-Chan—!”

He hummed in response, and the vibration sent another wave of pleasure through you. He didn’t slow down — if anything, the sound of your shaky voice made him more desperate. His fingers pumped faster now, hitting that spot inside you that made your back arch, his tongue swirling around your clit like he’d been studying you for this exact moment.

“God, listen to you,” he groaned against you, pulling back for a split second to look up at you. His face was flushed, his lips glistening, and his eyes — fuck, his eyes were wild. “Dripping all over my fingers, baby. You’re so wet for me. So perfect for me.”

Before you could respond, he dove back in, tongue and fingers working together in a messy, frantic rhythm. He finger-fucked you harder now, his knuckles brushing against you with every thrust, while his mouth sucked at your clit like he was addicted to you. Your moans grew louder, filling the studio, and Chan groaned at the sound.

“That’s it,” he mumbled into you, his words muffled but still clear enough to make your stomach flip. “Come on, baby… I know you’re close. Let me feel it. Let me feel you fall apart on my fingers, yeah?”

Your body tensed, pleasure coiling tighter and tighter with every thrust of his fingers, every flick of his tongue.

“Chan—oh my god, I—”

“Yeah, baby,” he groaned, his pace relentless, his thumb pressing harder as his fingers curled just right. “Give it to me. Cum for me. Wanna taste you, angel. Need it.”

And then you broke.

Your whole body shook, your hips jerking helplessly against his grip as you came, moaning his name. Chan didn’t stop — if anything, he doubled down, licking you through it, his fingers fucking you deeper, slower now, dragging out every last wave of your orgasm until you were trembling under him.

When you finally slumped against the counter, breathless, Chan pulled back just enough to look at you — his lips swollen, chin slick with you, his chest heaving.

“Fuck,” he breathed, licking his lips as if he couldn’t get enough. “You taste so fucking good. My perfect girl. My perfect everything.”

He kissed the inside of your thigh softly before standing up. And the look in his eyes made your heart stop. He was completely cunt-drunk, lips parted and panting, pupils blown so wide there was barely any brown left in them.

“Not done,” he said, voice low and rough as his hands slid to your waist. “You think I’m stopping after just that? Nah, baby.” His hands moved to his belt, fingers fumbling with it, moving too fast, almost shaky with how eager he was.

“Chan—”

“Can’t wait,” he cut you off, finally yanking the belt free and shoving his jeans and briefs down just enough to free himself. His thick cock sprang up, flushed and leaking, and he hissed under his breath as his hand wrapped around the base, giving himself one slow stroke as his eyes raked over you.

“Fuck, look at you,” he groaned, stepping between your legs again. His free hand slid to your thigh, spreading you open wider. “Sitting here all pretty for me, dripping, still tight from cumming on my fingers… you’re killing me, honey.”

Your breath hitched as he lined himself up, the head of his cock brushing against your soaked entrance.

“Chan, please—”

That was all it took.

With a low, broken groan, he pushed in, slow at first, stretching you open inch by inch. His head fell forward against your shoulder, his breath hot against your skin as he sank in deeper, bottoming out with one final thrust.

“Fuck,” he growled, his voice shaking as his hips pressed flush to yours. “You’re so tight, baby. So warm, squeezing me so fucking good. God, I’m never letting you go.”

Once he started moving, he couldn’t stop. His pace was quick from the start — deep, hungry thrusts that made the counter creak beneath you. Every push in had his cock dragging against your walls perfectly, every pull out slow enough to make you whimper before he slammed back in.

“That’s it, baby,” he panted against your mouth, his words broken between messy kisses. “Taking me so well. My perfect girl, all fucked out just for me. You feel so good—fuck, you feel made for me.”

You moaned against his lips, and Chan groaned back, swallowing every sound, his kisses messy and desperate. His tongue slid against yours sloppily, his teeth nipping your bottom lip before he kissed down your jaw.

Chan buried his face in your neck, sucking at the soft skin there, leaving open-mouthed kisses that turned into nips. “You’re gonna look so pretty tomorrow,” he murmured against your throat, his thrusts never faltering. “My marks all over you. Everyone’s gonna know who you belong to.”

He pulled back just enough to look at your chest, his gaze dropping, and then he dipped lower. “Fuck, I need these,” he groaned before his mouth latched onto your nipple, sucking hard. His tongue flicked over it, his teeth grazing lightly before he switched to the other, his free hand squeezing your breast as if he couldn’t get enough.

Your back arched into him, and Chan moaned against your skin, his thrusts growing even rougher.

“Yeah, that’s it, angel,” he growled, his mouth still on your chest. “You like that? Like when I fuck you like this? Fuck.”

His hips snapped into you harder now, faster, the wet sounds of him fucking you filling the room along with your broken moans. Chan was panting against your chest, his forehead resting between your breasts as he fucked into you.

You were moaning so loud at this rate, instinctively squeezing around his cock tighter, your pussy not wanting to let go, in fact dragging him in deeper.

“Shit, baby, do that again,” he groaned, pulling back to look at you, his hair falling into his eyes, his lips swollen and red. “Clench around me like that again, and I’m gonna lose it.”

You couldn’t help it — your body obeyed, and Chan swore under his breath, his pace growing relentless.

“God, you’re gonna make me cum so fast like this.” he panted, leaning forward to kiss you again, messy and desperate.

The room was filled with the sound of skin slapping against skin, wet and filthy, echoing off the walls of the studio. Chan was relentless now, his hips snapping into you with a pace that bordered on desperate, every thrust pushing you further into the counter, making it creak under the force.

Your body was melting, every muscle trembling, your head falling back as broken moans spilled from your lips. You couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe — you were completely cock-drunk, lost in him, in the way his thick length filled you so perfectly, stretching you just right.

“Look at you,” Chan panted, his forehead pressed against yours now, his eyes glassy, pupils blown. “All fucked out… taking me so good, honey.”

Your walls clenched around him again, and he swore, his hips stuttering for half a second before he picked up the pace, fucking you harder, deeper.

“God, you feel so good,” he groaned, his words spilling out like he couldn’t hold them back. “Tightest little pussy, just for me. Made for me, baby. You’re mine, all mine.”

You whimpered, grabbing at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as his thrusts grew even rougher.

“Chan—oh my god—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he growled, his lips crashing against yours in a messy, open-mouthed kiss before pulling back just enough to watch your face. His thrusts were brutal now, hips slamming into yours, wet sounds filling the air. “You’re gonna cum for me again, angel. Wanna feel you squeeze me, wanna feel you lose it on my cock.”

You tried to shake your head, gasping, “I can’t—” but your body betrayed you, already tightening, that coil snapping faster than you could stop it.

“Yes, you can, baby. Give it to me,” Chan ordered, his voice rough, commanding now. His thumb slid between you, rubbing your clit in fast, tight circles as he fucked you harder. “Cum for me, angel. Right now. Wanna feel you fall apart again.”

And then you did.

Your body arched, your vision went white, and you cried out his name, your orgasm slamming into you so hard it made your legs shake. You clenched down around him helplessly, milking his cock, and Chan lost it.

“FUCK,” he growled, his voice cracking, his pace faltering for just a second before he shoved in deep, groaning as your tightness squeezed him over and over. “That’s it, that’s my girl—god, you feel incredible when you cum on me.”

He didn’t slow down — if anything, feeling you come undone on him only made him more feral. He kept thrusting, deep and fast, riding you through it, his hips slapping against yours with every sharp movement.

You were gone — cock-drunk, trembling, babbling his name — and Chan was absolutely wrecked, panting against your neck, kissing and sucking at the damp skin there like he couldn’t get enough.

“Not done,” he groaned into your neck, his voice desperate, hips still pounding into you. “Not stopping till I fill you up, angel. Gonna cum so deep in you, fuck—don’t wanna pull out. Ever.”

You whimpered something incoherent, and Chan kissed your temple, his thrusts somehow even deeper now.

“That’s it, honey. One more. Be good for me, yeah? Give me one more before I cum. Can you do that for me?”

Chan’s pace was brutal now, his hips snapping against yours so hard the counter creaked with every thrust. Sweat dripped from his temple onto your chest as he buried himself in you over and over, his cock dragging against your walls perfectly, hitting that spot that made you see stars.

You were already trembling, your body overstimulated from your last orgasm, every nerve burning — but Chan wasn’t slowing down. “Ch-Chan, I—” Your words were broken, barely formed, nothing but gasps and whimpers spilling from your mouth.

“Yes, you are,” he growled, leaning closer, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath hot and ragged. “Gonna cum one more time for me, honey. Be good for me. Wanna feel you squeeze me again before I fill you up.”

His hand slid down between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit again, circling it in fast, precise motions that had you sobbing.

“Too much—”

“Shhh, baby.” he whispered, his lips brushing your jaw as he fucked you harder, deeper, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing through the shop.

Your back arched, nails digging into his shoulders as your body betrayed you again, tightening around him as the pleasure built up impossibly fast.

“That’s it, baby,” Chan panted, his eyes locked on yours, dark and wild. “Cum for me. Cum all over my cock. Wanna feel you milk me dry.”

Your orgasm hit hard, ripping through you like fire, your thighs shaking uncontrollably as you screamed his name.

“Chan—Chan, oh my god—Chan!”

You babbled it over and over, lost in the pleasure, tears pricking the corners of your eyes as your body convulsed around him. Chan groaned loudly, his own thrusts growing sloppy as you clenched tight around him, pulling him closer and closer to his own breaking point.

“Fuck, honey, that’s it,” he growled, his hips driving into you hard, desperate now. “You feel too good — gonna fill you up. Gonna cum so deep, fuck my cum into you until it sticks. Wanna keep you full of me, angel. All mine.”

Your name left his mouth in a groan as his pace stuttered, his thrusts becoming shorter, harder, until finally he slammed deep one last time, burying himself inside you completely.

“Fuck—”

His head fell to your shoulder as his body shuddered, his cock twitching as he spilled into you, hot and deep. His hips kept grinding against yours through it, slower now but still firm, like he was determined to push every drop into you.

“God, baby,” Chan panted against your neck, his voice shaking, almost broken. “So good. Took me so well. Full of me now, yeah? My perfect girl.”

He stayed buried in you, his hips rocking gently, slower now, more tender. His arms wrapped around you tightly, pulling you against his chest as he pressed soft kisses along your jaw, your neck, your shoulder.

You hummed weakly against him, completely gone, your brain pure mush as you slumped against his chest. Your body felt boneless, cock-drunk and warm, and Chan smiled against your cheek at how pliant you were in his arms.

“Accounting’s not getting done tonight,” you mumbled, your voice hoarse, slurred from exhaustion.

Chan chuckled, kissing your hairline. “Yeah, no shit, angel. You can barely sit up.”

He finally, carefully pulled out, groaning quietly at the sight of his cum spilling out of you. His hands immediately slid to your thighs, thumbs brushing over the marks his grip left behind.

“Stay still for me, baby,” he said gently, already reaching for the roll of paper towels and a clean cloth. “I’ll clean you up, okay? Just relax.”

He worked carefully as if you were made of glass. One hand held your hip steady while the other gently wiped between your legs, soft circles, his expression focused but tender. Every so often he’d pause to press a soft kiss to your knee, your inner thigh, or your bandaged ring finger like he couldn’t stop himself.

“You’re so perfect,” he murmured under his breath as he cleaned you. “Still dripping from me, still letting me take care of you. Love you so much.”

You were too far gone to reply properly, just humming again, your head resting against his shoulder. Chan’s smile softened at the sound, and he kissed your temple, whispering, “Mushy-brained, huh?”

“Mmm,” you mumbled, nodding weakly.

He laughed quietly, finishing up and tossing the used wipes into the bin before bringing over the clothes he discarded off of you and helping you back into your panties and hoodie.

“Come here,” Chan said softly, sliding an arm under your thighs and another around your back.

“Chan, I can walk,” you mumbled, though your legs felt like jelly.

“Nope,” he said, smirking as he easily lifted you off the counter. “You’re not walking anywhere. You’re mine to take care of tonight.”

He carried you bridal-style through the shop, nudging the studio door open with his foot before settling you gently onto the worn leather couch in his back office — the same couch you’d spent countless late nights on, working through shop invoices together.

He crouched in front of you, brushing your hair back from your face. “Water or juice, honey?”

“Water,” you whispered, and Chan pressed a soft kiss to your forehead before grabbing a bottle from the mini-fridge, uncapping it and handing it to you before sitting down. His other hand moving on your knee, thumb rubbing slow circles as if he still couldn’t stop touching you.

“Small sips, angel,” he said gently, watching you drink like you might spill it on yourself.

You gave him a tired look. “I’m not five, Chan.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he teased, grinning as he plucked the bottle back after you’d had a few sips. “You’re mushy-brained and wobbly. That’s basically toddler mode.”

You groaned and slumped against the couch, tugging his hoodie tighter around you. “This is your fault.”

“Mm, best fault I’ve ever had,” he said, his grin softening as he sat beside you. He pulled you into his lap again, his arms wrapping around you like a blanket. “You okay? Nothing hurts?”

“Just sore,” you mumbled against his chest.

“Good sore or bad sore?”

You smirked weakly. “Good sore. Very good sore.”

Chan chuckled, kissing the top of your head. “That’s my girl.”

You both stayed there, with Chan holding you close on that worn leather couch, softly kissing your hair every few minutes, and you? Mushy-brained and completely unaware of the fact that he almost ruined his own surprise by proposing right there and then.

TWO MONTHS LATER

The shop was quiet again, but for a very different reason this time.

You were sitting on that same back-office couch, curled up in one of Chan’s hoodies, thinking about the little white stick you had done that morning. Two faint pink lines.

Positive.

You’d taken it that morning, heart pounding so hard you thought it might burst, and you hadn’t stopped staring at it since.

The past few weeks suddenly made sense — the random waves of nausea, the constant exhaustion, the way your period never came even though you swore it was just stress. You’d been hoping it was stress. Well… maybe half-hoping, half… wondering.

Now you knew.

And you had absolutely no idea how to tell Chan.

You pulled your knees to your chest, groaning softly. “How the hell do I even say this? ‘Hey, by the way, you knocked me up the same night you tattooed me?’”

You chewed your lip, glancing at the bandaged ring finger where his little C had healed perfectly now, the tiny cursive letter smooth against your skin. Your stomach flipped thinking about it — his initial on your ring finger, and now his baby in your belly.

Chan was going to lose his mind. Not in a bad way — you knew he loved you more than anything — but… still. You wanted it to be special.

You considered just blurting it out. Or maybe buying one of those cheesy “#1 Dad” mugs and handing it to him. Or even putting a tiny onesie in one of his ink supply boxes and letting him find it himself.

But Chan deserved better than that.

You wanted to make it yours, something that meant something to the both of you.

Your brain kept spinning, debating whether to do it at home or here at the shop, when the studio door creaked open behind you.

“Babe?” Chan’s voice floated in, warm and familiar. “You hiding in here again? Everyone’s gone, you know. It’s just us.” He stepped in, hair slightly damp from his post-workout shower, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his forearms, revealing those veiny arms that made your brain short-circuit every time.

He smiled when he saw you, walking over and leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. “Hey, mushy-brain. You look tired. You okay?”

You forced a smile. “Just… a little tired. Long day.”

Chan crouched in front of you, tilting his head to study you. “You sure? You’ve been tired a lot lately. And you’ve been… I dunno, different.”

Your stomach flipped. “Different how?”

He shrugged, smiling softly. “Just… softer. Quieter. And you’ve been wearing my hoodies more than usual, which I love, but also—” He narrowed his eyes playfully. “You’re not sick, are you?”

You laughed nervously, your heart hammering. “No, not sick.”

“Hmm.” He searched your face for a long moment before leaning in and kissing your temple. “Okay. But if you are sick, I’m making you soup and not letting you do any more accounting for a week.”

“Noted,” you said, trying to keep your voice even.

You were going to tell him soon.... Very, very soon.

The smell of something warm and sweet drifted through the apartment before you were even awake. It was soft morning light filtering through the kitchen curtains, painting everything gold, and the faint hum of music playing low from Chan’s phone.

You blinked groggily, sitting up in bed, stretching under the duvet. The apartment above the bakery always smelled faintly of bread in the mornings, but today it was different — richer, heavier, like butter and sugar and… coffee.

Chan.

You padded out of the bedroom, still in one of his oversized t-shirts, hair messy, and found him in the kitchen.

He was barefoot, in gray sweatpants and a white T-shirt, muscles flexing as he whisked something in a bowl. His hair was sticking up in that I-woke-up-early-just-for-you way, and there was flour on his cheek.

He turned at the sound of your footsteps, and the soft smile he gave you was enough to make your chest ache.

“Morning honey,” he said, setting the whisk down. “Go sit, breakfast’s almost done.”

You raised a brow, leaning against the doorway. “You’re awake before me… cooking? Should I be worried?”

He laughed quietly, dimples flashing. “Nope. Just wanted to do something nice for you. Now sit before you burn your feet on the cold floor.”

You shook your head with a small smile but obeyed, slipping into your usual spot at the small table by the window. The sun hit just right there, warming your legs as you watched him move around the kitchen. You were completely unaware of why he was doing this, but one thing you were aware of sat heavy in your chest: you were telling him today.

Chan had spent weeks thinking about how to propose — fancy dinners, maybe the shop, maybe even flying you somewhere. But every plan felt too loud, too not you.

Because you? You weren’t someone he needed to impress with fireworks. You were his girl who sat on the shop counter doing accounting in his hoodies, who kissed his cheek while he worked, who let him mark you with his initial like it was the most natural thing in the world.

So this morning, he decided: domestic, quiet, soft. You, him, breakfast, and the sunlight. That was perfect. The ring box sat tucked in his pocket as he plated pancakes, his hands only shaking slightly when he set the table.

“Fancy,” you said as he placed a plate in front of you — pancakes stacked high, drizzled with syrup, fresh berries on the side. “What’s the occasion? Did you blow something up at the shop and you’re buttering me up before I find out?”

Chan sat across from you, grinning. “No explosions. Just wanted to spoil you.”

You narrowed your eyes playfully, cutting into the pancakes. “This better not be your way of bribing me into doing shop inventory later.”

Chan laughed, shaking his head. “Nope. No shop talk today. Just us.”

You smiled softly at that, taking a bite — and holy hell, they were good.

“Wow. Okay, maybe I should marry you just for these pancakes,” you teased without thinking.

Chan’s fork froze midair, his smile twitching into something softer, something that made your heart skip — but you were too focused on working up the courage to tell him to notice the way his hand brushed against the pocket of his sweatpants, where that little velvet box sat.

You set your fork down, suddenly nervous. “Chan?”

He looked up immediately, brown eyes soft. “Yeah?”

You bit your lip, your heart pounding so loud it almost drowned out your voice. “I… I need to tell you something.”

His brows furrowed slightly, concern flashing in his eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, I just—” You exhaled, staring down at your plate for a moment before forcing yourself to meet his eyes.

“I’m pregnant.”

And the room went silent — except for the soft hum of morning music and Chan’s sharp inhale as the words sank in. His fork clattered against his plate as his mouth opened slightly, blinking at you in stunned silence for half a beat before a smile started pulling at his lips — slow, soft, and so wrecked.

“Are you…” His voice was almost a whisper, warm and trembling, as his hand slid across the table to grab yours. “Are you serious?”

You nodded, biting your lip, tears already pricking your eyes. “Yeah.”

For a second, Chan just stared at you, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, his eyes shining — and then he laughed, a quiet, breathless laugh, before standing and pulling you up with him. He hugged you tight, burying his face in your neck. “God, I love you so much,” he murmured against your skin, his voice breaking. “You’re having my baby. Our baby. Fuck, I can’t believe it.”

When he finally pulled back, his hands were still on your waist, his grin wide and teary.

“Baby,” he said, suddenly serious but smiling so big you could barely breathe. “I was gonna wait… do this all proper later… but screw it.”

Your brows furrowed, confused, until he reached into his pocket and pulled out the small velvet box.

Your breath caught. “Chan—”

“I was gonna do something fancy, but I don’t care anymore. You’re having my baby, you’re literally wearing my letter on your ring finger already, and I… fuck, I can’t wait another second.”

Chan didn't even drop to one knee, no, he just held you close to him, his eyes glued on your face as he opened the box to reveal a simple but stunning ring that caught the morning light perfectly.

“It's not crazy, it's not a fancy proposal. But... it's us. And I wanted it to be special and not artificial. So... will you marry me?”

Your breath caught, the world narrowing down to just him — his hopeful, teary eyes, the velvet box in his hand, the way his thumb rubbed nervously against your waist like he was trying to ground himself.

“Chan…”

You didn’t even let him finish panicking in his head. You nodded, tears welling up instantly. “Yes.”

His breath hitched, his smile breaking into something wrecked and overwhelming, his dimples deepening as he laughed — a soft, almost disbelieving sound. “Yes?”

“Yes,” you repeated, laughing through your tears, your hands coming up to cup his cheeks. “Of course yes, you idiot.”

He slipped the ring onto your finger with shaking hands, his thumbs brushing over it as if he couldn’t believe it was real. His eyes darted between your hand and your face, his grin softer now, almost shy.

“My fiancée,” he murmured, tasting the word like it was honey. “My future wife.” And then his lips crashed onto yours. It started soft — his lips brushing yours gently, his hands cradling your face like you might break. But it didn’t stay soft for long.

Because Chan never could stay soft when it came to you.

The kiss deepened quickly, turning hungry, desperate, his hands sliding from your cheeks to your waist, pulling you flush against him. You gasped into his mouth, and Chan groaned, taking the chance to slide his tongue against yours, the kiss turning messy and heated.

When you pulled back for air, breathless, Chan rested his forehead against yours, panting softly. “You’re gonna kill me, angel. Pregnant with my baby, wearing my ring, looking at me like that… fuck, I can’t keep my hands off you.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but Chan had already slid his hands lower, gripping your hips possessively. His lips moved to your jaw, kissing down to your neck, his teeth grazing your skin lightly.

“Chan—” you tried, but your voice came out more like a whimper, which only made him smirk against your throat.

“Say it again,” he murmured between kisses, his breath hot on your neck.

“Say what?”

“That you said yes.” His teeth grazed your pulse point now, sucking lightly. “Wanna hear it.”

You swallowed, your voice shaky. “I said yes.”

“Mm, my perfect girl,” Chan groaned, his hands sliding to the back of your thighs. “My fiancée. My baby mama. My everything.”

Before you could react, he scooped you up effortlessly, sitting you on the kitchen counter, just like he had at the shop weeks ago. His mouth trailed down your neck, his hands slipping under your t-shirt to spread over your stomach.

“You’re carrying our baby,” he whispered against your skin, his tone reverent and filthy all at once. “Full of me in every way now.”

Your breath hitched as his thumbs brushed slow circles over your lower belly. “Chan…”

He kissed your jaw, his grin wicked now. “Gonna have to be careful with you now, angel. But I still need you. Right here. Right now.”

His breath hitched as his lips trailed down to your collarbone, leaving soft kisses that slowly turned into open-mouthed licks and nips. You gasped softly when his hands pushed your t-shirt higher. “My baby mama,” he whispered, his voice breaking slightly. “My fiancée. My everything.”

Then his gaze flicked back up to you, dark and desperate. “Can I? Please, angel. Need to feel you. Need to be inside you.”

You nodded, breathless, and that was all the permission he needed.

Chan lifted that t-shirt all the way off, tossing it to the side before leaning in to kiss you again — slower this time, his hands cradling your face. His lips moved against yours with a tenderness that made your chest ache, but his body was trembling with restraint, every muscle tight.

You cupped his jaw, smiling softly into that kiss as you murmured. “I’m yours, Chan.”

His breath caught at those perfect breathy words, eyes softening for half a second before turning darker again. “Yeah, you are. Mine. All mine.”

Chan’s hands were on your thighs again, tugging at the waistband of your shorts. He slid them down slowly, almost teasingly, before tossing them aside. His big hands gripped your bare thighs, spreading you gently as he stepped closer.

“You’re already wet for me.” he groaned, his thumb brushing along your folds through your panties.

Your breath hitched, your hips twitching slightly under his touch. “Chan—”

“Shh, I’ve got you,” he whispered, kissing your knee before tugging your panties down in one smooth motion. He dropped to his knees between your legs, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your inner thighs.

“I should take my time,” he murmured against your skin, his breath hot. “Worship you properly. But I’m already so fucking hard for you. Can’t wait much longer.”

He stood again, tugging his sweatpants and briefs down just enough to free his thick cock. His hand wrapped around it, stroking once, twice, as he stared at you like you were the only thing that existed. “Gonna go slow,” he promised, leaning in to kiss you again, his voice soft but desperate. “Tell me if anything hurts, okay? I’ll stop.”

You nodded, and Chan lined himself up, guiding himself to your entrance. He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he groaned low in his chest.

Your walls clenched around him as he bottomed out, and Chan swore under his breath, his hips stuttering for a moment.

“Feel so good,” he whispered, kissing your neck. “So warm, so soft… made for me.”

Chan started moving, slow at first, careful, but the hunger in his eyes was impossible to hide. Every deep thrust had him groaning into your neck, his hands gripping your hips tight but gentle, as if he was holding himself back with everything he had.

“Taking me so good, angel,” he praised, his lips brushing your ear. “Even now, you’re perfect for me. You’re incredible.”

Your moans filled the kitchen, soft and breathy, and Chan kissed you again, swallowing them down, his tongue sliding against yours in a messy, hungry kiss.

The pace stayed slow but deep, each thrust hitting just right, making you gasp and cling to his shoulders. Chan groaned at the way you squeezed him, his forehead pressing to yours. “You’re killing me, honey,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Wanna fuck you hard, wanna ruin you, but… god.Just wanna take care of you. My everything.”

Chan’s restraint started to crack.

He was trying — god, he was trying — to keep it slow, to keep you safe, to worship you like you deserved. But the way you clenched around him, the way your soft whimpers filled the warm kitchen air, hair messy, ring glittering on your finger… it was undoing him.

“Fuck, baby.” he groaned against your neck, his thrusts growing deeper, heavier.

You gasped as his pace picked up, controlled but harder now, every deep thrust dragging against that spot that made your back arch.

“Chan—oh my god—”

“That’s it, honey,” he panted, his forehead pressed to yours, eyes dark and blown. “Say my name like that. My perfect fiancée, my perfect baby mama. God, you’re so fucking beautiful like this.”

One of his hands slid between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with practiced precision. He rubbed slow circles at first, matching his thrusts, but the second you gasped and clenched around him, his pace quickened, his thumb pressing harder.

“Yeah, that’s it, angel,” he groaned, his hips snapping into you deeper, controlled but harder now, his cock hitting perfectly with every thrust. “You’re so close, I can feel it. Come on, baby, cum for me. Wanna feel you cum on my cock.”

Your head fell back, your nails digging into his shoulders, and Chan buried his face in your neck, kissing, sucking, murmuring filthy praise against your skin.

“Such a good girl for me. Gonna make you cum so hard. Come on baby, cum on my cock.”

The combination of his deep thrusts and his relentless rubbing on your clit had you spiralling fast. Your moans grew louder, desperate, and Chan swore, his hips driving into you harder.

“That’s it,” he growled, his voice cracking. “Cum for me, angel. Milk my cock. Wanna feel you squeeze me dry. You can do it for me. Be good for me.”

You broke with a cry, your body tensing and shaking as your orgasm hit, your walls fluttering around him tight and hot.

“Fuck, that’s my girl,” Chan groaned, his thrusts faltering as you clenched around him, milking him exactly how he wanted. “So tight, so perfect, gonna make me cum, angel.”

Chan’s pace turned sloppy, desperate, his forehead pressed to yours as he fucked you through your orgasm. His thumb slowed on your clit, now just rubbing soft circles as he focused on burying himself deep inside you.

“Gonna fill you up, honey.” he panted, his voice wrecked.

One last deep thrust, and Chan groaned your name, his hips grinding into yours as he came, hot and deep. His body shuddered against you, his hands gripping your waist tight as he stayed buried, his cock twitching as he spilled every drop.

“I love you,” he murmured against your cheek, kissing it softly as his thrusts slowed to nothing. “You’re everything I’ve ever wanted.”

Chan stayed inside you, breathing hard, kissing your jaw, your neck, your temple, murmuring soft praises between each press of his lips.

“My girl.” kiss “My wife-to-be.” kiss “My baby mama.” kiss “My everything.” kiss, kiss, kiss

You were still trembling slightly, completely cock-drunk, and Chan smiled softly against your skin, kissing your forehead.

“Let me take care of you, honey,” he whispered, finally pulling out carefully, his hands already reaching for a towel. “Gonna clean you up, then hold you for the rest of the day. No more moving, just me, you, and our baby.”

You laughed softly, still breathless. “Our baby.”

Chan froze for half a second, looking at you with that same wrecked, lovesick grin as before. “God, I love you so much.” He didn't move right away, not for a few good minutes that is. Because even after pulling out, he stayed pressed against you, his arms wrapped tightly around your waist as if letting you go might make the moment disappear. His forehead rested against yours, his breathing finally slowing, but his thumbs kept brushing soft circles on your hips like he couldn’t stop touching you.

You shifted slightly, still perched on the counter, and he immediately murmured, “Don’t move, angel. Stay right here. Just let me hold you for a minute.”

You smiled softly, your fingers threading through his damp hair, pushing it back from his face. “You’re clingy.”

“I’m engaged to the love of my life who’s carrying my baby,” he shot back without missing a beat, his grin sleepy and lovesick. “You’re lucky I’m not duct-taping us together permanently.”

You laughed, leaning in to kiss him softly. He melted into it instantly, sighing against your lips, before resting his head back on your shoulder.

After a long moment of silence, you spoke up, your tone teasing.

“So… we’re gonna need a new place, huh?”

Chan blinked, pulling back just enough to look at you. “What?”

“Well,” you said, biting back a grin, “you wanna raise a baby and run a shop while we live in a tiny apartment above a bakery?”

He stared at you for a beat, then burst into a quiet laugh, kissing you again before resting his forehead to yours. “Guess I better start looking,” he murmured, smiling so big it made your chest ache. “Bigger kitchen, bigger bed… maybe a whole room just for baby stuff.”

“And a bigger table for all your breakfast experiments,” you teased.

“Damn right,” he said, kissing you again, softer this time. Chan then pulled back just slightly, his grin turning mischievous. “Actually, scratch the bigger table. I just need one strong enough to keep doing this.”

You raised a brow, laughing despite yourself. “Chan!”

“What?” he said innocently, kissing your cheek. “You’re the one who brought up moving. I’m just thinking about practical needs.”

You rolled your eyes, smacking his chest lightly. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love me for it,” he shot back immediately, dimples deepening as he kissed your nose.

You sighed, pretending to be exasperated even as you smiled. “Fine. Bigger kitchen, bigger bed… and a table strong enough for your practical needs.”

Chan laughed, hugging you tight. “That’s my fiancée. Already making the smart choices.”

“Mm-hmm,” you said, leaning your head against his shoulder. “Smartest choice I ever made was saying yes to you.”

Chan froze for a beat, then smiled so big you thought his face might split. “…God, you’re never getting rid of me now.”

“Wasn’t planning to,” you teased.

“Good,” he said, kissing you again — soft, warm, and still grinning against your lips.

🏷️ taglist: @cybergracie , @jupitermarss , @basicginn , @dhvnigvil , @emkvlixsx , @collin-thegreat , @somuchpanicverylittledisco , @emilyywhyy , @rainyjeno , @fawnoverdawn , @pixie-felix , @anniestay , @notmeneo , @lovslixx , @themoonlightfae , @heartwithoutaname , @yourghostneighbor , @princesskrystix , @drilles , @y2kur0mi , @mochi-space , @ivaviavi , @phelans-thoughts , @the-anon-reader , @beans4beans56 , @joyfulchaoslover , @channieismylove , @cherryoatchai , @unimportantweirdo , @seagulljk , @freckles-and-rage , @lonelydarknessblog , @girlsymptoms , @bookswillfindyouaway , @jasperlvskz , @geekymommakerry , @dazzlingjade , @alisonyus , @pluto-rose , @crazy4books1 , @b3autyist3rror

[kruegerspillow]

former friend ; benjamin poindexter

creator's note: mmm, not a continuation of the worth waiting for series but i really, really needed to get this out of my drafts, sorry LMAO. this was actually the initial plan for the dex series but i wanted a slower burn, so...

warnings: dark themes, unprotected sex, messy couch sex, creampie, slightly submissive dex, unhealthy relationship, codependency, reader is kind of mean here, ddba spoilers, unhealthy fixations, not proofread.

word count: 3.4k

You sat down on your couch, placing the bowl of cereal down onto the glass table. Your hand reached for the TV remote, clicking it back to life before searching through the channel. Trying to find a distraction, some kind of way to kill time.

Then? The news flashed. Former FBI, Benjamin Poindexter, found guilty of eleven counts of first-degree murder during the attack on Josie's bar, had escaped from custody.

Your fingers froze around the remote. The screen blared with chaos: grainy footage of flashing red and blue lights, helicopters circling above rooftops, a blurred image that might've been him darting into an alley, and then the anchor’s voice again—

"Authorities are urging residents to remain calm but vigilant. Poindexter is considered armed and extremely dangerous. If seen, do not approach. Contact law enforcement immediately."

You stared at the screen.

Then muted it.

The cereal went soggy in the bowl, untouched.

It wasn't shock that settled in your chest. Not really. Not the kind they were hoping the public would feel. Not fear, either.

You'd known this was coming. Felt it in your spine for weeks—some pressure building, tight as a wire being pulled just before it snapped. A whisper under your skin. And now that it was real, now that his name had been spoken again on national television like a ghost summoned into existence, something else stirred deep inside you.

Your brows furrowed, fingers squeezing the remote before you threw it aside. Your back bent forward, eyes stuck onto the shining screen.

The world had gone quiet after Dex had been sent to Rikers Island. No one really showed up on your doorstep beaten or bloodied. You didn't have to patch anyone after a rough fight. You didn't have to worry about cleaning his blood off of the floor or the bathroom mirror.

Now? He was back.

The man who was once your colleague, your friend, your partner in the FBI—became unrecognizable.

He had unraveled before your eyes, thread by thread, until all that remained was something sharp-edged and wrong. A man who couldn't stop spiraling. A man who didn't want to be saved anymore.

And you? You'd realized it too late.

You leaned back on the couch, rubbing your jaw. The cushions groaned under your weight, too soft for a moment like this. Everything about this apartment suddenly felt too still.

Your eyes drifted back to the screen. That flicker of footage—was it him? The grainy blur had his height, that frantic, focused gait. You could almost hear it in your head, the way his boots used to hit pavement when he was zeroed in on something. Back then, it was justice. Back then, it was you at his side.

The news anchor was already moving on to the next story, something about rising temperatures and a heat wave sweeping across the state. You didn’t care. You couldn’t even hear her voice through the mute.

Your mind was buzzing.

He escaped.

Your apartment felt smaller all of a sudden. Like the walls were inching closer. You stood, walked over to the window, and parted the blinds. The street was empty. Still. Too still.

You scanned rooftops. Dark corners. Your fingers flexed by your side, remembering the old rhythm of your sidearm even though it hadn’t left the drawer in months.

A sick little part of you—buried deep, locked down like a vault—had missed him.

Not the Dex the world saw now. Not the one in the footage. But the man he'd been before. The man who watched your six in every raid. Who knew your coffee order. Who cracked his knuckles when he was nervous and tilted his head when he was listening, really listening.

The man who used to sit beside you in your car, stained in sweat and adrenaline, and say, "You trust me, right?"

And you always had.

Until he stopped giving you reasons to.

Your phone buzzed on the table. A text.

UNKNOWN NUMBER: Missed you.

Buzz. Buzz.

UNKNOWN NUMBER: You changed your locks. Again. UNKNOWN NUMBER: Why? You know I'd never hurt you.

Your stomach churned.

You didn't need to know who it was. You didn't need to hear his voice.

You knew.

You paused for a moment, as if your brain was assessing this whole situation. Your fingers gripped the phone hard, filled with frustration and something else beneath all the rage.

Your thumb hovered over the screen, tension rippling through your forearm like electricity just beneath the skin. You could block the number. You could call someone—call them. Report it. Let them trace it. Let them find him.

But you didn't.

Instead, you stared. Long enough that the text thread auto-closed and the screen dimmed.

Your breath felt shallow.

He was close.

You knew it the same way you'd known the second you first saw him unravel years ago, that moment when the mask cracked and you caught a glimpse of the void behind his eyes. The same knowing that settled in your bones now—like gravity tilting toward a center that had always been him.

The silence in your apartment didn't last.

Three slow knocks at your bedroom window.

Not loud. Not frantic. Like he already knew you were listening. Like he already knew you were going to open it.

You didn't move at first. You just stood there, back stiff, phone screen reflecting off the glass of the living room window. He could be anyone now. You hadn't seen him in years, and last time, he’d been in restraints.

But somehow, you knew—he hadn’t changed that much.

Three more knocks. Closer this time, like he'd leaned in. Like maybe his forehead was pressed against the glass, the way it used to be when he needed you to open up. When he needed you to see him.

You swallowed hard, walked to the bedroom. Saw him outside the window, still in tactical gear. His mask was slightly tilted up, revealing the lower part of his face. His lips. The tip of his nose.

You didn't open it—not yet. Just walked closer to the glass.

"Dex," you murmured.

Silence. A breath. Then, his voice—low, hoarse, ragged like it’d been scraped against pavement.

"I missed your voice."

Your fingers curled into a fist. His voice did something to you—something you hated yourself for. Something hot and dizzy and heavy with memory. He looked at you through the glass.

"This... is insane." you said. It came out steady, despite the pulse hammering in your neck.

"I know."

"You killed innocents."

Another beat of silence. Then, "Yeah."

You huffed, jaw clenching. "Then what do you want from me?"

The pause this time was longer. Then came the whisper, the kind that crawled under your skin.

"I want to come home."

Your hand trembled.

"You're in the wrong place."

Another pause. Then a quiet chuckle. "Yeah. I figured you'd say that."

One of his gloved hands pressed against the window, his breath fogging the glass up.

"You don't have to open it," he said, quieter now. "I just wanted to hear your voice. Just once. That's all."

He didn’t mean it. You knew he didn’t mean it.

Because he was always starving. For touch, for attention, for something he could never quite hold. For you.

And somewhere deep inside, no matter how many months had passed, you were still tangled up in him—cut on the same sharp edges.

And then—

The window rattled slightly.

It was locked. But he was testing it.

"Dex." Your voice was a warning now.

"I'm not gonna hurt you," he said, and fuck—it sounded true. Not performative. Not rehearsed. Just tired. Raw. Like if you opened the door, he might finally fall apart for good.

"...I don't believe you."

A soft sound on the other side—maybe a breath, maybe a sigh. Then.

"I don't blame you."

You stood there, eyes locked onto the silhouette of him—barely visible beyond the pane, but close enough that your mind could fill in the details. The scar on his cheek. The way his shoulders curved forward when he was on the verge of shutting down. All of it came rushing back like muscle memory.

Your pulse wouldn’t slow down. Neither would he.

"I don't blame you," he repeated, voice gentler this time. "But you know me better than anyone else ever will. So you know I'm not gonna walk away."

The words were so quiet they almost didn't make it through the glass. But you heard them. You felt them, too—in that place under your ribs that still ached when you thought of him.

"Jesus Christ, Dex." You whispered, "this is fucked up. You know it is. Are you just—waiting for me to open the door for you? Again?"

"Well, I'm not gonna break in," he murmured, but his hand stayed pressed against the window, palm flat, fingers splayed wide like he was testing the shape of you through the glass. "I could've. You know I could've."

You did.

"Then, what? You're just trying to...test the waters? See if I still accept you? Let you in?"

"No, I..." he breathed. "I don't know what I'm doing either."

For a second, the streetlights outside flickered, shadows shifting across his face. His eyes—hazel, cold, and rimmed with something like exhaustion—stared right through you.

"I’m not here to start a fight." His lips twitched, like he wanted to smile but forgot how. "I’m here 'cause you're all I remember."

You crossed your arms, gaze falling away from him. Your stomach twisted, heartbeat unsteady beneath all the composed look. The air in the room was thick, heavy, like humidity before a storm.

His hand dropped from the glass, but he didn’t move away. He just stood there, shoulders slumped, breathing shallow.

"You still eat Frosted Flakes for dinner when you're stressed?" he asked, voice soft, almost playful.

Your jaw flexed.

He must’ve seen the bowl on the table.

"That's... not your business anymore."

His breath fogged the window again, but this time he laughed—a soft, bitter sound, like he hated himself for still knowing you this well.

"Yeah," he rasped. "But you used to be my business."

You didn't have a reply for that.

For a long moment, neither of you said a word. The quiet stretched thin between you, like a thread about to snap.

Then—

His head tilted. That old movement. The one from back when he was still human to you.

"You’re the only person I got left." His voice cracked—just barely. "I don’t wanna hurt you. I don’t. But I’m not… I’m not right without you. You know that. You know that I love you."

You closed your eyes for a second, tried to push down the ache that bloomed in your chest.

"Fuck." You cursed underneath your breath, "Christ, this isn't love, Dex..."

"I know," he breathed. "It’s worse."

Your stomach dropped.

He shifted closer to the window, forehead resting against the glass now. You could see the tension in his jaw, the tremble in his lips. Like maybe he was holding something back. Like maybe this was him—stripped down, no mask, no armor, just the hollowed-out pieces that still looked for you in the dark.

"I'm tired," he whispered. "I'm so fucking tired."

You wanted to hate him. You wanted to slam the blinds shut, call someone, let them come and take him away.

But you couldn’t move.

His voice was still inside you. Deep down. Like a splinter under the skin.

"You're gonna turn yourself in," you finally whispered, but your voice cracked halfway through.

His eyes met yours. There was something sharp in them—like he was weighing his options. Like maybe he would, just to make you happy. Or maybe he wouldn't, just to see if you'd stop him.

Instead, he said,

"Let me in. Just for tonight."

Your throat closed up.

"I can't."

"You can."

"No, Dex. I—"

His gloved hand pressed once more against the glass. Soft.

"Just—just for a few hours," he whispered. "I won't sleep. I won’t touch you. I just…"

He trailed off, breathing harder now.

"I just need to be in the same room as you again."

You swallowed hard. Nails digging into your palm. Because you knew what this was. This wasn't just a fugitive on your doorstep. This wasn't just a man with blood on his hands.

This was the part of you that never stopped missing him, standing in the cold, asking to come home.

And fuck—you didn't know if you were strong enough to say no.

Not tonight.

You let him in.

God help you, you unlocked the window, slid it up slowly while your heart rams into your ribs. He ducked through the frame like it's nothing, like this is normal. Like you didn't just let a killer crawl back into your life at two in the morning.

He lands light on his feet, standing in the hush of your bedroom, eyes locked onto you like you're the last light in the world. His shoulders twitch, his jaw flexes. You can tell he's trying so fucking hard to behave.

And you hoped he does.

For a second, you think—maybe—this is going to stay manageable.

But it’s Dex. You should’ve known better.

Fifteen minutes later, he was sitting on your living room floor, back against the couch where your legs were tucked underneath you. His tactical gear was half-off now, stripped down to the black undershirt he always wore under Kevlar. His eyes were closed. His head tipped back, resting on your knee.

You should push him off. You should make him leave.

But you didn't.

Because the truth is—his weight feels good against you. Familiar. Dangerous in the way that makes your pulse kick.

"I missed this," he murmured, barely audible.

You stay silent.

His hand twitches—just a flinch at first, fingers curling against his own thigh. But then he turns his face into your leg, lips ghosting the fabric of your sweats. A breath. A brush of heat.

"Dex," you warned, throat tight.

"I know," he breathed. "I know."

But he didn't stop.

Because he was shaking now. Not from fear, not from cold—from needing. He drags in a breath like he was drowning, like the air won't get in unless it’s wrapped in you.

And then—slow, soft—he tilts his head up. His lips press against your knee, your thigh, the curve of your hip. Little grazes of mouth that make your skin catch fire under the fabric.

"I said you could stay," you gritted out, "not—"

"I'm sorry," he rasped, voice breaking. "Fuck, I'm sorry."

But he kissed you again anyway.

Up your side. Over your ribs. Gentle, desperate little touches that felt more like confessions than kisses. He wasn't thinking about consequences. He wasn't thinking about escape routes or next steps. He was thinking about you. About how your body fits against his. About how he was starved for this—for you—worse than for food or rest or safety.

Your hand sank into his hair.

Maybe you should’ve shoved him off right then. Push him out of the door. Walked away.

But you didn't.

Because you were just as sick as he was.

His breath hitched when your fingers curled at the back of his neck. His shoulders loosened—not relief, not really. More like surrender. Like something in him uncoiled the second you touched him. His lips dragged over your hipbone, heat seeping through thin fabric, his breath coming out ragged.

"We shouldn't—" you started, but it was already too late.

Dex’s hands slipped under your sweats, cold gloves peeled away, fingers bare now—warm, shaking as they found your skin. His mouth pressed harder, teeth barely grazing the waistband before he exhaled sharp against your stomach.

"I know, I know, baby," he whispered.

Neither could you.

Your sweatpants came off fast—sloppy, no finesse, just Dex fumbling like he was afraid you’d change your mind halfway through. Like he'd die if you did. His eyes flicked up, pupils blown wide, mouth parted like he was dizzy from just looking at you.

"Fuck," he whispered, almost reverent. "Fuck, you're—"

He breathed.

"Perfect."

Perfect. It was filled with some kind of sick obsession. Worship. That word should've made you hit him. Should've made you shove him back out the window and bolt it shut.

But you didn't.

Instead, you leaned into it. Into him. Into the wreckage of it all.

He shoved his undershirt up over his ribs, tugging at it like he couldn’t breathe in it anymore. Scars stretched pale under the moonlight, the ones you remembered patching up, the ones you'd kissed once before he lost his mind.

His hands ghosted up your thighs, thumbs pressed tight like he was trying to memorize the feel of you again.

And then he was there—pushing into you, no warning, no prep, just the blunt heat of his cock splitting you open in one hard, frantic shove.

"Jesus—Dex," you hissed, eyes squeezing shut as your back hit the couch.

He whimpered—whimpered—into your shoulder, burying his face there like he could hide from how bad he needed this. From how wrong it was.

He was shaking, teeth scraping your neck as he bottomed out. Bare just skin on skin, slick and filthy. You could feel everything—every twitch, every drag of him inside you. Hot, messy, raw.

"I'm sorry," he gasped, but he didn't stop. Couldn't.

His hips rocked, small at first, like he was trying to keep it gentle—but his body betrayed him. He fucked into you fast, frantic, like he couldn't slow down, like his life depended on it.

You could feel the sweat sliding off his temple, his pulse racing against your throat.

"God, baby—" his voice cracked, pathetic in your ear. "I missed you. Missed you so fuckin' bad—"

Your hand stayed in his hair, pulling just enough to make him whine into your neck. His cock twitched inside you at the sound of his own need.

"Need... need you," you whispered, your thighs locking tighter around him, pulling him in deeper.

"I know," he breathed, voice barely holding together. "I know, I know—"

The wet slap of skin echoed in the room, sharp and fast, sweat slick between you both. It was frantic, ugly sex—nothing soft about it. Just desperation. Just two people drowning together because neither one could swim without the other.

His mouth trembled against your jaw. His cock throbbed, already close. He'd gotten too worked up too fast—he always did. His hips stuttered, rhythm breaking.

"Nnh—fuck, I'm—"

You came first, feeling yourself tip over the edge as he continued. You clenched around him hard, watching his body break for you.

His head snapped back, mouth falling open in a raw, silent cry. His stomach jerked tight, cock pulsing inside you, spilling hot, messy. Too much—his cum leaking out as he kept fucking into it, making it worse. Intensifying every move.

"F-fuck—" he gasped, still moving, overstimulating himself with every desperate thrust. His voice cracked, almost a sob. "Feel s'good..."

You gripped his shoulders tighter.

"Dex," you murmured, your voice too soft.

His face twisted, wrecked and open and softer than it should’ve been. His hips stuttered again, another shaky pulse of cum spilling inside you like he needed to mark you, to ruin you so you wouldn’t send him back out into the dark.

And you let him.

You let him ruin you.

A few moments of silence passed. The room no longer had the sound of skin against each other, only the sound of your breaths mixing in together.

He didn't pull out immediately, not yet. He stayed buried inside of you, head nuzzled into the crook of your neck as he pressed a trail of wet kisses down your neck. His mouth lingered against your pulse, teeth scraping your skin.

Your fingers tightened in his hair, and he groaned.

"Fuck, I'm in trouble." You grunted underneath your breath.

He leaned back, just enough to see your eyes once again. The corners of his lips twitched into a small smile, and his eyes weren't empty anymore. Not fully. He breathed, the gears inside of his head turning.

"I am in trouble." He quipped. An attempt to lighten the mood up.

A beat. Then another.

Dex could feel himself getting even more nervous by the second.

You looked at him, chest heaving up and down before you shifted away from him.

You wheezed, "un-fucking-believable."

"Hey, wait—I was just joking."

mini taglist: @blxckwidxxw

kruegerspillow © 2025 ➵ do not feed my work into ai, repost or translate my work. Reblogs are much appreciated ୨ৎ

[maxxifer]

one of my favourite things about having a teen wolf shaped brainworm in the year of our lord 2025 is thinking about how I felt about certain characters/dynamics back when i was like 12-15 vs. now bc I find it endlessly entertaining.

for example I was lowkey examining why the young impressionable weirdo that I was liked sterek way back when (it was the most popular pairing at the time and I was still fairly new to fandom so I just kind of went along w/ it, the inherently tragic vibes, the constant high stakes with the big baddies looming over them, I related to stiles and derek a lot separately and so ANY fanfic that centered around either was my jam, I hadn't realized I was acespec yet & overall just had a very unrealistic idea of how older teens acted when in relationships, was super into BBC Merlin at the time & read SO many modern AUs in THAT fandom so I got really into future Sterek AUs where they had dramatic slow burn romance arcs while simultaneously having weird ass jobs, etc.)

cut to today as an adult it's so funny to think about bc now I have this cool skill called ✨accurate character analysis✨, an actual understanding of why I'm drawn to certain characters, and overall having a more refined taste in platonic and romantic dynamics in fiction. And in regards to Sterek, seeing these boys free from the shackles of Beacon Hills' random chaos and enter their chill lil domestic sitcom era is so fucking funny to me. Like now they are not constantly mixed up in trouble, both Stiles and Derek have these little highlight reels of each other where they go - awe i couldn't process that emotion while dealing with the oozing bullet wound in front of me, but that's when we first became friends :D - All this to say that I just find it absolutely hysterical (and begrudgingly relatable) that it’s a fairly valid take to say that one of the best and honestly most realistic depictions of Stiles and/or Derek figuring out that they have feelings for the other person is probably that either one of these complete morons - both known to be incredibly intelligent and emotionally complex characters who both are super observant of those around them - could be seen waking up alone in a cold sweat several years after the series finale completely shellshocked from suddenly remembering a vague interaction they had with each other while in the middle of fighting for their lives and in their head going - "omfg - WAS HE FLIRTING WITH ME?!"

Like what do u mean when I was a freshman in high school I completely ignored this old fic bc the plot was something as simple as these two 25-30 somethings are just kind of hanging out and failing at being “normal people” for a single goddamn minute?! It’s funny as fuck bitch these two freaks are just as (if not more) entertaining even if their days of saving the other from actively bleeding out are over! Like yeah - Stiles and Derek experiencing the horrors that is the main plot is fun to read about and all, but I’d argue the real canonical horror for these guys would be that even after finally cancelling their subscriptions to whatever monthly trauma delivery service they unknowingly signed up for, this clinically depressed dog man and the danger magnet disguised as a jester who by some miracle has somehow kept them both tethered to this mortal coil with nothing but poor impulse control and weaponized neurodivergence, having to LARP as well adjusted tax paying citizens turns out to be the most harrowing part of their journeys. Oh, the werewolves are doing blood-sport again? Been there done that I wanna see Derek fuck up a social interaction at Starbucks.

Because sometimes peak character development means making them a total loser, and the reward is getting to watch the battle-damaged goliath try to make small talk with a woodland creature in a sweater-vest while stranded on the animal crossing island you put him in.

TL;DR - something something as you get older you learn that moments highlighting the mundane ≠ uninteresting, and the feeling of getting to see ur favourite characters go through the same strange adult bullshit that you’ve also been cursed with is akin to reaching the point in ur life where u start getting excited about a new dish sponge or getting socks for Christmas bc growing up is acknowledging the comedic value in those very human experiences. And also u get to lovingly laugh at the loser blorbos that stumble through life while being as dense as a lead brick.

[ikamigami]

Reading your take on Spamtom/Tenna (which I found pretty interesting btw) made me kinda curious: Do you think that Spamtom knew about the prophecy during the bigshot era?

Because, in chapter 3, it's pretty clear that Spamtom at least knows about it RIGHT NOW. But when did he learn of it? I've seen alot of mixed theories on it and I think that this tidbit of information/where it fits in their timeline is probably one of THE big components in understanding their relationship and how it ended.

I just think that this interpretation/theory, where Spamtom, despite his many faults, did alot of things out of genuine care for Tenna (and that his love for Tenna was basically THE tipping point in his downfall) gets even more depressing if you consider that Spamtom moght have known that Tenna was going to die and wether or not that might have influenced some of his decisions. And it genuinely seems more like Toby's usual tone of writing compared to some interpretations I've seen (no hate to them obviously. Also not saying that your theory is the only plausible one or anything)

Thank you for your question and I'm happy that you find my ramblings interesting.

Tbh I think that Spamton knew about the prophecy in Big Shot era. I'm not sure if he knew immediately though. It's hard to say when he found out about it. But tbh I doubt that it was during the last phone call. Cause what would Tenna's death change despite that Spamton would lose his love. Tenna would die and Spamton would still be a Big Shot. He'd still have everything.

And why sponsor would need to punish Spamton for being with Tenna if it wasn't for something Spamton would try to do against sponsor's orders. And if Spamton tried to defy fate and save Tenna I think that this could be something that goes against sponsor's plan.

Cause even if what happened to Spamton might have been a part of plan I just think that helping Tenna to prevent his fate wasn't a part of it.

And I think that both Spamton and Tenna wanted to use each other but they fall in love with each other. I think that they at first thought that they're fooling each other but at some point they didn't even see when it became so real.

I think that Spamton really wanted to help Tenna and prevent his fate. I don't have any proof of that actually. I just can't help but to feel that their love was never a part of anything. Like it wasn't a part of the prophecy and it definitely wasn't the part of whatever that sponsor wanted from Spamton. Their love was never meant to be.

I just think that love is important in this story. I just feel like it might be the answer to how the world can be saved.

You know how they say that love defies odds and how it conquers everything.

I also think that love is what would actually give Spamton his freedom. Like yeah he probably know that he's a part of the game considering that he wants to reach heaven which is more than likely our world (you know irl). I just think that love would allow them to be free. Like idk I just think that love is important. Especially considering that it's even in the prophecy. That part with a girl and that love found her.

Like yeah I get it that if it's a part of prophecy how can it change anything. Idk tbh but I think that love requires being honest with yourself and your own feelings. Which is something both Spamton and Tenna weren't. Hence why I think that it was a part of reason to why their relationship fell apart.

Even if they were torn by fate itself if they were honest with their own feelings and knew that they loved each other it wouldn't stop them. They would do anything to find each other. And yet they ended up hating each other.

But I think that seeing how quickly Spamton forgot about any bad feelings he had towards Tenna when he saw that Tenna still has Pippis which was a proof that Tenna still cares they may have another chance. Because I think that their love is real. It was tested but they now have a chance.

Ofc it solely depends on Toby so I wonder if he has more for these two to come in the future. Cause I feel like their story seems quite important. Maybe it's because it seems that Tenna is one of Toby's favourite characters and Spamton seems to have some knowledge about some things or at least he seems to be important due to how he had that thorn ring in Snowgrave route.

And well Spamton's design has a few things in common with Friend - black elements like hair and shirt just like Friend's body (skin or fur or whatever that is) and pink and yellow glasses just like Friend's eyes.

And I really want to see Spamton and Tenna get back together you know please Toby please.

Also about a part about Toby's writing. I don't know much about his works or anything. I'm new to this fandom. I just love theorizing especially about my favourite characters.

Also I think that circumstances of Spamton's life like who he is - a spam mail - and how he was treated by everyone before he met Tenna - Addisons ditched him and they never bothered to look for him and they didn't want to talk about him and later Swatch also turned on Spamton even if they were friends amd he was angry that Spamton stole his looks but never cared to ask what's wrong - all of this made Spamton to look out only for himself making him selfish.

I also can't help but to think that what Spamton had to do in order to become Big wasn't anything fun if what he said during Sweepstakes we can take as truth. But I think that sponsor never cared about Spamton's well-being. Because it wasn't important to whatever sponsor's plan is.

But I think that Spamton wanted something more in his life. And he believed sponsor while I think that the right answer was love. Hence why I think that Spamton actually did care about Tenna. That he actually tried to do something against sponsor's orders.

Hence why I don't think that Spamton is evil. He did many bad things. But I don't think that he's actually that bad like many people seems to think.

I don't know how much inspiration from anime and manga Toby Fox gets for his stories but in anime and manga there are lots of characters like Spamton who at first glance seem to be only bad and selfish but underneath all of this is hurt and loneliness. And such characters upon recieving kindness or love change for the better.

And like I said in one of my posts Spamton reminds me of Ekubo from Mob Psycho 100 in many aspects. Hence why I can't help but to sympathise with Spamton and I believe that he's not that bad and now that Fun Gang helped him he actually changed.

(Yeah I know. And many interpretations are really interesting. I'd die from happiness if my theory (or guess more than anything) will turn out to be correct. But I'm happy that my ramblings resonate with others.)

[maybe-boys-do-love]

The Iron Ladies: A Queer Winner

The Iron Ladies (2000) shouldn't be mentioned in the same breath as Priscilla Queen of the Desert, Hedwig and the Angry Inch, or To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything! Julie Newmar. In many ways, it ought to come first. For those who don't know--which is far too many--it's a Thai sports comedy film directed by Yongyoot Thongkongtoon based on the real life 1996 national champion men's volleyball team made up of kathoey athletes (a gender category in Thailand that includes what Westerners would term both gay and transgender individuals who would've been assigned male at birth). The film wonderfully captures the absurdity and queer joy of an event like that occurring.

You will love these characters, especially Jung (Chaicharn Nimpulsawasdi) whose optimism and familial support are the heart of the movie. But Jung's not the central character. In fact despite a suggestion early on, The Iron Ladies reveals itself as a true ensemble piece. I cried multiple times over how lovely these friendships were, like a femme version of the We Are cast. The team effort is one of its unique strengths in the realm of queer films. The breadth of experiences and desires represented are so much more diverse than we're often allowed. Partial closets, supportive parents, post-ops, muscle queens, a lesbian whose tired of bigoted men and just wants the fucking job done right.

Especially in our more recent era of representation wars online, you'll think the breadth of characters and their flamboyance were created specifically for dramatic effects. But the footage of the actual team shown when the credits role reminds us that that queerness and camp is a real life experience for so many.

Camp is rarely so economic with its storytelling. Each scene's brief, meaningful, and hilarious before cutting to another often already in the middle of the action. The film edits around the games until the final, leaving the emphasis for the story: the team's collaborative growth, the accumulating fans, the politicking by the league against the team. As austere as the edits are, though, there's still room for full drag performances or a Hong Kong style action scene. How wonderful it is to create the f a n t a s y!

This film feels like it could change people's minds and save people's lives. I don't say that lightly. It has mass appeal while staying true to its deeply progressive politics. In Karl Schoonover and Rosalind Galt's Queer Cinema in the World (shout out to @flowerbeasblog for the rec), they discuss the concept of 'the Queer Popular' specifically in relationship to this movie. It was the second highest grossing film in Thailand at the time, set off a wave of kathoey inclusion in the Thai film industry, and remains one of the highest grossing films to date, but it also performed extremely well internationally across Asia and the rest of the world (it played in US cinemas for eight months). The authors describe that "it deploys generic devices and stock characters of the underdog sports film: outsider athletes, a mean jock with a bullying coterie, and an inspiring coach." The Iron Ladies also has an easy model to depict how an audience should respond to it cheering in the stands of the film's courts.

Searching for access points and accessibility to mainstream culture is not assimilation when the creators maintain queer perspectives. Many of us Americans in the 2000s remember how impactful Glee and Modern Family were, to the point that many consider them as major influences on the eventual gay marriage legalization. Schitt's Creek more recently seemed to have a similar pervasiveness amongst heterosexual culture. Entering into QL, I felt thrilled to see series like My School President and Cooking Crush offering the same kind of broadly appealing friendly comedies. The Iron Ladies offers a clear Thai precedent to strategies BL employed to wedge its way into the sea-changing force it became. The 2000 film presents more jarring queer characters with cruder language, but it handles it all with so much dexterity within such a familiar structure that it stays winning for all audiences. In both its its story and the way it tells the story, its a lesson in staying true to yourself while remaining a good sport.

It's available to watch for free on Youtube here and has a sequel I've yet to watch.

[theside-b]

A new show, a new opportunity for me to compile information so I can nerd out a little bit. This time is with another taiwanese offering Secret Lover starring Wang Jyunhao and Chance.

Based on the manga "There is No Way We are Done After Cumming!" (I kid you not).

Chance was Jyunhao's first real kiss.

Jyunhao, who is part of the boy group BUGVEL, asked his fellow members how to kiss since he had no experience on that department, in the end it was Chance who guided him in how to deliver a natural kiss.

They developed a rhythm that eased the tension and helped get them into the characters, they find it similar to a videogame command — they say you can actually see that happening in the show.

Jyunhao rated Chance's lips 5/10 without lip balm, 10/10 with lip balm, they kept lip palm at hand during the shooting since they kissed a lot through out the show.

Jyunhao is a former idol trainee from YG Entertainment (south korean record label house of acts such as Big Bang, 2ne1 and Blackpink). If you see him being called Guno is because that the name he goes by as an idol.

He took part as a contestant in the survival show YG Treasure Box which formed the group Treasure.

He also took part in Produce X 101, being eliminated in the second round (the show was a bust with the whole thing being thrown into an unprecedented scandal when it was revealed that there was voting manipulation and rigged results).

After that he was rumored to be in the line-up for another group, WEi, the same group of Junseo (seen in this year's K-BL Secret Relationships) — WEi is currently on limbo, with Junseo stepping back from it and joining the new season of survival show Boys Planet.

Guno dropped from the group prior to their debut and moved his activities to Japan where he became a member of the group BUGVEL, which is responsible for the opening theme of Secret Lover.

The japanese influence is not for nothing: Not only Secret Lover is an adaptation of a japanese manga, it is co-produced by Rakuten — it shares that trait with See Your Love.

Another thing in common with last year smash hit is the director: Chiang Ping Chen is at the helm, he also directed Plus & Minus, Be Loved in House: I Do and Craving You.

Script is penned by Luo Ling Xin, a mentee of Lin Pei Yu, and while the woman herself is not directly involved she is credited as script-supervisor.

This particular branch of the Taiwanese BL-matic Universe is notorious for bringing the previous series leads for cameos: Wayne from HIStory showed up in Be Loved in House, and then Aaron and Hank appeared in Plus & Minus which culminated with the leads from both shows teaming up again in Kiseki: Dear to Me. See Your Love was actually the first title to break the streak, although Kai Hsu and Taro Lin (alongside Plus & Minus Shih Cheng Xuan) were spotted on set, and according to some crew members filmed scenes alongside Nat Chen, they never made it to final cut of the show, so it's not a guarantee that we will see Raiden Lin and Jin Yun around here (that said they are still attached to the hip with works lined-up as a CP).

Here we already got Lin Chia Wei as the veteran BL actor (they always bring one), and just a few weeks ago he made a display of his close bond with HIStory co-star Michael...

[sokkastyles]

Why do you think Azula stans are so weird about Zuko?

And I'm not talking in general. I'm talking about /that/ specific cult on Tumblr, the ones who demonize him worse than Ozai, write fics about him SA-ing her or being ultra possessive of her in a romantic way. Like they loathe whatever fucked up version of Zuko they have in their head. But why do so many of them ship Zucest?

Because they want Azula to be the ultimate victim and Zuko's canon narrative challenges that. At the same time, they also hugely resent that Zuko got out and is no longer dependent on her or Ozai. They need Zuko to be the bad guy but they also need him to worship Azula and for her to be the center of his world.

It's not just about making Zuko a worse person to make Azula look better, it's not just about making a victim of abuse seem like the "real" abuser, although that's certainly part of it. But deeper than that, is a desire for Zuko to go down with Azula, because Zuko's redemption challenges the idea that Azula was just unfairly doomed by outside forces.

It's the same reason that Azula needed to convince Zuko to join her in the Crossroads of Destiny, the same reason she lies to Ozai about him killing Aang so that she can have something to hold over his head, while telling him she's doing it for his benefit. Because before that, Zuko was happy in a life that was completely separate from her, her father, and all the things that she was convinced made her superior.

Zuko HAS to be just as doomed as Azula in order to validate Azula's worldview. This is why I sideye (and often block on sight) when people refer to them as "doomed siblings" or "tragic siblings," in a way that implies that they are equal in this regard. Don't get me wrong, it is tragic that Zuko had to defeat his sister, but it's tragic for him because she hurt him. Azula's narrative is a tragedy because she's the cause of her own downfall. It's tragic that Zuko had to fight her in order to be free of that dynamic, but it's still a triumph that he is free. He is not "doomed" because he became a better person and his sister did not. He is not "doomed" for getting out. He is not obligated to go down with her. It's not wrong that Zuko is able to make a life for himself outside of his abusive family when Azula isn't.

This is also why I don't really believe all the Azula redemption stuff. Most of it isn't really about wanting to see her redeemed. These people are addicted to their manufactured outrage and anger and sense of victimhood. If Azula actually were redeemed, they would absolutely not know what to do.

It's why they hate Ursa and Iroh and Mai and Kiyi for the crime of loving Zuko, why they hate Zuko's redemption and they hate zutara. Zuko can't have a good life when Azula doesn't, especially one that doesn't revolve around his sister.

Also, there's already some predatory stuff in the way Azula behaves towards Zuko that can be interpreted as psychosexual, particularly in her possessiveness of him, and these people pick up on that but are doing the typical reverse victim and offender thing. It's victim blaming and also such a boringly heteronormative way to interpret their relationship. Like, we all know Zuko isn't the dominant one there.

[iuseatranslator]

The biggest problem with Ian’s two later-season ex-boyfriends(Caleb and Trevor) was ultimately the fact that neither of them had any real chemistry with Ian. I’ve written a long analysis on Trevor before. but actually, From a meta perspective rather than within the story itself, the core point is simple. You all know it, too.

First, the chemistry between Mickey and Ian was so strong it far exceeded what the writers themselves had anticipated.

Second, none of Ian’s other partners even came close to replicating half of that connection.

To put it bluntly, they simply weren’t appealing. As fictional characters, they lacked the depth or magnetism that gives viewers a reason to care. Yeah, Mickey appeared over the course of five seasons, while Caleb and Trevor only had about one or two seasons’ worth of screen time. Some might say they just didn’t have enough time to show the same kind of charm Mickey did. But we also have to remember that Mickey was originally meant to end with s1. He probably had less screen time than Caleb or Trevor, even then. But the actor managed to create something unforgettable in that short time, and the chemistry with Ian was immediate and explosive. That’s why the story continued—s 2, s3, and beyond. Honestly, was there anything that special about Mickey in Season 1? He was straight-up disgusting, just some thug who messed with Ian, and even after they slept together, all they became was two guys who hooked up from time to time. Mickey didn’t just “luck into” five seasons; he earned it with performance and on-screen chemistry.

The second issue was the way the writers tried to force these unappealing characters onto the audience.

As you all know, with Caleb they deliberately tried to diminish Mickey in comparison. And as you all know, that strategy completely backfired. because it happened just as Mickey was sacrificing everything for Ian, while Ian was walking away to start a new relationship. No viewer who had followed Ian and Mickey for five seasons was going to suddenly say, “Oh right, Mickey was a terrible person. I’m rooting for Ian and Caleb now!”

So in season 7, the writers adjusted course. They stopped criticizing Mickey (in fact, they just stopped mentioning him altogether) and focused on exploring a new relationship with Ian’s new partner. Like how Mickey had formed ties with the Gallagher family, Trevor was given similar opportunities to bond with them and share space. It wasn’t a bad strategy on paper. I think the writers put a lot of effort into these two.

But the first issue was too big. Trevor simply didn’t have any chemistry with Ian, and so all those efforts ultimately amounted to nothing.

On top of that, by the end of season 7, the show’s future was uncertain, and the writers had to start wrapping up the characters' arcs. And their solution? They brought Mickey back. wow. After two full seasons of trying to convince the audience that Mickey was no longer needed, they chose to reintroduce him to bring closure to Ian’s arc. That decision, ironically, proved just how essential Mickey was to Ian’s story and to his life.

But to be honest, if we go even further back, the real problem started when they broke Ian and Mickey up in s5 for no good reason. And then, in s6, they gave Mickey a cruelly humiliating send-off.

Ian visiting him only after being paid by Svetlana? Okay, maybe you could argue it makes sense. (Actually no it doesn’t) But why would you then make the departing character tattoo the name of his ex on himself?

This was a character we had loved for five seasons. And yet, they sent him off in the most powerless and degrading way, only to immediately follow it with Ian falling for another guy and baking cookies for him? What exactly did they want viewers to feel when watching that?

Yes, there were external factors—budget issues, the actor wanting to leave, and so on. I get that. But even so, I still believe the choices the writers made in season 6 were consistently the worst ones possible.

What should’ve happened instead? Ian should have continued to miss Mickey. Then, when he eventually met the firefighter, he should’ve still been struggling with those unresolved feelings. (Yes, he briefly mentions something to Mandy, but that’s it.)

Just like Lip kept thinking about Karen while dating Mandy, or cared about Mandy even while dating Amanda, Ian should have had a slow, conflicted process of moving on from Mickey—not an abrupt one.

But they didn’t do that. They just trampled over every emotional landmine that Mickey fans(and even general viewers) had.

And yet… after all those terrible missteps, somehow, Mickey came back to us. It’s funny. It’s ironic. The string of terrible choices the writers kept making ended up bringing Mickey back to us. if they had done a better job, Mickey might never have returned. It’s truly funny and deeply ironic.

I will never forgive that s6 visitation scene, but I also sure that moment was the cosmic sign that Gallavich would be endgame.

I really do. I know for sure that I’ll never change my mind about that. lol.

[adhd-winterfalcon]

imagine freshman congressman james ‘bucky’ barnes is accused of being homophobic and/or racist and he’s just like. i am married to a black man. and everyone is like “what?? who????” and he’s like “:) captain america”

[gabrieldrawsstuff]

Jack Marston as an animal would be a mangy stray dog

[ikamigami]

Okay hear me out guys! Hear me out!

I might probably sound insane but I think that I know what Spamton was supposed to get from Tenna for the sponsor who is most likely Gaster or Friend who is definitely Gaster's cat it's canon fr fr

Let's call it I MADE MY OCS MAKE OUT BUT SOMETHING WENT WRONG THEORY !!!

Please read the whole thing first before you scroll past this ಥ⁠‿⁠ಥ I promise it'll be worth your time ʘ⁠‿⁠ʘ it's a silly theory but I think that part with the ring might be actually true

So if Tenna was the one who gave Spamton the commemorative ring which Spamton talks about and it's mentioned in Sweepstakes and if this ring is the thorn ring then I think I know what Spamton was supposed to do for the sponsor.

What if Spamton's relationship with Tenna was a part of the plan? What if he was supposed to pretend that he loves Tenna in order to get that ring from him?

But then he actually fell in love with Tenna and when he got that ring he didn't do as sponsor said. He disobeyed him.

Because when you think about it was the only reason Spamton was working with Tenna only to become bigger? Or maybe he was sent on a mission to obtain something that only Tenna had? Especially considering that Tenna was supposed to die due to this being a part of prophecy.

Why I'm saying that Tenna gave Spamton that ring? It's because of that post I talked about already and it got me thinking.

Anyway. I think that Spamton knew about Tenna's fate and at first he was actually pretending that he's in love with the TV guy but he fell in love with him for real. And he decided that he wants to somehow prevent Tenna's fate.

At some point in their relationship Tenna gave Spamton that ring. But Spamton still wanted to help Tenna in order to prevent his fate. Because he loved him at this point.

Sponsor had to forcibly get Spamton away from Tenna hence why he allowed to let him get deleted from existence. Cause he knew he wouldn't die but that he'd end up in the trash. Spamton had to be put in his place.

I mean what happened to Spamton really feels like some sort of punishment for something.

And such disobedience is something that would definitely piss off the sponsor. Especially if Spamton is its puppet. Cause imagine that your puppet suddenly doesn't follow the strings. And when you pull it by its strings in one direction it goes in the other one.

Especially if Gaster actually made Deltarune and characters are his OCs. Cause imagine that you play with your OCs and you make them make out and one OC gives the other one the ring and then all of a sudden your stupid puppet just start doing things on its own. Wouldn't that piss you off too?

What an audacity?

Especially if you think about it cause what if Spamton was different from the rest of Addisons cause he was always meant to be the puppet?

And imagine that your OC specifically made to be the puppet, your puppet, starts to not follow the strings and makes things on its own. How would you feel about it?

And before you say that it feels forced.

Remember that Spamton Neo had those strings and they were very visible? It wasn't some subtle bullshit. It was in everyone faces. Everyone saw those strings. You, me, Fan Gang and Spamton.

It almost feels like Spamton was restricted for some reason. Maybe it was always supposed to be like that.

But when you see how Spamton ended up in the trash as a walking and living corpse all glitching and shit it really feels like a punishment.

If he was indeed punished then it'd make sense to not allow him to roam freely in Neo suit. Cause then he won't go against the script once again.

Spamton weren't supposed to fell in love with Tenna for real. It wasn't supposed to be a thing.

They were using each other for their own benefit but suddenly their love became a real deal. And it became a real problem when Spamton started using his knowledge to prevent Tenna's fate.

He was supposed to get that ring and leave Tenna.

And it also makes sense considering that Spamton gave thorn ring in Snowgrave route and later died despite having Neo suit.

Because he did his part of the plan. And death was only inevitable when he got out of line. It didn't matter to the sponsor what would happen with Spamton at this point.

But what about Normal route then?

That's a good question. And I may have an answer for that as well.

What if Friend is inside [me lil ol' Spamton]'s head for real?!! maybe not for real but in some way you know

That would allow Friend to still influence Spamton in Normal route and maybe he'd make Spamton do something funny? ◉⁠‿⁠◉

Cause look at Spamton and look at Friend.

Why Spamton has pink and yellow glasses like Friend's eyes? Why Spamton has this ugly permanent smile like Friend's toothy grin? And why Friend look like a hand and Spamton is the puppet?

Do you see my vision guys?

Do you see it? (⁠ʘ⁠ᴗ⁠ʘ⁠✿⁠)

Also tbh I wouldn't be surprised if Toby made Spamton to be that one character that gets beat up and shit. Cause you know who doesn't have an OC that they love to torture? Like you still love that OC but when you look at them you want to make them suffer.

Ofc please don't take this theory too seriously cause it's in most parts just a silly stupid post (⁠^⁠_⁠^;;)

[margindoodles2407]

so here's the deal guys. in the past week i reread my way through prisoner of azkaban, goblet of fire, order of the phoenix, and half-blood prince. i am currently halfway through deathly hallows. and as i was eleven the last time i seriously read harry potter. i forgot that it allows me to unlock secret shrimp emotions that humans aren't normally capable of feeling

[captainshakespear]

as a someone who got deeply deeply into CaitVi for a brief but electric moment after Arcane season 1 came out I felt serious betrayal at how I saw nothing but JayVik on my dash after season 2. I am here now having finally watched season 2 to say I so get it. what the fuck.

[edettethegreat]

Do you reckon edmund feels any affection for either of the sisters?

I think this depends on two factors-- 1) how does Edmund view himself, and 2) how fast was everything going down in King Lear

Edmund likes to talk very pridefully, but we've also got "yet Edmund was beloved" -- something that comes off as almost surprised that he was loved. It seems to only occurs to him as he's dying just how real the Lear sisters' affection for him was.

for the majority of the play he's stuck in tunnel vision, solely focused on destroying the Gloucester household and getting the Earldom. Given the timeline, if it all happened as quickly as it feels like-- then he goes from being at the very outskirts of what could be considered nobility and someone who's constantly degraded by those around him, straight to being the Earl.

Psychologically, I don't think it even caught up with him that the king's daughters could be potential dating options for him. As much as they blatantly flirt with him, it's standard enough for nobility to have affairs (and Edmund would know that better than anyone--). So being considered an equal worthy of a real relationship with them is a fact that would take more time to sink in.

in short-- I don't think he considered either of them as potential dating partners until either when he was dying or sometime earlier in that scene.

and either way, the change in his own social status would have been a massive paradigm shift for him.

I do believe that he could have developed feelings for either of them, but I don't think enough time passed over the course of the play for that to happen yet.

[tortured-poets11]

anyway, darrell rivers is definitely sapphic everybody

[sad-trash-hobo]

I think its actually really sad that Spencer and JJ's relationship really fell off after Emily's "death". He may forgive her to a point, but he never puts his full trust in her again. There's still an almost familial bond between the two, but after season 6, the amount of times that they're seen joking and being relaxed goes down. That could be because the writers didn't want to do any of that, but just viewing the content available, their relationship becomes almost completely professional. And especially when Alex joins the team, it's someone that Spence can relax with and rely on. She never teases him like JJ and Morgan do, and when she leaves the team it becomes more clear how alone he really is.

The whole prison stint kind of just reinforces how Reid can't rely on anyone in the team to help him, especially when JJ visited and having a pretty lady visit you in prison is bound to turn heads.

The whole thing in the last season of JJ telling Reid that she loves him and he's her first love really bothered me. And I felt like it put Spencer's feelings to the side, it made him be the selfish one for wanting what he didn't know was actually on the table because JJ already had a family. I also felt like that whole plot line was fanservice for all the people who thought JJ and Reid shouldve been together the whole time.

Overall, I do still love their relationship on the surface, but so much of the growth of their relationship was wasted and ignored and became stilted.

- read my tags for rambling -