Christopher Chan can Bang me

One Week Later

Dating Changbin is…

…unexpected.

Not the biting, not the sex (though Jesus Christ, that alone deserves a docuseries), not even the blood-sharing or the fact that you’ve woken up more than once to him growling in his sleep because he’s dreaming about someone looking at you wrong.

No. It’s everything else.

Like the plushies.

You have sixteen now.

All claw-machine-won. All delivered with some variation of “Tch, I was just bored while waiting for the blood shipment to arrive, shut up.”

Meanwhile he’s standing there with pink dusting his ears, clutching a pastel cat with hearts on its cheeks, refusing to meet your eyes.

Or the fact that every time you yawn, he immediately hands you water, a hoodie, and his lap, grumbling something about “low blood pressure” while pretending he’s not actively nesting.

He still growls at anyone who gets too close. Still does his little eye-glint-glare thing when another vampire so much as breathes in your direction. But then the moment you look tired? Cold? Annoyed?

He’s putting his jacket over your shoulders. Pulling you into his side. Hand on your thigh, thumb brushing lazy circles. Sometimes, when he thinks you’re asleep, he kisses your knuckles and whispers things like:

“Too good for me…” “Mine…” “Won’t let anything touch you. Ever.”

Yeah. Totally normal boyfriend things.

What you don’t know?

Is that he’s been staying up every night after you fall asleep on his chest. Writing. Rewriting. Staring at the draft of a blood doll contract that looks nothing like the court’s usual ones.

No cold clauses. No forced feeding times. No territorial power imbalance.

Just this:

“By mutual bond and willing oath, we acknowledge what already exists: she is mine. And I am hers.”

He hasn’t shown it to anyone. Not even Chan. He’s just… waiting. Waiting for the moment to give it to you. Waiting for you to say yes to forever, without him having to beg. Waiting because even though he fucked you into that couch and bit you like you were already his, the truth is—

You ruined him that day.

And now? Now he’d burn the world just to keep hearing you giggle over another ridiculous plushie.

divider

Somewhere between soft light and sinful moans. Somewhere between domestic bliss and absolute ruin.

You're on top of him—again.

Straddling his hips, thighs snug around him, skin flushed and sticky. His hands grip your waist like you might disappear, like this isn’t the sixth morning this week he’s woken up to you already sinking down on him with a sleepy whimper.

“Baby,” he groans, voice raw, still thick with sleep. “You tryna kill me?”

You just roll your hips, slow and deep, making him curse under his breath.

“Couldn’t help it,” you mumble, dragging your nails down his chest. “You were already hard. Thought I’d help.”

He throws his head back, jaw clenched. “Fuck—you’re not helping.”

You lean forward, pressing kisses along his throat. He shivers when you whisper against his skin: “You love it.”

And he does. He fucking does. He loves waking up to you already warm and wet and wanting him. Loves the way your hair falls in your face as you ride him. Loves the little gasps you try to hold back when he angles his hips up just right.

“Look at you,” he growls, eyes locked on yours, fangs barely peeking out. “So cockdrunk first thing in the morning.”

You moan, fingers gripping his biceps. “You love that too.”

“Damn right I do.”

He thrusts up—once, hard—and you cry out, clutching at him, pulse fluttering under your skin like a prayer.

His hand slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit like he owns you. Rubbing tight, slow circles that make your thighs tremble.

“Gonna cum on me already, huh?” he murmurs, voice low and reverent. “Just like that? First thing in the morning, and you’re already this needy?”

You nod, eyes glassy, mouth parted. “Binnie—please—”

“Go on then, baby,” he whispers, lips brushing yours. “Show me how good it feels to be mine.”

You moan—high, broken—hands clutching at his shoulders as your body spirals into that dizzy, unbearable edge. The pressure builds fast and ruthless, his cock hitting deep with every roll of your hips, his touch sending sparks through your nerves.

“Binnie—” you gasp, “I—”

“I know.” He kisses the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, your jaw. “I’ve got you.”

You shatter.

Your orgasm hits like a wave—full-bodied, trembling, helpless. You cry out his name, voice dissolving into whimpers as your walls pulse tight around him. He groans beneath you, hands gripping your hips, holding you steady through every quake.

“Fuck—look at you—” he pants, watching you unravel like it’s the most sacred thing he’s ever seen. “You’re perfect. You were made to ride me, weren’t you?”

You’re still shaking when he flips you—fast, smooth, hands braced under your thighs as he buries himself deep again, still hard, still desperate.

“One more,” he whispers against your throat, breath ragged. “Let me feel you one more time.”

His hips snap up into you, hard, relentless—his name falling from your lips again, again, like it’s the only word you know.

“God, baby,” he groans, watching the way your back arches, the way your lips fall open in that perfect little gasp. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

His hand slides up your body—slow, reverent—until his fingers curl gently around your throat.

Not squeezing. Not yet. Just holding. Claiming. You whimper, pupils blown wide, skin flushed and glistening. Your hands fly to his wrist, not to stop him—but to anchor yourself. His eyes search yours, wild and burning.

He tightens his grip. Just enough to make your breath catch. Just enough to tilt your head back so he can lean in and growl against your throat—

“Fuck, you look so good like this. Getting ruined while you’re choked. My good fucking girl.”

And then he’s fucking up into you again—deep, brutal, perfect. Your body tightens instantly, sparks flaring behind your eyes as the pressure builds once more.

“You’re close again, aren’t you?” he rasps, thumb stroking lightly over your jaw as his other hand bruises your hip. “You’re gonna cum while I’m inside you like this. While I’ve got my hand on your pretty little throat.”

You can’t even speak. Just a breathy, broken whine as you start to shake again, cunt fluttering helplessly around him.

His grip softens the moment he feels you tip.

“Good girl,” he whispers. “That’s it. Give it to me.”

One Week Later

Dating Changbin is…

…unexpected.

Not the biting, not the sex (though Jesus Christ, that alone deserves a docuseries), not even the blood-sharing or the fact that you’ve woken up more than once to him growling in his sleep because he’s dreaming about someone looking at you wrong.

No. It’s everything else.

Like the plushies.

You have sixteen now.

All claw-machine-won. All delivered with some variation of “Tch, I was just bored while waiting for the blood shipment to arrive, shut up.”

Meanwhile he’s standing there with pink dusting his ears, clutching a pastel cat with hearts on its cheeks, refusing to meet your eyes.

Or the fact that every time you yawn, he immediately hands you water, a hoodie, and his lap, grumbling something about “low blood pressure” while pretending he’s not actively nesting.

He still growls at anyone who gets too close. Still does his little eye-glint-glare thing when another vampire so much as breathes in your direction. But then the moment you look tired? Cold? Annoyed?

He’s putting his jacket over your shoulders. Pulling you into his side. Hand on your thigh, thumb brushing lazy circles. Sometimes, when he thinks you’re asleep, he kisses your knuckles and whispers things like:

“Too good for me…” “Mine…” “Won’t let anything touch you. Ever.”

Yeah. Totally normal boyfriend things.

What you don’t know?

Is that he’s been staying up every night after you fall asleep on his chest. Writing. Rewriting. Staring at the draft of a blood doll contract that looks nothing like the court’s usual ones.

No cold clauses. No forced feeding times. No territorial power imbalance.

Just this:

“By mutual bond and willing oath, we acknowledge what already exists: she is mine. And I am hers.”

He hasn’t shown it to anyone. Not even Chan. He’s just… waiting. Waiting for the moment to give it to you. Waiting for you to say yes to forever, without him having to beg. Waiting because even though he fucked you into that couch and bit you like you were already his, the truth is—

You ruined him that day.

And now? Now he’d burn the world just to keep hearing you giggle over another ridiculous plushie.

divider

Somewhere between soft light and sinful moans. Somewhere between domestic bliss and absolute ruin.

You're on top of him—again.

Straddling his hips, thighs snug around him, skin flushed and sticky. His hands grip your waist like you might disappear, like this isn’t the sixth morning this week he’s woken up to you already sinking down on him with a sleepy whimper.

“Baby,” he groans, voice raw, still thick with sleep. “You tryna kill me?”

You just roll your hips, slow and deep, making him curse under his breath.

“Couldn’t help it,” you mumble, dragging your nails down his chest. “You were already hard. Thought I’d help.”

He throws his head back, jaw clenched. “Fuck—you’re not helping.”

You lean forward, pressing kisses along his throat. He shivers when you whisper against his skin: “You love it.”

And he does. He fucking does. He loves waking up to you already warm and wet and wanting him. Loves the way your hair falls in your face as you ride him. Loves the little gasps you try to hold back when he angles his hips up just right.

“Look at you,” he growls, eyes locked on yours, fangs barely peeking out. “So cockdrunk first thing in the morning.”

You moan, fingers gripping his biceps. “You love that too.”

“Damn right I do.”

He thrusts up—once, hard—and you cry out, clutching at him, pulse fluttering under your skin like a prayer.

His hand slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit like he owns you. Rubbing tight, slow circles that make your thighs tremble.

“Gonna cum on me already, huh?” he murmurs, voice low and reverent. “Just like that? First thing in the morning, and you’re already this needy?”

You nod, eyes glassy, mouth parted. “Binnie—please—”

“Go on then, baby,” he whispers, lips brushing yours. “Show me how good it feels to be mine.”

You moan—high, broken—hands clutching at his shoulders as your body spirals into that dizzy, unbearable edge. The pressure builds fast and ruthless, his cock hitting deep with every roll of your hips, his touch sending sparks through your nerves.

“Binnie—” you gasp, “I—”

“I know.” He kisses the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, your jaw. “I’ve got you.”

You shatter.

Your orgasm hits like a wave—full-bodied, trembling, helpless. You cry out his name, voice dissolving into whimpers as your walls pulse tight around him. He groans beneath you, hands gripping your hips, holding you steady through every quake.

“Fuck—look at you—” he pants, watching you unravel like it’s the most sacred thing he’s ever seen. “You’re perfect. You were made to ride me, weren’t you?”

You’re still shaking when he flips you—fast, smooth, hands braced under your thighs as he buries himself deep again, still hard, still desperate.

“One more,” he whispers against your throat, breath ragged. “Let me feel you one more time.”

His hips snap up into you, hard, relentless—his name falling from your lips again, again, like it’s the only word you know.

“God, baby,” he groans, watching the way your back arches, the way your lips fall open in that perfect little gasp. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

His hand slides up your body—slow, reverent—until his fingers curl gently around your throat.

Not squeezing. Not yet. Just holding. Claiming. You whimper, pupils blown wide, skin flushed and glistening. Your hands fly to his wrist, not to stop him—but to anchor yourself. His eyes search yours, wild and burning.

He tightens his grip. Just enough to make your breath catch. Just enough to tilt your head back so he can lean in and growl against your throat—

“Fuck, you look so good like this. Getting ruined while you’re choked. My good fucking girl.”

And then he’s fucking up into you again—deep, brutal, perfect. Your body tightens instantly, sparks flaring behind your eyes as the pressure builds once more.

“You’re close again, aren’t you?” he rasps, thumb stroking lightly over your jaw as his other hand bruises your hip. “You’re gonna cum while I’m inside you like this. While I’ve got my hand on your pretty little throat.”

You can’t even speak. Just a breathy, broken whine as you start to shake again, cunt fluttering helplessly around him.

His grip softens the moment he feels you tip.

“Good girl,” he whispers. “That’s it. Give it to me.”

Your body locks up — thighs trembling, head thrown back — and you come with a breathless cry, clutching at him like you’ll fall apart without him to hold you together.

Changbin groans, low and wrecked. His hands grip your waist, grounding you as he fucks up into you, chasing that final push—

“Fuck, baby—just like that—”

You feel him tense beneath you, his jaw clenched, eyes locked on yours like you’re the only thing that exists. And then he’s spilling inside you with a broken moan, pulsing deep as you flutter around him, still riding the aftershocks of your own release.

Your foreheads touch. Breath mingles. Hearts racing.

Neither of you moves at first. It’s like the world stopped, quiet and golden in the haze of morning light.

Then, softly, almost shy:

“You okay?” he murmurs, brushing damp strands from your face.

You nod, eyes still heavy-lidded. “More than okay.”

He smiles — small, crooked, and so full of love it makes your chest ache.

“I should probably let you pee,” he mutters, already reaching for your thighs to help you up.

“Probably,” you whisper. “But also… don’t move yet.”

“Yeah,” he says, pulling you down into his chest again. “Okay. We’ve got time.”

He stays inside you for a while. Just holding you. His thumbs trace slow circles into your hips, grounding, soothing. You’re still draped over him, chest to chest, the rise and fall of your breathing syncing back into something steady. Calm.

“Baby,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep and sweetness. “You with me?”

“Mmhmm,” you hum, cheek pressed to his shoulder. “Might be dead though. Died a little.”

He chuckles, low and warm, and kisses your temple like it’s instinct. “Guess I’ll have to bring you back to life. Pancakes or toast?”

You laugh, breathless. “Your dick game’s ridiculous and your post-sex breakfast plan is pancakes?”

“You say that like it’s not a dream come true.”

You tilt your head to look at him. His hair’s a mess, cheeks still flushed, eyes full of stars—and he’s smiling at you like you just handed him the sun.

Changbin finally shifts carefully to pull out—so slow, so gentle. You wince, just a little, but he’s already reaching down, checking the mess between your legs with the softest fingertips. “Messy girl,” he teases, but it’s tender. He disappears for a moment and returns with a warm cloth, cleaning you up so softly, so gently, so featherlight, not rushing a single touch.

“You always take care of me,” you murmur, voice a little hoarse.

His gaze softens impossibly more. “Of course I do. You’re mine.”

You think you catch it—just for a second—the flicker of nerves behind his words. Because he means it more than you know.

“You’re mine too,” you whisper back.

And just like that, his shoulders relax. His smile breaks wide. He kisses you again—soft, slow, like a thank you in a different language.

But when he pulls back, his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. And his hand, still resting on your hip, twitches—like there’s something he wants to say but doesn’t know how.

You tilt your head. “Binnie?”

“Mm?”

“…You okay?”

“Yeah. Fine.” He kisses your forehead. “More than fine.”

But now you know. That slight delay before he answered. The way he’s not looking directly at you anymore.

You squint at him. “Liar.”

“I’m not lying.”

“Changbin.”

“Baby—”

“No, no, don’t baby me,” you say, sitting up slightly, ignoring the ache in your thighs. “What is it? What are you not telling me?”

His jaw tenses.

“Tell me.”

He hesitates. His fingers tighten slightly on your waist. His eyes flick to the nightstand—just for a second—but you see it. That quick dart toward the drawer he always keeps locked.

“Binnie…”

He sighs. Deeply.

Then, like it hurts, he mutters: “Don’t freak out.”

“…Why would I freak out?”

“You just might.”

“Try me.”

Another pause. You watch his throat bob as he swallows.

“I want you,” he says quietly. “To be my blood doll.”

Silence.

You blink. “…What?”

He finally meets your eyes. No more smirking. No more distractions. Just raw, vulnerable honesty.

“I want you to be mine. Like—really mine. Not just sex and feeding when you let me. Not just crashing at each other’s places. A bond. A contract. A vow.”

You stare at him. And he keeps going, voice low and rushed like it’s been caged for too long.

“But not like the court ones. Not with the feeding schedule bullshit or dominance clauses. I—I wrote a different one. A new one. It’s just… you and me. No control. Just commitment. Mutual. Real.”

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.

He misreads the silence. “Shit, I knew it. Too much, right? I shouldn’t have said anything, fuck, just forget—”

“I want to see it.”

He freezes.

You repeat, softer: “Show me the contract, Binnie.”

He stares at you like you just told him the sky turned violet. And then he practically trips over himself lunging for the drawer.

He pulls out the drawer like it holds the meaning of life.

Because to him, it kind of does.

The folder’s thick. Pages worn at the edges. He’s clearly read and rewritten it more times than he’ll admit.

He comes back to bed without saying anything—just sits beside you, still naked, hair a mess, cheeks flushed with something that isn’t post-sex glow anymore. It’s something closer to fear.

You gently take it from his hands.

The cover page is handwritten.

Blood Doll Contract — Special Version (not like those court bastards. mine is better.)

You snort already. “Binnie—”

“Just read,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck.

You flip the page.

Clause 1: Bond Acknowledgment This contract serves only to recognize the already existing bond between subject A (Seo Changbin) and subject B (you, aka the hottest human alive).

“We already belong to each other,” he mumbles beside you. “This just makes it official.”

Clause 2: Feeding Rights Subject A is allowed to feed from subject B only: With enthusiastic consent. When subject B is looking especially biteable. Or when it’s Tuesday, because Tuesday is hard. Sub-clause: Subject A promises to be very gentle unless told otherwise, and will always kiss the mark after, no exceptions.

You laugh. “Tuesdays are hard?”

He shrugs. “I’m a Tuesday vampire. Sue me.”

Clause 3: Bed Rights Subject A and B are to sleep in the same bed at least 5 nights a week. Sub-sub clause: Cuddling is non-negotiable. Feet must touch at some point during sleep. Subject A may not hog the blanket (again).

You raise a brow. “So this is revenge for last week?”

“You tried to burrito yourself,” he mutters. “I nearly froze to death.”

Clause 4: Plushie Clause Subject A may continue gifting plushies after successful missions, tantrums, or moments of extreme cuteness from subject B. Sub-clause: If subject B tries to donate or throw away said plushies, subject A reserves the right to “pout until emotionally compensated.”

You giggle so hard you nearly drop the folder. “Is that what that face was?!”

“No comment.”

Clause 5: Eternal Vow (The Real Shit) By signing, subject A and B acknowledge that this bond is not casual, or temporary, or transactional. It is a choice. Made every day. By signing, subject B agrees to let subject A love her in every language he knows—blood, body, soul, and all. And subject A promises to protect, cherish, and honor subject B for as long as the stars remember them.

You blink down at the final page. Your name is printed beside a blank line. You don’t say anything right away. Just look up at him.

He’s silent—nervous, chewing his lip like he expects you to run.

Instead, you whisper, “Do you have a pen?”

His head jerks up.

You hold the folder closer. “I want to sign.”

His eyes widen.

You gently touch the page. “Binnie. Of course I want to be yours. I already am.”

Changbin looks around for a pen, from the same drawer, and hands it to you. You take hold of it, hand moving carefully as you sign your name, right beneath his—the ink still fresh from however many nights ago he first wrote it. You even add a little heart after you write your name.

“You did not just doodle a heart on a legal vampiric contract.”

“Binnie, please, this thing mentions plushies and Tuesdays. You started unserious.”

He groans. “It’s symbolic! It’s a declaration of eternal—”

“Snuggling rights?”

He grabs a pillow and throws it at your face.

You burst out laughing, half-snarled under the cotton fluff, “Assault?! On your legal blood doll?! I will be calling the Court.”

“Go ahead. I’ll just seduce the judge.”

“You are the judge—!”

“Exactly. And I find you in contempt.”

You shriek with laughter as he tackles you back into the mattress, both of you rolling, limbs tangled, laughter punching out of your chests like you’re drunk on something stronger than wine.

Eventually you settle—limbs heavy, hearts loud.

He kisses your temple.

Then your cheek.

Then the corner of your mouth, whispering, “You really signed it.”

You nod, nuzzling into him. “I meant every word. Even the plushie clause.”

“…I knew you’d cave.”

“Cave?” You snort. “I’m riding the plushie train straight into hell. Make me a throne. Out of frogs.”

He kisses you again, full on the mouth this time, smile against your lips. “You’re insane.”

“You’re in love with me.”

“And you just signed a blood contract for me.”

“…Touche.”

You fall into each other’s warmth after that. No pressure, no fangs just yet. Just limbs and laughter and the feel of being wanted so thoroughly that even the paperwork is romantic.

Until you feel his hand drift lower.

And he hums, like he’s thinking something through.

“…You know,” he murmurs, lips brushing your throat. “Now that it’s official…”

You shiver. “Yeah?”

He nips gently—not biting, just teasing. “Wouldn’t mind doing the whole claiming thing properly.”

“Like…”

He grins against your skin. “You. Me. My fangs. This mattress. No interruptions. Eternal consequences.”

You blink. Then grin.

“Well, Judge,” you whisper. “I plead so guilty.”

Suddenly, you're on your back beneath him, already pulsing. Changbin hovers over you, hips rolling against yours. His fangs are out.

But he hasn’t bitten you yet. He’s waiting. Shaking. Worshipping you with every inch of his body.

“You sure?” he rasps.

You reach up, curling your fingers around the back of his neck. “Binnie. I signed the contract. I said yes a hundred ways. Make it a thousand.”

His jaw clenches. His cock slides against your entrance—hot, heavy, deliberate.

Then—his voice, hoarse: “I love you.”

And then he pushes in. You gasp—legs wrapping tight around his waist, hands clawing down his back. He fucks you slow at first, breathless, careful, like you’re breakable.

But you’re not. Not now. Not with him.

“Binnie—faster—please—”

He obeys. Hips snapping. Sweat dripping. His name tumbling out of your mouth like a mantra.

And when he leans in—lips brushing your neck—your whole body tenses.

You want this.

“Do it,” you whisper.

“You’re sure?”

“Do it, Binnie—mark me—make me yours—”

He growls. And then he bites. You cry out, the pain white-hot and fleeting—then replaced by pleasure so sharp, so overwhelming it makes your vision blur. He drinks slow, hips grinding into you deeper, harder, more possessive with every pulse of your blood into his mouth.

He moans into your neck as he drinks, his thrusts becoming ragged, desperate. “So fucking sweet,” he groans. “So fucking mine—”

You clench around him, overstimulated, whimpering, “Binnie—fuck—I’m—”

“Cum for me, baby,” he pants. “Wanna feel you when I fill you—”

And fuck, you do.

You shatter around him, crying out his name as he growls and fucks you through it—his own orgasm hitting seconds later, fangs still sunk into your skin as he spills inside you, claiming you in every possible way.

You both collapse together, sweaty and ruined, his cock still inside, your blood still on his tongue.

He lifts his head, eyes wide with awe, blood on his lips.

“You’re mine,” he whispers.

You brush his hair back, kiss him soft and open-mouthed.

“And you’re mine.”

Your father was one of the few humans who could walk into Luxe Health and be bowed to.

He never wanted the spotlight—didn’t need it. Power, he’d always told you, was quiet. It was in the rooms no one saw. It was in the contracts they couldn’t understand. His pharmaceutical empire made him a billionaire. His shadow investments in vampire medicine made him untouchable.

You’d grown up watching boardrooms turn silent when he entered. World leaders called him by his first name. Vampires—old ones, cruel ones—inclined their heads in recognition. His reach extended beyond patents and patents—he helped build Luxe, quietly backing Chan during the facility’s earliest expansions.

A legacy man, through and through.

And you? You were expected to be his reflection.

But instead of joining the executive suite, you carved a different path. PhD in biogenetics. Trauma recovery specialization. Graduated top of your year. Published early. Interned in high-risk human clinics. Refused nepotism—until now.

Because Luxe was different.

Luxe was where vampire biology met experimental care, where research meant risk. And you wanted in.

You’d stared Chan down during your interview, both of you seated in a private wing lit by enchanted glass and scent-sealed vents. You wore a black turtleneck and a steel charm under your wrist to keep your pulse from triggering a blood response. He wore concern under his professionalism.

“You could work anywhere. Hell, I’ll give you a lab myself.” “I don’t want a desk. I want data. Let me near the real ones.” “You understand this isn’t a simulation?” “I understand blood. I want to see what it does to them. I want to help.” “You get hurt in containment, your father will kill me.” “Then don’t let me get hurt.”

That got a small, reluctant grin out of him.

He still tried to assign you to Bio-Monitoring. You refused. He offered Private Recovery. You declined again. It was only after hours of back-and-forth, after you signed the enchanted consent papers and passed an emergency restraint drill that he finally gave in.

“Fine. I’ll assign you a handler.”

“Who?”

“Someone who’ll hate having you. Which means you’ll be safest.”

Enter Seo Changbin.

Director of Hostile Containment and Physical Defense Operations. Known inside Luxe as The Wall. The Lock. The Enforcer.

He was Normal-born—bloodlines rooted in protection, not politics. His family didn’t scheme. They didn’t climb. They stood in front of danger and took the blow first. The Seo name was legend in containment sectors, and Changbin had turned it into scripture.

He wasn’t like the other executives. He didn’t wear tailored suits or silk-lined coats. You first saw him from across the upper observation deck of Containment Wing B. Tactical gear. Armored sleeves. Twin silver hoop earrings—enchanted for sun protection. He barked orders with the gravel in his voice, hands wrapped in reinforced gloves still smudged with someone else’s blood.

You watched him haul a rage-state vampire back into a suppression cage with nothing but brute strength and clenched fangs.

You said nothing. But you felt your breath catch.

He turned—just once—to look up at the deck, meeting your gaze through reinforced glass.

It was the most silent threat you’d ever seen.

Your official orientation packet didn’t include a welcome. Just your schedule. And a warning scribbled in red at the bottom.

Changbin will meet you in Training Bay Four. Do not be late. Do not lie. Do not bleed.

Training Bay Four

You arrive two minutes early.

The corridor to Bay Four is silent, save for the hum of reinforced lighting and the soft tap of your shoes on vampire-grade flooring. Your badge grants you clearance with a flicker of enchanted silver. You note the biometric seals, the backup vents, the locked cabinet labeled "Anti-Feral Protocol: Class B+".

Cute.

The door slides open.

Inside: dim lights. Floor mats. Medical staging equipment along the walls. A tranquilizer gun laid casually on a side table. And him—Seo Changbin, arms crossed, shirt tight across muscle, sleeves rolled to his forearms like he’s about to kill something and doesn’t want blood on his wrists.

He doesn’t acknowledge you right away. Just glances once. Then keeps inspecting a steel baton in his hand.

You step forward, crisp and polite. “Director Seo.”

He doesn’t look up. “No.”

You blink. “No…?”

“Not Director. Not Sir. Not Handler.” His voice is low, flat. Dangerous. “I didn’t ask for this. So don’t pretend we’re in some stupid chain-of-command arrangement.”

Okay.

That’s the energy.

You clasp your hands behind your back. “Noted.”

He looks up then—eyes dragging over you slowly, not with lust, not yet, but suspicion. Like he’s cataloging every inch of you to determine how much of a liability you’ll be.

Hair tied back. Neutral expression. Enchanted cuffs, like Chan insisted. And a slim tablet tucked under one arm, filled with blank logs you’re meant to fill with field notes.

Changbin stares at it. Then at you.

“You bring that thing near a rage-state vamp and they’ll shatter it into your throat.”

You don’t blink. “Then I’ll take notes after they’re restrained.”

His jaw ticks.

It’s subtle, but you catch it. That flicker of annoyance, or maybe grudging respect, coiled tight in his posture. You know his type—military-minded, logic over emotion. He’s been trained to view anything human and rich as soft, as disposable, as protected by systems he doesn't trust.

You, unfortunately, were designed to make men like him twitch.

“You’re human,” he says bluntly. “I don’t care what degrees you’ve got. If they turn on you, you’re dead before I can move.”

You nod. “That’s why I’ll stand behind you.”

It slips out—a little bold, a little flirty, maybe. You can’t help it.

He scowls.

“Cute,” he mutters. “Let’s hope you’re still standing after your first bleed scare.”

You don’t respond to that. Instead, you cross to the nearest work station and begin pulling on a lab coat—charms embedded in the seams, scent-masking threads at the collar.

He watches you. In complete silence.

“What did you think I’d be like?” you ask, just to needle him.

“Worse,” he replies.

That makes you laugh, short and sharp. “Disappointed?”

He tosses the baton into a bin behind him without looking. The sound clangs off the wall. Then he steps toward you, stopping close enough that you feel the thick static of vampire presence—more force than temperature. Like a shift in gravity.

His voice lowers.

“I don’t care whose name is on your badge. You don’t belong here. That’s not a threat. That’s biology. That’s reality. You’re not built for this floor.”

You tip your chin up. “And yet. Here I am.”

Something flickers in his eyes—rage, maybe. Or something darker. “You bleed, and they’ll tear each other apart to get to you.”

“Then I won’t bleed.”

“And if you cry, I’ll have to restrain them. Not because of the sound. Because they’ll smell it. Because it’ll make you taste better.”

You swallow.

His gaze drops to your wrist. The vein there, soft beneath the cuff.

Then—

“You’re not mine,” he says finally. “That’s why this is a problem.”

And he walks past you. Straight into the containment wing.

The rest of the week is… interesting.

Changbin doesn’t speak unless he has to. You suspect it’s a self-preservation tactic—less words, less risk of snarling them. He prefers barked instructions, curt assessments, and the occasional dry, "Don’t do that," when you dare to observe too closely.

You’re not offended. You’ve been ignored by worse. And at least this vampire doesn’t smile at you with fake charm—he just stares at your pulse like it’s his job.

Because it is.

Still, the chemistry starts to hum beneath everything. Silently. Inappropriately.

Like the time you dropped your pen near an observation cage and leaned down to grab it—and he was suddenly behind you, one hand ghosting your elbow like he’d yanked himself back at the last second.

“Don’t kneel in containment zones,” he snapped.

“Why?”

“You don’t want to look like prey.”

You stood slowly. His eyes stayed on your throat the entire time.

Or when you laughed during an intercom briefing—just a soft exhale, something about the absurdity of rage-state protocol involving the phrase “de-escalate with tone modulation”—and he turned so sharply you thought he’d dislocated his neck.

“Something funny?”

“Tone modulation, Changbin.”

“My tone is modulated.”

“It is,” you grinned. “Modulatedly pissed.”

He looked away before you could see his mouth twitch.

divider

And then there was Hyunjin.

Director of Sensory Magic and Bond-Stabilisation Therapy. Ethereal. Tall. Wears flowy black trousers that are definitely cursed for dramatic effect. Smells like sandalwood and metaphysical trauma.

He appears at 8:04 AM, waltzing into the containment briefing room with a portfolio under one arm and a crystal cup of black tea in the other.

“You’re the intern, right?” he says to you, voice like a lullaby dipped in sarcasm. “Hi. I’m Hyunjin. I specialize in trauma, blood, and unbearable beauty.”

Changbin: sighs like he’s aged six years.

You blink. “Pleasure?”

“Likewise. Your scent is... odd. I like it. Feels like lavender anxiety with a hint of ‘my dad’s the reason this building exists.’”

“That is disturbingly accurate.”

“Thank you. I smell emotions for a living.”

Changbin, already done: “Why are you here.”

“Art therapy,” Hyunjin replies cheerfully. “One of your patients bit a guard and then painted a ceiling mural in dried blood. So now it’s my turn.”

You nod solemnly. “That's either deeply poetic or a workplace hazard.”

Hyunjin gives you a conspiratorial smile, then leans toward Changbin.

“You’re vibrating.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. You’ve been vibrating since she got here.”

“Get out.”

“Oh, I will. But not before I tell you this—”

“The bond lines are reacting.”

A silence falls.

You frown. “What?”

Changbin goes very still. Hyunjin just sips his tea.

“I don’t think there’s a full imprint,” Hyunjin muses, eyes half-lidded. “But there’s a shimmer. Minor resonance. Micro-claim reaction, maybe from proximity or blood compatibility. Nothing formal. Yet.”

“Explain,” Changbin says darkly.

“It means,” Hyunjin purrs, “that your subconscious thinks she’s yours.”

You try not to choke on your breath. Changbin’s jaw clenches so hard you hear it crack.

“Get. Out.”

“Love you too~” Hyunjin sings, walking pleased with himself.

You don’t speak. Neither does Changbin.

He storms past you. You catch the heat in his eyes as he brushes your shoulder—intentional this time—and the word he mutters beneath his breath.

“Fucking bond magic.”

You find him ten minutes later in the weapons sanitization bay, rinsing blood off his gloves like the scent offends him personally. You’ve learned not to speak until the first rinse cycle finishes—he doesn’t like being startled when he’s armed, which is fair, given that his fists are already registered as weapons.

Still, you’re kind of proud of yourself for finding him at all.

“Director Seo,” you say, purposefully polite, like nothing awkward or claim-related was dropped into the air twenty minutes ago. “Reporting for observation duty.”

He doesn’t look up. “You’re not scheduled for containment until this afternoon.”

“I reviewed the schedule. You approved my presence for the morning tier-three briefings.”

Now he looks up.

Slow. Irritated. Maybe impressed.

You smile. Not too much. Just enough to say: you may be terrifying, but I am very smart and very annoying, and I know what I’m doing.

He exhales through his nose and turns to unstrap his arm guards. “You’re exhausting.”

“You’ve barely spoken to me today.”

“Exactly.”

You follow him down the hall.

“So. What’s the plan for the briefing?”

“We sit. We talk about the vampires that tried to kill us yesterday. Then we eat sad protein bars and pray the afternoon isn’t worse.”

“Do I get a protein bar?”

“No.”

“Rude.”

He opens a door with his palm print. You keep walking two steps behind, like some kind of blood-resistant intern duckling.

“Stop following me like that,” he mutters.

“Like what?”

“Like you trust me.”

You pause. Just a beat. “Shouldn’t I?”

He doesn’t answer. Not with words. Just stops at the door to the observation deck, turns on his heel, and pins you in place with one look. Not violent. Not even angry. Just—charged.

His eyes drop briefly to your wrist.

You know why. The cuffs. The enchanted ones. Your pulse hides behind them, but not perfectly. Not anymore.

“That bond shimmer thing,” you say casually. “Is it real?”

His jaw clenches. “No.”

“Hyunjin said—”

“Hyunjin says a lot of shit when he’s bored.”

“But he’s Director of Bond-Stabilisation—”

“And half-little shit. So maybe don’t let him seduce you with theories about what might be humming in your bloodstream.”

You try not to laugh. “You’re jealous.”

He levels you with a stare. “I’m protective.”

A beat.

“Let’s go. You’re already late to pretend you’re qualified.”

The observation deck smells like silver disinfectant and anticipation.

A long arc of reinforced glass separates the interns, researchers, and field techs from the three vampire patients below. Tier Three—partially stable, partially sedated. They pace like sharks in segmented enclosures, each one built to suppress a different aspect of their bloodlust.

One wears a pulse collar. Another has her hands in anti-magic cuffs. The third—

The third just stares at the ceiling, whispering to someone who isn’t there.

You’ve read their files. Watched their intake footage. Memorized their reactions to auditory triggers, temperature shifts, scent stimuli.

None of that prepares you for seeing them in person. For feeling the way the air tightens when their eyes flash toward the deck.

You exhale slowly.

Changbin stands behind you now. Arms crossed, expression unreadable. His presence is less a body and more a barrier—a pressure field humming behind your spine, like even your heartbeat has to ask permission to move.

You speak low. “I thought Tier Three wouldn’t react to observers.”

“They don’t,” he says. “Unless they smell something… interesting.”

You glance back at him. “Am I interesting?”

His gaze flicks down your neck. Just once. “You’re a problem.”

Your lips twitch. “Is that why you’re standing like a vault?”

He doesn’t answer. Just nods toward one of the staffers entering the lower level—tranq cart in hand, ready for standard evaluation.

You go still.

Because the vampire closest to the glass has stopped moving.

He’s looking at the intern. Then, slowly—too slowly—his head turns toward the deck.

His nostrils flare.

And his eyes lock on you.

A sound escapes his throat. Low. Animal.

The lights shift in warning—soft amber glow pulsing into a harsh, sterile white. That means pre-breach aggression. No movement yet. But something is rising in him, and it’s not from visual cues.

“Changbin,” you say quietly. “He’s scenting me.”

Before you finish the sentence, Changbin steps between you and the glass. His hand comes up—not touching you, but close, too close—and his body covers yours like instinct.

“Do not move.”

You freeze. Not out of fear. Out of recognition. This is what he was made for. Not planning. Not speaking. Not strategy. Just this. Standing between danger and what it wants.

The vampire lets out a snarl. Not at Changbin—at you. At your blood. Your presence. At whatever trace has started seeping through your enchanted cuffs.

“He shouldn’t be able to scent me through protocol,” you whisper.

Changbin’s voice is low. Controlled. Not for you—for himself. “He shouldn’t. Which means something changed.”

You swallow. “Is it the bond shimmer?”

He doesn’t answer. Just turns to the observation technician and snaps, “Trigger level-one sedative protocol. Now.”

You don’t speak as the team below confirms sedation, locking the cell with reinforced restraints. Changbin watches the whole process with his arms folded tight over his chest, jaw clenched hard, like he’s holding back teeth and truth in the same breath.

You feel the tremor in your own fingers. Faint. Ridiculous. You’re not supposed to shake. Not after everything you’ve trained for.

So instead—you do what you’re meant to.

You sit. You pull out your tablet. You start writing.

Tier Three Observation Log: Day 7 Time: 14:31 KST Subject: Patient 3 Status: Rage-state response triggered. Sedation successful. Unscheduled aggression. Cause: Unknown.

You pause. Your fingers hesitate over the stylus. Then, slowly, you write:

“Possible external stimulus: researcher blood compatibility breach. Protocol seals potentially bypassed via resonance shimmer.” “Unknown if catalyst is environmental or biological.” “Proximity to Director Seo… may be relevant.”

Behind you, you feel it—the shift in air pressure. Changbin moves.

You keep writing.

“Subject’s behavioral pattern deviated within 5–6 seconds of visual contact. Breathing irregularity noted in researcher. Physical response from Director Seo immediate. Shield positioning, non-contact but full frontal coverage.” “Verbal command issued: ‘Do not move.’” “Researcher obeyed.”

You shouldn’t write that part. But you do. Because it’s the truth.

You stop.

Because there’s a shadow over your shoulder now. His breath, soft. Controlled. Right beside your neck.

“Are you writing about me?”

You don’t look up. “This is observation. You're part of the response system. Therefore, you're in the log.”

He’s quiet.

Then—

“You wrote down that you obeyed me.”

Your throat tightens.

Still, you force your voice to stay clinical. “It was a direct command. I assessed the situation. You were correct.”

He huffs. Not quite a laugh. Not quite not one either. “You always do what you’re told, then?”

You tilt your head. “Are you asking professionally or personally?”

Silence.

Then he steps back, just enough for you to exhale fully again. “Pack up. You’re done for the day.”

You blink. “What? No. That was one anomaly—”

“It was one second from breach. One second from your blood on the glass. You’re done.”

You rise, slowly. “You don’t get to bench me, Changbin. I’m here to learn. I’m not afraid.”

He moves so fast you don’t see it—only feel it. Your back hits the wall. Gently. Caged. Not rough. Not dangerous. Just… immediate. His hand braces near your head.

You could push him away. You don’t.

“Do I make you nervous?” he asks, voice low.

You lift your chin. “No.”

“Then why are you standing like you’ll bolt the second I move?”

Your breath hitches. His eyes drop to your mouth.

“You need to understand something,” he says, voice darker now. “This isn’t a lab anymore. You’re not some ghost in the background. Not to them.”

Not to me, either. He doesn’t say it. But you hear it anyway.

“You bleed down here,” he murmurs, “and they’ll turn on each other just to see who gets to taste it first.”

You swallow. “And you?”

A pause.

“I’m not them.”

His eyes are still on your mouth.

Your breath stutters. The room feels smaller. Like the space between your spine and the wall is folding in on itself. Like if he leaned forward just one inch—

The door hisses. And everything stops.

You both freeze like teenagers caught under the bleachers.

Then: “...Wow,” comes a familiar voice. Flat. Dry. Absolutely done. “Am I interrupting?”

Changbin doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even pretend to look guilty.

You, on the other hand, do the awkward shuffle-of-shame, stepping sideways out of his arm cage like oh nothing to see here despite the fact that you’re flushed, your pulse is audible, and your cuff is glowing faintly.

You don’t have to turn around to know it’s Chan.

CEO of Luxe. Founder. Friend of your father. And currently standing there with his arms crossed like he walked in on two pit bulls mid-mating ritual.

“You know,” Chan says, squinting at Changbin, “when I said ‘protect her,’ I didn’t mean press her into the infrastructure.”

You cough.

Changbin doesn’t react. Just exhales slowly, gaze still on you, dangerously unreadable.

“Nothing happened,” he says.

Chan raises a brow. “Sure. And I’m a priest.”

You attempt to salvage your dignity by fixing your shirt and clearing your throat. “Director Seo was explaining scent-driven aggression. We were discussing field protocol.”

“Yeah,” Chan says. “Your field protocol involves pinning interns to reinforced walls and breathing like a dying wolfhound?”

You frown. “That's oddly specific—”

“—because that’s exactly what I just saw,” Chan cuts in. “Look, I get it. Trauma bonding. Biological resonance. Forbidden attraction. Super hot. Not here.”

Changbin finally turns. “We weren’t doing anything.”

“Your arm was over her head. There was breathing. You were doing something.”

A long pause. You bite your lip.

Chan runs a hand through his hair. Then looks at you. “Are you alright?”

You nod, heat crawling up your neck. “Fine. No contact.”

“No contact yet,” Chan mutters under his breath. “Hyunjin’s going to have a field day.”

Changbin glares.

Chan throws up his hands. “Alright, alright. Just—dial it down, yeah? Last thing I need is her father calling me to ask why his daughter is suddenly branded like Luxe property.”

Your heart skips. Changbin stiffens.

“That’s not happening,” he says, too fast.

Chan raises an eyebrow. “You sure? Because your scent is all over her cuffs. And she’s glowing.”

You glance down.

Shit. Your cuff is glowing. Just faintly. Silver shimmer, almost imperceptible—except you know what that means.

Resonance.

“Fantastic,” Chan sighs. “If you bite her, I’m firing both of you. And also throwing a party, because finally. But then firing you. Definitely that part.”

He turns to leave. Pauses in the doorway. “Oh—and we have a board meeting in twenty minutes. Thought you should know, Bin. Maybe wipe the murder off your face.”

And he’s gone.

The door hisses shut.

Silence.

You stare at the wall for a full beat before turning back to Changbin, who’s now leaning against a metal cabinet, arms crossed, smoldering with quiet fury and something else.

“So,” you say lightly. “That was... educational.”

He exhales.

“I need to kill Hyunjin.”

You grin. “You want to kiss me.”

A pause.

Then: “That’s the fucking problem.”

Your cheeks are burning.

Not in the cute, girlish way. Not in the “oops he caught me off guard” way either.

More like: Changbin just said he wants to kiss you, in that low, ruined voice of his like it physically hurts him to admit it, and now you’re standing here flushed, breathless, trying to decide if you need a cold shower, a therapy appointment, or a restraining order.

And yet, you're frozen in place, mouth open in mild, stunned betrayal of your own hormones.

“I—excuse me?” you manage, voice pitching slightly.

He doesn’t repeat it.

He just turns away, rubbing the back of his neck, muscles shifting under his shirt like anger barely contained by sinew.

You blink. Once. Twice.

Then, with as much dignity as you can salvage: “Okay. Great talk. Loved that. Definitely didn’t almost faint. Gonna go now.”

You turn, fast. Start toward the door like it hasn’t been absolutely defiled by tension in the past three minutes. You nearly trip on your own tablet case.

Changbin doesn’t say anything—of course he doesn’t—but you can feel his eyes on your back. Watching you leave like you’re some kind of… temptation with legs and clearance level three.

You smack the door control.

“See you later,” you call without looking.

“Not if I see you first,” he mutters.

You pause. Glance back. “Was that a threat?”

“No,” he says. “That was restraint.”

Luxe Health: Secure Conference Chamber 04.

The lights are low. The table is long. The vibe is supposed to be “strategic think tank,” but it’s rapidly deteriorating into “eight vampire men trying not to talk about the girl their enforcer wants to throw against a wall.”

Chan sits at the head. Arms folded. Pretending to be in CEO mode.

To his right: Minho—sharp suit, sharper cheekbones, reading a file with the kind of expression that says I will kill you if this isn’t worth my time.

Next: Changbin, still silent, jaw tight, the ghost of that wall scene clinging to his shoulders like scent.

Across from him: Hyunjin, dressed like a cursed gallery curator, twirling a charmed ring around his finger like he knows exactly what happened and will Not Be Normal About It.

Felix, beside Hyunjin, radiating golden-boy calm but quietly watching Changbin like he’s a patient with rising vitals.

Jisung is already bored. Playing with a vial of enchanted hemalixir, mumbling something about “scent stabilization is a myth, unless the girl’s really hot, in which case—yeah.”

Seungmin, pristine as always, flipping pages in the Medical-Legal Binder™ with the calm of someone who has absolutely drafted “What To Do If Your Co-Worker Bites a Human Intern” policy before.

Jeongin sits at the end, very clearly not supposed to be here, scribbling notes like do not flirt with rage-state interns even if they are pretty???

Chan clears his throat. “Alright. Meeting agenda. Let’s start with the containment breach.”

Minho: “Handled.” Chan: “Great. Sedation delays?” Seungmin: “Filed. Disciplinary warnings pending.” Felix: “Patient is stable. No residual psychic fallout.” Hyunjin: “No feedback loops. But there was—” he pauses, smiling slowly “—a resonance flare.”

Seven heads turn.

Changbin doesn’t move.

Jisung: “Like a shimmer?” Felix: “How strong?” Hyunjin: “Enough to make her cuff glow.” Seungmin: “Her cuff glowed?” Jeongin: “Her?”

Minho sets down his file. “Who’s her.”

Chan exhales loudly, temples already throbbing. “The intern.”

Minho stares. “The intern?” Seungmin: “The investor’s daughter?” Hyunjin: “Oh, she has a name now. Fascinating.” Felix: “This was during observation rounds?” Jisung: “I thought she was in Bio-Monitoring.” Chan: “She asked for Containment. I approved it.” Minho: “Why?” Chan: “Because she’s qualified.” Hyunjin: “Because you’re afraid of her dad.” Chan: “Also that.”

Pause.

Then Hyunjin, with all the grace of a panther mid-gossip: “Changbin pinned her to a wall.”

Silence. Absolute silence.

Minho looks at Changbin. Changbin doesn’t blink.

Jisung drops his vial. “WHAT.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Changbin mutters.

Hyunjin: “Oh, you’re right. It was much worse. You said—and I quote—‘That’s the fucking problem.’”

Felix is gasping, Seungmin is writing furiously and Jeongin? Well, his mouth is full open and he's horrified, possibly traumatised but also amazed.

Minho: “Bin.”

Changbin: “Minho.”

Minho: “You touched her?”

Changbin: “I didn’t bite her.”

Chan: “Which was somehow the most shocking part of the encounter.”

Hyunjin, dreamy: “He wanted to. The air was thick. You could feel the denial.”

Jisung: “DID YOU SMELL HER?!”

Changbin: “No.”

Seungmin: “But you’re emotionally compromised.”

Felix: “And scent-bonded.”

Jeongin, whispering: “Does this mean she’s gonna be his?”

Everyone turns.

Jeongin blinks. “I—I mean, that’s how bonds work, right?”

Long pause.

Hyunjin nods solemnly. “He’s right. It’s giving First Claim.”

Chan groans. “Do not name it like a romance novel.”

Jisung: “Too late. That’s what I’m calling it now. First Claim. Sounds hot. Who’s writing the fic?”

Seungmin: “I’m writing the liability clause.”

Minho rubs his temples. “Focus. What’s our next step if this escalates?”

Chan: “We don’t panic.”

Hyunjin: “We monitor.”

Felix: “We support.”

Jisung: “We watch the slowburn unfold.”

Jeongin: “We take notes.”

They all look at Changbin.

Changbin exhales, voice flat: “I hate all of you.”

Hyunjin smiles. “That’s the bond talking.”

Meanwhile...

You sit alone in one of the upper-level staff lounges. Not the fancy one near Chan’s office. The dusty one tucked behind a corridor labeled “Emergency Sanitization Supplies — Floor Two.” Which is exactly your vibe right now: emotionally spilled bleach in human form.

There’s a half-melted iced Americano in your hand. Cold and bitter as sin, and entirely useless at stopping the blush that has not left your face in the past thirty-seven minutes.

You take a sip. Pause.

“Okay,” you mutter to no one. “So maybe you’re a little attracted to him.”

You shake your head.

“No. No. That’s not attraction. That’s a biological stress response. He’s massive. His arms are the size of your thigh. Of course your brain is confused.”

Another sip. Stronger this time.

“Besides. He’s grumpy. Doesn’t talk. Glares like you keyed his car every morning.”

Beat.

“…Which is hot. Ugh. God. Okay. Shut up.”

You lean back in the chair, bumping your head lightly against the wall. Your enchanted cuffs hum faintly on your wrists—still active, still shimmery, still threatening to give away your entirely inappropriate emotional situation at any moment.

“You are not falling for Seo Changbin,” you say out loud, stabbing your straw like it personally offended you. “You are here to research biological trauma responses. Not become one.”

A janitorial bot wheels by. You stare it down.

“Don’t judge me.”

It beeps and rolls off.

You groan.

“Okay, but he did say he wanted to kiss me.”

A beat.

“No. He said that was the problem. Totally different. Very unromantic. Entirely scientific.”

Another pause.

“...Except he looked at your mouth like it was his last meal.”

You let your forehead drop to the table. “I need a new lab. Or a tranquilizer. Or both.”

From down the hall, you hear footsteps. Familiar ones. Heavy. Measured. Your whole body goes still.

“Oh my god,” you whisper. “If that’s him, I swear to every vampire council on Earth, I will throw myself out this window and enroll in accounting.”

You peek over your arm. It’s not him. Just a courier bot.

You sigh in relief. Then disappointment. Then immediate confusion. “I need therapy.”

You’ve just convinced yourself that you’re not in love with him—truly, deeply, definitively not in love with Seo Changbin—when the facility-wide comms system crackles to life.

“Attention all Containment and Observation units: Tier Three Drill commencing in fifteen minutes. Standard breach simulation, sedative protocol live. Assigned teams, report to Deck B.”

You blink.

A beat later, your tablet vibrates with a direct dispatch message.

CONTAINMENT DRILL TEAM C Supervisor: Director Seo Changbin Team Members: Y/N (Intern Observer, Clearance 3), Dr. Lee Yejin, Tech Operative Ryu, MedOps Rep Kwon.

You reread it three times.

“Okay,” you whisper to your coffee. “That’s fine. It’s fine. Just a drill. Just a very physically intense, close-quarters drill... supervised by a man who literally wants to bite me.”

You get up. Straighten your jacket. Slap your cheeks. Mutter something about professionalism and “Don’t you dare look at his mouth.”

And then you go.

Deck B is chaos. Organized, high-security chaos, but chaos nonetheless.

People rushing to prep sedatives. Armored gloves being locked in place. Staff adjusting their neck seals and throat shields. It’s all routine—but there’s a charge in the air, the kind that only happens when danger is about to pretend to be real, but everyone secretly knows it could become real anyway.

You arrive at the meeting point and immediately spot him.

Changbin.

In full Containment gear now. Tactical black, reinforced sleeves, cuffs over his wrists. His enchanted silver hoops glint under the sterile lighting. His face is unreadable, like he’s already halfway in fight mode.

He sees you.

You swallow. “Reporting for drill duty,” you manage, voice mercifully steady.

He gives a curt nod. “You stay behind me at all times. Log what you see. Don’t engage.”

“Got it.”

“And don’t bleed.”

You offer a very dry smile. “I’m aware.”

The rest of the team gathers. You all get briefed, handed mock protocols, sedative vials, dummy tags. Then comes the worst part: the formation split.

They divide you into pairs.

You already know what’s coming.

“Intern Y/N,” the ops tech says. “You’ll be with Director Seo.”

A brief silence follows.

Someone coughs. Someone else definitely smirks. Changbin doesn't blink. Just mutters: “Let’s move.”

The drill progresses.

Zone One: Cleared. Zone Two: Dummy vampire restrained. Zone Three: Simulated aggression triggered by shouting and flashing lights.

Still under control.

Then you reach Zone Four. Where something feels... off. The lights are slower to respond here. There’s a faint hum of magic in the air—sharper than usual. Your cuffs prickle on your wrist like static’s trying to get in.

Changbin stiffens. His hand lifts, a silent signal to halt.

You obey instantly.

The dummy vamp in Zone Four is chained. Supposed to be dormant. Eyes closed, breath shallow—controlled simulation.

But it sniffs the air. Its head twitches. Its eyes snap open. Not red. Black.

“That’s not a dummy,” Changbin says quietly.

“What—”

“It’s real.”

You feel your blood go cold.

“That’s a live rage-state. Someone fucked up the deployment roster.”

The vampire lunges against its chains. The others around you freeze.

The sound that rips from its throat is not an actor’s growl. It’s low. Bone-deep. Hunger manifesting as sound.

“It’s scenting,” Changbin mutters. Then, sharply—“Get her out.”

Someone grabs your arm. Starts to pull you back.

You don’t get far.

Because the vampire speaks. “Yours,” it snarls. Voice distorted. “She smells like yours.”

And then the chains break. Not by accident. Not by wear. By force. It launches. Straight at you.

Everything happens at once.

Screams. Sedatives deployed. Magic barriers flaring—

And Changbin moves. No hesitation. No words. Just speed.

He tackles the vampire mid-air, slamming it against the reinforced wall with a crack that shakes the entire floor. His fangs are out. His whole body is glowing with rage—not hunger, not loss of control.

Claim.

The vampire snarls, twisting beneath him, repeating it over and over: “Yours. Yours. Yours—”

Until Changbin’s hand wraps around its throat and slams it into silence. The vampire chokes once—then goes still. Not unconscious. Held. Crushed into compliance.

Changbin's forearm pins the creature’s chest. His other hand is still around its throat.

Your breath is loud in your ears.

Changbin doesn't move. Not right away. Just stays there, caging the creature against the wall like some monstrous, divine sentinel—fangs bared, gaze locked not on the vampire…

But on you.

Finally, Changbin’s grip tightens.

Crack.

The vampire slumps, unconscious now. Not dead. But close enough. Silence falls, broken only by the whir of containment drones resetting and the hum of the barrier recharging.

A long pause.

Then: “Director Seo,” one of the ops officers says carefully. “We’ll take it from here.”

Changbin steps back. Breathes once. Just once. Then turns to you. His voice is steady, too steady. “You’re off this floor for the rest of the week.”

You frown. “I didn’t—”

“Not a request.”

He walks past. Doesn’t look back.

Three nights later.

You're in a booth with a glittering drink in hand, skin still glowing from the bathroom highlighter your friend insisted on using (“you need shimmer, bitch—post-trauma sparkle tax”).

The music is too loud, the air smells like spiced rum and citrus perfume, and your heels already hurt.

But the buzz is warm. The girls are laughing. And you… are babbling.

“—and then he just walked off, like full dramatic coat sweep, and I’m standing there with adrenaline in my mouth and a full trauma boner or something, I don’t know—”

“Wait, trauma boner?” Your friend Zara chokes on her drink. “What does that even mean?”

“It means,” you say, stabbing your straw into the crushed ice like it personally wronged you, “I need therapy. Or a different internship. Or a restraining order. Or him. Honestly, I don’t know anymore.”

Your best friend Hyerin leans over the table. “Okay, wait. Let’s back up. Did he save your life?”

“Well, technically—yes,” you admit. “But also, I wouldn’t have been in danger if someone didn’t bond-glow like a possessive hellhound and piss off a rogue vampire in the first place—”

“You like him,” Hyerin grins, leaning in conspiratorially.

“No, I don’t.”

“You do.”

“I don’t!” You throw your hands up, nearly sloshing your drink onto your dress. “I like peace. I like science. I like not being tackled by muscle demons with jawlines sharp enough to slice through reinforced cuffs—”

“Right,” Zara hums. “And when you say jawline, you mean—”

“This isn’t about his jawline!”

Pause. You stare into your cocktail like it might offer answers. It doesn’t.

“…It’s a little about the jawline,” you mutter.

The table bursts into laughter. Hyerin’s already pulling out her phone.

“I’m texting him,” she says.

“YOU DON’T EVEN HAVE HIS NUMBER.”

“Not yet.”

You scream into your hands.

But, the universe hates you and you're sure of it.

Because not five minutes after you scream into your hands—screaming about him—the music shifts, the crowd parts like some hedonistic Red Sea, and in walks the reason your blood pressure has had a permanent residency in the clouds: Seo Changbin. Black shirt, tactical boots like he stomped straight out of the field and into the VIP section. Sleeves rolled. Forearms coiled. Expression unreadable.

And beside him?

Hwang Hyunjin, shirt unbuttoned halfway like a walking sin. Felix, honey-blonde hair and already blowing kisses at the bartender.

You—mid-sip of a definitely-too-strong cocktail—choke. Loudly.

Zara slaps your back. “Oh my god—what is it?”

“Don’t—look—now—” you wheeze, clutching the table, “but the reason for my imminent emotional breakdown just walked in with his vampire boy band.”

“What—” Hyerin starts, glancing over—And immediately gasps. “HOLY FUCK, IS THAT—?!”

“Yes!” you hiss. “It is! And now we’re gonna leave quietly, like normal people who do not talk shit about their boss and then get haunted by it in real time.”

Too late.

Felix spots you first. Smiles like he’s already decided to ruin your life for fun. He taps Hyunjin. Hyunjin turns. Sees you. Smirks like he’s proud of himself for causing all this. Like he’s got a bingo card and just checked off “accidentally start a soulmate crisis.”

And then—

Changbin looks up. Finds you. Freezes.

You freeze, too.

It’s mutual nuclear deer-in-headlights energy.

Then—and this is the worst part—he visibly exhales. Rubs the back of his neck. Says something to the others.

And starts walking over.

You panic.

“Abort,” you whisper. “ABORT MISSION—HE’S COMING—WHY IS HE COMING—”

Hyerin hides her face behind her glass. Zara just leans in like this is the season finale of a drama.

Changbin reaches the table. “…Intern.”

That voice. Low. Calm. Slightly hoarse like he’s been shouting over noise—Or thinking about you.

You blink up at him, stunned. “D-Director.”

“Didn’t know you frequented this club.”

“I—don’t,” you stammer. “I mean, I do. But not, like—frequently. Just—on occasion. Very rare occasions. Like now. And maybe never again.”

He looks vaguely amused. “Shame.”

You short-circuit. “Sorry?”

He leans in a little. Just a fraction. Just enough for your drink to forget how to exist and nearly spill itself. “Shame,” he repeats. “I was starting to think this place had good taste.”

You black out a little.

Felix, ten feet away, definitely whoops.

Hyunjin raises a brow like he’s just been fed.

You pray for the earth to swallow you whole.

It doesn’t.

Instead, Changbin steps back—cool as ever—nods to your friends, and says, “Don’t stay too late. You’re still technically under blood-scent restriction.”

And then he’s walking away. Felix blows you a kiss. Hyunjin mouths, “You’re welcome.”

You collapse onto the table.

Zara: “I’m gonna need you to explain everything. Slowly. With details.”

Hyerin: “You’re so in love with him.”

You: gargling incoherently into your straw.

Somewhere, across the bar, Changbin slides into a booth beside Hyunjin, downs a drink like he’s trying to forget his own existence, and mutters: “…I’m so fucked.”

Hyunjin watches Changbin slam his drink like it personally insulted his ancestors.

Then, with all the grace and smugness of a man who has never once minded his business, he drawls: “Soooo… when were you planning on telling us you’ve imprinted on your intern?”

Changbin glares at him over the rim of his glass. “I didn’t imprint.”

Felix snorts. “You tackled a feral vampire like a rabid Cerberus because it looked at her. Your aura’s been glowing since Tuesday. You’re literally scent-marking her by accident.”

“I’m not—!” Changbin exhales, runs a hand down his face. “It’s not like that.”

Hyunjin raises a brow. “Oh? Then what is it like, Binnie? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’ve got yourself a little intern-shaped problem. Or, more accurately—” He leans in. “—a little intern-shaped crush.”

Changbin doesn’t respond. Which is, obviously, confirmation.

Felix grins. “Awww, hyung… You’ve got a type.”

“I do not have a type—”

“You do. And apparently it’s smart, clumsy, slightly sarcastic science girls who wear combat boots and forget how to breathe when you look at them.”

“I swear to god—”

“She was literally squeaking at the table. You know how hard it is to make a scientist squeak?”

Hyunjin nods solemnly. “It's usually the lab rats that squeak. Not the interns.”

Changbin slumps in his seat. “You two are insufferable.”

Felix beams. “We’re supportive.”

“We’re observant,” Hyunjin adds.

“We’re just saying,” Felix continues, “that if you don’t make a move soon, she’s gonna keep thinking she’s hallucinating the sexual tension. Which, by the way, is not subtle. It’s practically a hazard.”

“I can’t make a move,” Changbin mutters. “She’s under my department. It’s complicated.”

“You tackled a rogue vampire for her,” Hyunjin says, sipping his drink like he’s delivering a TED Talk. “Pretty sure the ethics line was already blurred when you went full murder-glow in front of ten ops staff and a clipboard.”

“And she blushed,” Felix adds. “Like, blushed. The kind of blush that requires ice water and therapy.”

“She screamed into her hands,” Hyunjin says thoughtfully. “Cute hands, by the way.”

Changbin growls. “Touch her and I’ll dislocate your soul.”

“There it is,” Felix sings. “There’s our favorite blood-stained simp.”

Changbin slams his glass down again. “…I hate both of you.”

Hyunjin shrugs. “You hate yourself more. For feeling things. Tragic.”

Felix leans in, bright-eyed. “But also… so hot. Honestly. We’re rooting for you. And if you ever need help figuring out how to ask her out without sounding like you’re proposing a hostage trade—we got you.”

Changbin just sighs. Drags a hand through his hair.

Across the bar, you're still hiding behind your drink. Still red in the face. Still not over it. He sees you peek out from behind your straw. You meet his eyes. Then duck back like you’ve been caught.

Changbin exhales through his nose. “…I’m so fucked,” he mutters again.

Hyunjin grins. “No, Binnie. You’re in love.”

Back at your booth...

You slip away from the booth with a muttered excuse—something about needing another drink, maybe some air. Really, you just need a minute. A minute to breathe without Hyerin’s knowing smirks or Zara’s whisper-yells of “he’s literally looking at you again—right now—look—”

So you push through the low-light crowd, heels clicking on scuffed tile, until you reach the bar.

The bartender’s busy with a round of orders. You lean against the counter, nursing the last of your drink, trying very hard not to glance back toward that particular booth.

(You fail. Twice.)

Behind you, the crowd shifts. You barely register the presence until someone leans in—too close. A voice at your ear, slurred and syrupy:

“Well, well. What’s a little thing like you doing all alone in a place like this?”

You freeze.

The man—no, not a man. You feel it instantly. The cold, too-calm stillness of him. The unnatural sharpness beneath his smile.

Vampire.

Not glamoured, not registered, not glowing with the controlled hum of city-trained restraint.

Your instincts scream.

“Back off,” you say, louder than intended.

But he laughs, low and slow. “Easy, sweetheart. Just being friendly.”

His hand brushes your wrist. Too fast. Too cold. You slap it away—but he grabs instead. Tight.

In a second, he’s behind you. Hand curled over your pulse point, voice rasping in your ear: “I can smell it on you. Something sweet. Someone’s touched you recently. Staked a claim…”

Your blood chills.

“Let go of me.”

“No.”

And that’s when the air changes. A blur cuts through the room. A gust of wind and rage and fire. And suddenly he’s there.

Changbin.

One hand wrenches the vampire back by the collar, the other slamming him into the bar so hard the counter cracks.

No warning. No mercy. Just fury. His eyes are glowing. His fangs are bared. His whole body radiates kill energy.

“She said let go.”

The vampire chokes. “Y-You’re—she’s marked—by you—?”

Wrong answer.

Changbin’s fist slams into his jaw. “Don’t ever touch her again,” he growls, voice pitched so low it could gut steel.

People are staring. No one interferes. Because every creature in this place knows exactly what just happened.

Possession. Protection.

He doesn’t let go until the vampire is limp. Until bouncers come, dragging the rogue away.

Then—and only then—does Changbin turn to you. He’s still shaking. “Are you okay?” he asks, low. Urgent. Too close.

You nod, numb. “Y-Yeah. Just… shaken.”

He exhales. Looks like he might kill someone else, just to be safe. And then—he touches you. Carefully. A light hand on your arm, grounding. His thumb strokes the spot where the vampire grabbed you.

“You’re not walking anywhere alone again,” he mutters.

You blink up at him stunned, lips slightly parted.

Behind you, from the booth, Hyunjin howls. Felix starts clapping. You scream internally. Changbin stiffens at the sound of Hyunjin’s howl. His jaw ticks and Felix’s enthusiastic applause is not helping.

You’re frozen, wide-eyed, still clutching your half-empty glass like it might shield you from this mortifying reality.

Then—Changbin sighs. Long. Suffering. Like a man just barely holding it together. His hand is still on your arm. He hasn’t moved it. Hasn’t looked away from you once.

“…Come on,” he mutters, voice low. “Let’s get you out of here.”

Your eyes flick up. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he says, and it’s so firm, so quiet, so final that you stop arguing.

He gently guides you toward the exit, threading you through the pulsing crowd like you’re something precious he needs to protect. His hand never leaves your lower back.

You pass the booth. Hyunjin wiggles his fingers like a cheeky villain. “Have fun~”

Felix leans across the table, stage-whispering: “Use protection. Emotional or otherwise.”

You hiss: “I hate both of you.”

Changbin: “Mood.”

The door swings shut behind you, muffling the music. The night air hits you—cool, quiet, a little sobering. You’re standing on the sidewalk now. Streetlights glowing. People still spilling into the night around you. But none of it touches the little bubble you’re in. Him. You. Too close. Not close enough.

“…Thanks,” you say, because you have to say something. “For—y’know. Back there.”

Changbin tilts his head, studying you. “You’re trembling.”

You glance down. Damn it, you are. “I’m fine,” you start, but it’s a lie, and he knows it.

“Come on,” he says again, voice gentler this time. “I’m taking you home.”

You blink. “You don’t know where I live.”

He lifts a brow. “Then give me the address. Or come to mine.”

You open your mouth. Close it. Open it again.

“…Option two.”

His jaw ticks—just once. “Yeah?”

“…Yeah.”

He nods. Doesn't look smug about it, not even a little. Just serious. Focused. Concerned in a way that makes your stomach flip. He leads you to the car and opens the passenger door and waits for you to climb in.

You do.

You buckle in. You try not to feel the weight of this. Of him. Of what this is starting to mean. He pulls into traffic, jaw tense, one hand on the wheel, the other flexing in his lap like he’s trying very hard not to reach for you again.

Finally, softly: “I meant it,” he says. “No more walking alone. Not with rogues sniffing around. Not with you glowing like…” He swallows. “…like someone’s already claimed you.”

Your breath catches.

You stare at the window. At your reflection. At the tiny shimmer in your wrist where that rogue touched you and your magic had flared in instinctive response.

“…Did you?” you whisper. “Claim me?”

The car is very, very quiet.

Then—

“I think,” Changbin murmurs, “I’ve been trying not to.”

Your heart stutters. He pulls into his building garage. Parks. Turns to you. “I don’t think I can help it anymore.”

Your mouth goes dry.

You feel it—the tension laced through the silence like a livewire. The air between you sparking with things unspoken. Untouched. You turn slowly to look at him. At the way his hand tightens slightly on the gearshift. At the muscle ticking in his jaw. At the way he’s not looking at you, like one glance might undo him entirely.

“…You’re not helping,” you say quietly. Half a joke. Half a truth.

His eyes flick to yours—fast, sharp, dark. “I’m not trying to.”

Your stomach flips.

For a moment, neither of you moves. Then he gets out, walks around the car, opens your door like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t. You step out, legs unsteady, and he’s right there—close but not touching. Always not touching.

The ride up is quiet. Elevator soft and silver. You watch the floor numbers climb and try not to think about how his shoulder nearly brushes yours. His apartment is sleek, clean, dimly lit—him, in every way. Cool-toned. Quiet. Safe.

He hands you a blanket. Points to the couch. “You can take the bed if you want.”

You blink. “You’re giving me your bed?”

He shrugs. “You were almost attacked tonight. I’m not gonna add back pain to the list.”

“…I’m not fragile.”

“I know,” he says. And that—that—comes out rough. Like it costs him to say it. “You’re not. But I care anyway.”

Silence.

You stare at him. He stares back.

Then he turns—like he has to physically pull himself away from you—and heads to the kitchen. “You want tea?” he asks, opening a cupboard. “Chamomile? Peppermint? Something to help you sleep?”

“Do you ever sleep?” you ask, still standing there.

“Not well,” he says, then glances over his shoulder. “Especially not when you’re walking into danger with a straw in your mouth and no backup.”

You scoff. “That’s oddly specific.”

He gives a faint, crooked smile. Then hands you a mug. “Drink. Couch or bed—your choice. I’ll be out here if you need anything.”

You take the mug. Your fingers brush. He freezes.

You both do.

Then you take a step back. He exhales. Like that one inch spared him from crumbling.

You sit on the couch, curling up under the blanket. He doesn’t go far—just settles at the far end, close enough to hear you breathe, far enough not to cross the line he’s clearly drawing for himself.

“You meant it?” you ask softly. “What you said earlier? About… not being able to help it?”

He doesn’t look at you. Just stares straight ahead. “Yeah.”

You nod once.

Then: “Good.”

His head snaps toward you. Eyes wide. Disbelieving. But you don’t explain. Don’t press. Just sip your tea and look ahead, heart pounding so hard it rattles your ribs.

The Next Morning. LUXE HQ — Sublevel 4, Operations Command

Changbin slams a file onto the desk. “Okay. No, seriously. What the fuck.”

Chan blinks over his coffee. “Good morning to you too?”

“I claimed her.”

“You what.”

“I didn’t bite her. I didn’t mark her. I didn’t even kiss her. I’ve had literal breakfast sandwiches more intimate than this—how did I claim her?!”

Hyunjin: “You cuddled a little aggressively. Maybe that counts now.”

Changbin whirls on him. “I didn’t cuddle.”

“Sure, sure. You just cornered her against a bar with glowing rage-fangs and vowed eternal protection. Totally platonic.”

Seungmin looks up from his tablet, deadpan. “You’re all idiots.”

Everyone turns.

Seungmin sighs. “She glowed.”

“…Okay?” Changbin scowls. “So?”

“She glowed for you. Back. You both flared at the same time. That's enough.”

Chan squints. “Wait—flared like a synced pulse?”

Seungmin nods. “Uh-huh. That’s proto-bond activation, dumbass. Happens sometimes when a vampire's instinct collides with a compatible magic signature. If she didn’t resist—and you didn’t stop it—boom. Partial imprint.”

Hyunjin gasps. “You magic-matched?! Like in those scandalous shifter novels?!”

“God,” Changbin groans. “Why is everyone insane.”

“You imprinted,” Seungmin repeats flatly. “Like a duckling. Congratulations.”

“I didn’t imprint—”

“Too late,” Seungmin shrugs. “Duck-mode engaged.”

Changbin blinks. “But… she’s human.”

Seungmin doesn't look up from his tablet. “And yet. Duck-mode engaged.”

“Stop saying that!” Changbin practically yells. “What does that even mean?! I didn’t do anything! I didn't bite her! I didn't mark her! We didn’t even touch—okay, maybe her arm—BUT THAT DOESN’T COUNT!”

Chan slowly sets his mug down. “Okay. First of all—calm down. You're glowing through your shirt again.”

“Second of all,” Seungmin adds helpfully, “it’s not about species, genius. It’s about resonance.”

“Resonance of what?! She’s human. She’s caffeine and sarcasm and zero threat response!”

“She’s also a latent,” Seungmin says casually.

Changbin freezes. “A what.”

“A latent. Human with dormant arcane receptors. Rare, but not impossible. Probably doesn’t even know it.”

Chan nods like this makes perfect sense. “Makes sense. Explains the glow. Explains the surge. Explains why your bitey instincts went nuclear.”

Hyunjin sips his drink. “Explains why you look like you wanna chew drywall.”

Changbin runs both hands down his face. “Okay, so let me get this straight. You’re telling me I accidentally started a soul-bond with a human scientist who drinks iced Americanos like a war crime and actively hates that I exist?”

Seungmin: “Correct.”

Hyunjin: “Romantically hates you.”

Felix (just arriving): “Wait—did you guys tell him about the duck thing yet—”

Changbin lets out a guttural scream.

Felix immediately turns around. “Nope. Nope. Not dealing with that energy. I just got here.”

Chan sighs and looks at Seungmin. “What now?”

“Nothing,” Seungmin says. “We wait.”

“For what?”

Seungmin shrugs. “For her to walk in, glow at him again, and trigger phase two.”

Hyunjin lights up. “Ooooh. What’s phase two?”

“Denial,” Seungmin deadpans. “And then sex.”

Chan promptly walks into the wall.

Later that day...

Changbin walks into his office with the weight of twelve hours of emotional torment and zero hours of sleep on his shoulders.

And there you are.

On his couch. Legs crossed, tablet in your lap, stylus tapping in that specific rhythm you do when you're thinking—but also trying to annoy someone.

"—and technically, if you inject nano-trace silver into vampire bloodstreams in microbursts, you could mimic a detox reaction without permanent damage. But the ethics board won’t approve it. Cowards."

Changbin pauses in the doorway.

You don't even look up. "Also, your potted plant is dying. Again. I watered it for you. You’re welcome. God, do you ever hydrate anything?"

He stares at you. "How did you get in here?"

“I have a passcode,” you say sweetly, still not looking up. “You gave it to me. Remember? Post-bar-murder cuddle tea?”

He grits his teeth. “That wasn’t a cuddle, it was proximity-based grounding.”

“Sure,” you say, scrolling. “Anyway, I reorganized your research drive while I waited. You had like four folders labeled ‘fuckshitlater’ and one just called ‘bite?’ with a question mark. Are you okay.”

He groans. “No. No, I am not okay.”

“Because of the rogue vampire attack?” you ask, finally glancing up at him with infuriating innocence. “Or because of the whole soul resonance proto-bond imprinting duck-mode glow-surge sex-prophecy thing?”

He slams the door behind him. “WHO TOLD YOU?!”

You blink. “…Hyunjin texted me a duck emoji and then just, like, thirty fire emojis.”

“Of course he did.”

You fold your hands in your lap, lips twitching. “Soooo. Duck-boy.”

He glares. “Do not call me—”

You smile, absolutely evil. “Quackbin.”

He collapses into his desk chair with a groan like his soul is leaving his body. “I liked it better when you were scared of me.”

“No, you didn’t,” you say, voice soft now. “You liked it when I trusted you.”

That shuts him up.

For a moment, it’s quiet. Just the hum of your tablet and the static weight of your words in the air.

Then—

“I’m still not biting you,” he mutters.

You look at him over the top of your tablet. “Who said anything about biting?”

Silence. Too long. You go back to scribbling like you didn’t just send him into a silent breakdown spiral.

And Changbin's staring at you.

You’re not looking at him. Or rather—you refuse to look at him. Because the heat of his gaze is melting through your skull, and if you meet it, you will combust. Internally. Physically. Spiritually. Biblically.

So instead, you tap your stylus. Innocent. Unbothered. Professional.

“You reorganized my drive?” he asks, voice hoarse.

“Mmhmm.”

“And you saw the ‘bite?’ folder.”

“Mmhmm.”

Silence. Tension coiling like a wire between you.

“…You know,” he says, leaning back in his chair, voice low, rough, dangerous, “it’s really fucking hard to be a good man when you’re sitting on my couch like that, talking like you didn’t almost get mauled last night, glowing like you want me to finish what we started.”

Your stylus stills.

“I wasn’t glowing,” you whisper.

“Oh, sweetheart.” His voice drops a full octave. “You were fucking radiant.”

Your thighs press together instinctively. He notices.

His fangs throb behind his lips. His hand twitches. His desk creaks.

You should stop this. You should get up. Leave. Think. Anything.

Instead—

You slide your tablet to the side. Stand. Walk to his desk.

He watches every step. Like prey. Like worship.

“Binnie,” you murmur, placing your palms on the desk and leaning forward—into his space, into the flame, into him. “If you’re going to keep protecting me, maybe you should figure out what you’re protecting me from.”

His breath stutters.

And then—he’s up.

Chair shoved back. Hands on the desk. Caging you in. Not touching—but so close.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he growls.

“I’m not asking.”

Silence. Heavy. Electric.

Then—

“Last chance,” he whispers. “Tell me to stop.”

You tilt your chin up, lips parted. Eyes burning. “I dare you.”

He’s on you in a second.

Not kissing—consuming. Mouth crushing yours, hands still gripping the desk like they’re the only things keeping him from tearing the room apart. His teeth barely miss your lips. His growl vibrates straight through your chest.

You gasp. He shudders. Like that sound is his favorite drug.

One hand finally lifts—cups your jaw, thumb dragging along your cheek like you’re porcelain he’s terrified to break. Like he knows he will anyway.

“You’re mine,” he breathes against your mouth. “I didn’t even bite you and you’re—fuck—you’re already mine.”

Your hands fist in his shirt, yanking him closer. “So do it.”

“What?”

“Bite me.”

He stills. Completely. His pupils blow wide. The air between you crackles. “…You don’t know what that means,” he says. But his voice—his voice is wrecked. Strangled.

“Yes, I do.” You pull him down. “I’m not glowing because I’m scared, Binnie.”

And that’s all it takes. His lips crash back into yours.

He breaks from your mouth and growls, low and guttural against your throat.

“Tell me again,” he pants. “Tell me you want it.”

“I want it.”

“Louder.”

“I want it—” you gasp, and then—

He bites.

White-hot. Sacred. Feral. It’s not pain. It’s release. Your entire body arcs, grabbing at him, breathing him. He moans against your skin. Deep. Broken. “Oh, fuck—you're perfect—you were meant for me—”

You whimper and his hand’s already under your shirt. Already gripping your waist like he’s anchoring himself to the earth. He pulls back from your neck slowly, licking the blood, sealing the wound. His fangs glint in the light.

“You’re mine now,” he whispers, reverent. “Do you feel it?”

You do. Gods, you do. The pulse under your skin—matching his. “You feel it?” he whispers again. His breath ghosts across your lips. “Right here—” He presses his palm to your chest. “Right here where it started.”

You nod, dazed. Eyes wide. Glowing, just faintly, like your body can’t help but respond to his anymore.

And then—

He moves. Effortless. His arms sweep under your thighs and back in one motion, lifting you like you weigh nothing. Your tablet clatters to the floor, forgotten.

“Binnie—”

But you don’t get to finish. He's walking towards the couch where he sits—wide-legged, strong—on it like a throne. Settles you on his lap, thighs straddling his, your knees framing his hips.

You can feel him. Hard. Pulsing. Right there between your legs.

His hands grip your hips. Not pulling. Just holding. Like he still can’t believe you’re real.

“You sure?” he murmurs. “Because once we start—once I have you—I won’t stop at one night.”

You lean in. Press your forehead to his. Your breath fans his lips. “Then don’t.”

His resolve snaps.

The kiss is searing. Tongue, teeth, want. He’s everywhere, hands on your back, your thighs, under your shirt. Lifting it. Sliding it off. His mouth moves down your throat, tongue lapping over the healing bite mark like he needs it again.

“You smell like mine,” he groans. “You feel like mine.”

He lays you back across the couch. Kneels between your legs like he’s worshipping at an altar. Like his entire being has narrowed to you—the sound of your gasps, the curve of your waist, the way you already arch for him without shame.

He growls when his fingers fumble at the waistband of your pants. The fabric won’t budge fast enough, caught around your hips, and it tears a low, guttural curse out of him.

“Fucking—stupid—pants—” he snarls, tugging with enough force that the button snaps open, the zipper halfway down before his hands drag them down in one desperate, furious motion. “Why do you wear so many fucking layers, baby?”

You laugh—breathless, wrecked—until he leans down and bites the inside of your thigh. Not hard. Just enough to make your laugh stutter into a gasp.

“Not funny,” he mutters, voice dark, lips brushing your skin like a threat. “You don’t get to make jokes when I’m trying not to devour you.”

Your panties are next. Gone in one motion. He curses again when he sees the slick already glistening between your thighs.

“Oh fuck,” he breathes. “Look at you. You’re dripping."

You whimper. Arch. One hand threads into his hair, the other fisting the couch beneath you.

Changbin looks up—eyes glowing, fangs just barely showing. “Don’t worry, baby,” he purrs. “I’m about to ruin you.”

And then he lowers his mouth.

Tongue hot. Skilled. Starving.

He moans the second he tastes you—like it’s the first meal he’s had in a century—and you shatter against his mouth, hips bucking, body already twitching like he’s possessed you with just a single lick.

He groans again, deeper this time, as his tongue dips between your folds—slow, savoring, like he’s mapping every part of you. His grip on your thighs tightens, holding you open, steady, as he works you apart with practiced precision.

“God, you taste—” his voice is muffled, reverent, hungry. “Like I’ve been starving for this.”

You whimper, hands curling tighter into his hair, hips instinctively lifting toward his mouth. He groans in approval, dragging his tongue up again—slow, thick, unhurried. He lingers at your clit, teasing flicks that make your whole body jolt, then seals his lips around it and sucks.

Hard.

You cry out. He doesn’t stop. One hand slides up, spreads across your belly like he’s grounding you—his weight, his heat, his claim—and the other presses your thigh wider, deeper, closer to ruin.

The noises—his mouth, your breathless gasps, the wet drag of tongue and lips—are obscene. Worshipful. He eats like he’s praying with every lick, every suck, every growled “mine” that vibrates straight into your core.

Your body trembles.

You’re close. You know it. He knows it. And he doesn’t let up—just flattens his tongue and drags it over you again and again until your legs are shaking and your voice is breaking and—

“Binnie—fuck—I’m gonna—”

He growls into you, low and possessive, and that’s what sends you over. You come hard, bucking under his mouth, moaning his name like a chant, like a plea, like a promise.

He holds you through it, mouth still working you gently, easing you down from the high like he never wants to stop tasting you.

And when he finally lifts his head—face glistening, eyes blown wide, lips parted like he’s drunk on you—you don’t even get the chance to catch your breath.

Because he crawls up your body, slow and dangerous, voice a dark rasp in your ear:

“Next round,” he says, “I want to feel you clench around my fingers. Gotta stretch you out baby.”

You nod—barely a breath, barely a sound—and that’s all he needs.

“Good girl,” he murmurs.

His praise sparks something molten in your belly, your thighs already trembling as he kisses down your body again—slow now, like he’s savoring the aftershock. One hand strokes your inner thigh, the other cradles your hip, grounding you as his mouth ghosts over your navel.

“You’ve been holding back on me,” he says against your skin. “Didn’t know you could fall apart so sweet.”

You arch. Whimper. He grins, a little feral. A little in awe.

And then his fingers—warm, thick—slide between your folds.

You gasp.

“Still so wet,” he groans, like it physically affects him. “Fuck.”

The first finger eases in slowly, just enough to tease. He watches your face the whole time—like he’s cataloging every twitch, every flutter, every breathless moan. The second finger follows not long after, and you feel the stretch—tight, aching, divine.

“You’re already squeezing me,” he mutters. “God, you’re gonna feel so fucking good when I’m inside you.”

He moves them slow at first. Curling. Testing. Finding every spot that makes you jolt, your body clenching tighter with each drag of his fingers.

And then—he adds pressure. A twist. His thumb brushes just right and—

“Bin—!” you cry out, hips jerking.

“I know, baby,” he says, voice thick. “Let go. I’ve got you.”

His fingers keep working you open, steady, relentless, obscene in how perfectly they move inside you.

He grins—sharp, wicked, knowing exactly what he’s about to do. And you know it too. Because the moment his fingers thrust in again—deep, curling just right—he lowers his head back to your thigh.

Changbin sinks his fangs into your inner thigh.

The twin puncture stings for a moment—sharp, shocking—before it’s drowned out by the wave of heat that floods your body. Your hips buck against his hand, a broken moan tumbling from your lips as the blood rushes from the wound and straight to his mouth.

He groans. Loud. Filthy. Like the taste of you—your blood and your cunt and your ruin—is the single most divine thing he's ever known.

“Fuck, baby…” he pants into your skin, voice low, wrecked, drenched in hunger. “Sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted.”

And then—he starts drinking.

Slow pulls. Tongue lapping between sucks. All while his fingers keep fucking into you, faster now—deeper, harsher, relentless.

The pain and pleasure twist together—searing heat in your thigh, soaked heat between your legs—and it’s too much. Your body starts to shake, your hands scrambling for anything—his shoulder, the couch, his wrist, his hair—just to anchor yourself.

He doesn’t stop. He won’t stop.

“You were made for this,” he growls, lifting his head from your thigh, blood-streaked lips glistening. His fangs flash in the low light, eyes burning. “Made to bleed for me, to cum on my fingers, to take every fucking drop of what I give you.”

Your walls pulse around him as if to answer. And fuck, he feels it. “Oh, you liked that, huh?” he laughs, dark and breathless.

Your name leaves his lips like a prayer and a promise all at once—then he leans back down, licking the bite to soothe it, even as his fingers slam harder inside you.

His thumb circles your clit—rough now, merciless—until you’re sobbing his name, thighs trembling, your body a livewire of heat and overstimulation.

“Give it to me again,” he whispers, mouth brushing your thigh, his voice soaked in greed. “Cum for me while I’m still inside you—fuck, baby, cum while I’ve still got your blood on my tongue.”

You break.

With a strangled cry and your back arching clean off the couch, you cum—again—clenching so tight around his fingers he has to curse, biting back a groan as he feels you pulse around him.

He keeps fucking his fingers into your cunt, slowly, riding out the waves of your orgasm before pulling his fingers out slow—wet, shining, ruined—and licking them clean.

Every drop. Every flick of tongue. Like it’s the only meal he’ll ever need.

“Still hungry, baby. Don’t think I’m done yet.”

Your thighs are still trembling, overstimmed and slick, body twitching from aftershocks when you feel the shift—Changbin rising above you, the heat of him crowding close.

He’s panting, flushed, eyes blown wide with hunger as he shoves his sweats down in one desperate motion.

And when his cock springs free—thick, flushed dark, glistening at the tip with pre-cum—your breath catches.

“Oh my god—” you whimper, voice cracking, eyes locked on the size of him. “Binnie, I… that’s not gonna—there’s no way you’re gonna fit—”

He grins.

That grin. The one that splits his face in half. Filthy. Cocky. Dangerous. The one that says: he knew you’d say that.

“Why do you think,” he growls, sliding one hand down your thigh again, fingertips brushing your soaked pussy with reverence, “I made you cum twice on my mouth and fingers first?”

He leans in—grinding his cock just barely against your slick folds, dragging the tip through the mess he made of you. You twitch, hips jumping, a sobbed gasp tearing from your throat.

“I had to get you ready, baby,” he whispers in your ear, voice molten. “Had to soften you up. Make you all loose and wet and perfect.”

You whine. Beg. Legs spread wide, fingers digging into his back, helpless and aching and needy.

“I—Binnie, please, please—”

He shudders at your tone. Cock twitches against your slit, smearing more of his precum along your folds.

“Oh, look at you,” he breathes, licking into your open mouth like he owns it. “Begging so sweet, baby. So fucking desperate.”

His cock nudges at your entrance—just barely—and your whole body arches like a live wire.

“You want me to ruin this little cunt, yeah?” he asks, dragging his tip against your slit again, teasing, leaking, cruel. “Wanna feel me stretch you open? Fill you up?”

You nod, babbling now. “Yes—yes, Binnie, please, I want it, I want you—”

“Then take a breath,” he grunts, lining himself up. “Gonna give it to you slow, baby. Gotta feel every inch.”

And fuck—

The stretch. The burn.

His cock presses in, just the tip, and already your mouth falls open, head tipping back against the cushions with a broken moan. He watches your face. Watches the way your lips part, your lashes flutter, your fingers claw into his arms like he’s too much—

But you’re still taking it. Bit by bit. Inch by aching inch.

“That’s it,” he whispers, awed, watching you swallow him whole. “That’s my good girl. So tight, baby, fuck—”

Your cunt grips him like a vice, soaked and fluttering around his cock, and he has to stop—just for a second—jaw clenched, breath punched from his lungs.

“Jesus fuck,” he hisses. “You’re gonna make me lose it.”

He’s only halfway in.

And already—already—your walls are clenching around him like they can’t let go, like your body’s trying to pull him in deeper even as it struggles to take him.

Changbin groans—low, guttural—like it’s tearing through his chest. His hips twitch forward another inch, and you choke on a moan, body arching, back scraping against the cushions.

“Fuck, baby…” he pants, stilling there, halfway buried inside you. His eyes drag up your body, drinking in every inch like he’s starved for the sight. “You look so—fucking—good.”

His hand comes up slowly, fingers tracing your jaw, thumb brushing your parted lips. And then—

He wraps it around your throat. “Look at you,” he mutters, squeezing just enough to make you gasp. “Cock halfway in and already losing your mind.”

Your eyes flutter. A soft, wrecked sound leaves your throat. You try to move—hips tilting up, desperate to take more—but his hand around your neck tightens.

Still.

“You gonna let me in, baby?” he whispers, voice dripping with sin. “You gonna take the rest? Let me ruin you properly?”

You nod, barely able to breathe now. Lips parting around a gasp, fingers gripping his forearms like please, please, please—

And then—

He snaps his hips forward. All at once. To the hilt.

You scream. Your body arches, eyes rolling, cunt spasming around him so tight he growls, low and vicious, fangs flashing.

“Fuck— that’s it.” he bites out, hand still firm around your throat, pinning you.

You can’t speak. You can barely breathe. All you can feel is the burn, the stretch, the fullness—his cock buried so deep it feels like he’s rearranging you, like he’s claiming places no one’s ever touched.

He holds still, grinding just enough to make you cry out again, your whole body twitching under his.

“So tight,” he breathes, voice full of dark reverence. “So warm. You were made for me.”

His hand loosens, just a little—enough to let you suck in air, enough to let the tears gather in your lashes. And then his other hand finds your waist, gripping it hard.

“Now hold on, baby,” he rasps. “I’m gonna fuck you until you can’t say anything but my name.” And the second your breath stutters under his hand—eyes dazed, lips red and kiss-swollen—Changbin snaps.

He pulls back just enough to feel the drag of your walls around him—tight, fluttering, soaked—and then he slams forward.

Hard.

You cry out, choked by his grip, back arching, legs trembling where they’re spread wide beneath him.

And then he does it again. And again. And again.

His pace is brutal—merciless—hips snapping into you with the force of someone barely holding on, cock pistoning deep with each thrust. You’re wrecked, voice gone to gasps and sobs, hands clawing at his back like you don’t know whether to pull him closer or push him away.

“Fuck, listen to you,” he groans, mouth right at your ear now, voice dark silk. “Whimpering like a little bitch every time I fuck into you.”

He grinds down between thrusts, making sure you feel him—every vein, every inch, every filthy promise his cock is making inside your cunt.

You sob his name, barely a sound—“B-Bin—”

His hand tightens around your throat. Your walls clench, pulsing, fluttering around him. “That’s it,” he whispers against your throat, and then—wet, open-mouthed kisses.

He devours the side of your neck—tongue dragging over skin, lips sucking marks into the curve of your throat, his fangs grazing every so often like he’s teasing the idea of biting again.

“God, you feel so fucking good.” he pants into your skin, hips hammering into you.

His free hand grabs under your knee, yanks your leg up over his hip, angle shifting—

And fuck—

He hits that spot. Again. And again. And again—

“Bin—please, I—!”

“Oh? Gonna cry for me?” he taunts, tongue licking over a fresh bruise blooming on your neck. “Go ahead. Cry while I fuck you dumb.”

Your whole body’s shaking, throat going raw from the sounds he’s dragging out of you. You’re gasping around his grip, every thrust shoving the air right back out again.

“Gonna fill this pussy up,” he groans. “Breed you like you were meant for it.”

Your moan—sharp, cracked, desperate—makes his thrusts get rougher.

The couch creaks. Your skin slaps against his. The room is full of nothing but obscene, messy, feral sounds. And when your body finally breaks, cunt spasming hard around his cock, stars bursting behind your eyes—he feels it.

He growls, deep in your throat. “Oh you’re cumming? Fuck, that’s it, squeeze my cock—take it—fucking take it, baby—”

Your orgasm crashes into you with devastating force. Your vision blurs, body going taut, your scream caught beneath his hand around your throat as your cunt clenches hard around him—tight, pulsing, desperate.

Changbin snaps.

“Fuck—fuck—fuck, that’s it, baby—”

His hips stutter, rhythm breaking as your walls milk him, suck him in deeper, tighter—your whole body shaking beneath him, back arched like you’ve forgotten how to breathe. His fangs flashing as he drives into you, cock twitching with every thrust.

And then—he cums. Hot. Deep. Endless. He growls, low and filthy, his whole body curling over you like a beast as his cock jerks inside you, painting your insides with thick, pulsing ropes of cum.

You moan—wrecked, breathless, barely conscious—feeling every pulse, every spurt. But he doesn’t pull out. Not yet. Instead, he rocks into you again—slow now, but deep—like he’s riding out the high, dragging both of you through the aftershocks together.

“Still twitching, baby,” he murmurs, voice rough silk, kissing your cheek, your jaw, your throat. His hand releases your neck—just enough to let you breathe, to suck in broken, wet gasps between sobs and moans.

“You feel that?” he whispers, cock still moving inside you, slow and obscene. “Feel how fucking full you are? God, you’re leaking already.”

You whimper, helpless, every inch of your body undone, trembling as he thrusts once—twice—just enough to push his cum deeper.

“Just a little more,” he breathes. “Let me have a few more, baby. You can take it. You’re being so fucking good.”

And fuck, you do.

You let him roll his hips, dragging his cock through your oversensitive cunt, both of you panting, covered in sweat and come and the kind of pleasure that breaks people.

Each stroke slow, reverent, dragging you both through the final waves of high until you’re trembling and gasping his name like it’s the only word left in your vocabulary.

And finally—finally—he stills.

His forehead drops to yours, eyes closed, chest heaving. His cock rests deep inside you, twitching once more before it settles, his cum slowly seeping out around him.

He kisses you—soft now, messy and lingering before pulling back. His breath evening out before yours does. You’re still trembling—body slick, wrecked, stuffed full and stretched wide, lips kiss-bruised and pulse still fluttering where he bit you. But it’s the way he holds you afterward that undoes you completely.

His nose nudges yours. “Hey,” he whispers. “You okay?”

You nod—barely. He shifts just enough to cradle your face in his hand, thumb brushing your cheek. “I need words, sweetheart.”

Your voice comes out cracked. “I’m okay. I’m… more than okay.”

His eyes search yours. Devour you, even now—but it’s not hunger anymore. Not like before. It’s reverence. Wonder. Like he still can’t believe he gets to touch you, much less have you.

He presses a kiss to your forehead. Then your temple. Then down the bridge of your nose like he’s mapping your whole face in devotion. “You didn’t just let me feed,” he murmurs. “You gave. That’s…”

He swallows hard. “That means something.”

You blink up at him. “I know.”

And that’s when it hits him. The weight of what just happened. What he is to you now. What you are to him.

“Come here,” he whispers, voice gone hoarse. He pulls out slowly, careful like he’s afraid he might hurt you, and you whimper at the loss—already aching. He hushes you instantly, curling you into his chest, one hand gripping your thigh.

He kisses the bite mark on your neck like an apology.

You're still tucked in his lap, legs draped over his thighs, your body humming from every place he’s touched you. There’s a strange quiet between you now—intimate, heavy, not uncomfortable. Just full. Like something sacred has been spoken without words.

“Mine,” he murmurs again against your skin, soft this time, like a prayer.

And then the office door opens.

“Hyung, I need to talk to you about the security issue at the northern—”

Jeongin freezes. Absolutely freezes. His eyes go wide.

He sees your shirtless body curled into Changbin’s chest, the half-buttoned shirt hanging off Changbin’s shoulders, the damp marks on his throat, your thighs, everything.

He turns. Immediately.

“NOPE. NOPE. NOT AGAIN. WHAT THE ACTUAL—”

“Jeongin,” Changbin tries.

Jeongin throws a hand in the air, walking backwards out the door like he’s warding off a vampire exorcism. “DON’T EVEN. I SWEAR TO GOD.”

You choke on a laugh and bury your face in Changbin’s chest. He groans.

Jeongin’s voice echoes from the hallway. “YOU WERE THE SANE ONE, HYUNG. THE ONLY ONE. WHAT IS THIS—CHAN HYUNG 2.0??? I NEED A VACATION. I’M BOOKING A FLIGHT TO MALTA. FUCK YOU. FUCK THIS WHOLE COURT.”

Seungmin’s voice drifts in from further down the hall. “You’re not going anywhere, Jeongin.”

“I DESERVE PEACE!”

“No one told you to barge into Changbin’s office without knocking.”

“I KNOCKED! I ALWAYS KNOCK! THEY NEVER LISTEN!”

You’re trembling with laughter now. Changbin sighs and kisses your temple. “We might’ve... soundproofed the room.”

Jeongin’s distant shriek: “SEUNGMIN LET ME TAKE A SINGLE DAY OFF—”

“No.”

“WHY IS THIS A SEXUAL COURT NOW? IT USED TO BE BLOOD AND BUSINESS AND NOW IT’S BITE MARKS AND BONDING—”

You finally break, giggling uncontrollably against Changbin’s chest. He just groans and hugs you tighter.

“…He’s never gonna let this go,” you murmur.

“Nope.”

“…Should we lock the door?”

“We’re soundproofed, baby. We don’t need to lock shit.”

You glance up at him. He smirks.

Bang Chan

The keypad beeps.

You barely breathe before your feet are moving—heart thudding, heat already curling low in your belly. You don’t wait. No time for hellos. No time for “Welcome home.”

The door creaks open and Chan moves inside—hood off, hair stuck to his forehead, black t-shirt clinging to the sweat on his chest, and those goddamn grey sweatpants slung low on his hips.

He doesn’t even see you coming.

You collide with him in the hallway—fists gripping his shirt, mouth crashing into his before he can speak.

“Wha—mmph,” he grunts, catching your waist automatically, stumbling back a step from the sheer force of your hunger. You don't give him a chance to recover.

Your tongue licks into his mouth, hands already sliding down, tugging at the loose knot in his drawstring, fingers brushing against sweat-damp abs. He shudders. You moan.

“Fuck—baby,” he groans, pulling back just enough to look at you. His pupils are blown, lips already swollen. “What’s gotten into—”

You drop to your knees.

Right there in the hallway. No warning. No teasing. Just grab the waistband of those soaked sweatpants and pull them down with purpose.

Chan gasps—his cock already hard, flushed deep red at the tip, leaking. You look up, tongue running across your bottom lip, and he just breathes, “Oh, fuck me.”

His hand flies to the back of your head—but he’s not pushing. He’s holding on. Like he might fall apart if you move too fast.

“Didn’t even shower,” he mutters, voice thick, guttural. “You want me like this? All sweaty, baby?”

You hum in response—warm breath ghosting over his length, and he twitches.

“I want you filthy,” you whisper, dragging your tongue up the base—slow and teasing, tasting every bead of sweat, the salt of his skin, the heat of hours on his body. “I want to ruin you before you get clean.”

“Jesus Christ,” he chokes. “You’re—fuck—You’re gonna make me cum already.”

And then you wrap your lips around the head, hollowing your cheeks, moaning as he sinks deeper into your mouth.

Chan loses it.

His head drops back against the wall, hips jerking forward, thighs trembling. The hand in your hair tightens, the other gripping the corner where wall meets doorframe like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

“Good girl,” he groans. “Fucking perfect like this. Tongue—ah, shit, just like that.”

He grits his teeth, hips rolling forward slow—but the tension in his thighs betrays him. He’s trying to stay controlled, trying to savor you. But the second you moan around him again, lips glossy, eyes already glassy?

It’s over.

"Fuck it,” he mutters, voice dropping to that dangerous growl you know means trouble. “You want me filthy?”

You nod—barely—mouth still wrapped around him, your tongue licking behind your teeth, dragging along every swollen vein.

He exhales through his nose and grabs your jaw, thumb pressing against your cheek. “Then take it.”

And he starts to fuck your mouth.

Not a tease. Not gentle.

Thrusts deep, the tip hitting the back of your throat before you can breathe. The wet slap of skin on your lips echoes loud in the hallway as he ruts into your face, sweat from his abs dripping down your chin. You choke, eyes watering instantly—but you don’t pull back.

You want this. Need it. Crave it like air.

"That's it, baby," he pants, looking down at you like you're something to worship and ruin all at once. “Drooling on my cock already? Fuckin' nasty little thing.”

Your nails dig into his thighs and he groans, hips stuttering. “You’re not even fighting me. Just letting me use your throat like it’s mine.”

You try to say his name but it’s nothing but a garbled choke, spit dripping down your chin, eyes red and cheeks bulging. He pulls out with a loud, wet pop—just enough for you to inhale—before thrusting back in deeper, pushing past resistance.

“Gonna cum just like this,” he hisses, twitching on your tongue, forehead slick and eyes wild. “Not even a second in the door and you’re gagging on me like a fuckin’ heat-drunk mess.”

You whimper.

He feels it—your throat clenching, your tongue flattening, your jaw relaxing just to take more. You’ve gone slack and obedient, dripping with spit and submission.

“Ohhh fuck, good girl. Good—good fucking girl.”

And then he cums.

Hard.

Hot.

Deep.

Cock pulsing against your tongue as he moans, low and filthy, holding you flush to his pelvis. You swallow instinctively, once, twice, choking just a little—and he groans like it’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen.

When he finally pulls out, cock still twitching and glistening with spit, your jaw’s slack, tongue out, lips shiny, and he just watches you breathe for a moment.

“Didn’t even let me get my shoes off,” he chuckles, dark and breathless. His hand strokes your cheek, thumb smearing a bit of his own cum across your lower lip. “God, look at you.”

You blink back the tears that gathered and Chan tucks himself halfway back into his sweats, helps you up to your feet—but doesn’t give you a chance to catch your breath.

His arms wrap around your thighs.

You yelp.

And just like that, he hoists you over his shoulder, your ass in the air, face pressed to his sweaty back, heartbeat thundering between your legs.

“Didn’t even let me take a fuckin’ breath,” he mutters, palming your thigh. You can feel his cum still warm on your chin. “You think you’re getting away with that?”

You squirm, giggling, breathless—but he lands a hard slap on your ass and grins when you gasp. “You’re real fuckin’ lucky I missed you today.” You try to respond, but all you can manage is a breathless whimper as he stalks down the hall, grip possessive, pace fast.

He kicks the bedroom door open. Slams it shut behind him. And tosses you on the bed like you’re the next thing he’s about to devour. Already tugging his sweats the rest of the way down, dark eyes locked on you like a promise.

You're laid out on the mattress, chest heaving and Chan’s already crawling over you. Sweats gone. Cock hard again. Eyes dark like stormclouds rolling in. You can still feel his cum smeared across your chin, tacky on your skin, and it makes your head spin.

"You look so fucked out already," he murmurs, voice thick with want. “But you’re not done yet, are you, baby?”

You shake your head, biting your lip—and he smirks like you just said something delicious.

“No,” he hums, crawling between your legs, body hot and heavy and damp with sweat. “You’re never done with me. Not until I say.”

He grabs your jaw again—thumb smearing your bottom lip, collecting his own release from your skin and pushing it into your mouth.

“Swallow it.”

You moan around his thumb, tongue curling around the taste of him, and he groans, hips twitching forward.

“That’s it,” he breathes. “Such a good little mess for me.”

Then he leans in. Not to kiss. To devour.

His mouth crashes to your throat, trailing down to your chest, teeth dragging, tongue licking every inch of skin you didn’t even know was sensitive.

And when he gets between your legs? He doesn’t tease. Doesn’t talk. He just presses his cock in deep—slow and thick and overwhelming—with a groan that sounds like prayer.

You arch, crying out, hands clutching his forearms, nails sinking into sweaty skin.

“Shhh,” he coos, thrusting deep and slow. “Just let me in.”

You do. You take it. All of him. All over again. He fills you like it’s instinct—like your body was made to hold his. And once he’s buried to the hilt?

He doesn’t move.

Just holds you there, pinned underneath him, cock throbbing, your cunt fluttering from the pressure, your legs wrapped tight around his waist.

“Feel that?” he whispers, kissing your jaw. “That’s me, baby. That’s all of me.”

You whimper. Squirm. Try to roll your hips.

He chuckles—deep and dangerous.

“Nuh-uh. Not yet. You wanted me sweaty? Filthy? Unshowered and on the edge? Then you’re gonna lie here and take every fucking inch of it until I decide I’m done fucking into you.”

He grinds, slow and brutal—just once—and your eyes roll back.

"Let’s see how many loads you can hold, sweetheart.”

He then starts to move. Not fast. Not pounding. Just deep. Possessive. Each thrust a grind of heat and pressure that makes your toes curl and your back arch.

“Yeah,” he groans, forehead pressed to yours, breath hot against your lips. “You’re fuckin’ perfect like this. Wrapped around me. Taking me.”

You sob—can’t help it—because it’s too much and not enough. You’re so full, so wet, his precum already starting to mix with your slick, squelching every time he rocks into you.

“God, listen to that,” he pants, his mouth at your ear. “Hear how wet you are for me? You love this. You love getting stuffed full of me before I’ve even washed the day off.”

You nod frantically, legs locked around him. “C-Chan—fuck—I’m gonna—”

His hand slides down, grabs your jaw, tilts your face up.

“You’re gonna cum baby?” he growls, eyes sharp and electric. “Already?”

You whimper—helpless, delirious—your hips rising to meet his every push.

He’s so deep. So thick. So fucking good.

"Cum on it, then," he says through gritted teeth. “Be my good fucking girl and cum.” And you do. Your orgasm hits so fucking hard and you clamp around him with a cry, thighs shaking, eyes rolling back—and he fucks you through it, grinding deeper, sweat dripping off his body and down your chest.

His cock pulses—he’s cumming again.

“Shit—fuck—fuck, baby—”

He buries himself to the hilt with a groan that sounds like pain and pleasure melted together, hands grabbing at your waist like you’re slipping away. And then—

You feel it. Hot. Heavy. Endless. He cums again. Deep inside. But he doesn’t stop.

Just grinds. Slow. Messy. Filthy. Spreading the warmth of it everywhere inside you, cock still twitching, your cunt fluttering around the overstimulation.

He leans in, panting against your mouth, your sweat and his mixing on your skin, his arms shaking from holding himself up.

“You’re still fuckin’ tight,” he moans, rubbing himself deeper with every lazy grind. “Still squeezing me like you want another load.”

You can’t even speak. Just cry out, overwhelmed, broken open and full to the brim. And that’s when he stops moving. Just stays there. Buried deep. Cock still throbbing. Still hard. And he kisses your cheek, feverish and slow, whispering: “Shh… Just keep me inside, baby. Let me stay. We’ll move again in a minute.”

Lee Minho

You hear the door click open.

Minho having returned from dance practice. All silent and composed and already toeing his shoes off, black hoodie halfway unzipped, revealing the faintest sheen of sweat down his chest.

He doesn’t see you at first. But you’re already moving.

You don’t even let him shut the door.

You grab a fistful of his hoodie, yank him inside, and press your mouth to his before he can speak. He freezes—just for a second. Shock, maybe. You don’t usually ambush him.

But then—his hands slide around your waist. And his mouth turns hungry. He kisses back slow at first—dangerously slow—like he’s thinking while tasting you, deciding exactly how he’s going to handle this.

And when your hands drop to the drawstring of his grey sweatpants?

He grabs your wrists. Tight. Controlling. Not cruel. But unmovable. “What do you think you’re doing, baby?” His voice is a low purr. Dangerous. Almost amused.

“I want you like this,” you breathe, nuzzling into his neck. You inhale—he smells like warm cotton, salt, and that irresistible Minho scent that clings to his sweat. “Don’t want you clean. Want you filthy. Want you now.”

There’s a pause. Just the sound of your breathing. His grip doesn’t loosen and before you even know it, he yanks you toward the bedroom.

You stumble as he drags you down the hall, grip bruising on your wrist, chest rising under his damp hoodie. You try to speak—say “Minho—”—but you don’t get the chance.

Because the moment the bedroom door shuts behind you?

He pushes you onto the bed. Hard. Your back bounces on the mattress, and he’s already stripping off his hoodie with one hand, the other pushing your thighs apart like it’s his fucking right.

“You want me sweaty?” he growls, tossing the hoodie to the floor, eyes flashing like warning signs. “Want the smell of my sweat on your skin while you cum?”

You can’t even speak—just nod, breath shuddering as he sinks down to his knees.

“You really are filthy.”

He doesn’t even pull your panties down. He just presses his face between your legs, inhales hard, groans—“Fuck, that’s it.” And then licks you right through the fabric, tongue slow and deliberate, letting the scent of sweat and sex bleed together into something carnal and overwhelming.

You gasp—hips jerking—but he pins you down with both arms, holding your thighs wide apart, his face already soaked from your arousal and the heat of his own body.

“Minho—oh my god—” you choke, fingers flying to his hair.

And he rips your panties to the side with a grunt, diving in fully—tongue sliding between your folds, slick, greedy, relentless.

It’s not soft. It’s not patient. It’s devastating.

He moans low in his throat, tongue flicking your clit like he’s mapping out revenge, sucking hard, filthy, his nose bumping against your cunt, hair sticking to his forehead with sweat.

“Does this feel good?” he mutters between strokes, not even looking up. “Getting eaten out by a man who hasn’t even showered?”

You sob something incoherent, already trembling.

And he smirks against you.

“Good. Because I’m not stopping until your thighs are shaking and my face is dripping with you.”

And then he buries himself again—tongue fucking deep, lips locking around your clit, fingers digging into your thighs like anchors—eating you like he’s starving and your cunt is the cure.

Your head rolls back.

You’re gasping now, sobbing into the sheets, legs locked around his shoulders—but he’s unrelenting. Tongue working in slow, devastating circles, lips dragging across your clit like velvet, every move so calculated it makes you cry.

And all the while, Minho doesn’t stop moaning.

Like you taste better than water. Better than sleep. Like he came home for this. Like your pussy was the destination.

“You sound so pretty when you whimper,” he mutters, pausing just long enough to breathe before licking a thick, heavy stripe up your center—tongue flat, slow, filthy. “Dripping all over my face, and I haven’t even touched your pussy with my cock yet.”

“Please,” you beg—desperate, undone. Your thighs tremble against his jaw, and your hands are in his hair, trying to anchor yourself to something.

He chuckles darkly. “You gonna cum like this? All messy and cock-starved?”

You whimper something like yes—but he doesn’t let you finish.

His mouth clamps around your clit again, sucking, tongue curling just right—and the orgasm rips through you like lightning.

You scream, back arching, thighs clamping, hips bucking into his face—and he just holds you down and keeps eating through it, licking and lapping and humming like he’s trying to drink your soul.

“Minho—fuck, please—”

You’re babbling, shaking, overstimulated beyond reason—and then he finally pulls away, his lips slick, chin wet, and eyes dark with hunger.

“Look at you,” he breathes, licking his mouth like he’s tasting your cum for a second time. “You came so fast for me.”

You reach for him. Desperate. Feral. Already empty again.

“I need—” you choke, voice shaking. “Minho—please, I need your cock. I need it—I need to feel it—I need to be full.”

His gaze sharpens. Voice lowers.

“You need to be fucked dumb, don’t you?”

You nod frantically, writhing.

He grabs your hips—flips you with one brutal pull—and kneels behind you. His sweats are already shoved down, cock flushed and leaking, and he doesn’t tease. Doesn’t pause. Doesn’t even breathe.

He lines up and slams into you in one deep, unforgiving thrust.

You moan loudly, voice cracking, because he fills you all at once—thick, hot, stretching you wide, your pussy already soaked and fluttering from the orgasm he tore out of you with his tongue.

“Fuck yes,” he growls, thrusting deep, pace fast and merciless. “This what you needed? This what that pretty pussy was crying for?”

You’re shaking under him, face buried in the mattress, hands clutching the sheets like they’ll keep you anchored to the earth.

He fucks you like he’s claiming you, hips slapping, sweat dripping from his body onto your back, his cock dragging across every nerve inside you like he knows exactly where to aim.

“Take it,” he pants, voice breaking. “Take all of it. You wanted me dirty, baby? You’re getting all of it.”

You’re choking on every thrust. Your body jolts forward with each snap of his hips, the mattress creaking beneath you, your thighs trembling, soaked and burning.

“You wanted this?” he snarls, pace brutal now, his voice wrecked, ragged. “Wanted me like this? Sweaty. Filthy. Feral—?”

Your mouth is open, drooling into the sheets, sounds spilling out with every slap of skin-on-skin. He’s so deep, fucking you like he’s trying to stay inside you forever—like your pussy is the only place he ever wanted to be.

And then—

His hand fists your hair.

He yanks your head back—sharp, mean, delicious—exposing your throat to the hot, panting air.

“Look at you,” he hisses against your ear. “Fucked stupid already. Can’t even speak.”

Your lips tremble, eyes fluttering, brain static. “M-Min—”

“No,” he cuts in. His cock drives deeper, angling just right to grind against your sweet spot with every savage thrust. “Don’t say my name. Scream it.”

And you do.

Because the drag of him inside you is overwhelming—relentless, the tip of his cock punishing your walls just right, your clit swollen and untouched, but still throbbing. You're wound so tight you could shatter from nothing but breath.

“Fuck, I feel you,” he groans, hips starting to falter—not slowing down, just getting wilder. “Your pussy’s choking me. You close? Huh?”

You sob—legs giving out—but he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t let you fall. He grabs your hips tighter, slams in deeper, and pulls your hair harder.

"Cum on it," he grits out, teeth clenched, sweat dripping from his jaw to your skin. "Cum on my fucking cock like you were made for it."

You break.

Your whole body convulses—mouth open in a silent scream, vision white-hot as your orgasm tears through you. Your pussy clamps down around him, tight and wet and pulsing, and Minho groans like a demon.

“Shit—fuck—take it, baby, take it—”

He slams in one last time—deep and desperate—and cums hard.

So fucking hard.

His cock pulses, twitching inside you as he fills you deep, warm, thick—his hips rutting through it even as he moans, low and guttural, pouring himself into you like he’s emptying his soul.

You both collapse forward.

His body blanketing yours, cock still buried, cum dripping from between your legs, your chest heaving, your brain gone.

He doesn’t move. Just breathes. And whispers: “...Next time? Don’t you dare wait ‘til I’m clean.”

Seo Changbin

The lock beeps.

You’re already perched on the armrest of the couch like a trap. Loose tank. No bra. Nothing under the shorts. Waiting.

And when Changbin walks in, fresh from dance practice—hair sticking to his forehead, black tank soaked through, neck glistening, grey sweatpants clinging to his thighs like a sin—you move.

“Hey, baby—whoa—!”

You pounce. Full-body slam.

He grunts, catching you with both arms instantly—those arms—biceps flexing as you wrap your legs around him like a koala on a mission.

“Missed me that much?” he teases, grinning, breathless from the surprise. “Or are you just that horny for my sweat?”

Your answer? Mouth on his neck.

Tongue dragging over salt-slick skin, nose buried in the heat beneath his jaw, hands tugging at the waistband of his sweats.

“Shit,” he breathes, stumbling backward as you grind against him, your arousal already soaking through your shorts. “You’re fucking serious.”

“Don’t shower yet,” you pant. “I want it like this. I want you like this.”

He looks down at you. Sees the hunger in your eyes. Smirks. “You’re outta your mind.” Then shrugs. “Lucky for you… I’m worse.”

He hauls you up higher, grips your thighs tight, and throws you on the couch like you weigh nothing. You barely have time to catch your breath before he’s on you—sweat-slick, pumped, and hard already.

And he doesn’t undress you. Doesn’t even ask. Just yanks your shorts down and growls: “Gonna fuck you like this until you’re crying.”

“Spread,” he growls, voice low, knuckles bruising your knees as he pushes your thighs open on the couch. “Now.”

You do.

Breath hitching. Heart pounding. Pussy already wet and twitching at just the sound of him. Changbin lowers his sweats alongside his briefs, freeing his cock and then spits into his hand—messy, hot, unbothered—and strokes himself once, twice.

And you see it.

Thick. Veined. Heavy.

That fat fucking cock you always forget just how much it stretches you. Until it’s right there again—pulsing in his palm, the tip flushed and leaking, already too big for your brain.

“You’re already dripping,” he mutters, leaning over you with a smirk. His tank hangs loose from one shoulder, soaked with sweat, and his hips are cocked like he’s about to ruin your entire career. “You that desperate for this cock, baby?”

You nod frantically. “Please—Binnie—need it, need to feel it—”

“Yeah?” He lines himself up. Pushes in—slow at first. Just the head.

And you sob. Because fuck, the stretch. The stretch.

Your pussy clenches helplessly, trying to take him, trying to make room—because he’s so thick and heavy, the kind of full that makes your eyes water. And he hasn’t even bottomed out yet.

“Shit,” he breathes, watching your face twist. “Still so fucking tight.”

He slides in more, and more—inch by devastating inch, sweat dripping from his chest onto your belly, his hands gripping your thighs so hard you’ll have bruises.

And when he finally bottoms out?

You’re split open. Stuffed.

“God, you’re fucking made for me,” he growls, pulling out halfway—then slamming back in. “Taking all this cock, huh? Just letting me stretch this little pussy out like it’s nothing.”

You choke on a cry, back arching, nails digging into the couch.

He picks up the pace. Fast. Brutal. Loud. The wet slap of skin against skin echoes through the room. Your body bounces with every thrust, tits shaking, throat raw with moans.

“You like that?” he pants, one hand gripping your waist, the other coming up to your throat.

Pressure. Just enough. Enough to make you go dizzy—floaty—your pussy fluttering around his cock as he ruts into you like a beast.

“Fuckin’ look at you,” he snarls. “Taking it all like a little cockslut. You wanted me sweaty? Now I’m drippin’ all over you while I pound this pussy into the fuckin’ couch.”

You can’t even answer. Just sob. Shake. Clench. So full.

And when he leans in, lips brushing your cheek, voice rough and close?

“You’re gonna cum like this. On this thick cock. With my hand around your throat. Soaked in my sweat.”

You’re whimpering, barely coherent, mouth slack as his fingers tighten around your neck—just enough to make your breath shallow, your vision swim.

And his other hand? He slips it under your loose tank, shoves it up, exposing your tits to the hot air.

“Fuck,” he hisses when he sees them—bouncing with every thrust, nipples stiff, glistening with sweat. “You’re so fucking pretty like this. Messy little fucktoy.”

His hips don’t stop. Not even for a second.

Slamming into you, brutal and perfect, cock dragging along every sensitive nerve inside you like he’s trying to carve you open. You cry out, high and breathless, and he just grins.

“That’s it, baby. Let me hear you.”

His palm cups your breast, rough and greedy, thumb flicking over your nipple while his cock splits you open, while your body burns under him—your pussy fluttering, stuffed so full you feel like you might break.

You gasp into his hand, and he moans low in his throat, like he can feel your reaction in his cock.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, almost sweet if his tone weren’t dripping with pure filth. “So fuckin’ close, huh? You gonna cum just from this?”

You nod, frantic, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes as he releases your throat—only to drag that hand down between your legs.

“Oh my god—”

He doesn’t wait. Doesn’t tease.

Just rubs your clit hard and fast, the way he knows drives you insane—his cock still hammering into you, still filling you with every deep, punishing thrust.

“S’too much—Binnie—fuck—” You’re blabbering, sobbing, legs shaking, the couch damp beneath you.

But he’s not stopping. Not when you’re this close. Not when you’re writhing. He leans down again, body pressing to yours, soaked tank clinging to your skin, and growls in your ear: “Cum for me. Ruin this couch. Show me how good your little cunt is at milking every drop out of my cock.”

And you snap.

You cum with a scream—loud, shaking, your entire body locking up, your pussy clamping down so hard around him he curses, slamming in deep one last time.

He shudders as you pulse around him, and then he cums deep inside, thick and flooding you, pushing it even deeper by the way your hips buck helplessly under him.

You’re sobbing into the cushions. Soaking the couch. And he’s still grinding.

“Don’t run from it,” he murmurs, fingers still working your clit gently as his cock twitches inside your ruined, overstimulated cunt. “Take it all, baby. All of it.”

You’re wrecked.

And he just kisses your neck, smiling against your skin, whispering—

“You’re not moving for a while. And I’m not pulling out.”

Hwang Hyunjin

You hear the door before you hear his voice—keys dropping, gym bag thudding, shoes kicked off with a tired sigh.

He’s home. And you’re already moving.

Because Hyunjin after dance practice is your favorite version of him. Sweaty. Loosened. Raw. His long hair sticking to his temples, his tank top clinging to his chest, and those goddamn grey sweatpants slung low on his hips, riding just right over tight thighs.

You meet him at the hallway.

No warning. No hello.

Just grab a fistful of his shirt and pull him in—mouth on his, tongue sliding deep, needy and wet and messy, and he freezes for half a second before he moans low, like a match being struck.

“What the fuck,” he breathes, dazed as you grind your hips against his. “You’re seriously doing this right now?”

You lick into his mouth, fingers already tugging at the knot in his waistband, and whisper, “I want you sweaty.”

He laughs—sharp and breathless. “Oh, baby. You’re in trouble.”

You don’t even make it to the bedroom.

He presses you against the wall, one hand already down your shorts, fingers dipping between your folds like he’s testing how badly you need it.

“You’re soaking,” he growls. “From a kiss? From my sweat? Fuck, that’s filthy.”

He sinks to his knees without warning, sweat-damp hair falling around his face, and rips your shorts down like he’s starving.

“Jinnie—!”

“Shut up,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “I’m eating.”

And then his mouth is on you.

Hot. Wet. Mean.

His tongue licks up your cunt like a threat, like he’s trying to carve his name into you with every flick. He grabs your thighs, spreads you open wider, and goes in.

He groans. Loud. And then he moans. Fucking moans like your pussy is the best meal he’s ever had, sloppy and noisy and unashamed, saliva dripping down his chin as he devours you like a man possessed.

"Sweet and salty," he murmurs, breath hot against your clit. "Just like I like it."

You’re shaking.

He presses his tongue flat, drags it over your clit slow—then sucks hard, lips locking around you, tongue fluttering fast, cruel, perfect.

Your hands fly to his hair. Your knees buckle. And he just grips your thighs tighter, moaning like he’s getting off on your sounds, your taste, your squirming.

“You gonna cum like this?” he pants, lips slick, chin drenched. “Gonna fucking fall apart on my face?”

You sob—already so close, already gone.

And he smirks. “Then fucking do it.”

Your vision’s gone white.

Your hips are grinding against his face, fingers clawing at his scalp, knees wobbling as the orgasm rips through you like a storm.

“F-Fuck—Hyun—!”

You cum on his tongue.

Messy. Loud. Drenched.

He groans—deep in his throat like he’s getting drunk on it—tongue flicking even harder, lips sealed tight around your clit as he sucks through your climax.

You try to pull away.

He doesn’t let you.

He grabs your ass with both hands and pulls you down onto his face harder—and now you’re riding it, practically sitting on his mouth, your thighs shaking, whimpering, overstimulated and wrecked and still so, so wet.

He comes up for air only after you’re crying.

Face soaked. Lips glistening. Chest rising and falling like he just sprinted a marathon.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, looks up at you with those wild eyes, and smirks.

“Did I say I was done?”

You barely have time to blink before he’s lifting you up, arms under your thighs, carrying you to the couch like you weigh nothing.

“Jinnie—wait—!”

“No.” His voice is low. Commanding. Filthy. “You’re gonna squirt on my fingers, and then you can beg for cock.”

He drops you onto the cushions, spreads your legs open, and sinks to his knees between them.

“You look good like this,” he mutters, watching your cunt twitch, still wet, still sensitive. “Pussy all swollen. Just begging to be used.”

And then—two fingers. Right in. No warning, no warm-up, just thick, long and fast, curling upward like he’s already memorized every nerve you can’t handle.

You scream.

He starts to finger fuck you hard, sweat still rolling down his neck, muscles flexing as his wrist moves with precision—like an artist painting with your body.

“That’s it, baby,” he groans, thrusting deep, palm slapping your clit with every motion. “You’re dripping all over my hand. You want more?”

“Please—fuck—I can’t—”

“You can.” He leans in close, breath hot against your cheek. “I haven’t even drawn my name in your cum yet.”

His fingers speed up. Wrist twisting. Palm grinding.

You lose it.

Your thighs lock, your eyes roll back, your pussy gushes—

You squirt.

All over his hand. All over the couch. Soaking the cushions, his arm, your thighs, everything.

And Hyunjin just watches. Smirking. Drenched. Hard as hell. “Yeah,” he pants, licking your cum off his wrist with lazy, hungry strokes. “Now you’re ready.”

He leans over you, sweat dripping from his jaw onto your stomach. “Now you’re gonna take my cock. And we’re not stopping ‘til you do that again.”

He leans over you slowly, tongue licking the corner of his mouth, his free hand already sliding down to push his sweats and briefs down just enough to free his cock—hard, flushed, dripping, slapping wetly against your mound.

You whimper.

"Shhh," he coos, breath hot against your cheek. "You're twitching already. Look at you. So fucking sensitive, and I haven’t even fucked you yet."

You try to speak—don’t even know what you’re trying to say—but your body is trembling, eyes wide and glassy, lips parted, hips rolling involuntarily toward the heat of him.

He reaches down and grabs his cock, drags the head between your folds, slow and mean, teasing your overstimulated clit with just the tip.

Your whole body jolts.

He watches the way your pussy jumps, the way your thighs clamp together, and smiles—soft and cruel.

"Still soaked from squirting on me like a needy little mess," he whispers, circling your clit again with the head of his cock. "You gonna cry when I finally fuck it in?"

You nod, desperate, broken, begging without words.

"Yeah? Then cry."

And he thrusts in. All at once. Deep. Heavy.

Your back arches off the couch with a scream, the sudden stretch too much, too fast, too fucking perfect, and Hyunjin moans as he bottoms out—his hips pressed against yours, your walls fluttering like they don’t know whether to grip or push him out.

"Oh my fuck—" he chokes, head dropping to your shoulder. "You’re tight as hell. So warm. Just sucked me right in."

He doesn’t move.

Just grinds, deep and slow, letting you feel every thick inch as your pussy clenches, so wet that the slide is almost obscene—your slick and his precum mixing, leaking down your ass and onto the couch.

"Can feel you pulsing," he whispers, voice gone hoarse. "Still coming down? Don’t care."

He leans up—grabs your hips, and starts to thrust. Hard. Deep. Bruising.

The sound of skin slapping against soaked skin fills the room. Sweat drips from his chest to yours. His hair sticks to his face. His cock pounds into you, and you sob from the overwhelming pleasure.

“Take it,” he growls, one hand sliding to grab your tit, fingers digging in as he thrusts rougher. “Take all of it.”

There's tears in your eyes. Mouth open in gasps. Pussy milking him like it’s trying to keep him in your body forever. “You’re shaking again,” he breathes, leaning close to kiss the corner of your mouth. “Bet I can make you squirt on my cock.”

You whimper—your whole body trembling, overstimulated to the point of delirium, sweat soaking your back, your thighs aching from how hard you’re clenching.

But he doesn’t stop.

He’s fucking you through it—deep, fast, brutal. Every thrust is precise, his cock dragging right over that spot inside you that makes your legs kick, makes your voice break.

“C’mon, baby,” he pants, licking the sweat from your jaw, voice breaking with you. “Give it to me. Fuckin’ give it to me.”

His hips roll faster, slapping against your soaked skin, the sound wet and obscene, your body bouncing under his weight. You claw at his back, crying out, overwhelmed beyond sense, your mind already unraveling.

“Jinnie—I can’t—too much—!”

“Yes you fucking can,” he growls, teeth dragging against your collarbone. “You're gonna squirt all over my cock, and you’re gonna take every drop when I cum inside you.”

And then he slams deep and grinds, hips rolling in a filthy rhythm, cock thick and twitching inside you—and something in you snaps.

“Fuck—!”

You scream, back arching violently as it hits you. Your pussy clenches so hard around him it makes him moan, and then—

You squirt. All over his cock, down your thighs, onto the ruined couch beneath you.

Hyunjin groans deep in your ear, his voice a raw, fucked-out growl as your cunt pulses around him like it’s trying to pull his soul in.

“Oh my fucking god—yes—fuck yes—”

And he loses it.

One final thrust, and he cums. Presses all the way in, burying himself to the hilt, and you can feel the way he twitches, the way he fills you—thick ropes of it spilling into your sore, overstimulated pussy as he pants above you, drenched in sweat, still shaking.

He doesn’t move.

Just collapses forward, still inside you, your bodies pressed together, cum leaking down your ass, both of you breathless, ruined, shaking.

And then—his hand cups your cheek.

“Look at you,” he whispers, voice warm, wrecked, in awe. “Made a fuckin’ masterpiece on my cock.”

Han Jisung

The door slams open—harder than usual—and there he is:

Han Jisung, soaked with sweat, hood halfway off his head, grey sweatpants dangerously low, curls stuck to his forehead, and lips already parted.

“Baaabyyy,” he groans before even seeing you, tossing his bag somewhere in the general direction of the floor. “Practice killed me. I’m so sweaty, I smell like I fought a demon and lost—”

You cut him off with your mouth.

One second he’s mid-ramble, the next, your tongue is in his mouth, your hands in his waistband, your body already on fire. His eyes go comically wide—and then roll back.

“W-Whoa—wait—wait—mmph—!”

You don’t wait. You don’t stop. You’re already pushing him into the wall, kissing him filthy, tugging those sweatpants down while he makes the prettiest little sounds—half-laughs, half-gasps, all desperation.

“W-What the fuck—what the fuck is happening?” he pants, dazed. “Did you—did you just get turned on by my smell—?”

You palm his cock through his briefs.

He whimpers.

“Oh my God,” he chokes, hands flying to your hips like he doesn’t know whether to push or pull. “You’re—fuck, you’re actually into this? You’re gonna suck me off while I’m still gross from rehearsal?”

You pull back, licking your lips.

“I don’t want you clean, Ji. I want you messy.”

He just melts. Full body crumbles, eyes fluttering, mouth falling open.

“...I’m gonna cum just from that alone.”

You grab his wrist and yank him toward the couch without a word.

He stumbles after you, breath hitching, cock already half-hard under his briefs. He’s still sweaty, flushed from practice, his skin warm and sticky—but you don’t care.

You want it. You want all of it. You push him down onto the cushions, and he just falls with a soft oof, legs spread slightly, looking up at you with wide, ruined eyes.

“Wait—baby, are you—fuck, are you sure? I smell like a locker room and I haven’t even—”

You shove your hand into his waistband.

He chokes on his sentence.

You grip both sweats and briefs and yank them down in one go, cock springing free, flushed red and twitching—already leaking for you.

“Fuuuck,” he whines, head falling back, chest heaving. “You’re serious. You’re really—oh my God—”

You toss his sweats aside like trash. Kneel between his legs. Grab his thighs. And sink your mouth over the head of his cock without a single warning.

“F-fuck—oh fuck oh fuck—”

He’s already moaning, legs tensing, hands scrambling into your hair like he doesn't know whether to push or just hold on for dear life.

Your tongue swirls over the slit, catching the precum, letting it mix with your spit as you take more—inch by inch, until he hits the back of your throat and your eyes start to water.

You pull back just a little, then slide back down with a slick, wet groan—gagging softly, your lips stretched, spit pooling at the corners of your mouth.

Jisung is losing his goddamn mind.

His hands tighten in your hair, and he’s panting like he just ran five miles.

“Shitshitshit—baby, baby, you’re gonna—fuck—if you do that again I’m gonna cum—I’m not kidding—”

You moan around him.

His hips jerk up off the couch, thrusting into your throat before he can stop himself.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps, voice cracking, eyes rolling back. “I-I didn’t mean to do that—fuck, you just feel so good, your mouth is so wet, I can’t—”

You moan again around him—loud and filthy, throat tightening around his cock as your own hand slips down into your shorts, fingers diving between your legs, rubbing messy circles over your clit while he fucks your mouth like he owns it.

You’re gagging softly, drooling, spit soaking your chin, hand moving faster over your clit as he thrusts shallow and fast, hips jerking forward in helpless little snaps.

Jisung looks down.

And he loses it.

“Holy—fuck—are you—are you touching yourself right now?!”

You look up at him, eyes glassy, makeup smudged, tongue flattening under his cock, and your fingers keep moving.

You don’t break eye contact. You just moan again. On his cock.

The sound vibrates all the way through him.

“Baby,” he whines, voice cracking open like he’s about to cry. “You’re gonna fucking break me, I swear to God—”

His hands are gripping your hair, holding you down while his hips fuck into your throat, wet sounds echoing through the room, your saliva dripping everywhere—his thighs, the couch, your own chin—and your fingers don’t stop.

You’re soaked.

So turned on from the weight of him on your tongue, the taste of his precum, the sound of his needy little moans echoing above you as he loses every last thread of control.

“Y-You’re fucking gagging on me while fingering yourself—fuck, I’m so in love with you—”

That one breaks you.

You whimper hard around his cock, thighs clenching, your clit throbbing under your fingers as he holds your head still and thrusts deeper, his hips rolling forward, desperate, brutal, eyes wild and glassy.

“You’re gonna cum?” he gasps. “Oh my god, you’re gonna cum with my cock in your throat?”

You nod. Just barely. And that’s all he needs.

“Cum for me. Fucking cum while I fuck your throat—please—please—”

Your fingers move faster. Your mouth is full. Your pussy is clenching—

And you cum. Hard. Shaking. Muffled. Gagging. And Jisung, he cums with you.

One loud, broken cry as he thrusts in deep and pours into your throat, his cock twitching hard on your tongue, his entire body curling over you, sweating and sobbing and panting like he just survived a war.

And you take it all. Every drop.

You pull off him slowly, lips dragging across his length with one last, wet suck—cum dripping down your throat, your mouth glistening, your chin a mess.

And then?

You swallow. All of it. Head tilted back, throat bobbing, eyes never leaving his. Jisung is frozen. Mouth open. Hair plastered to his forehead. Cock twitching, already starting to swell again between his thighs.

“...Holy shit,” he breathes.

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand and then push yourself up onto your knees, climbing into his lap.

He still hasn’t recovered. But you don’t give him time. You straddle him, bare thighs spread over his, your soaked core grinding down against his softening cock—already half-hard again, twitching with every breath.

“You’re insane,” he whispers, hands flying to your hips. “You’re actually—fucking—insane.”

You just grin.

Then you kiss him.

Hard. Filthy. Desperate. Spit and heat and teeth and cum still on your tongue, moaning into his mouth as he grabs you tighter, groaning into the kiss like he’s being pulled back from the grave.

He tastes himself on you. You feel him thicken again beneath you. He breaks the kiss first—panting, eyes wild, lips swollen.

“You’re grinding on me already—?” he pants. “I just came. You swallowed all of it. I should be dead.”

“You’re hard again,” you whisper against his lips.

“Yeah, because you’re fucking sitting on me, making out with me like I’m your next meal—”

You roll your hips once—slick heat sliding over his cock.

He gasps.

And then: “Sit on it.” His hands grip your ass now, pulling you closer, voice wrecked and ragged. “Ride it. Ride me just like this. Sweat, spit, cum—I don’t care. Fucking ruin me again.”

Your hands press to his shoulders, thighs shaking, cunt throbbing as you lift your hips, grab his cock, and line him up.

You sink down, slow, stretching, aching.

And the second he slides in—fully, deeply, bottoming out—

You both moan, loud and wrecked, heads dropping forward to each other’s shoulders.

Your pussy clamps around him immediately, still tender and fluttering from cumming on his tongue, from choking on him until you shook, and now—he’s buried to the hilt, twitching inside you, and you swear you can feel it in your throat.

“Holy shit,” Jisung gasps, voice cracking. “You’re so tight, baby—fuck, you’re squeezing me like you missed me—”

You start to move.

Slow grind first, hips rolling, teasing him with every inch, the wet squelch of your cunt sliding along his cock so loud it makes his jaw clench.

His grip on your ass tightens.

And then?

SMACK.

“AH—!”

Your eyes fly open, body jolting as he slaps your ass, hard and perfect, his handprint blooming red against your skin.

“I said,” he growls, “ride me like you mean it.”

Before you can even catch your breath— SMACK. Other cheek.

You cry out, thighs shaking, cunt fluttering around him like it’s begging, and he groans at the way you squeeze him tighter with every hit.

“Fuck, I knew you liked that,” he pants. “Knew you were the type to cream on my cock while I spanked you.”

He grits his teeth and grabs your hips, starts thrusting up into you from below, meeting your hips halfway with each brutal slap of his thighs. “You’re gonna cum like this,” he growls, pulling your body down to slam against his with every movement. You’re gasping, slapping down onto him, the whole room echoing with wet, dirty sounds—skin on skin, sweat, soaked moans.

"Let me take control now baby. You had your fun." he breathes, pulling your hair back to make you look at him. His eyes are wild. Pupils blown. Mouth swollen.

“You sucked me so good,” he pants, hips snapping up. “Took me down your throat like you were starving for it.”

You whimper, back arching as he keeps fucking you from underneath, slamming into that perfect spot, his grip on your hips tightening until your skin burns beneath his fingers.

“I should be giving you a nap,” he growls, thrusting deep. “Letting you rest after swallowing all that cum—” He leans in, teeth grazing your jaw. “—but you rode me like a filthy little cockdrunk princess. So now I’m gonna break you.”

Your cunt clenches at his words—hard.

And he feels it.

“Oh, you like that,” he huffs out a laugh, sweat dripping from his neck to your chest. “You love when I take it from you, huh? When I grab your hips and fuck you like I’m claiming every fucking inch?”

He slams up into you, once—hard and deep—and you scream.

“Say it,” he pants, hand sliding from your hair to wrap around your throat lightly. Not squeezing. Just enough to hold you still.

“Yours,” you sob, eyes rolling back. “I’m yours—fuck—Jisung, I’m so close—”

“That’s right, baby,” he whispers, voice rough and proud. “My perfect little fucktoy. My good girl. My cockslut.”

His hips move faster now—precise, filthy, relentless.

“You’re gonna cum again, huh?” he groans. “On this cock you sucked dry. On the same dick that dumped down your throat and still came back hard for you.”

You’re gone. Shaking. Drooling. Falling apart.

And then he lifts his hips, grinds deep, and whispers: “Be a good girl. Cum for me. Cream on my cock while I fill you up again.”

And your orgasm rips through you.

Loud. Soaked. Violent.

You clamp down around him, pulsing so hard it nearly knocks the breath from his lungs—and Jisung groans, slamming up one final time, burying himself deep.

“Fuuuck—baby—fuck—”

He cums with a moan, high and sweet, whole body trembling as he spills inside you, hips jerking, breath catching, cum flooding your pussy in thick waves.

You both collapse—sticky, wrecked, gasping.

Jisung wraps his arms around you, kissing your temple as you collapse onto his chest.

“God, you’re insane,” he breathes. “I’m never letting you suck my dick again unless we’ve got, like, a week to recover.”

And then softer—sweeter: “Good girl. So fucking good for me.”

Lee Felix

The door opens. You don’t move.

You’re curled on the couch, legs tucked under a blanket, scrolling aimlessly—but your eyes snap up the moment you hear the keypad beep and the door click open.

Felix walks in like pure comfort. Grey sweats, damp curls, flushed from rehearsal, hoodie half off his shoulder. A sweet smile spreads across his face the second he sees you.

“Hey, baby.” Voice low. Soft. Like honey. Like he missed you so bad, even after just a few hours.

You don’t say anything. Just stare. Because he looks ridiculous. All sweaty and musky and glowing, and that smile? You’re going to hell for the things you’re about to do.

He crosses the room, leans over the back of the couch to kiss you—just a soft brush of lips, but his hand finds your cheek like always. Gentle. Warm.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

You nod. Then—reach down.

Grab his waistband. Tug. Hard.

Felix freezes. Eyes flicker. “…What’s that about?”

You smirk. “You smell too good to shower yet.”

He blinks. Once. Then again. And then—the smile shifts. Just slightly. “Oh, baby…”

He moves fast. In a blur, he’s coming around the couch, blanket yanked off, phone tossed aside, and you’re gasping as he climbs over you, caging you in.

“That little tug,” he whispers, mouth ghosting over yours, “was real fuckin’ brave.”

You grin, daring. “What if I do it again?”

He leans in. Nose to yours. Smile still soft, but his eyes?

Not sweet anymore.

“Then I guess,” he murmurs, “you want to see what happens when I stop being nice.”

You barely have time to gasp before his hand wraps around your throat—not tight, not cruel—just enough to hold you still. To make you look at him.

Felix grins.

Wide. Wicked.

Then he kisses you. Hard. Tongue greedy. Teeth catching your bottom lip. Soft hands—gone. Now they’re gripping your hips and yanking you flat beneath him, the weight of him pressing you into the couch.

"You really think I was gonna be soft forever?" he whispers between kisses, dragging his mouth to your neck. "After the way you looked at me? The way you tugged on my sweats like I’m just here to be used?"

He ruts against you—slow, heavy, his cock already straining hard beneath the fabric, grinding into your core like he’s marking the spot.

“I came home to shower,” he says, biting the shell of your ear, “but now I think I’m gonna fuck you messy and let your cum wash over me instead.”

Your breath catches—completely, violently gone—when he reaches down, yanks your shorts aside, and presses two fingers right against your soaked slit.

“Of course,” he laughs, low and smug, “you’re already wet.”

“Lix—” you gasp.

“I said you wanted this.” He kisses your cheek, sweet again for half a second—and then shoves your panties down with one hand and drags the other up to your throat. “So you’re gonna take it. All of it.”

He stands, yanks his sweats and briefs down in one motion—his cock slaps against his stomach, flushed and leaking, a fucking weapon aimed straight at you.

You stare, wide-eyed, mouth parted, thighs instinctively pulling together—

“Nope,” he grins. “Open those legs, pretty. Or I make you.”

You obey.

And then he’s kneeling on the floor, hooking your knees over his shoulders—

“I’m not gonna fuck you yet,” he purrs. “You wanted messy, right?”

He licks a long, slow stripe up your slit. You jolt. You scream. Because he doesn’t stop. Tongue fucking in, nose nudging your clit, moaning like you’re his favorite thing he’s ever tasted. Holding your thighs down while you squirm and cry and beg, humping his face, and he’s just smiling—grinding against the couch while he eats you alive.

“Good girl,” he mumbles. “Cum on my tongue. I’m not stopping till you do.”

His tongue is licking up every drop, flattening against your clit, then curling in with maddening precision. He groans like it’s divine, like you taste better than anything he's ever known, and you feel the sound vibrate through your whole body.

You arch. Grab at the cushions. Whimper his name.

And he just moans, mouth pressed so deep between your thighs it sounds like he's drunk on you.

“Felix—” you gasp, trembling.

He hums, lips never leaving your skin. Then, without warning—one finger slides in.

Perfect pressure. Curling. Filling.

Your eyes roll back.

"You’re gripping me so tight already," he pants, voice ragged now. “God, you really did wait for me, huh?”

A second finger joins the first. Slow. Stretching you. Fucking into you deep and steady while his tongue keeps flicking circles around your clit.

You cry out, back arching so high he has to hold you down.

"Stay still, angel," he murmurs against your soaked skin. "Let me take care of you. Just feel."

The lewd, wet sound of his fingers pumping into you mixes with his low groans—a symphony of filth and devotion. He licks harder. Sucks gently. And you snap.

Your thighs tremble violently. Breath stutters. Your hands fly to his hair—

“I—I'm—”

"Cum for me," he says into you, voice raw, fingers relentless. “You’ve been so good. So patient. Let go.”

You do. With a cry that shatters the room.

Your orgasm hits like a wave—rushing, rolling, full-body and dizzying. He doesn’t stop. Not even for a second. Sucking you through it, moaning like he’s the one falling apart.

And when your hips finally jerk away, overstimulated and slick and still fluttering, he kisses the inside of your thigh. Gentle. Sweet.

Then licks his lips, eyes dark.

“…That was one,” he says softly, standing up.

“And baby?” He presses the head of his cock between your soaked folds, eyes fluttering. “I’m not nearly done.”

Felix finally presses in. The stretch is filthy. Your mouth falls open. Your back arches. He lets out a low, broken sound that doesn’t even sound human.

“Fuck, baby…” he pants, sinking deeper, inch by inch. “You feel—God—you’re soaked.”

You gasp his name, nails digging into the cushions behind you as he finally bottoms out—deep and hot and thick and pulsing. For a moment, he just stays there, buried inside, his forehead pressed to yours, both of you trembling.

Then?

He moves.

Not gentle. Not slow. He fucks you like he means it.

Hips slamming against your thighs, cock dragging against that sweet spot again and again—wet slaps, broken gasps, filthy praise.

“Wanted to ruin you the second I walked in that door,” he groans, grabbing your waist to yank you into every thrust. “You looked at me like you needed it—needed me.”

You moan, breath catching as his pace turns brutal, the couch creaking beneath you.

“So take it.” He pulls out halfway, slams back in. “Take all of me.”

You can’t even form words anymore, just messy cries of his name, hands scrabbling for purchase as he leans over you, kissing your jaw, your mouth, your throat.

“You’re shaking so much,” he breathes, voice tight. “You gonna cum for me again?”

You nod frantically, tears prickling, already so close from how he devoured you before.

“Yeah?” he pants, thumb finding your clit, rubbing hard and perfect. “You'll hold it baby, yeah? You're my good angel, and you're gonna hold it for me.”

And you simply whimper at those words.

“Lift your arms for me, baby.” he suddenly said and you obey—barely—fingers shaking, vision still swimming, and he peels your shirt up slowly. Not rushed. Not frantic.

Just hungry.

It’s soaked with sweat, clinging to your back as he pulls it over your head. And then—his hands are everywhere.

Palms warm. Confident. Reverent.

He cups your breasts like he’s waited all day to touch them, brushing his thumbs over your nipples until they stiffen under his fingers. Then his head dips—lips soft and open-mouthed as he kisses between them, up your chest, until he can take one into his mouth.

Your back arches. You whimper.

“Felix—”

“Shh,” he breathes, voice like velvet and smoke, “I’ve got you.”

His tongue flicks, circles, sucks just hard enough to make you gasp. One hand kneads the other breast, lazy but firm, and the other? Slips between your thighs again, rubbing on your clit, a perfect rhythm to match his thrusts and you jerk at the feeling. “You’re close,” he breathes against your skin, lips grazing your collarbone, hips still moving in those deep, precise thrusts. “I can feel it.”

You nod frantically, eyes wide, barely holding on. Your body is taut beneath him, thighs trembling, hands gripping his arms like lifelines.

“But I said no, didn’t I?” he whispers, licking a slow stripe up your throat. “Told you not to cum. You held it for me like such a good girl.”

You whimper—desperate, wrecked. “Please… please, Lix…”

His pace falters. Just for a moment. Then his forehead presses to yours, eyes locked on yours, glowing with something tender and dangerous all at once.

“Okay,” he murmurs, breath warm and ragged. “Now.”

The permission breaks you. Instantly.

You unravel in his arms, clenching tight around him as your orgasm crashes through you—shaking, crying out, your entire body trembling.

And the second he feels it—the moment you pulse around him like that—he loses it too.

“Fuck, baby—god, you’re perfect—”

He spills inside you with a deep, broken groan, thrusting through it, chasing every last second of the high as his hands bury into your hips.

Even after—he keeps moving. Slow. Shallow. A few more messy thrusts.

Felix leans down and kisses your jaw. Your chest. Your forehead. He’s still buried in you, still warm, still full. “Shh,” he breathes, rocking into you once more. “I know. I know, baby.”

His voice goes soft again. Sunshine again.

“You're so perfect. All mine.”

Kim Seungmin

He doesn’t even blink when the door opens and you lunge at him.

Seungmin just tilts his head, one brow arched, sweat-damp hair clinging to his temple. His chest rises slow beneath the loose tee he hasn’t even had time to peel off. Grey sweats slung low. Post-practice glow radiating off him.

He drops his bag.

Crosses his arms.

“Wow,” he deadpans. “No ‘hi, baby’? No ‘how was practice’?”

You press your mouth to his jaw, already tugging at the waistband of his sweats.

He exhales. A quiet chuckle. “You really are desperate, huh?”

You nod, lips dragging down his neck, one hand already palming him through the fabric. “You smell so good,” you whisper. “So hot like this. I couldn’t wait—please, let me—”

And that’s when he grabs your wrist.

Hard. Firm. Controlling.

Eyes dark.

“You could’ve just said you needed to be put in your place.”

You blink.

He takes a step forward.

You take one back.

Until your knees hit the edge of the couch and you drop into it with a soft gasp.

“Better,” he mutters, leaning over you, hands braced on either side. “Now pick. You’re getting ruined either way.”

You swallow.

“On your knees,” he murmurs, “or on the couch. Choose.”

You don’t answer.

You can’t.

You’re already slipping off the couch and onto your knees—palms splayed against his thighs, mouth parted, breath coming fast. You look up at him with that desperate, pleading stare he lives for.

He hums. Smiles lazily.

“Good choice.”

Then he shoves his sweats down in one motion—boxers too—and his cock springs free, flushed, hard, dripping at the tip. Your mouth waters.

But before you can lean in—

His hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back just a bit.

“Tch. What’s the rush?” His thumb brushes your bottom lip, eyes glinting. “You couldn’t even wait five seconds to say hi to me, and now you think you deserve my cock in your mouth?”

You whimper.

“Say it,” he demands. “Say how desperate you are. Say you’re sorry.”

“I’m—” you gasp, “I’m sorry, Seungmin. I just—fuck—I need it. I need you.”

He grins, teeth sharp.

“Then open wide,” he growls, stepping closer. “Since you’re so fucking starved.”

You do.

And the second your tongue slides against the head, he groans—low and guttural—and sinks into your mouth with a hiss of breath through his teeth. “Yeah, just like that. Filthy little mouth. Fuck.”

His grip tightens in your hair, pulling your head back, then guiding you forward again. His hips begin to move—slow thrusts, shallow at first, letting you adjust—but it doesn’t last.

Not when you moan around him. Not when your tongue flattens against the underside of his cock like you need to be ruined. Not when you look up at him again with tears already gathering.

“Oh, you like this,” he pants. “You want me to use your mouth. Want me to fuck it raw, huh?”

He’s fucking into you now. Properly. Holding your head still. Groaning when your throat spasms around him.

“Gonna fill you up,” he gasps. “Make you swallow every fucking drop. And then I’m gonna throw you on that couch—stuff you full all over again.”

Your knees ache, your throat burns, and your whole body trembles from how long he’s kept you like this—spit slicking your chin, breath catching every time he slides back in with a guttural groan. But god, it's worth it.

“You’re still hanging on?” he pants, jaw clenched as his grip in your hair tightens. “Fuck. You’re better than I thought.”

His hips roll into you with a little more weight now. Less restraint. More need.

“You wanted it this way, remember?” He leans in, breath hot against your flushed face as he holds you steady and thrusts deeper again. “Didn’t even let me sit down. Didn’t give me a second to think.”

You moan around him—pathetic, needy—and that seems to do something to him.

“Thought so.” His voice drops to a low growl. “You like being used, don’t you?”

You nod as best you can, mouth stretched wide, spit coating your lips. Your hands are fisting the fabric of his sweatpants at his thighs, desperate for something to hold onto.

He groans through gritted teeth. “You’re shaking. You gonna cum just from this?”

You almost do. Just from the look on his face. The weight of him on your tongue. The raw, breathless sound of his pleasure.

Then—his cock twitches in your mouth, and he hisses, pulling back just enough to look you in the eye.

“Don’t move,” he warns. “You want to be my pretty little toy? Then stay right there.”

His hands cup your jaw, holding your face still, and he thrusts into your mouth again—slow but brutal, breath coming faster, his muscles tensing with every motion.

You barely register his words through the haze,

but his voice cuts through it all:

“Be good. Take all of it.”

And then he groans. Deep. Guttural. Raw.

The thrusts falter. Hips jerk. And you feel it — thick, warm, undeniable — as he spills down your throat with a choked, breathless growl of your name.

His hand is still tangled in your hair, but he’s shaking too now, his abs tightening as he pants through it, every muscle strung tight as a bow.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “You… fuck. You’re too good.”

You stay still, letting him empty every drop, swallowing around him as your hands clutch his thighs for support. He twitches once, twice, before finally pulling back, breath ragged, cock still flushed and glistening with the aftermath.

Your lips are shiny, your mouth wrecked.

He stares down at you like you’ve undone him completely.

“Goddamn,” he mutters, thumbing at your chin, his voice softer now. “Look at you.”

You look up, pupils blown wide, chest heaving.

And that’s when his smirk returns—dangerous, slow. “What?” he breathes. “You thought we were done?” He leans in close, brushing his lips against your jaw. “Cute.”

Seungmin moves and drops back onto the couch like he owns it, which he does,

sweatpants pushed halfway down, thighs spread, cock flushed and twitching against his stomach, still glistening from the mess you made together.

He looks wrecked. And hungry.

“Take it off,” he murmurs, gaze locked on you. “All of it. Want to see you.”

Your fingers tremble as you pull your shirt over your head, and he groans when he sees the state of your chest—kiss-bitten, rising and falling with every breath. Then go your shorts. Your panties. Every inch of you exposed, aching.

You take a step forward.

“Uh-uh,” he says, voice dipped in warning. “Beg first. You want me again? Ask.”

You swallow, pulse racing.

“Please, Seungmin,” you whisper, climbing into his lap with trembling thighs. “Need to ride you. Need it so bad.”

He smirks, hands gripping your waist. “Then ride me like you mean it.”

You sink down slowly—his cock still sensitive but hardening fast—and his head falls back with a growl.

“Shit—fuck, you feel perfect.”

You gasp at the stretch, the heat. His fingers dig into your hips, dragging you down until you’re seated fully, your cunt fluttering around him as you adjust to the pressure.

And then—he slaps your ass. Once. Twice.

"Move baby." he coos, words contradicting with the way he slapped your ass, skin bright red.

You start bouncing in his lap, your hands braced on his shoulders, your moans slipping out faster than you can control—Seungmin thrusts up to meet you, teeth grit, pupils blown wide.

Your thighs are trembling. You’re barely keeping rhythm, gasping every time his cock presses against that spot that makes your vision blur.

Seungmin’s grip tightens. He watches you—devours you—with that sharp, dangerous glint in his eyes. Your tits bounce with every slap of skin, your pussy soaked, sucking him in like you’re trying to pull his soul out.

“Fuck, baby,” he growls. “You’re so fucking messy for me.”

You nod—barely coherent, chasing your high.

But then—

“No.”

Suddenly his hands slide down, grip your thighs tight, and before you can even react—

He flips you.

Your back hits the couch cushions with a gasp, legs in the air, and his cock slips out for just a second—slick and twitching, the loss of pressure making you whimper.

He leans over you, hand gripping your jaw, eyes dark.

“You think you can fuck me like that and not get ruined?” And just like that, he slams back into you—deep, and hard.

His thrusts are relentless now. Sharp and punishing. One hand holds your leg up over his shoulder, the other planted firm beside your head.

“You’re not done till I say so.”

You claw at his back. Your walls clench. Every snap of his hips makes your mind blank out. It’s all Seungmin—his sweat on your skin, his cock driving you insane, his breath in your mouth as he leans in closer—

“You gonna cum for me pretty girl?” he pants, voice wrecked. “Gonna cream all over me like a good girl?”

You sob a yes, so close—

He’s deep—too deep—and you’re clenching so tight around him it feels like you’re going to split open. He leans over you, bracing his forearm beside your head, the other hand dragging down your thigh, gripping until your skin dimples.

“Come on,” he murmurs, voice gravel-thick. “Come on, pretty girl. Let go.”

You whimper. You’re close. Too close.

He dips his head, mouth brushing your cheek, breath trembling. “You know I’ll be right behind you. Just give it to me.”

Your fingers dig into his back. He’s grinding now, not thrusting—hips rolling deep, slow, cruel. His cock hits that devastating spot again and again, and your eyes blur, lips parting around a helpless moan.

“You’re shaking,” he whispers. “God, look at you—falling apart for me.”

You nod, unable to speak. Your whole body’s caught in that moment right before you break.

And then—he says it:

“Cum for me, baby. Right now. Let me feel you lose it.”

And you do.

It crashes into you like a wave—hot, blinding, full-body. Your back lifts from the cushions, a sob rips from your chest, and your thighs clamp around him as your climax hits—hard and all-consuming.

He groans your name like a prayer. Hips stuttering. You feel it—his release catching up with yours, the sound he makes low and wrecked, fingers gripping your face like you’re the only thing anchoring him to the earth as he spills his cum inside, painting your insides with it.

He stays there, buried deep inside you. Both of you breathing like you just ran through fire. And then he kisses you. Not rushed. Not filthy.

Just… real. Gentle.

"My perfect fucking girl. I think I would like to be greeted from dance practice like this."

Yang Jeongin

You barely hear the keypad beep before you bolt—socks sliding on the floor, heart pounding.

The door creaks open, and there he is.

Jeongin, sweaty and flushed from practice, black hair sticking to his forehead, grey sweatpants clinging low on his hips. He’s shrugging off his hoodie when he sees you rushing toward him.

“Wha—?”

You grab his face, kiss him hard. Open-mouthed, messy, greedy.

He staggers backward with a soft grunt, dropping his bag. His hands are up like he doesn’t know where to touch first. “W–Wait, baby, I’m—sweaty—”

“I know,” you whisper against his lips, tugging at his waistband. “Don’t care. Want you just like this.”

His breath catches.

“Oh,” he breathes, voice cracking around a moan as you sink to your knees. “Oh my God.”

He looks down at you like he’s never seen anything so filthy and perfect. His cock is already hard beneath the fabric, a damp patch blooming at the tip.

“You’re serious?” he pants, shuddering when you press your mouth over the bulge. “You—you’re gonna—fuck—here? Right now?”

You nod, tongue tracing him through the cotton. “You’re not going anywhere, Innie.”

His breath hitches as you tug his sweats down, just enough to free his cock—already flushed, leaking, twitching. And when your lips wrap around the head, he chokes on his own moan, one shaky hand flying to the back of your head.

“Fuck—baby—slow, slow, please—”

But you don’t slow down. You devour him.

Tongue licking flat underneath, hand stroking the base, spit dripping to your chin. You look up at him—eyes glassy, mouth full—and that’s what snaps the last of his control.

Jeongin’s voice drops, low and tight. “Get on the couch. Now.”

You blink, stunned by the sudden shift. He’s already pulling you up, guiding you backward, his hand curled around your jaw like he can’t stand not touching you.

You fall onto the cushions, dizzy from the way he’s looking at you now—hungry and steady and unshakable.

“Take your shorts off.”

You do, trembling. He kneels in front of the couch, spreads your legs with gentle fingers, and drags two through your wetness, his eyes going hazy.

“Messy already?” he murmurs. “From sucking me off?” He smiles, soft and wicked. “Poor baby. You really thought I was gonna let you cum that easy.”

You don’t get to respond.

His mouth is on you—hot and unrelenting—tongue pressing firm and slow, lips sucking just enough to make your hips jolt. And when you try to grind into it, he pulls back.

“Uh uh.” A soft laugh. “You stay still. Or I stop.”

You whimper, hips twitching—instinctive, desperate—but his strong arms hold your thighs apart, locked down like restraints.

“I said,” he repeats, voice low and dangerous, “stay still.”

He licks up your slit with deliberate slowness, savoring the way you tremble, how wet you are already, how you pulse around nothing.

“God, look at you. Thought you were doing me a favor, baby. But you're the one falling apart.”

You gasp when he sucks your clit—just once, just enough—and then pulls away again, mouth wet, chin glistening, flushed and still panting from dance practice.

“You taste so fucking good when you’re needy,” he groans, rubbing his slicked jaw against your inner thigh like a cat marking its prey. “But you don’t get to cum yet. Not until I say.”

His tongue returns, this time featherlight. Barely there. Every flick a tease, every stroke too soft to give you what you crave. You try to roll your hips again—just a little—and he slaps the inside of your thigh.

You gasp.

“Didn’t I just tell you to behave?”

His voice is breathless now, gravelly with want, his cock hard again from watching you lose it. He exhales through his nose like he’s trying to stay calm, but you can see it—his self-control hanging by a thread.

He drags two fingers through your slick, slow and thick, then brings them to your lips.

“Suck.”

You moan around them, tongue wrapping eagerly as he watches you with dark eyes.

“God, you’re such a good girl for me. Bet you’d let me edge you all night if I asked, huh?”

You nod, dazed. “Please, Innie, I—I need—”

“You need?” His voice goes sharp, mocking. “You need to cum?”

He slips one soaked finger in—and you cry out.

It curls just right, finding that spot instantly. But then it’s gone just as fast.

“No,” he whispers. “You want to cum. And that’s different.”

You’re sobbing now, tears welling from sheer frustration, your legs trembling against his shoulders.

His thumb circles your clit again—slow, steady, but never quite enough. Just on the edge of unbearable.

“You feel that? That pressure building?” he murmurs, licking back into you. “Don’t you dare cum. Not until I tell you.”

You clench, thighs shaking violently, pleasure coiled tight like a scream in your gut.

“Innie, please, please, I can’t—”

He growls, pulling back again, dragging your hips to the edge of the couch. His sweat drips onto your bare stomach as he leans over you, still panting, still flushed from training.

“You can. You will. You’ll take every second of it for me.”

Then—he spits on your pussy. Hot. Filthy. You cry out.

“Again,” he whispers. “Mouth open.”

You obey, lips parting—and he kisses you filthy, licking into your mouth like he owns it. You taste yourself on his tongue.

He’s jerking his cock now, slow strokes as he watches you writhe.

“When I finally let you cum…” he pants, eyes gleaming, “I want tears. I want begging. I want to ruin this couch.”

And then—he slides two fingers in, curls them just right—and stops.

“Not yet.”

You sob. He grins.

“Don’t worry, baby. I’ll make you cum so hard you forget your own name. But not until you learn how to be good for me.”

Your body is trembling, sweat slick between your thighs and on the backs of your knees, chest heaving like you’ve just run a marathon. But all you’ve done is beg. And beg. And beg.

Jeongin’s knuckles are white around his cock now, stroking himself slow and steady, eyes never leaving you—your ruined expression, your swollen pussy, your trembling hands clutching the cushions.

You sob out his name. “Please—please, Innie, please—”

“You don’t even know what you’re begging for, do you?” he growls, leaning forward, gripping your jaw again. “You want me to fuck you?”

“Yes, yes, I—”

“You want to cum?”

You nod frantically.

He slaps your pussy—not hard, but mean. You yelp, whole body flinching.

“Too bad.”

You scream in frustration, thighs clenching, but he shoves them apart again, rutting his cock between them—rubbing the head against your slick folds, but never pressing in.

“You don’t get to cum just because you’re messy and desperate,” he breathes into your mouth. “You cum when I say. Only when I say.”

You moan—wild, helpless—as he rubs the head of his cock right against your clit. One press. Two. Three. Each time you jolt like you’ve been shocked.

“Want my cock?” he pants. “You think you’ve earned it?”

You nod so hard your neck aches.

“Open your mouth.”

You obey immediately, lips parting, tears clinging to your lashes. And Jeongin spits into it.

“Swallow it.”

You do. Without thinking. Without shame.

“Good fucking girl.”

And that’s when he snaps. With one hand braced under your thigh, he slams into you in a single, brutal thrust.

“Fuck—you’re so tight—” he groans, already moving, fucking into you like he means it. Like it’s punishment. Like it’s relief.

Your hands claw at the cushions, legs shaking around his hips, tears spilling down your cheeks.

“Innie—Innie—I’m gonna—”

“No.”

He pulls out completely—you sob, your orgasm vanishing like smoke—then slams back in.

“You don’t fucking cum until I tell you.”

He’s soaked now, even more than before, more than dance practice made him, hair stuck to his forehead, sweat dripping onto your body, the sound of skin on skin obscene in the room. His cock drags perfectly against that sweet spot inside you, over and over—until you're right on the edge again.

“You close again?” he growls.

You nod, sobbing.

“Hold it.”

He fucks you through it anyway—deep, rough thrusts designed to undo you—but keeps you dangling just on that razor-thin edge.

And when you start to tremble, to break—he pulls out again.

You cry out, a broken noise, back arching. “Please—I’ll be good, I swear, I swear—”

He grabs your face. Kisses you hard. Spits into your mouth again.

“Not yet.”

You can’t stop crying. Not from pain, not from fear—just from need. You’re shaking, soaked, every part of your body screaming for release.

And Jeongin is still holding you right there. Just there.

Teasing thrusts. Barely in. Pulling out. Slapping the head of his cock against your pussy like he’s mocking you.

“Every time I stop,” he pants, voice shredded, “you clench so tight. Like your body’s begging even when your mouth can’t form the words.”

You whimper, unable to breathe around how full he feels—when he lets you have him. And when he doesn’t? That emptiness is worse than death.

“You want to cum that badly, baby?”

You nod, broken. “Please, Innie, I can’t—I c-can’t—”

“Shhh,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your lip. “You can.”

And then—he spits into your mouth again.

“Swallow.”

You do. Reflex, reverence. His spit tastes like sweat and salt and sin. And Jeongin loses it. He slams into you. No warning. No restraint. Just full, deep, filthy thrusts—hips smacking hard against your ass, cock dragging against that sweet spot with unrelenting precision.

Your back arches. Your scream catches in your throat. Your orgasm hits like a fucking bomb.

He doesn’t stop.

“Cumming baby?” he growls, watching you fall apart. “Didn't tell you to, but I'm going to be nice, so fucking take this cock, yeah?”

You’re cumming so hard it hurts, body locked in a seizure of pleasure, clenching down on him like a vice.

Jeongin grunts in pleasure, too much pleasure, your cunt squeezing his cock perfectly. The perfect fit. “God—fuck—fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight—”

But he keeps going. Fucking you through it, past it, until you're shaking so hard your legs give out. Until your tears smear across your cheeks and you’re begging—actually begging—for mercy.

“Innie, please—please—I c-can’t—”

“Yes, you fucking can.”

He pulls out just long enough to flip you—rough hands manhandling your limp form onto your stomach, ass up, face buried in the cushions.

He shoves back in. Deep. And you sob.

“You wanted this,” he pants, cock twitching inside you. “Wanted to get on your knees all pretty with spit on your chin and act like a little slut—”

He grabs your hair, tugs you up so your back arches.

“Now take it.”

You’re crying, mouth open, drooling, babbling nonsense as your second orgasm crashes down even harder.

“Good fucking girl,” he snarls into your ear. “Now stay right there while I fill you up.”

His thrusts go erratic. Desperate. He grits out your name—once, twice—then groans, deep and raw as he empties inside you, cock pulsing, hips twitching.

And he stays buried. Breathing hard. Sweaty chest pressed to your back. You’re limp. Soaked. Ruined. And then he kisses your shoulder. So soft. His hand rubs slow circles into your hip as you tremble, wrecked beyond words.

“Next time,” he murmurs, pulling out with a filthy squelch, “you’ll ask before you put my cock in your mouth. Yeah? Or maybe let me get in the shower first.”

A pause.

“Actually, we can do this in the shower next time.” Smiling, all innocent.

BACKSTORY

You met Lee Minho back when he was still building himself. Not the man with a waitlist. Not the name clients whispered like prayer. Just a perfectionist with ink-stained fingers, a cigarette habit, and a sketchbook full of obsessions.

He only took blackwork clients. His designs were architectural. Cold. Brutally beautiful. Like cityscapes carved into skin. Like cathedrals swallowed by shadow. You used to tease him—“Do you ever draw anything soft?”

He never answered.

But he kissed you like his mouth was a vow.

You were chaos to his control. Bright to his brutalism. A fire escape on legs, always halfway out the window—but you stayed for him.

The first tattoo he gave you was on your ribcage. Fine lines. Intricate, dark, permanent. He said, “I’ve never done this for someone I care about before.”

You said, “Don’t make it perfect. Just make it ours.”

He made it perfect anyway.

But love wasn’t enough—not when his world narrowed to ink and reputation, and yours was spinning with needs he couldn’t name, let alone meet. He stopped coming home. You stopped trying to explain. The last fight was quiet. The kind of silence that ends things.

You left. He let you. Neither of you ever reached out again.

Seoul, South Korea. Wednesday, 4:03 PM

The bell over the door jingles.

It’s the same goddamn sound. That soft metallic chime, like a warning.

You step into NO SAINT INK and inhale the familiar scent—disinfectant, ink, citrus cleaner, and something darker beneath it. Nostalgia, maybe. Or just Minho’s ghost.

“Hi! Welcome to—”

Jisung’s voice cuts off the moment he looks up. Eyes widen. Blink. Blink. Jaw slightly drops. He’s behind the counter in a ripped vintage tee, one glove on, holding a paper cup of iced Americano like it’s mid-scene in a music video.

“...Holy shit.”

“Nice to see you too,” you deadpan, stepping up to the reception desk like it’s a confession booth.

From the back, Felix emerges, sliding in with a practiced spin on the rolling stool. His crop top says “NO SAINT, JUST HOT” and he’s chewing pink bubblegum like it’s personal.

He squints. “Wait. Waitwaitwait—no way.” He turns to Jisung. “That’s her, right?”

Jisung nods slowly, eyes still on you like you might disappear if he blinks. “Mm-hm. That’s her. The ribcage girl.”

You sigh, reaching for the clipboard. “Still the same greeting process, I see.”

Felix leans in over the counter, lashes weaponized. “So. What brings you back to the scene of the crime, gorgeous?”

“Tattoo,” you say simply, checking the box marked cover-up on the intake form.

Felix raises a brow. “Cover-up? On what?”

You give him a flat look. Then slowly, deliberately, tap your rib.

Jisung immediately chokes on his iced coffee. “Oh my god. You’re covering Minho’s piece?” he hisses.

“Don’t say it like that,” you mutter.

Felix gasps dramatically, grabbing your form. “Does he know? Does he know you’re here?”

“No.”

“Does he know you're gonna cover the sacred rib tattoo of doomed romance™?”

“Still no.”

Jisung is now whispering to himself in horror. “He’s gonna combust. He’s gonna short-circuit like a printer from 2003.”

Felix pats your hand. “You’re braver than the Marines.”

You slide the completed form back to them. “You gonna let me through, or you want me to relive the breakup right here?”

“Booth Three,” Jisung says instantly. “He’s in there right now. I’ll text him that a client is coming in.”

Felix grins like the devil. “We won’t say who. Surprise trauma!”

You exhale slowly as you make your way to Booth Three and pushing the door open.

Minho is inside, doesn't even look up. Of course he doesn't. He is seated at his workstation, black hoodie sleeves pushed up, long fingers flying over his iPad. The screen glows with precision: a mandala lattice interwoven with brutalist architecture, all angles and absence. It’s violently elegant. Just like him.

He’s got one AirPod in. The other rests on the desk, silent. His tattoo gun is prepped and sterilized beside it. Black gloves folded, still untouched.

You stay silent for a beat.

He’s changed, but not really. Hair darker now. Under-eye shadows deeper. Forearms inked in blackwork he used to say wasn’t “for him.” You recognize his neck tattoo—you designed that motif. He said he’d never use it. Guess he changed his mind.

You speak, voice even, soft.

“Hope you still remember how to do ribs.”

He freezes. Literally freezes mid-stroke, like someone hit pause on a film reel.

His eyes flick up.

And when they meet yours—his stylus drops.

“...No fucking way.”

You smile, tight-lipped. “Hi.”

Minho blinks. Once. Twice. Then leans back slowly in his chair, as if needing distance just to believe you're real. He doesn’t say anything at first. His eyes drag down you like a scan—lips, collarbones, arms. His gaze stops right where it used to rest: the dip beneath your ribs. “What the fuck are you doing here.” You shrug, like this isn’t a slow-burn emotional arson scene. “Cover-up.”

He exhales like he got sucker punched.

You don’t say it. You don’t have to. He knows which one. For a moment, neither of you move. The only sound is the quiet buzz of the fluorescent light, and your pulse hammering against silence.

Minho finally breaks it, voice lower now. Raspier. Rough around the edges.

“Sit.”

You walk forward. The vinyl of the chair squeaks as you lower yourself onto it.

Minho adjusts his stool with one foot, pulling closer—close enough that your knees nearly touch. He reaches for a fresh pair of gloves and pulls them on with a muted snap.

“You still flinch?” he asks, without looking up.

“Only when it matters.”

A breath leaves him like a short laugh, disbelieving and hollow. He nods at your ribs.

“Show me.”

You tug your top up slowly. The air is cool against your skin. But his gaze is colder.

The tattoo’s still there—his lines, his shape, the intimate architecture of a design he once called a cathedral just for you. You watch his eyes trace it like he’s reading a language he forgot he wrote.

He exhales through his nose, once. Then leans in. Not touching. But close.

“Still healed well,” he mutters. “Even after everything.”

He lets out a short sound—not quite a laugh. Not quite not.

Then turns to grab his iPad.

You watch him swipe past old sketches. Lines. Shapes. A few human figures, but mostly… structures. Always structures. Stained glass, brutal staircases, the shadows between pillars. And suddenly—one design with your face sketched into the edge of a crumbling spire flashes past.

You blink.

He quickly flips to a blank layer.

“What are you thinking?” he asks, stylus in hand.

You hesitate. Then: “Something clean. Cold. Geometric. No softness.”

He looks at you. Just looks. Then tilts his head. “So the opposite of what you used to want.”

You lift a brow. “People change.”

“Do they?” He doesn’t say it like a question.

Silence. Only the soft tick of the stylus moving. Drawing. Erasing. Redrawing.

You glance over.

The lines are sharp. Intricate. Interlocking shapes—architectural, yes, but still haunting. There’s depth beneath the harshness, shadows where light should be. He’s already building something brutal.

“You always sketch this fast for clients?” you ask.

He doesn’t look up. “Only the ones who know how to bleed for it.”

Your breath stutters. He notices.

After another beat, he holds the iPad out to you, jaw tense. “You want this? Final answer.”

You study it. And it’s beautiful. Devastatingly so. The kind of piece that erases history—not by covering it, but by burying it in monument.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “It’s perfect.”

He huffs softly. “It’s not.”

“Minho—”

“It’s not what I wanted to put here.”

The sentence hits like a quiet car crash. No screech, just impact. You say nothing. He turns away to print the stencil. You watch the lines appear on paper, black and cruel.

“This gonna take long?” you ask lightly, trying to breathe again.

“Yeah,” he says, voice low. “It’s big.”

“Good. I’ve got time.”

He turns. Looks at you—really looks. The gloves are still on. The stencil in hand. “You sure you can lie here for hours with me that close?”

“You sure you can touch me for that long and not fall apart?”

For one suspended moment, the room goes still.

Then Minho steps forward. “Let’s find out.”

He sets the stencil aside. Pulls out the prep tray. It’s methodical—his ritual. You remember it. He moves with that same detached precision: antiseptic wipe, alcohol spray, barrier film over his tray, black nitrile gloves pulled snug with that quiet snap that used to make your stomach twist.

The scent of alcohol hits first. Then the click of the spray bottle. Then his voice—low, close. “I’m cleaning the area.”

He waits. You nod.

And then his hand—gloved, cold—presses gently at your side, just under your ribs. The contact makes your breath hitch. He feels it. “Still ticklish,” he murmurs, but there’s no amusement in it. Just memory.

His fingers move across the old tattoo and you close your eyes as he presses the stencil on.

“Hold still,” he says softly. Too softly.

You feel the pressure of his palm, the warm slide of his knuckles against your waist, the careful tension as he positions the design.

Then he pulls back. Steps away. And you exhale.

“Mirror’s there,” he says, voice neutral.

You sit up, top still raised, and step to the full-length mirror near the booth’s edge.

The stencil is stark black. Clean. Brutal. It spans from just under your chest down to your hipbone—an interlocking spiral staircase, collapsing inward on itself, surrounded by broken geometry and cathedral archways. Inside the spiral, there’s a single vacant silhouette—like a missing piece in the shape of a person.

“It’s…” you begin. But you can’t find the word.

“Empty?” he offers.

“Yeah.”

Minho shrugs slightly, adjusting the height of the chair. “You wanted cold. Unsweet. Brutal.”

You nod. “I did.”

He doesn’t move until you return to the chair and settle in again. He leans down, pulls the stool closer—so close his knee brushes yours. “Ready?”

“No.”

A pause. Then: “Good. That’s honest.”

The machine buzzes to life. He dips the needle into the ink—pitch black—and presses the foot pedal. Then the first contact hits. The sting. The bite. The sound.

Your breath stutters. His hand is firm on your waist, grounding. “Still breathe like that,” he murmurs.

“Still touch like that.”

The buzz of the machine fills the booth like static between stations.

Minho works in silence. You breathe in silence. Time stretches. His gloved hand stays steady on your waist—anchoring, professional, unyielding. But every time his fingers shift to wipe the ink, every time his forearm brushes your side, you feel something buried rattle. Like bones under floorboards.

You focus on the ceiling tiles. Count them. Try not to flinch when he drags the line near your ribcage. He’s precise. Too precise. You feel every goddamn millimeter.

And still—he says nothing. It’s been maybe an hour. Then—quietly, like a thread being tugged:

“You finish school?”

Your eyes blink open. “Yeah. A while ago.”

“Thought so,” he murmurs. “You used to study here. In this chair.”

You huff. “I used to do a lot of things in this chair.”

He pauses. Then wipes your skin with slow, deliberate pressure. “Still mouthy.”

“Still quiet.”

“One of us had to be.”

The machine hums again. You both fall silent. But the air isn’t. It hums now—charged and heavy. After another few minutes, you speak, voice softer.

“You still living above the shop?”

Minho’s hand doesn’t pause, but you hear the answer in the way he exhales. “Yeah.”

“You ever fix the leak by the kitchen window?”

“Eventually. Felix slipped on the water and broke his assbone, so…”

“Justice.”

A faint smile ghosts across his lips. You catch it. Pretend not to. “What about you?” he asks. “Where are you now?”

You shrug. “Seoul. Still. I work freelance—mostly visual design, some concept art stuff. Clients suck. Pay’s decent.”

“Still draw?”

“Always.”

He nods, as if that explains something only he understands.

Another beat of quiet. Then: “You tattoo now too?”

That makes you pause. “A little. Not full-time.”

“Anyone ever ink your ribs like this again?”

You meet his eyes. “No one ever touched me here again.”

That silence? Not like before. This one cracks. Minho sets the machine down slowly. Wipes the needle. Re-inks. Doesn’t speak for a full thirty seconds.

Then: “Good.”

You shift, heart thudding. “Why?”

He glances up, and for once, doesn’t look away. “Because it’s not theirs to touch.” He says it like he didn’t just lay a claim. Like it’s fact. Like it’s law.

You don’t reply. You can’t. Your ribs ache—not from the needle, but from the breath you’ve been holding since he started this goddamn piece.

Minho presses the foot pedal again.

The machine whirs to life, slicing through the silence. The black ink spreads, sharp and deliberate, marking over what was once softness.

His hand settles against your waist again. Firmer now. Less technician—more… anchor. His fingers brush under the hem of your top again. Not on purpose.

But he doesn’t apologize.

“Gonna do the lower spiral now,” he murmurs. “I need to adjust your position.”

You nod. Try to keep your voice even. “Tell me what you want.”

His gaze flicks up. Something flashes in it—heat, recognition, regret. “Lift your arm. Stretch back.”

You obey. Your back arches slightly. The angle shifts. Your shirt slides up higher. And suddenly, his breath catches. Not visibly. Not loudly. But you feel it—in the tiny hesitation between glove and skin. He moves slower now. Drapes the barrier cloth gently over your chest. Focuses on the lower edge of the design.

His hand brushes the curve of your hip. “Still got the scar,” he mutters.

“From your old chair. That screw that stuck out.”

“I told you to stop climbing into my lap during sessions.”

“I told you to fix your fucking chair.”

Another small ghost of a smile. Another memory you didn’t mean to let through. The machine buzzes. The lines go deeper now. Bolder. You wince slightly—less from pain, more from the weight of his closeness. “Hurts?” he asks, quiet. “Not as much as losing you did.”

The machine goes silent. He sets it down. Slowly. His head tilts up, eyes dark, unreadable. “You think I didn’t lose you too?”

Before you can answer—knock knock knock.

The booth door creaks open an inch, and Jisung’s head pops in. “Hey, just checking—OH.” He blinks. Stares. Feels the temperature of the room. “Never mind.”

Another head appears behind him—Chan, black tee, clipboard in hand. Owner. OG. Quiet ringleader of this whole tattoo circus.

“Minho, did you review the—” He pauses mid-sentence. Eyes shift from Minho to you. To your lifted shirt. To the way Minho’s gloved hand is hovering just above your skin.

Chan arches a brow. “...So this is happening again.”

Minho doesn’t even flinch. “Out.”

Jisung salutes. “Godspeed, soldier.”

Chan just sighs. “Try not to punch holes in the wall this time.”

The door shuts. The lock clicks. Silence again.

You exhale. “They always this nosy?”

“You always this distracting?” His voice is low now. Tight.

You blink. “Minho—”

“Lie back.”

You obey. He pulls the stool closer. Closer than necessary. Then, gloved hands on your hip, he says—quiet, slow: “I’m finishing this. Every goddamn line.”

You nod. And the machine starts again.

You lose track of time somewhere around the fifth wipe.

The sky outside is darker now. The booth hums with that post-tattoo stillness—low light, blood buzz, the deep ache under your skin like something blooming and bruised.

Minho’s working slower now. Not out of fatigue. No—he’s dragging it out. You can feel it in the way he traces your skin. The pauses. The glances.

It’s 7:23 PM.

You know this because your phone buzzes uselessly on the counter and Minho glares at it like it’s an intruder. Then again—he hasn’t looked away from you much at all.

“You’re almost done?” you ask quietly, voice hoarse from the hours of not speaking.

“Final shading,” he says, shifting. “Then bandage.”

You nod, letting your head fall back against the chair. You close your eyes.

Until—click. The door opens again.

“You better not be tattooing her feelings back on,” Jisung says, peeking in once more.

“It’s after seven,” Chan adds, stepping in behind him. “We’re leaving. You can lock up.”

Minho doesn’t even glance at them. “Bye.”

“Damn,” Jisung mutters. “I missed when you were nice.”

Chan folds his arms. “He was never nice.”

Minho wipes your side again. “Do you two need something, or are you just doing walk-in commentary now?”

“We’re giving you the key,” Chan says patiently, tossing it toward the counter. It lands with a clatter. “And also warning you: no sex on the chair.”

“Especially not that chair,” Jisung adds. “That’s the holy one. Client blood and heartbreak juice only.”

You blink up at them. “You do know I can hear you, right?”

“Sweetheart, you’re like three moans away from a confessional,” Jisung grins.

Minho’s hand tenses on your hip.

Chan gives Jisung a sharp look. “Okay, that’s enough. Let the man finish tattooing his ex.”

Minho’s voice cuts in—low, flat, and dry: “I’m raising the booth rent if you two don’t leave.”

Jisung gasps. “You can’t evict my vibe.”

“Watch me.”

With one final laugh, Chan tips an invisible hat at you. “Pleasure seeing you again. Don’t break our boy, yeah?”

You don’t respond. You just hold Minho’s gaze.

The door closes. The lock clicks again. Alone. Again.

He exhales. “They never change.”

You hum. “Neither do you.”

“Not with you.”

His hand brushes your skin again, wiping the last bit of ink away. He doesn’t move it. Just leaves it there. Warm and steady.

“I’m done.”

You nod. Slow. Dazed. “Yeah,” you whisper. “Me too.”

But neither of you move.

The machine is off. The gloves are still on. His hand is still resting on your bare waist.

You watch his throat move as he swallows.

“I need to bandage it.”

You nod.

Minho finally pulls back. Peels off the gloves, slow. Tosses them into the bin with a soft crack. His hands are bare now—warmer, familiar, devastating. He reaches for the tattoo film. The kind that clings like a second skin.

“This part’ll be cold,” he murmurs.

“So were you.”

His hands pause.

Then, with infinite care, he presses the bandage to your ribs. The plastic clings, sealing the ink beneath. His fingertips ghost over your side. Flattening. Smoothing.

Too gentle.

His hand lingers a second too long on your hipbone. Then again on the edge of your waist, just under your breast. You don’t move. You don’t breathe.

Neither does he.

“You’re still warm here,” he murmurs. “Still soft.”

“I never stopped being yours here,” you whisper. “Even after you let me go.”

His hand freezes.

And then—

Minho exhales. Slow. Controlled. Devastated. “Fuck,” he says. “Don’t say shit like that unless you mean it.”

“I do mean it.”

He looks up at you, finally. Face unreadable. But his eyes? Wrecked.

“I didn’t stop wanting you,” you say, soft. “I just stopped begging.”

And that’s when something inside him cracks. Minho drops the rest of the bandage. One hand cups your jaw. The other pulls you forward by the waist. His lips crash into yours—not neat, not planned, not patient. Just real. Messy. Hot. Familiar. Like all the years you lost were just smoke.

He tastes the same. Regret and hunger.

You kiss him back. Desperate. Needy. Home.

When he pulls away, he’s breathless. “The shop’s closed,” he says hoarsely.

“I know.”

“You’re not leaving yet.”

“I know.”

But he can't stop kissing you and his kisses leave you gasping, lips parted, your ribs burning with fresh ink and something even hotter under your skin.

But Minho doesn’t move for your mouth again.

He just looks at you. And presses the last edge of the bandage into place. Palms flat on either side of your ribs, holding it there. Holding you there.

“You need to keep this clean,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “Saniderm on for at least a day. No sweat. No friction. No heat.”

You smirk. “So I shouldn’t fuck my tattoo artist, huh?”

He closes his eyes like that physically hurts. Then opens them again, and they’re darker. Gone. “Fuck,” he mutters. “Come here.”

He grabs your face and kisses you again—harder this time. His mouth is warm, demanding. He tastes like ink and restraint and the last piece of something you thought you’d never get again.

You whimper into it, fingers fisting into his hoodie, tugging him closer. He moves fast now, pulling you upright, spinning you around so your back hits the wall behind the chair.

Your top rides up, exposing your waist. His hands drag along the un-tattooed side of your ribs, his touch finally hungry.

“Minho—”

“You still talk too much.”

His hand finds your thigh, fingers digging in as he lifts you onto the edge of the chair.

“Don’t you dare come undone on this chair unless you want your name carved into it,” he growls.

“Do it,” you whisper, breath hot. “Like old times.”

He groans. Hands gripping your hips, pulling you forward against the bulge in his jeans. But even now—he's careful. His fingers skirt around the bandage. His mouth trails everywhere but the fresh ink.

“I can’t touch there,” he pants. “But everywhere else? Mine.”

He leans in—bites at your neck. Licks under your jaw. You shudder. “Mine.”

You nod, breathless. “Yours.”

“Say it again.”

“Yours.”

He groans into your skin. One hand slips under your waistband—slow, deliberate, filthy. “Keep still. You move too much, I’ll stop.”

“Minho—”

He kisses your collarbone. Soft now. “I never should’ve stopped touching you.” His voice is low, almost broken against your skin. And then his hand dips further—sliding past the waistband of your pants, then beneath your underwear. You flinch at the first brush of his fingers against your bare heat.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “Already soaked?”

You moan, soft and unfiltered. “You did this.”

“Damn right I did.”

He doesn’t dive in right away.

Minho’s fingers ghost along your folds, barely there—just the suggestion of touch. Teasing, cruel, worshipful. Like he wants to remember this. Every slick, desperate twitch.

“Still so fucking warm,” he murmurs. “Still react to me like this.”

“Because I never stopped needing you.”

That does something to him. His jaw tightens. His free hand grips your thigh harder.

His fingers stroke your clit now—slow and purposeful. He still hasn’t pushed in. Just teasing, rubbing, feeling every tremble in your core.

“You’re shaking,” he whispers. “All this time and I still ruin you like this.”

You whimper, hips bucking up—but he presses you down against the chair again.

“What did I say?” he growls. “Keep. Fucking. Still.”

You nod, gasping. “I’m trying—fuck—Minho, please—”

He slips one finger inside. Just one. It glides in so easily, so wet, he groans low into your neck.

“Still tight,” he pants. “Still perfect.”

You clench around him and he curses, fingers curling just slightly as he begins to move.

“Say it again,” he whispers, lips dragging over your ear.

“Say you’re mine.”

“I’m—fuck—Minho, I’m yours—”

His second finger joins the first. Scissoring. Filling. So slow it’s maddening. His thumb circles your clit in rhythm, expertly cruel. You’re grinding against him now, trying not to cry out.

But it’s no use.

“That’s it,” he growls. “Let me hear you. You think I forgot what you sound like?”

You moan—loud this time—and he smiles against your skin.

“There she is.”

His fingers curl again—deep, deliberate, cruel. You cry out, thighs trembling, body completely unhinged on his tattoo chair.

“Fuck, you’re clenching so hard,” he groans, dragging his fingers out almost entirely before plunging back in with a wet sound that makes you whimper. “You missed this, didn’t you?”

“Y-Yes,” you gasp.

“How much?”

You can barely breathe. “So much—Minho—fuck—”

“That’s not good enough.”

He pumps harder. Faster. His fingers scissor deep inside you, stretching you wide while his thumb circles your clit with just enough pressure to keep you right on the edge. His forehead presses to yours, breath ragged, jaw clenched like he's holding back a growl.

“Feel how fucking hard I am for you,” he grits, grabbing your free hand and dragging it down between you both.

Your fingers brush the bulge in his jeans and—fuck. He’s thick. Hard in a way that hurts even through the denim.

“All that from just your voice,” he rasps. “From your pussy sucking my fingers in like it still belongs to me.”

You whimper, hand tightening instinctively over his cock. He twitches under your grip.

“You’re gonna make me cum just from your fist at this rate,” he breathes, panting into your mouth. “And I haven’t even fucked you yet.”

Your hips roll against his hand, the wet slap of your cunt obscene now, the squelch of each pump making your eyes roll back.

“M-Minho—can’t—too much—”

He leans in, lips brushing your ear. “Take it. You used to take it so well.”

You cry out, grinding shamelessly against his hand, your wrist still caught against the outline of his cock. His fingers are relentless now—deep, punishing strokes that angle just right, hitting the spot that makes your back arch.

“That’s it, baby,” he whispers, voice hot and filthy. “You gonna cum for me?”

“Please—need to—”

“You think I’m letting you go home with anyone else’s cum in you again?” His hand grips tighter. “Nah. You’ll cum on my fingers. Then my tongue. Then my cock. One by one. Until you remember who you belong to.”

You sob into his shoulder, body locking up.

“Then cum,” he growls. “Let me feel you fucking fall apart.”

And you do. You shatter. Right there in his chair, cunt clenching around his fingers so hard he curses, hips bucking involuntarily, thighs shaking. The orgasm crashes through you like a wave that never breaks.

You’re still gasping, barely coming down, when he kisses you again—rough and breathless.

Then he pulls his hand out and brings his digits to his lips, licking his fingers clean with a sinful groan. “Still the sweetest fucking thing I’ve ever tasted.”

Minho leans in—presses a soft kiss just beneath your jaw. Then another. Then pulls back, his lips swollen and wet with you.

“Stay,” he says simply.

“Yes.”

“Upstairs.”

You nod again, dazed. He grabs a clean towel, wipes his fingers off, then flicks off the booth lights.

You stumble to your feet. He steadies you with a hand on your lower back—protective, but firm. The other hand? Already sliding down to cup the curve of your ass.

“Don’t test me,” he murmurs, voice rough. “Or I’ll take you right here. Front door be damned.”

You laugh breathlessly. “You always talk this much now?”

“Only when I’m starving.”

He steps out first. Walks to the front.

The shop’s dark now—just the glow of the neon sign outside, and the sound of him flipping the lock with a click. Pulling the blinds. Turning the CLOSED sign.

The only other sound is your breath. And the creak of stairs.

Minho turns back to you. Extends his hand. “Come home.”

And you do. You follow him up the stairs—your fingers tangled in his, your heart in your throat. He pulls you behind him, not once looking back.

The upstairs apartment is dim, clean, and familiar in a way that makes your chest ache.

His hoodie hits the floor first. Your shirt follows. Your bra is gone with one snap of his practiced fingers.

“Fuck,” he breathes, stepping in closer. “I’ve dreamed about this. Exactly this.”

“Then stop dreaming.”

“I’m not stopping anything tonight.”

He kisses you hard, mouths crashing, tongues tangled. His hands roam over every inch of skin he missed—the good side of your ribs, your back, your thighs. He lifts you. You wrap your legs around his waist.

Your back hits the hallway wall.

Your pants are yanked down, barely a memory. His belt clinks open, jeans shoved past his hips. You’re both gasping, biting, pulling, years of silence poured into filthy, reckless touch.

“I missed your body,” he mutters into your mouth. “Missed how you sound. How you taste. How you fucking feel.”

“Then take me.”

“You think I won’t?”

He kicks the bedroom door open with one foot, lays you down onto his bed, and finally—finally—he crawls over you like you’re something holy. You are.

Minho kisses you again, slower now, lips dragging down the column of your throat. Over your collarbone. Across the top of your chest. He palms your breast—squeezes, just enough to make you gasp—and then closes his mouth over your nipple.

You arch.

“Still so responsive,” he murmurs, flicking his tongue over the peak before sucking hard, slow. “Still so good for me.”

Your hands knot in his hair.

He kisses across to the other one—giving it the same attention, tongue lazy, mouth open and hot. Every sound you make fuels him.

Then lower.

His mouth trails down the center of your stomach—soft kisses, open-mouthed and hot, then bites just sharp enough to leave blooming heat behind. He kneels between your legs, hands parting your thighs.

You’re soaked again. Dripping. Panties long gone.

He growls low, eyes locked to your pussy like it’s fucking divine.

“You knew this was next,” he says, voice low, hands sliding under your thighs to lift your hips. “I told you.”

“Then shut up and—”

He doesn’t let you finish.

Minho licks one long stripe up your slit—slow and filthy—from the bottom of your entrance to your clit. And moans. Loud.

“Still taste like a fucking fever dream.”

Your hands shoot into his hair again. “Minho—fuck—”

He flattens his tongue against your clit, then circles it. Slow, heavy pressure. Just enough to make your thighs jerk around his head. “Keep them open,” he mutters, pulling back only to kiss your inner thigh, your hipbone, your mound. “Let me see all of you.”

And then he devours.

Tongue pressed deep. Lapping. Sucking. Flicking. He eats like he missed meals for years and this is how he survives now. Your moans go from soft to broken, gasps ragged, legs shaking around his head.

“Oh my—fuck—Minho—”

He groans into you, the vibration making your hips buck. His arms wrap tighter around your thighs, holding you down, keeping you right there as his tongue circles your clit in tight, ruthless rhythm.

He sucks your clit—harder now. Lips wrapped around your clit, tongue swirling in circles so precise it feels like he mapped this out. Every flick is a promise. Every kiss, a punishment.

“Minho—fuckfuck—please—”

Your thighs tremble against his shoulders, toes curling, head thrown back into his sheets. But he’s relentless. Focused. Cruel in the way only someone who knows your body this well can be.

Then—suddenly—his tongue dips lower again.

He licks into you—deep—pressing into your entrance, slow and wet and hot.

Minho—”

He moans into your cunt, arms flexing around your thighs, nose pressed into your mound like he never wants to come up for air. He tongue-fucks you harder, the slick sounds obscene now, spit and arousal dripping down his chin.

He pulls back just enough to suck your clit again, messy and loud—then goes back down, tongue fucking you like it’s a competition. Like it’s penance. Like he’s going to draw the second orgasm out of you with his mouth alone.

“You’re close again,” he pants. “I feel it. You gonna cum for me, baby? Gonna soak my face?”

“Yes—yes, please—don’t stop—”

He doesn’t. In fact, he doubles down—tongue driving in and out while he rubs tight, fast circles on your clit with his thumb. Your thighs snap around his head. You try to pull away, too sensitive, too much—

But Minho just growls, deep and possessive.

“Fucking take it.”

Fuck you do. You fucking do take it. How can you not. And you finally break apart on his face, legs locking, body spasming as that second orgasm rips through you harder, wetter, longer. He holds you through it, licking and sucking until your voice is nothing but choked whimpers and your body can’t stop twitching.

When he finally pulls away, his mouth is glossy, chin soaked.

He smirks—wild, satisfied, dark before kneeling up, grabbing a condom from the drawer, tearing it open with his teeth.

“Now I’m gonna ruin this pussy properly.”

You’re barely conscious of the way he tears the condom wrapper open—just the sound of it, sharp and needed in the haze of your wrecked body. He rolls it on quick, jaw clenched, hand pumping his cock once, twice, eyes locked on you like you’re prey he’s finally allowed to devour.

“Get on all fours.”

You try to move, limbs shaking, but he grabs your hips and flips you himself—effortless, firm, like muscle memory. You barely get your arms under you before he’s behind you, one hand gripping your ass, the other dragging along your spine.

“You remember how loud you used to get?” he mutters, voice thick. “Gonna make you scream into my fucking sheets again.”

He guides his cock to your entrance—rubbing the tip through your soaked folds, slow and teasing, soaking himself in your mess.

“Fuck—you’re dripping,” he groans. “You came so hard for my mouth, and you’re still ready for my cock?”

“Please—Minho—need it—need you—”

He sinks in. Deep. One smooth, devastating thrust that punches the air from your lungs.

“Oh my fuck—”

“That’s it,” he growls, bottoming out. “Tight as ever. Like your pussy never forgot me.”

You choke on a moan as he pulls out slow—just to slam back in, harder this time. Your arms buckle, face falling into the mattress as his hips snap against your ass with punishing rhythm.

“Minho—fuck—you’re so—deep—”

“Yeah? You missed this cock?” His voice is ragged, filthy. “Tell me. Tell me who fucks you like this.”

“Only you—fuck—only you, Minho—”

“Damn right.”

He grips your hair, pulling you up by the back of your neck, arching your body so your back curves into him. His mouth is by your ear now, panting, biting.

“No one touches you here,” he growls, fucking into you harder, deeper. “Not your mouth. Not your thighs. Not your pussy. All mine. Say it.”

“I’m yours—Minho—I’m fucking yours—”

“Louder.”

“I’m yours!”

He snarls into your neck and slams into you so deep you see stars. One of his hands slides down to your clit, rubbing fast, relentless circles while his cock drags against your g-spot.

“You gonna cum again?” he pants. “On my cock this time?”

“Yes—yes, please—don’t stop—”

“Let go for me, baby.”

You don’t even need to try.

His thumb circles your clit with such devastating precision, and his cock hits so deep, so right, you come apart again—body locking up, mouth falling open in a moan that barely sounds like your own.

Your orgasm slams into you like a wave, sharp and overwhelming, your pussy fluttering around him, gripping him, milking him like your body knows he’s supposed to stay there.

“Fuuuuck—Minho—!”

“That’s it,” he growls. “Cum on my cock like a good girl. So fucking wet—so tight—I can feel you pulsing, fuck—”

Your vision blurs. But he doesn’t stop. He keeps thrusting through it, relentless, dragging it out with brutal pace, your pussy so sensitive now you can barely breathe. His hand’s still on your clit, rubbing slow now—just enough to make you whimper.

“Minho—please—I can’t—”

“Yes you can.”

He leans over your back again, teeth dragging along your shoulder, breath hot and harsh. “You gonna take it, baby,” he pants. “You’re gonna be good and take it. All of it. Until I cum too.”

You cry out when he fucks you harder, cock slamming in deep, hips slapping skin, the sound so obscene it makes your whole body flush. You feel your own slick running down your thighs, pooling under you—and still he keeps going.

“You said you were mine,” he groans. “So act like it. Let me fuck you how you need.”

“Minho—f-fuck—it’s too—too much—”

“It’s never too much,” he hisses. “Not for my good girl.”

His fingers leave your clit, only to grip your throat—lightly, possessively, pulling you up so your back is flush to his chest. His cock drives into you deeper from this angle, the stretch unbearable, perfect.

“You feel this?” he whispers into your ear. “You feel how hard I still am inside you? I’m not even close, baby.”

“Oh my god—”

“You’re gonna take every fucking second of it.”

You moan, broken and needy, as he slams into you again and again. His hips are ruthless now, fucking you straight through your oversensitivity, chasing his own high while demanding you keep up.

“Gonna ruin you,” he groans. “Gonna fill you up and fuck you until you can’t even stand—until all you know is my name in your throat.”

“Please—Minho—yes—yes, please—”

You feel another orgasm building and he knows it. His hand snakes down again, fingers finding your clit, rubbing quick tight circles just as he starts fucking you even deeper, fucking into your sweet spot with perfect, punishing rhythm.

“Cum again,” he growls. “Do it. Show me how good your pussy gets when it’s mine.”

Your legs are trembling now, slick and spent, but Minho doesn’t let up.

“C’mon,” he pants, voice wrecked. “Give it to me again. You know you can.”

His fingers never leave your clit—tight, ruthless circles in time with the brutal rhythm of his thrusts. He’s fucking into you so deep you swear he’s carved out space inside you. Your body’s a live wire, too sensitive, too soaked, too close.

And then—

You break.

A cry tears out of you as your body convulses, squirting hard around him, wetness gushing as your vision whites out. He curses low and vicious, gripping your hips to ride it out, holding you through the aftershocks.

“Fuck—just like that, baby. Look at this mess. All for me.”

You’re limp, gasping, gone—and he’s still fucking you, chasing the edge with a growl in his throat. His rhythm stutters, hips snapping faster, deeper, until he finally buries himself to the hilt with a sharp gasp.

“Mine,” he groans. “Taking all of me—fuck—mine.”

You feel the shudder of him spilling into the condom, body tight, muscles locked, every filthy, pent-up second poured into you.

And then—

Silence.

Only breath. Sweat. Your heartbeat in your ears. He doesn’t pull out right away. Just stays there, chest pressed to yours, mouth by your ear and pressing soft kisses.

Then finally—slowly—he pulls out. You both shiver from the loss.

Minho moves carefully now, the storm in him simmered down to something softer, raw-edged but human. He slides off the condom, ties it off, discards it in the bin by the bed. Then he vanishes for a beat—into the bathroom maybe—but returns just as fast with a warm cloth, water, tissues.

“Easy,” he murmurs as he wipes between your legs, his touch gentle, reverent. “Let me take care of you.”

You wince slightly when the cloth brushes too close to your clit, overstimulated and twitchy. He notices immediately.

“Sorry,” he says quietly. “You okay?”

You nod. Too gone to speak yet, but he sees it—your blinking gratitude, the softness returning to your breath. He kisses the inside of your knee before tossing the cloth aside.

And then he climbs back into bed, arms open. You crawl into them without hesitation. He pulls the blanket over both of you, tucks your head beneath his chin. One hand rubs slow circles into your back; the other is tangled in your hair.

For a long time, neither of you say anything. Just breath. The muted thud of his heartbeat under your ear. The faint creak of the studio pipes somewhere above.

Until you finally whisper, “Why’d we stop talking?”

His fingers still for a moment. Then resume. Slower. “I was angry,” he says. “And stupid.”

You hum. “Me too.”

He sighs. “I hated that you left without saying goodbye.”

“I hated that you let me.”

A pause.

“You came back,” he says quietly.

“I never stopped thinking about you.”

Another beat of silence, heavier now. “I never moved on,” he admits.

You look up at him, eyes glassy. “Neither did I.”

His jaw flexes. His thumb brushes your cheek. And this time, when he kisses you—it’s slow. Deep. No lust. Just longing. A kiss built on what-ifs. On might-have-beens. On maybe-again.

He whispers against your lips, “Stay the night.”

You nod, barely breathing. “Okay.”

It’s been three weeks since that night. Since Minho locked the studio door, fucked you senseless, and told you—without words—that he never stopped wanting you.

Now?

Now, your toothbrush is in his bathroom. Your sketchbook’s on his kitchen counter. Your bra’s been living on his bedpost for four days and counting.

You’re upstairs more than not—first it was overnight visits, then a drawer, then a closet, then one morning he just grunted, “Your stuff’s already here. Might as well stop pretending.”

So you stayed.

Mornings are quiet. Shared coffee in oversized mugs, his hand on your thigh while he skims client bookings. Nights are louder—sometimes it’s just TV and takeout, sometimes it’s moaning into his mouth while he fucks you over the arm of the couch, one hand tangled in your hair and the other keeping your legs spread.

Rebuilding hasn’t been linear. You argue. You remember old fights. You see old wounds still healing. But you talk now. And when you don’t have the words, he kisses the silence out of you, palms framing your face like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he blinks too long.

One afternoon, Jisung barges in to drop off a delivery and freezes at the top of the stairs. You’re half-naked in one of Minho’s shirts. He’s behind you, tattoo gun still buzzing.

“Are you seriously tattooing her naked again?”

Minho doesn’t even flinch. “My apartment. My rules.”

Jisung groans. “I’m gonna start charging rent for the trauma.”

Minho just smirks, wiping your skin clean and pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder. “Close the door on your way out.”

You laugh into the sleeve of your shirt. You’re glowing. A little inked, a lot in love.

And Minho? He’s not going anywhere this time.

Your breath stutters as his hands settle on your hips, grounding you against the velvet sheets. Everything about him is soft—his voice, his touch, the weight of his body pressing you down—but it still makes your heart race like you’re being hunted.

And maybe you are.

“Still nervous?” he murmurs, lips barely brushing your collarbone.

You nod.

His thumb drags slow circles along your thigh. “Talk to me, baby.”

“I just…” You trail off, heat blooming in your cheeks. “It’s embarrassing.”

Chan lifts his head, eyes dark but warm. “What is?”

You cover your chest with trembling arms. “Letting you bite me… here. While we’re… y’know.” You gesture weakly between your bodies. “I’m not— I mean, I’m kinda— I’m not super confident about—”

His eyes flick down, then back up. And suddenly he’s sitting back on his heels, pulling you into his lap without warning.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he says, and it’s not mockery in his voice—it’s reverence. “You think I haven’t noticed how perfect you are?”

You squirm, hiding your face in his neck, but he doesn’t let you. His hands cradle your jaw, tilting your face until your eyes meet his.

“I like everything about you. Especially the parts you try to hide.”

You bite your lip. “Even if I’m awkward about the whole… blood and boobs thing?”

He grins, wicked and sweet all at once. “Especially then.”

His hands slide up your sides, slowly, until he’s cupping you with aching gentleness.

“I’ll wait,” he murmurs, voice lower now. “I’ll wait as long as it takes. I don’t need to bite you there. I don’t need to feed while we fuck. I just need you.”

A pause. Then—

“But… if you ever let me—” his fangs flash just slightly, voice dipping into something darker, needier— “I’ll worship you for it. I’ll starve for days. I’ll make it count.”

You shiver. Your thighs clench around his hips.

And when he leans in again, it’s not with teeth, not with fangs. It just kisses. Soft, endless kisses to your shoulder, your chest, your sternum.

No biting. Not Christopher. Just Channie. Loving you exactly how you are.

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

Thank you for such a thoughtful and tender ask, bunny anon 🐰 I adore shy dynamics and this was such a soft indulgence to write.

Your idea was beautiful—and you? Even more so.

🩸VAMPIRE!SKZ + PRIMAL PLAY: PREDATOR // PREY EDITION

BANG CHAN

He designed the perimeter. Programmed the wind. He knows your scent like sin.

He doesn’t run—he stalks. Slow. Deliberate. Smiling.

“You picked the bunny outfit,” he purrs into the trees. “You wanted this.”

He lets you think you’re safe—then appears behind you. You squeal. He grabs your wrists. Pins you against bark.

“Run again,” he growls, mouth at your neck. “I dare you.”

You try. He lets you. But next time he catches you—he doesn’t hold back.

LEE MINHO

You don’t hear him. Not once. You feel him—his eyes, his heat, that soft flicker of air when he vanishes again.

He doesn’t chase. He hunts. And when he strikes, it’s fast.

“Caught you, little thing.” “Minho—please—” “No talking. Prey doesn’t beg. It squeaks.”

He flips you onto your back, fangs brushing your cheek, hips between your legs. His control is unbearable. And his reward? Making you tremble before he even touches.

SEO CHANGBIN

No stealth. No glamour. Just muscle and growls. You run, and the ground shakes.

“Run faster, baby bunny. I want to work for it.”

You glance back—and he’s SMILING. Full fangs. He tackles you to the ground like it’s foreplay. You land in leaves, wind knocked out of you—and his hand already in your hair.

“Gonna fuck you right here. Dirt on your knees. My bite in your neck.”

And he does. Over and over. He doesn’t stop until you can’t stand. Then carries you out like the prize you are.

HWANG HYUNJIN

He doesn’t chase your body. He hunts your fear. Dreamwalks ahead of you. Whispers in your mind.

“Little rabbit... you smell divine when you're scared.”

You think you see him—no, over there—no—Suddenly he’s behind you, hand over your mouth, hips pressed close.

“Let’s make you scream pretty,” he breathes. “Then I’ll drink every sound.”

He fucks you on a moss-covered stone, moaning like a predator in heat. You cry his name. He drinks it whole.

HAN JISUNG

He’s having too much fun. Jumps out from trees. Disappears again. Leaves traps. Riddles. Whispers. Laughter.

“Catch me, catch me—oh wait, that’s my job.”

When he does catch you, it’s chaos. He pins you to a tree. Slides his hand between your legs.

“So wet. You’re such a good prey. Do I get to eat you now?” “Y-Yes—” “Too slow. Already decided.”

And he devours you. Fingers, tongue, cock, blood—he’s a one-man storm. You are limp in his arms. He’s humming.

FELIX

You don’t even hear his steps. He’s just... there. Golden hair, low voice, soft smile hiding something sharp.

“Poor bunny,” he murmurs, petting your ears. “Shaking already?”

He catches you without struggle. Picks you up like nothing. Fucks you gently while whispering filth into your ear.

“Does it feel good? Being caught?” “Do you want my fangs or my fingers first?”

The answer is both. Always both. And when he finally feeds—it's slow. Sacred. Sensual.

You thank him when it’s done. He kisses your forehead like you’re his favourite sin.

KIM SEUNGMIN

He doesn’t run. He predicts. Calculates. Every step you take? Already mapped in his mind.

“Left turn in 3... 2... got you.”

He snatches you from the shadows. Holds you against his chest with one hand around your throat.

“You thought this was a game. It’s not. It’s a lesson.”

And the lesson? That he owns you. He fucks you hard. Fangs barely grazing your shoulder. Voice low.

“Do prey talk back?” “No, sir.” “Then hush.”

And you do.

YANG JEONGIN — “The Playful Savage”

He giggles as he chases you. Whistles. Teases.

“Bunnygirl’s getting tired. Should I make it easy?”

Then BAM—he’s on you. Fangs out. Eyes glowing.

He fucks you rough. Fast. Loves hearing your moans.

“You like being caught, huh?” “Yes—” “Too bad. I’m not done hunting.”

Even when you cum, he keeps going. Until you cry. Until he feeds. Until you can’t run again.

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

🏠IF YOU ASKED CHAN TO MOVE IN WITH YOU…

You don’t say it dramatically. You’re both on the floor eating takeout, something cheesy, watching a dumb movie, and you say—

“You know… we basically live together anyway. Should we just—make it official?”

He pauses. Blinks. Chews slowly.

And then melts. Not into goo. Into relief. Because he’s been thinking it. He’s been noticing your toothbrush next to his. Your socks in his drawer. The way you always hum in his kitchen like it’s yours. The way he sleeps better when you're there, like his whole nervous system sighs.

But he didn’t want to push. He didn’t want to scare you.

“You really want that?”

“Yeah. I do.”

“…Then I’m already home.”

He pulls you into his lap. Buries his face in your neck. Murmurs things like:

“I’ll clear a closet.” “You don’t have to bring the rice cooker. But if you want to, I’ll make room.” “We’ll get a bigger bed if we have to.”

And then he kisses you like you chose forever.

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

🐺WHEN HE TELLS STRAY KIDS

He doesn’t plan to announce it.

But one night, the boys are over—half-drunk on soju and snacks, playing Mario Kart. Someone makes a joke like:

“Hyung, when was the last time you even slept at your own place?” And he goes: “I live with YN now, basically.” Silence. Then— “Wait, WHAT???”

Felix SCREAMS. Jisung drops his controller. Minho mutters “finally” and sips his drink like a 40-year-old auntie.

“You MOVED IN?” “You didn’t tell us?” “WE COULD’VE HELPED YOU PACK!” “Do she cook for you? Are you eating vegetables?!” “DID YOU MAKE HER SIGN A LEASE OR A LOVE CONTRACT?!”

Chan just laughs. Full dimples. Soft eyes.

“It’s not that serious.” “HYUNG YOU ARE COHABITING. THAT IS HOLY MATRIMONY.”

Eventually Hyunjin clutches his chest like it’s a drama: “Our leader has flown the nest… may love bless your rice cooker.”

They all demand to see the new place. They show up a week later uninvited with candles, blankets, and a doormat that says “Bahng’s House (And Roommate 💍)”.

And Chan? He doesn’t stop smiling for days.

Because to him, this isn’t just “moving in.” It’s choosing a life. A future. A place to come back to. And you asked. Which means you want him. Every version of him.

And for someone who’s spent most of his life making room for others—

Finally being asked to take up space? That’s everything.

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

Seoul's early spring was always deceptive—sunlight soft on the surface but the air still kissed your skin cold when you walked too fast. Your coat’s too light, your hands half-numb, but the minute you step into NO SAINT INK, everything warms.

The scent hits you first: incense and antiseptic. Burnt vanilla over sharp alcohol wipes. Clean, familiar. The quiet hum of lo-fi beats weaves through the matte-black interior—half gallery, half hellmouth. Every wall is scattered with framed flash art—some crisp linework, others feral, chaotic sketches with phrases like “Bite Me” and “Pretty Hurts” etched beneath dripping roses.

The warmth isn’t just from the heater. It’s him.

Hwang Hyunjin is hunched over a drafting table toward the back of the studio, black hoodie sleeves rolled to his elbows, ringed fingers smudged with graphite. His hair is tied up—loose bun, strands falling across his cheekbones, lip bitten as he sketches something you can’t see. You pause in the entrance, watching him work.

God, he’s always like this. Still. Focused. A little too beautiful for a tattoo shop that’s home to chaos incarnate (read: Han Jisung) and Felix’s glitter-drenched custom piercings. Hyunjin feels like a walking contradiction—poetic and sharp, serene and volatile. An ink-stained symphony of clean lines and deliberate hunger.

He looks up.

His eyes meet yours instantly, like he felt you enter the room. Not surprised. Just… aware. Like you live inside a part of his brain he never locks.

“Hey,” he says, voice low, soft as velvet over bone. The corner of his mouth quirks—barely a smile, more of an acknowledgment. Like he’s happy to see you but won’t say it unless you ask.

“Hi,” you breathe, stepping inside fully, the door shutting with a soft chime behind you. “Still open?”

“For you?” His pen halts. “Always.”

You snort, dropping your bag onto the client couch. “That’s the cheesiest shit I’ve ever heard.”

He leans back in his chair, arms stretching over his head, hoodie rising to reveal the silver flash of his hip chain. “I save my best lines for Han’s clients. He likes to pretend he’s the shop flirt.”

“And you?”

“I prefer…” He pauses. Tilts his head. “Slow burns.”

There it is—that unspoken thing. You’ve known Hyunjin for years now, back when NO SAINT INK was just a cramped two-room hole above a bakery and he was still an apprentice shading roses on fake skin.

You were his first real client. Small piece. Inside of your arm. Something small.

Since then—five tattoos. All from him. All delicate. Personal. Quiet marks he made on your body with gentle hands and steady breath. And he never once crossed a line. But he always hovered near it.

The way his thumb would linger too long when wiping down ink. The way he’d mutter, “Hold still, pretty,” and your pulse would stutter like a skipped beat. The way he’d sketch flowers that looked suspiciously like the one he placed under your collarbone, and you’d find them in his book months later, unlabeled—but unmistakable.

Still, you stayed friends.

Coffee runs. Late-night ramen. Art gallery detours. Matching silver rings you bought at a flea market once and never really talked about.

And now, standing here again, watching him toss his sketch pad aside like it’s weightless, you feel it—that shift. The quiet knowing. Like the seed of something unsaid is finally cracking open.

“You working on a new piece?” you ask, nodding toward the table.

He shrugs. “Just sketching.”

“For a client?”

His gaze flicks to you. Unblinking. “Not yet.”

There’s something thick in the air now. Not awkward—just dense. Weighted. You clear your throat.

“I, uh…” You hesitate, fingers brushing your wrist. “I wanted to ask you for something.”

His brows raise slightly. “What kind of something?”

You pause.

Then you pull a folded sketch from your pocket. Smooth it out on the counter. His eyes drop to the paper.

It’s a flower. Hand-drawn. A Lily of the Valley—delicate, nodding petals arching off a thin stem. At the base of it, a faint phrase in cursive: “I bloom where I ache.”

He stares for a long moment.

When he speaks, it’s almost reverent. “You drew this?”

You nod.

His thumb traces the corner of the page. “Where do you want it?”

You swallow. “Right here.” You place your fingers at the sharp curve of your hipbone, just beneath your waistband.

Silence.

You can feel the air shift.

Hyunjin doesn’t move for a second. His jaw tightens. When he finally lifts his gaze, it’s slower. He looks at you like he’s taking you in all over again.

“You want me to tattoo you there?”

“Yes.”

A long breath. “Why me?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

He steps around the counter. Closer. Close enough to smell the cedar on his hoodie, the faint scent of ink that never quite leaves his skin. “You could’ve asked anyone here. Jisung’s the wild one. Felix would pierce your entire soul if you let him.”

You shrug. “I don’t want chaos.”

He raises a brow. “And what do you want?”

You meet his eyes. Slowly. Gentle. “You.”

The pause between you is deafening. Then—his voice, low and frayed. “You can’t say shit like that when I haven’t even touched you yet.”

“You’ve touched me five times.”

“Not like that.”

Not yet, you think. And suddenly, the air feels even heavier.

But then he steps back. Just a little. Just enough to breathe. “Alright. I’ll do it.”

You nod once, pulse thudding.

“Tomorrow,” he says. “After hours. Just us.”

You try to play it cool. “For professionalism?”

His mouth twitches. “No. For focus.”

You arrive before closing.

The sun is already dipping past the horizon, casting long shadows across the alley where NO SAINT INK lives—half-sacred, half-possessed. The neon signs haven’t lit up yet, but the glow inside is warm. Low amber light spills from the studio windows, wrapping the interior in something softer than usual.

You knock once before nudging the door open, a little bell jingling above your head. Your hands are full—an iced Americano in one, a paper bag of pastries in the other.

“I brought bribes,” you call, stepping into the familiar scent of incense, ink, and disinfectant.

From somewhere in the back, you hear him.

“Depends,” Hyunjin says, voice echoing through the curtained hallway. “Are they sweet enough to justify me rearranging my entire night for your hipbone?”

You roll your eyes, smirking as you head toward the front counter. “Don’t act like you weren’t already gonna.”

He appears a moment later, pulling back the curtain with a casual flick—black long-sleeve pushed to his forearms, hair loose today, curling slightly at the ends. His silver earrings catch the light as he moves.

You offer him the coffee.

He accepts it without question, sipping as he glances at the bag. “What is it?”

“Strawberry scones.”

He pauses. Blinks once.

Then, soft and flat: “You’re trying to seduce me.”

You shrug, innocent. “You said you preferred slow burns. I’m just feeding the flame.”

He exhales sharply through his nose. Amused. Maybe impressed. Maybe ruined.

“Come on,” he murmurs, nodding toward the back. “Booth’s ready.”

You follow him through the curtain, until you reach Hyunjin’s space. It’s quieter here.

Dimly lit by a single lamp angled down over the chair. Black walls. Floating shelves with sketchbooks stacked high and carefully labeled bottles of ink arranged like altar offerings. A large framed print of a blooming rose leans against the far wall—your eye catches on the familiar linework.

One of his.

He gestures to the seat. “Make yourself comfortable.”

You do, settling your things on the side table as he rolls on a fresh pair of gloves. The snap of the latex still makes something flicker in your chest.

“Still want the Lily of the Valley?” he asks, voice calm but slightly huskier now. He hasn’t met your eyes yet. Too focused on laying out his stencil materials. Too aware of what’s coming.

You nod. “Still want you to do it.”

That makes his head lift.

His eyes find yours. And this time, they don’t look away.

Slowly, you reach for the hem of your sweatshirt. Tug it off in one smooth motion, leaving you in a cropped tank top and soft cotton shorts. No tights. No barrier. You watch his gaze dip—briefly—to the exposed skin of your upper thighs.

Then you hook your thumbs into your waistband.

“Here okay?” you murmur, sliding the fabric just low enough to reveal the curve of your hipbone—the exact place you want him to mark. The edge of your panties still covers what it needs to. Barely.

His inhale is so sharp you hear it.

“Yeah,” he says after a beat. His voice is quiet. Rough around the edges. “That’s… That’s perfect.”

You try to keep your tone light. “You’ve seen skin before, Hyun.”

“Not like this.”

Your breath catches.

He steps closer, holding the stencil between gloved fingers. His touch is steady when he kneels beside the chair, head tilting slightly to examine the space. But when his hand settles on your waist to hold you still, you feel it.

The difference.

It’s not professional anymore. Not strictly. Not the way it used to be.

His palm is wide. Firm. Anchoring you. But his thumb brushes the hollow just above your hip, a spot he doesn’t need to touch at all. His breath ghosts over your stomach as he positions the stencil, close enough that your skin prickles.

“Breathe for me,” he murmurs. The same words as always.

Only this time—you feel them in your thighs.

You inhale slowly. Exhale.

He presses the stencil gently to your skin. Smooth. Measured. His gaze flicks up once, meeting yours from below, and you swear—just for a second—he looks like he wants to bite.

“There,” he says softly, pulling back to admire his placement. “Check it in the mirror before I commit?”

You nod, rising carefully to your feet. His hand lingers a second too long before letting go.

You step over to the full-length mirror mounted in the corner. Turn slightly. Examine the stencil on your skin—delicate lines, tiny petals, soft cursive nestled against bone. It's beautiful. Quiet and aching and so personal it almost hurts.

He watches you from the chair, arms crossed now, gloves still on, forearms flexed just slightly as he leans back.

“Well?” he asks.

You meet his gaze in the mirror. “It’s perfect.”

“Then lie back for me, angel.”

You lie back on the chair, the black leather cold beneath your skin, even through the thin cotton of your tank. The lamp above casts everything in a halo glow—focused, intimate, like a spotlight trained just on you.

Hyunjin is quiet as he moves around the station. He preps with the same practiced rhythm you’ve seen five times before—ink cap, paper towels, sterile wipes, machine hum warming in the corner. But there’s something different in the air now.

A little too still. A little too loaded.

And then he turns.

Rolls his stool over beside you, knees brushing the base of the chair. He’s sitting close. Closer than he usually does when tattooing you. The heat of him radiates under the low light, hands gloved and resting on his thighs as he looks at you.

At your skin. At the spot where he’s about to mark you.

“You good?” he asks, voice low and a little hoarse.

You nod. “Yeah. Just… aware that I’m in my underwear in your lap basically.”

He snorts softly. “First of all, dramatic. You’re not in my lap—yet.”

Your breath catches. He doesn’t take it back.

You glance down. “I just meant, y’know. This placement. It's a little…”

“Intimate,” he finishes.

You nod once. Slowly.

He leans forward. Just a little. “Does it bother you?”

You blink. “No. Does it bother you?”

He tilts his head, mouth twitching like he wants to smile but won’t let himself. “You think I’m bothered?”

“I think you’re trying very hard to act like I’m just another client.”

That earns a quiet laugh. Low and sharp.

“You haven’t been ‘just another client’ since the first time you asked me to tattoo your collarbone with that stupid flower that made you cry.”

You shove his arm playfully. “It was a sentimental flower, not stupid.”

“It was both. And you cried like I stabbed you in the soul.”

“It hurt!”

“It was a two-inch peony.”

“Shut up,” you grumble, biting back a smile.

He smiles now. Full, real, warm. It fades just slightly as his gaze drags down again, returning to your exposed hipbone.

You feel your stomach tighten when he speaks again—softer now.

“Touching you like this… isn’t nothing.”

You swallow. “So don’t pretend it is.”

He nods. Silent agreement. Then slips back into motion.

He sanitizes your skin first. Cold alcohol on gauze. His fingers brush over your hip as he cleans the area, and even through the gloves, it feels like fire.

“You’re already warm,” he murmurs.

“You’re hovering,” you shoot back.

His laugh is quieter this time. “I have to. This is a sensitive area.”

“Mmm, right. Totally necessary to lean in so close your necklace is touching my stomach.”

He does not, in fact, move away.

Instead, his thumb brushes just below your waistband, fingers spreading gently across your hip as he holds your skin steady. “Stop wiggling.”

“I’m not wiggling.”

“You are.”

“You’re—” Your voice hitches slightly when his palm presses down with more intention. “You’re being a menace.”

“Always.”

He picks up the tattoo machine with his other hand. It buzzes softly to life, a familiar whir that still makes your nerves spike.

He notices. Of course he does.

“You okay?”

You nod.

“You always get twitchy right before the first line,” he says softly, like he’s reciting an old memory.

“You always hold my hand when I do.”

He pauses. Just a beat.

Then—he gently reaches up, slides his fingers between yours, and squeezes once.

You don’t let go.

And then—

“Here we go,” he says quietly.

The needle touches your skin.

Sharp. Hot. Deep. You flinch slightly, but his hand on your hip tightens instantly—not rough, but anchoring.

“There you go,” he murmurs. “Breathe. Just like that.”

The buzz continues, steady and rhythmic as he pulls the linework with impossible control. You force yourself to focus on the sound of his voice instead of the pain.

“You’re good,” he says again, thumb brushing a slow arc into your skin. “Taking it so well.”

You blink hard. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Say what?”

“‘Taking it so well.’ That’s porn voice, Hyun.”

He grins—sharp and unrepentant. “So?”

You glare at the ceiling. “You’re unbearable.”

He leans in slightly, still drawing. “You’re wet.”

Your whole body freezes.

“I—excuse me—”

“Your skin,” he says smoothly, as if he wasn’t just trying to end your life. “It’s damp. Warm. From the alcohol. What did you think I meant?”

“You know what I thought you meant.”

He hums, like he’s pleased with himself. “Interesting.”

You let out a long, slow exhale.

“Still doing okay?” he asks, voice back to low and sincere.

You nod, chest rising and falling. “Yeah. It’s just…”

“What?”

“Hard to stay still when you’re—” You cut yourself off.

His voice drops. “When I’m what?”

Your mouth feels dry. You look down at him. He’s crouched over you, hair falling forward again, neck bent in full concentration. One gloved hand spreads over your hip, holding you down, while the other guides the needle with ridiculous precision. He looks like he’s worshipping your skin. Like this act—this pain—is a form of reverence.

“You’re touching me like I’m yours,” you say before you can stop yourself.

The sound of the machine falters—just a fraction. He doesn’t speak for a second. Then, finally—his voice low and wrecked: “That’s because you are.”

Those words echo.

Not just in your ears—but in your bones. Your breath stutters. Your lips part. You watch him blink, jaw flexing like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud. Like he’s wondering if he can take it back.

You know he won’t. Because he meant it. Because it’s been there—under every lingering look, every playful comment, every time he touched you for just a little too long after finishing a piece.

This has never just been ink.

Not for him.

And not for you.

“Hyun…” you whisper, unsure whether it’s a warning or a surrender.

He doesn't answer right away. Instead, he sets the machine down—gently, slowly, deliberately—onto the tray beside him. The buzz fades into nothing.

His gloved hand is still on your hip.

Still holding you steady. Still not moving.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” he says softly, but his eyes never leave yours. “Not while I’m tattooing you. Not while you’re lying here half-naked and trusting me.”

“But you meant it,” you say.

His jaw tightens. “Yeah.”

The silence between you goes thick again. Almost unbearable.

And then—still seated beside you, still bent low enough that his breath brushes your stomach—he murmurs, “Do you want me to stop?”

You stare down at him. And shake your head. “No,” you breathe. “I want you to finish.”

It’s not just about the tattoo. It never was. Something changes in his face. His pupils dilate. His mouth parts slightly, like he’s tasting the weight of what you just said.

“Okay,” he murmurs.

But when he picks the machine back up, his hands aren’t steady anymore.

The lines are still perfect—Hyunjin doesn’t do less than perfect—but his breath is uneven. His gloved fingers flex harder on your skin, not quite possessive, but close. His knuckles brush the edge of your underwear again and again, and not a single one of those brushes feels like an accident anymore.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, like he’s talking to himself.

You’re not sure if he means you or him.

“I’m fine,” you manage.

He hums. Low. “You always say that. Even when I’m breaking you open.”

Your thighs press together involuntarily. You’re certain he notices.

“I’m almost done,” he says. “Just a few more petals.”

You nod, chest rising with shaky breaths. “Okay.”

Hyunjin works in silence for the next few minutes. Only the buzz of the machine fills the air. His jaw is tight, lips parted, eyes flicking from the lines to your face and back.

Your breath stutters every time his fingers press a little deeper into your skin to hold you steady.

He notices. He always notices.

"You need to stay still, baby," he murmurs after a minute, like it costs him to say it gently.

"I'm trying," you whisper.

"I know," he says. "You're doing so good for me."

The pet name lands hard. You bite your lip, trying not to squirm. He grins. Quietly. Like he’s winning.

Another petal. Another clean line.

Your skin stings, but his voice is soothing. Warm. Reverent.

“Almost there,” he breathes, wiping the fresh ink with gentle circles of gauze. “I promise.”

You nod, nails digging into your own palms.

And then—

He stops.

The buzzing dies.

You feel the soft click of the machine being placed down. The final swipe of his gloved thumb wiping excess ink. The moment his hand lingers too long, brushing up toward your waist.

“…Finished,” he says quietly.

You look at him.

His expression is wrecked. Dark eyes, blown pupils, the barest sheen of sweat at his temples. He swallows hard, blinking slowly like he’s holding back a flood.

He pulls the gloves off.

Snaps. Tosses them to the tray.

Then looks at you like he’s still starving.

“Let me clean you up,” he murmurs.

You sit up a little, and his hand immediately comes to your back to support you—too gentle, too familiar. The intimacy of it makes your stomach flip.

You watch him work.

He squeezes out clear cleanser onto a pad, drags it carefully across the ink. Wipes you down like you’re porcelain. Like you’re sacred.

You shiver.

“There,” he says, fingers resting lightly at your waist. “We should wrap it but…”

You blink at him. “But?”

His eyes flick to your mouth. Then to your thighs. Then back to your eyes. “…But I don’t think I can keep my hands off you long enough to give you proper aftercare,” he admits, voice breaking open.

But then Hyunjin blinks, jaw clenched, and suddenly he’s standing. Suddenly he’s all discipline again. You watch in disbelief as he turns, grabs a box of plastic wrap and surgical tape like he didn’t just tell you he wants to ruin you.

You blink up at him, chest heaving, as he cuts a clean piece and starts prepping like this is a normal day.

Is he seriously—

“Lie back,” he murmurs.

You hesitate.

“C’mon,” he says gently. “Gotta protect the art.”

You lie back, narrowing your eyes.

He crouches again, presses gauze delicately to your tattoo, then begins wrapping with the kind of precise tension you'd expect from a fucking surgeon. His fingers glide over your waist as he smooths the film into place—practiced, familiar, infuriatingly neutral.

"You're being professional again," you mutter.

His mouth twitches. “Would you rather I forget how to do my job?”

“I’d rather you remember what you said five minutes ago.”

“I remember everything I say to you.”

He tapes down the final corner of the wrap, hands steady even though you can see the vein twitching in his neck. You can see the way his mouth keeps parting like he’s holding back a groan. His eyes won’t meet yours for more than a second.

And then, like a fucking menace, he clears his throat and reaches for the aftercare sheet.

The goddamn printed paper.

“I know how to—”

“I’m required to go through it,” he interrupts, not looking at you. “So. No heavy workouts. No soaking in water. No scratching even if it itches. Moisturize gently once the wrap’s off—”

You sit up abruptly.

His words die in his throat.

You reach for the collar of his shirt, grab it, and pull him in. You kiss him like you’re done waiting. Like his little show of professionalism just lit a fire under your skin. Like you’re done pretending you’re not his.

His body reacts before his mind can catch up—he lurches forward into you, hands bracing behind your back, and kisses you back like he’s making up for every second he spent pretending he wasn’t about to come undone.

Your legs wrap around his waist on instinct.

He groans into your mouth, deep and unfiltered, like the leash he had on himself just snapped in two.

“You’re such a fucking tease,” you whisper against his lips.

He pulls back, just enough to rest his forehead to yours, breath heavy.

“You think I was trying to stop myself?” he says, voice rough. “No. I was trying to deserve you.”

Your breath catches.

He kisses you again—deeper this time, desperate.

Then he’s standing. Hands sliding under your thighs, lifting you like it’s nothing. You wrap around him, gasping into his mouth as he sets you down on the tattoo chair again—but backwards this time, so your back is to his chest, your legs spread.

“So,” he says low in your ear, voice gone completely to sin now, “how’s your pain tolerance, baby?”

“Why?”

“Because I’m about to fuck you without touching your new tattoo,” he growls. “And I’m not sure if that’s going to make you scream louder… or quieter.”

Your breathing’s uneven. Your skin still stings faintly from the tattoo. And Hyunjin—Hyunjin is standing behind you, hands gripping your hips like he’s trying not to shake.

"Stay still," he murmurs. “You’ll make me lose it.”

“You already have.”

He huffs a breath that sounds like a laugh if it weren’t laced with so much need. Then his hands trail lower—thumbs hooking into your shorts.

He pulls slowly. Too slowly. The fabric drags over your thighs, bunches at your knees. You shift, arching slightly without meaning to, and he groans low in his throat.

"Fuck," he breathes. "Look at this."

His palm smooths over the curve of your ass, fingers spreading wide like he’s cataloguing every inch.

"You’re unreal," he mutters. "Always knew it. But like this?"

The shorts hit the floor.

And you hear it—the hitch in his breath when he sees your panties.

Thin. Soft. Lace-trimmed. They’re slightly pulled up from your earlier writhing on the chair, and now they’re framed perfectly. Your ass is practically spilling out of them.

Hyunjin makes a sound that is not human.

“Oh, baby…” he murmurs, hand splaying fully across one cheek. He squeezes—firm, greedy. “You wore these for me?”

“I didn’t know I’d be bent over in front of you,” you say, voice breathy.

“Bullshit.”

He leans in, lips brushing your lower back, just above the wrap.

“You always knew where this was going,” he whispers. “You’ve been showing me this ass every time you walked into my shop with your little skirts, your cocky smirks—”

A kiss over the curve of your ass.

“I tattoo you with a straight face, and you sit there like I’m not fucking hard the entire time—”

His hand slides lower, palm pressing against your inner thigh. His fingers trail along the hem of your panties, teasing.

“I should rip these.”

“You won’t,” you gasp.

“Oh?”

“You like how they look too much.”

He chuckles—low, dark, reverent. “You’re right.”

And then he does something you don’t expect.

He kneels behind you.

Both hands on your thighs, spreading you gently. His thumbs drag upward, slow, until they reach the curve of your ass again. He groans softly under his breath—visibly, audibly, aching.

Then—

A kiss. Right on your left cheek. Then another. And another. Trailing closer to the centre. “You know,” he murmurs between kisses, “this view might actually kill me.”

His thumbs hook into the waistband of your panties, and pulls them down.

Hyunjin lets out a shaky, reverent breath. His hands grip your thighs harder. His lips are parted, his eyes wild.

“…Holy fuck. You’re dripping. Just for me.”

His voice is guttural—low enough to make your spine arch without thinking. You can feel his breath right there—hot, heavy, reverent.

Then—

Spit.

The sound is sharp. Obscene. You gasp as it hits you—warm and wet, mixing with your slick, sliding between your folds.

“Fuck,” Hyunjin breathes, watching it trail down. “You make me so fucking messy already.”

And then he dives in. No hesitation. No soft teasing. He licks you like it’s instinct, like it’s oxygen, like this is the first and last meal of his entire life. His tongue parts you, slow and deep. He groans into your pussy like he’s overwhelmed by the taste.

“Jesus,” he whispers between licks. “You taste like a fucking dream.”

His hands grip your ass, spreading you wider. His tongue flicks over your clit—once, twice, and you jolt, gasping into the leather chair.

“Keep still,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “Let me enjoy you.”

Then he sucks. Hard.

Your whole body shudders. Your knees nearly give. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down. He alternates between long, deep licks and desperate flicks, burying his face in you like he wants to live there. Like he’s tattooing his tongue into your memory.

One of his hands slips down, fingers trailing to your soaked entrance. He groans when he feels how ready you are.

“Holy shit,” he pants. “You’re gonna let me fuck this perfect pussy, aren’t you?”

“Yes—god, yes,” you whimper, pressing back against him, dizzy from pleasure.

His fingers press in—two at once, slow but deep. Your walls clench around him, and he curses under his breath.

“Already so fucking tight,” he groans. “Can’t wait to stretch you out on my cock, baby. But first—”

He curls his fingers. Licks again. And you scream. It’s filthy. It’s divine. It’s Hyunjin with a mouth full of you, humming like he’s high off the taste, dragging you toward the edge faster than you can take.

“Don’t hold back,” he says against your cunt. “I want you to cum all over my face.”

You don’t even answer. You can’t. You’re too far gone. Your thighs start to tremble, hips twitching uncontrollably, and he knows.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, tongue relentless. “That’s it, pretty girl. Let go for me. Cum for me.”

And with one more curl of his fingers and one more harsh suck on your clit—

You do.

You break. Hard. Shaking, moaning, collapsing forward against the chair as your orgasm rips through you. You gasp his name, legs trembling, slick dripping down his chin.

But he doesn’t stop.

He keeps going. Licking you through it. Kissing you through the aftershocks. Fingers still inside you, soothing, teasing, owning every wave of it. When you finally lift your head, panting, dazed, and weak in the knees—he pulls back just enough to look up at you. His lips are slick. His eyes are dark. His chest is heaving.

“You’re even prettier when you fall apart,” he whispers.

Then he licks your juices off his bottom lip—

And stands.

You see the outline of his cock in his jeans—thick, hard, straining.

He steps forward, rubbing against your ass, groaning into your shoulder. “Now,” he says, voice wrecked. “I’m going to fuck you so deep, the next time you come in for ink, you’ll still be dripping from this.”

His hands fumble with the button of his jeans, curses falling from his lips like prayers.

“Fuck, fuck—why are these so tight today—”

You glance back, dazed and flushed, still bent over the chair, legs weak from his mouth.

He finally shoves them down, briefs included—and there he is.

Long. Thick. Red at the tip. Veins tracing the sides. So hard it curves slightly, twitching with every heartbeat. Your mouth parts involuntarily. He catches your gaze.

“You staring?” he says, breathless.

“Obviously.”

He smirks—then hisses when his own hand wraps around the base, pumping once to relieve the pressure.

“I’ve dreamed about this,” he mutters, stepping closer, cock dragging over your ass, your soaked thighs, your still-sensitive folds. “Bent over my chair… ink still fresh… wrapped like a fucking gift—”

You whimper as he grinds against you, the head of his cock smearing pre-cum along your skin.

“—and all mine.”

He strokes himself once more, then lines up—sliding the tip through your slick folds, teasing your entrance.

You jolt.

“Still sensitive?” he asks softly.

You nod.

He leans down, voice curling around your ear.

“Good.”

And then—

He pushes in. Slow. Deep.

Your breath catches hard. He’s thick—stretching you inch by inch, until the pressure is so full, so overwhelming, it blurs the edges of your vision.

“Fuck,” he groans, gripping your hips, fingers sinking into your waist. “You’re so tight I could die.”

You moan, forehead pressing into the leather. “Move, Hyunjin—please—”

He pulls out halfway—

Then slams back in.

Your cry echoes through the studio.

“Sound so pretty,” he pants, setting a rhythm—deep, deliberate thrusts that hit every nerve-ending you didn’t know you had.

Every time his hips meet your ass, your body jolts.

“You were made for this,” he mutters. “Made for me.”

One hand slips around your waist, sliding between your legs again, fingers finding your clit with pinpoint accuracy.

“Hyunjin—!”

“That’s right, baby,” he growls. “Take it. Take all of me.”

He pounds into you harder—louder now, the slap of skin on skin obscene in the quiet room. His name spills from your lips over and over, useless and raw and desperate.

The tattoo stings with every motion—but you don’t care. You’re fucked open and filled and god, he’s not stopping. You look back over your shoulder, dizzy, ruined.

And Hyunjin’s eyes are locked on your face—wild. Starved. Obsessed.

“I’m not done,” he says, voice barely human. “Not till you cum on my cock. Not till I fuck my name so deep into you it echoes.”

His fingers rub faster. His thrusts get rougher. And then—

Everything snaps.

You cum again—louder, harder, legs shaking, walls pulsing around him like a vice.

“Holy fuck,” he shouts, cock twitching—

And then he’s spilling into you, deep and hot, hips stuttering, breath caught in his throat.

For a moment, the only sound is your breathing. The ruin. The afterglow. His cock still buried inside you. His arms wrapping around your torso as he leans in and presses a kiss to your back.

“Worth every second I waited,” he whispers.

You laugh—wrecked and glowing. “Told you you’d break the chair.”

“Worth it,” he grins.

Then: “Round two?”

You snort. “Gimme ten minutes and a juice box.”

He kisses your shoulder. “Done.” He kisses again, again, and again. “You okay?” he whispers.

You nod slowly. “Better than.”

He chuckles under his breath, one arm tightening around your waist. “I could stay inside you all day,” he murmurs. “But we’d destroy the whole damn shop.”

You feel him pull out—slowly, carefully, letting you feel every inch retreat until your body clenches one last time in protest.

A gasp escapes your lips.

Hyunjin groans softly behind you. “Don’t do that,” he warns. “I’m already thinking about round two.”

You give him a breathless laugh and he grins. Now pulling up your panties, still bunched halfway down one thigh. He slides them up slowly, smoothing the lace back into place, pressing a kiss to your right cheek as he finishes.

Next come the shorts. He helps you step into them, then pulls them up gently, carefully over your still-tender skin. He pauses at your waistband. Fingers resting there. Holding.

“Let me see it,” he whispers.

You glance back, confused.

“The tattoo.” he clarifies, voice soft.

You shift your hip toward him, tugging the waistband down just enough.

He crouches again.

One hand cradles your thigh. The other touches just above the wrap.

His eyes go soft.

“I can’t believe I finally got to mark you,” he says, almost to himself. “Right here. Where no one else gets to touch.”

You watch him trace the wrap with two fingers, reverent. Then—

He kisses the corner of it. Barely-there. Sacred. You feel your heart stutter. He looks up at you—flushed, hair a mess, lips swollen, eyes absolutely feral with devotion.

“Come home with me,” he says.

Your breath catches. “Hyunjin—”

“I’m not done with you,” he murmurs. “I need to see that tattoo in the morning light. Need to kiss every part I didn’t get to tonight. Need you in my bed. On my sheets. Wearing nothing but your bruises and my name.”

You stare at him. Then lean down. And kiss him. Soft. Slow. Final.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Okay. Let’s go.”

You wake up to the feeling of his fingers on your hip.

Not just touching—tracing. Careful. Curious. Worshipful.

The morning light spills through the blinds in lazy stripes, painting the sheets in pale gold and soft gray. You’re lying on your side, half under the duvet, one leg bare and bent—perfectly exposing your hip. The wrap is still on.

Hyunjin is shirtless, hair an absolute mess, lips kiss-swollen and pink. His chain dangles forward as he leans down to look closer, one hand brushing back your shirt to keep it out of the way.

You blink sleepily. “You’re staring.”

He doesn’t even pretend to deny it.

“Can’t help it,” he murmurs. “I know I just did this, but I still can’t believe it’s mine.”

You snort. “You mean mine.”

His gaze flicks up.

“No,” he says softly. “I meant what I said.”

He leans in. Kisses just beside the wrap. “You let me mark you,” he whispers. “Right where I’ve always dreamed.”

You feel your stomach flip, heat blooming down your spine. “You’re being sappy,” you mumble, hiding your face in the pillow.

He grins. “You love it.”

His fingers trail lower. Along your thigh. To the dip just before it curves into your ass.

You squirm. “Hyunjin—”

“Let me see how sore you are,” he says, voice suddenly lower, throatier.

He lifts the covers. Exposes both legs. His eyes darken at the sight—faint bruises from where he held you. Scratches on his arms from when you clung to him.

And then—he kisses your thigh. Slow. Open-mouthed. Lingering. “I want to put another one here,” he says.

You blink. “Another what?”

“A tattoo,” he says. “Something small. Hidden. Right where only I get to see it.”

He slides lower, kissing your inner thigh now. His hair brushes your skin. His breath is hot.

You shiver. “Hyunjin…”

His mouth pauses a breath away from your cunt. Then: “Or maybe I’ll just taste you again first. Remind you who you belong to before we start sketching.”

You moan—already soaked, already clenching.

But he just smirks.

“You want it, don’t you?” he murmurs. “Want to be mine in ink and sweat and everything else.”

You nod, voice wrecked. “Yes. Fuck, yes.”

He lowers his head again. “And you will be,” he whispers. “One mark at a time.”

The idea of becoming a Blood Doll didn’t start as a fantasy. It started as a last resort.

You weren’t desperate. Just… cornered. By bills. By bruises you didn’t ask for. By nights too long and mornings that arrived with nothing but guilt and cold toast. Seoul was a city of glass towers and low shadows. You had lived in both.

You weren’t supposed to know about the Veil. About vampires. About what they offered behind silk-curtained doors. But you did. One overheard conversation in a blood clinic waiting room was all it took. A name passed like a secret. A dare:

“LUXE Health. If you’re lucky, someone will choose you.”

So you cleaned yourself up. Not for them. For you. You memorized their rules. Got the bloodwork done. Sold everything else. And when you finally arrived—dressed in borrowed black with lips bitten pink—you didn’t flinch.

Because somewhere beneath the hunger and the silence, you had a single thought: “If I’m going to belong to someone… make it him.”

You saw him before he saw you. Or maybe that’s just what you tell yourself now.

Bang Christopher Chan. The vampire who owns medicine. The one whose name is spoken in hushed reverence at trauma wards and whispered in moans between silk sheets.

Abnormal. Born, not turned. The kind of vampire the Veil fears because they cannot predict him.

He didn’t need to feed from you that night. He didn’t even touch you. Just read your file, looked into your eyes, and said—

“You’ll do.”

Not cruel. Not kind. Just… certain. And that certainty rewired you.

That was three months ago.

Now, you live on the top floor of a private Luxe facility in Gangnam. You don’t work. You don’t pay. You just exist—dripping in silk, gliding past glass, touched only by magic and occasionally by him.

You eat better than royalty. Your scent is monitored for health. Your sheets are laundered daily in blood-neutral detergent. Every book you ever mentioned liking? It's in your room. Your bath oils are imported. Your wardrobe is measured by hand.

But he hasn’t fucked you. Not once. Not yet. He’s fed. God, has he fed.

The first time, you thought you’d die from how soft he made it. The second time, you wanted him to bite deeper. The third time? You whimpered his name. He smiled, lips wet, but didn’t take you. Not then.

And yet—he gives.

A diamond choker with a spell-lock that hums when you're near danger. A dress you only wore once, now preserved in a glass case because he liked how you looked in it. Shoes hand-delivered from a Paris atelier, dyed to match the undertone of your skin. Perfumes keyed to his scent.

He gives like a man who has everything—except you.

Tonight, you had been his date. A Veil-chartered event in an underground gallery beneath Itaewon. Not that you paid much mind, except the fact that you stood by him looking all pretty, dressed by him.

And now? Now you’re back in the penthouse.

Your heels click across imported stone. You’ve just slipped off your earrings when you feel it—the hum in the walls. The signal. Feeding hour.

He’s never missed one.

You turn, heart already pounding.

He’s in the doorway. Loosened collar. No tie. Silver watch still on his wrist. And his eyes…

Black.

“Sit,” he says, voice silk-dark.

And you do, because God, you always obey.

He crosses the room like a secret unfolding—measured, lethal, beautiful. His gaze never leaves yours. Not even as he loosens the first button of his shirt. Not even as he sheds his jacket and drapes it over the back of a chair. The air shifts around him—cooler, heavier. The scent of cedar and clove curled in hunger.

You sit where he wants you. On the edge of the fainting couch, legs pressed together beneath silk that still smells like his cologne. Your lipstick is still intact. Your throat bare. The pulse at your neck, traitorous.

He kneels in front of you.

Not like a man worshipping. Like a vampire calculating.

His fingers brush your ankle, sliding upward in a touch so light it’s almost imagined—up the line of your shin, over your knee, until he’s nudging the hem of your gown higher, just enough to settle between your legs, kneeling. Commanding.

He doesn't speak right away. Just watches you.

Eventually, he reaches for your wrist. Not to feed.

Just to hold. “You're warm.”

You nod, breath shallow. "I always am. After we go out."

Something flickers across his face. Amusement? Possession?

He leans forward. Mouth hovering over your neck. Not touching. Just breathing. "Do you want the bite here?"

"Yes."

He doesn’t kiss you. He doesn’t ask again. He bites.

You gasp. His fangs are surgical. Smooth. Deep. You feel it in your blood, in your thighs, in the way your dress shifts against your hips as your whole body arches toward him.

It’s not pain. It’s pressure.

One of his hands at your waist, the other on your thigh, grounding you as he drinks your sweet blood in slow. His tongue flicks once. Just once. Over the wound.

And that’s what makes you whimper.

His groan is almost inaudible. Almost. He drinks a little deeper.

You clutch the shoulder of his shirt and try to stay still—but you can’t. You shift. You rub your knees together. You tilt your head further back like it’ll coax more of him out, like it’ll make him—

He stops. Pulls back. Blood on his lips. Collarbone flushed. Hands tighter now.

You’re panting.

"You should rest."

But he doesn’t mean it. Because his eyes are still black. And his cock is hard under his trousers. And you’re still in that dress he picked—silk, slit high, neckline low enough for his teeth to dip beneath.

“You’re still hungry,” you whisper.

He says nothing. But his hand slides higher up your thigh. Just barely. Just enough.

“Feed again,” you murmur.

He exhales. Shaky. Like he’s fighting something ancient. “If I feed again,” he says, voice wrecked, “I won’t stop.”

Your reply is immediate. “I don't want you to stop.”

His hand grips your thigh harder.

A beat. Two. And then—he snaps. His mouth crashes to yours like it’s the only law he’s ever obeyed.

Hot. Wet. Starving.

There’s no finesse. No restraint. Just tongue and breath and blood—your blood—smearing between your lips as he kisses you like he’s waited centuries. You taste iron and cedar and the slick salt of him groaning into your mouth.

His palm slides up your spine, yanks you forward. You gasp. He swallows it. You moan. He deepens it. Your fingers claw at his shirt, dragging it open, buttons scattering somewhere onto the marble.

“Chan—”

“Shut up,” he growls, biting your bottom lip, licking where it splits. “I told you. I won’t stop now.”

You don’t want him to.

Because you can’t think. Can’t breathe. Can’t survive if he doesn’t keep kissing you like that—like he’s drowning in you and wants to take you under with him.

He stands, dragging you up with him, your body flush to his. His hands on your ass, gripping through silk. You feel him—hard and heavy—pressed against your stomach. You grind against him. Shameless. He groans into your mouth like you just handed him your soul.

“On the bed,” he rasps, voice ruined.

You don’t walk. You stumble. He follows, eyes black, jaw clenched, pupils blown so wide you swear they swallow the moonlight.

Three steps from the bed, you spin and grab him by the open collar of his shirt—what’s left of it—and pull.

Hard.

He stumbles with you, low grunt in his throat, and you fall back onto the sheets like gravity’s been waiting for this moment.

Silk against your spine. Chan above you, braced on trembling arms. His shirt ripped wide open from your fingers, chest heaving. Eyes on your lips before leaning in again. Lips on your own. Tongue hot and deep, one hand gripping your jaw like he wants to brand his name there.

His knee shoves between your thighs and you start grinding against it. Moan into his mouth like a sinner under oath.

Your dress slips off one shoulder and of course he notices and his mouth leaves yours—trailing fire down your throat, tongue flicking the half-healed bite on your neck. You arch like a live wire. He sucks. You cry out. And then he speaks against your skin.

“You don’t understand what you’ve just done,” he rasps, voice shaking. “Letting me kiss you. Letting me taste it from your lips…”

He presses his forehead to your collarbone. His breath shudders. So does your body. “I’ve waited,” he says. “I’ve waited—every night. Let you heal. Let you rest. I was good.”

He lifts his head. Stares down at you. “But now you’ve ruined that.”

His hand slides under the slit of your dress. Fingers ghost over your inner thigh. He groans. "Fuck, you're so wet baby."

You whimper.

He leans down again, nose brushing your jaw, lips grazing your ear—

“One more bite,” he whispers. “Then I fuck you. And I don’t stop until your blood knows who it belongs to.”

"Please." You say. Desperate for it.

Chan's lips press against your shoulder, just below the dip of silk where your dress has fallen. He's slow, gentle, taking his time. Before finally, he bites and you gasp, sharp and wrecked.

His fangs in slowly this time. Not like earlier. No urgency. This bite is...savouring.

You clutch the sheets, back arching as he feeds again—mouth latched to your skin, tongue lapping slowly between pulses. Every draw pulls heat to your core. Every sound he makes against your skin echoes between your thighs.

And then you finally feel his hand parting your legs more, fingers brushing over your already soaked panties. You twitch and he groans into the wound.

"Dropping," he murmurs, mouth still on your flesh. "From being bit."

His fingers slip beneath the fabric. Contact. He traces the seam of your folds with two fingers before running them up again, pressing into your just enough to make your hips holt.

You moan out. That moan ripped straight from the center of you.

He chuckles darkly. Fangs still buried. Your blood on his tongue. Your cunt in his palm.

"So sweet," he growls. "Every part of you."

His thumb starts to circle that bundle of nerves. Not fast. Not hard. Just deep, tight pressure—rhythmic, possessive, hypnotic.

You’re panting now. Writhing. Your blood still feeding him as he works you from below.

His free hand grabs your thigh, pinning it open. “This pussy’s been waiting for me,” he hisses, licking over the bite again. “Wet and so so perfect for me.”

Two fingers thrust inside and your head snaps back. A choke moan spills out. You feel everything.

“Say it,” he demands, pulling back from your shoulder, licking the wound clean. “Say who owns you.”

“Y-You—fuck—Chan, it’s you—”

“Say it properly.”

His fingers curl just right.

“You own me,” you cry. “You own all of me—*fuck—*please don’t stop—”

“I told you,” he pants, mouth against your lips again, hand fucking you slow and deep, “I’m not stopping tonight.”

Chan finally pulled back, slowly. Fangs retracting from your skin. Mouth now painted with your blood again. He looks wrecked. Hair falling into his eyes. Chest rising like a storm's behind it. But his fingers? They've started fucking into you, a slow pace.

He sits back on his heels between your thighs, one hand fucking deep, slow, curling into that spot that makes your breath catch and your thighs twitch. The other hand trails up your waist until it cups your breast through the fabric. His thumb brushes over your nipple.

“Aw, look at you,” he coos, voice soaked in dark heat. “Dripping for me. Can feel it, baby girl.” His fingers move faster now—tight little thrusts that make your cunt clench, soak, squeal.

“You gonna cum?”

“Yes—yes, I—”

“I can feel it,” he growls. “All that sweetness pulling around my fingers. Fuck—so tight. So fucking good for me.”

He leans over, tongue lapping at the blood smeared down your clavicle while he finger fucks you harder. “That’s it. Let go. Be good. Cum on my hand.”

You cry out—knees jerking, hands clawing at the sheets, your entire body arching as heat snaps. Your orgasm crashes through you. But Chan doesn’t stop. Not until you’re trembling under him, cunt pulsing around his fingers, thighs soaked and twitching.

“Good girl,” he whispers. “You give so fucking much. You always do.”

He pulls his fingers out slow, watching the mess string between you.

Then—finally—his hands go to your dress. He peels it off of you, revealing every inch of your body to his hungry eyes. "Now," he murmurs, eyes dark again. "Now I take what's mine."

You barely catch your breath before you hear it—

The sound of his belt unbuckling.

Fast. Sharp. Desperate. He’s done waiting. His slacks fall in seconds. Boxers shoved low. His cock now in full view. Heavy, thick, veins pulsing. He is already flushed, the tip angry red and dripping.

Your mouth parts in awe. Your cunt clenches in instinct. “Look at you,” he breathes, crawling back over you, cock resting hot against your thigh. “Already shaking… and I haven’t even put it in yet.”

He grabs himself—gives one slow stroke, tip dragging along your folds as he lines up. You feel the heat of it.

“You want it?” he rasps.

“Yes. Please—”

“Then take it.”

And he pushes in. Slowly, gently, wanting to savour the feeling of your walls around his cock. You arch with a cry—eyes wide, fingers scrambling to hold onto something. But it’s no use. You’re being split. He’s so thick, and the stretch is perfect—too perfect. Your pussy tightens around him like velvet glove, and he groans low, forehead dropping to yours.

“Fuck, baby girl—so fucking tight—so good for me—”

He bottoms out.

One perfect grind of his hips. You feel everything. But he doesn't move yet, his hips flushed with yours.

"You take me so well," he whispers. "This pussy was made for me. You were made for me."

You whimper, breathless.

"Please—move—”

"I can. Remind me, who do you belong to baby?"

"You—you, Chan—fuck, I’m yours—”

"Good girl." he whispers. Pulling back and then slamming back in. Hard. Deep. Merciless. His thrusts picking up pace. Harder into you. Your body jerks up over the bed. He grabs your waist, pulls you back onto him.

Over and over.

The sound is obscene—skin on skin, soaked and slick. Your name is gone. All that exists is his name—Chan, Chan, Chan—echoing from your mouth, screamed into sheets, licked from your lips by the man breaking you open.

“You feel that?” he grits, fucking you deep, jaw clenched. “That’s mine. This body. This blood. This fucking cunt—”

He slaps your thigh. You moan.

“Say it again.”

“I’m yours—yours, yours, yours—”

He groans—fucks you harder. At least for a few more thrusts until he moves again. Shifts. Flips you over. Fast. Rough. Hands firm under your hips. One sharp drag and your body turns beneath him—your chest to the sheets, ass up, knees wide on instinct.

You gasp, caught off guard by the dominance of it. And he just laughs—low, filthy, feral.

“That’s better,” he growls behind you. “Now I can really fucking feel you.”

His hand spanks your ass and you jolt.

Chan drags his cock through your slick folds again. Lining himself up. "Stay still," he commands. "Take it.£

And he thrusts back in. Hard. Deep. Full.

You scream. Into the pillow.

He fills you so completely from this angle, cock hitting new spots you didn’t know existed. And when he grinds in deep—stays there—you feel your whole body shudder.

Chan's hand moves into your hair. Fisting it and yanking your head back just enough that you arch for him. And the other hand? It wraps around your throat.

"You look so pretty like this," he hisses into your ear. "Open. Dripping. Mine."

He starts moving again—fucking you slow and rough, every stroke long and deep and perfectly angled. You’re choking on moans now—your own breath caught in your throat where his hand rests, light but threatening. Possessive.

“You gonna cum again?” he pants, hips slamming into you. “Gonna soak me like a good little blood doll?”

You nod—whimper—beg.

“Say it,” he growls.

“I—I’m gonna cum—fuck, Chan, please—”

“That’s right,” he snarls. “Do it. Let go.”

He pulls your hair harder. His cock slams deeper. And you shatter. Second orgasm—harder than the first—slams through you like lightning. Your whole body convulses, cunt pulsing around him so tight he groans, slams in deeper, loses rhythm—

“Fuck.”

He lets go of your throat. Pushes you flat to the bed, still buried inside you.

And then? He pulls out—panting, ruined—and flips you again.

“We’re not done,” he breathes. “Not until I fill you.”

You’re breathless. Sprawled on the sheets on your back again after being flipped. Skin flushed, throat kissed red, thighs sticky and trembling.

But he’s not done.

Chan climbs over you again—eyes black, cock still hard, soaked with your slick and heat and ownership. He grabs your legs, lifts them, pushes them up high over his shoulders.

You whimper. He growls.

“One more,” he rasps. “You’re gonna take one more.”

And then he thrusts back in. His thrusts never easing up, except this time instead of being fast, they're harder, deeper. Hitting deep inside your pretty dripping cunt.

Your legs tremble where they rest on his shoulders, your hips arching up instinctively to meet his every thrust. He’s so deep now—your cunt swallowing every inch, fluttering around him like it already misses him when he pulls back.

“So tight,” he pants, sweat dripping from his jaw as he fucks into you. “So full. You feel that?”

He leans down—body folding over yours, pressing you into the bed. You gasp at the intensity—your knees practically touching your ears, your body caged beneath him. And before you know it, his mouth finds your throat again. Not the old bite. No.

This time it's lower. Right over your pulse. A new mark. A new claim.

He sinks his fangs in—again. But this time? He cums. At the same fucking moment.

You feel it—his cock twitching deep inside you, spilling into you with a primal, guttural growl against your skin. His hips still grind as he pumps you full, fucking it deeper, deeper, until your stomach coils from the pressure and the heat and the ache.

“That’s it,” he pants against your skin. “Take it. All of it. I’m gonna fill you—mark you—fuck it so deep into you it'll leak all night.”

He’s still feeding, slow now—tongue lapping, lips suckling, like your blood is the final part of the ritual.

And you? You’re crying his name.

“Chan—Chan—fuck—yes—yours—”

He lifts his head, face painted with blood and victory and crashes his lips onto yours.

Wet. Possessive. Full of cum and blood and everything he is.

“Good girl,” he whispers, against your swollen lips. “My good little blood doll.”

He pulls out—slow. Your thighs twitch. His cum leaks from between them. He watches it, chest heaving, and smirks before his eyes move on to you. Eyes no longer black, but softer now, sparklier. You’re wrecked beneath him, trembling and flushed, marked in blood and sweat and cum.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, fingers ghosting up your thigh. “You took me so well.”

You try to speak. Can’t. All you can do is breathe—shaky, grateful, undone. He leans down. Presses one kiss to your cheek. Another to your temple. Then the curve of your throat where your blood still lingers.

“You’re okay,” he whispers, so gentle it nearly makes you cry. “You’re mine now. And I take care of what’s mine.”

He moves with eerie speed after that, but never rushes you. One moment he’s gone, and the next—he’s back.

A warm cloth in his hand. Something for your bite marks. A glass of cold water. A square of dark chocolate—your favourite.

“Small sugars after feeding,” he says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Prevents dizziness. Helps the body remember pleasure.”

You nibble it, fingers weak. He watches every movement like it’s precious.

Then he scoops you into his arms. You’re already drifting—high on oxytocin, on safety, on the way he smells like expensive oud and dark cherry blood.

“Where are we going…?” you murmur.

“Bath,” he says, already striding down the marble hallway. “You’re not sleeping with my cum leaking down your thighs onto silk sheets."

You huff a laugh into his chest. "Didn't you say you wanted me to leak all night?"

"I don't remember that. I never said that." But Chan is smiling, dimple smile and his ears are red.

In the bathroom, he takes the time to set you down on the edge of the tub gently while he takes care of filling it up with warm water, adding in jasmine oils. Whilst the tub fills up, Chan steps back to undress fully now, taking off that ripped shirt off.

By the time the tub is filled up, Chan makes sure to ease you in the tub, hands firm yet gentle before sliding in behind you and pulling your back to his chest, arms wrapping around your waist.

"You did so well tonight," he says softly, mouth brushing your shoulder. "I told you id' take care of you."

You nod. Too relaxed to speak.

His fingers draw idle shapes over your stomach, over the curve of your breast, over the softest parts of you that no one else touches.

“Sleep here, if you want,” he whispers. “Stay here. Forever.”

You simply relax, your head against his shoulder, eyes fluttered closed, breathing steady. "Mmm...forever." you murmur.

And Chan leans down to press a kiss to the side of your head.

“Forever,” he echoes. “Mine.”