cherryoatchai

[cherryoatchai]

[cherryoatchai]

🩵

[cherryoatchai]

250711 | dominATE Amsterdam

© annnna0325

[cherryoatchai]

[cherryoatchai]

T h e   L e t t e r   C.

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

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

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

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

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

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’d tell you that all the time.

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

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

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

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

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

But Chan?

Chan loved it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then you said it.

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

You held up your left ring finger.

"C."

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

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

"Chan?"

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

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

The look he gave you then? Wrecked.

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

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

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

But his mind was clearly elsewhere.

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

"What are you doing?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Chan."

"Hmm?"

"You’re overthinking a single letter."

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

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

"I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"For a C."

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

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

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

"It’s perfect."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Too much?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You. His name. On your ring finger.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Feels like I did,” he said simply.

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

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

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

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

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

“Does it hurt?” he asked quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Get what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then—Chan—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nodded breathlessly, and that was all he needed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ch-Chan—!”

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

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

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

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

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

“Chan—oh my god, I—”

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

And then you broke.

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

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

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

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

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

“Chan—”

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

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

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

“Chan, please—”

That was all it took.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Chan—oh my god—I can’t—”

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

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

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

And then you did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Too much—”

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

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

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

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

“Chan—Chan, oh my god—Chan!”

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

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

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

“Fuck—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mmm,” you mumbled, nodding weakly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just sore,” you mumbled against his chest.

“Good sore or bad sore?”

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

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

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

TWO MONTHS LATER

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

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

Positive.

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

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

Now you knew.

And you had absolutely no idea how to tell Chan.

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

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

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

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

But Chan deserved better than that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your stomach flipped. “Different how?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m pregnant.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your breath caught. “Chan—”

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

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

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

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

“Chan…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Say what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chan’s restraint started to crack.

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

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

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

“Chan—oh my god—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wasn’t planning to,” you teased.

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

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

[cherryoatchai]

[cherryoatchai]

by andreas.giessler

[cherryoatchai]

CHANGBIN ⋮ dominATE FRANKFURT — 250715 (© nutrainy_23)

[cherryoatchai]

I'm about to go on a Seungmin binge thanks to you 😊

Missing Keycard

Seungmin x Tour Manager Reader

Tags: shy dom seungmin, one bed trope, sleep groping, nipple play, forbidden sex, power imbalance, choking, spanking, riding, oral, braless reader, touch starved reader, unprotected sex, aftercare

Word Count: 6k

Summary: You’re a tour manager for Stray Kids, just trying to survive another city. But when a drunk, keycard-less Seungmin knocks on your hotel door at 2AM, mistaking it for his own room, sleep is the last thing either of you get. What starts as an accident turns into tension that finally snaps — and Seungmin? He’s nothing like you expected.

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

The Chicago stop was a blur of chaos.

A venue delay, a last-minute setlist change, a prop that went missing ten minutes before curtain—and somehow, you’d still managed to get everyone on stage, on time, and in one piece.

Barely.

By the time the show ended and the meet-and-greet cleared, you were running on fumes, your phone at 3% battery and your body running mostly on espresso and anger. You’d finalized hotel room keys, triple-checked the luggage manifest, made sure all the boys had post-show meals waiting.

And then—finally—freedom.

You could’ve joined them at the bar. Hell, Chan had even tugged your sleeve and offered you a shot before leaving the lobby with a slurred grin.

But your legs had already carried you into the elevator, eyes closing before the doors even shut.

All you wanted was a bed.

No bra. No briefs. No bullshit.

So you stripped the second your door clicked shut.

Your panties were soft and high-cut, practically invisible beneath the oversized T-shirt you’d planned to sleep in—until you peeled that off too and reached for the one thing lighter, cooler: a thin, cropped camisole you’d worn under your manager’s jacket earlier.

The fabric barely kissed the curve of your chest. No padding, no support, nothing to hide how worn-down and sensitive you felt.

But fuck it, you were on a private floor, not sharing a room with anyone. No one would see you.

You passed out across the bed in seconds, limbs loose, hair stuck to your cheek, one leg tangled in the sheet and the other kicked free.

You didn’t even register the first knock.

But the second—louder, clumsier—jerked you upright.

You blinked, dazed and crusty-eyed. The room was dark, the hallway light seeping in under the door like a spotlight.

Knock knock.

You groaned, grabbing a pillow to your chest and hauling yourself to your feet. You were half-asleep, brain fogged and skin warm from sleep, not thinking at all as you padded barefoot across the floor.

The camisole had ridden up.

Your panties clung high across your hips.

But none of that registered—not until you cracked the door open and saw him.

“Hyung?” Seungmin mumbled, brows furrowed, eyes red and shiny. “Is this your—wait.”

His voice dipped. His gaze dropped.

And then he froze.

“…Oh,” he said, small and stunned.

You blinked at him. “Seungmin?”

He didn’t answer.

Because his brain—tipsy as it was—had just realized two things in rapid succession:

1. This wasn’t Chan’s room.

2. You were very naked.

Not technically. But close enough.

Your bare thighs were on full display, the camisole barely grazing your belly button, your nipples visibly hard through the thin fabric. The hallway light behind him cast your silhouette against the room’s dark interior in dangerous clarity.

He swallowed.

You blinked, still not fully processing.

“Wait—why’re you here?”

“I—” he scratched his head, swaying slightly. “Lost my card. Everyone locked their doors. Thought this was—uh—Chan-hyung’s room. My bad. I’ll just—”

You stepped aside and yanked him inside.

Hard.

His shoulder hit your chest and your hand scrambled to slam the door shut before anyone saw. Your heart pounded.

“Are you insane? What if someone took a picture of you?!”

“I’m sorry!” he whispered, voice strangled. “I didn’t—fuck, I really thought—”

You turned to him, panting slightly from the adrenaline, your blanket long forgotten on the bed.

Only then did you realize.

You looked down.

Oh. Shit.

Full tits. Bare thighs. Tight panties.

Seungmin was right there—eyes wide, frozen like a deer in headlights, clearly trying to keep his gaze anywhere but on your body.

Too late. He’d seen.

And now he was actively malfunctioning.

“I—I didn’t mean to knock on yours,” he stammered. “I thought it was Hyung’s. I swear. You just—you opened and I saw and I—”

You covered your face with both hands.

He was still talking, tipsy and spiraling.

“—and I was gonna leave but then you pulled me in and now I’m here and you’re—you’re dressed like that—”

“Stop talking, Seungmin.”

Silence.

His mouth snapped shut.

You peeked between your fingers.

He looked like he wanted to evaporate.

Which might’ve been cute—if you weren’t acutely aware that your nipples were still hard and your underwear left nothing to the imagination.

You dropped your hands with a sigh and crossed your arms under your chest, trying to ignore how that only pushed them up more.

“Okay,” you said, exhaling shakily. “You lost your card.”

He nodded quickly. “Yes.”

“No one else answered.”

“Correct.”

“And now you’re in my room.”

He nodded again, slower this time.

Your heart was still thumping. His eyes flicked up to yours—then away again. Every few seconds they betrayed him, dropping back down, catching on your thighs, your waist, your chest before he forced them back up again.

His ears were flushed red.

He was trying so hard not to look—and failing.

You didn’t know what possessed you to say it. Maybe it was exhaustion. Or curiosity. Or the way his bottom lip was caught between his teeth, swaying slightly, hands tucked behind his back like a schoolboy caught in the wrong classroom.

You sighed, one hand dragging down your face, the other cradling the pillow against your chest again.

“Well,” you muttered. “You smell like you lost a drinking game.”

“I probably did,” he said, voice rough but quiet.

“Bathroom’s through there,” you said, gesturing vaguely to the door near the dresser. “Freshen up. We’ll figure out the room situation in the morning.”

Seungmin blinked at you, dazed.

“You’re letting me stay?”

“Well that’s a given,” you said. “I’m not about to throw a drunk idol into the hallway at 2AM. God knows what sasaeng would love that headline.”

He made a soft, embarrassed noise in the back of his throat and practically scrambled toward the bathroom. You heard the door click shut behind him, followed by the water running.

Alone again, you exhaled sharply and looked down at yourself.

The camisole still clung to your chest, the fabric wrinkled from sleep. Your panties had shifted during your rush to the door, one hip strap riding higher than the other. The damage was already done—he’d seen you, fully—and suddenly, modesty felt stupid.

You weren’t thinking like a professional anymore. You were thinking like a tired woman who just wanted sleep and had, quite unfortunately, let a very drunk, very awkward, very cute Seungmin into her room.

Not ideal.

You crossed to the bed and slipped under the duvet, this time tugging it up to your neck like a shield, every inch of your body burrowing into the mattress. You didn’t even glance back when you heard the bathroom door open.

The room was small—modest compared to the suite-style ones booked for the boys—and there wasn’t much in the way of extra space. One armchair sat in the corner, low-backed and thin, its tiny matching ottoman clearly not meant for sleeping.

You could hear him hovering.

Fidgeting.

Shifting on his feet like he was trying to make himself disappear.

You kept your face to the wall.

More shuffling. A pause. Then a tiny sigh.

You rolled your eyes, still not turning.

“The bed’s big enough for two.”

Silence.

Then—

“…Are you sure?”

“I legally cannot let you sleep on the cold floor, Seungmin.”

“…Fair.”

The mattress dipped a few moments later. You felt the careful weight of him as he climbed in—slow, hesitant, like the bed might collapse under the guilt of it. He stayed close to the edge, not even rustling the duvet as he pulled it over his legs.

Neither of you said anything for a while.

You could feel the silence settle in like warmth, like tension slipping between your shoulder blades. He smelled cleaner now—soap and mouthwash, the lingering sharpness of whatever cheap vodka the boys had probably downed earlier. But mostly soap.

He didn’t move.

You didn’t either.

Eventually, his voice came, hushed in the dark.

“…Thank you.”

You mumbled something in return, barely audible.

Another pause. Then, quieter—

“I didn’t mean to see. Before. I wasn’t trying to.”

You sighed.

“I know.”

“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“I’m fine,” you said, and you were surprised to realize you meant it.

Maybe because he wasn’t leering. Maybe because he was clearly still rattled. Maybe because your back was to him and your body had long since relaxed again.

But you were tired. He was tired.

And despite everything, the room felt soft again.

Safe.

You closed your eyes and whispered into the pillow.

“Goodnight, Seungmin.”

He swallowed, voice low and raw behind you.

“…Goodnight.”

And then—finally—stillness.

But neither of you slept just yet.

Because under the sheets, just inches away, your heart was beating too loud.

And Seungmin, with his flushed ears and twitchy fingers, was still trying not to picture what he’d already seen.

⸻

The room had gone colder.

At some point, maybe around 4AM, the air conditioning kicked into overdrive, and the soft hum of it stirred you from sleep.

You shifted under the duvet with a lazy frown, your body instinctively chasing warmth. And then—

You felt it.

Not the chill of the room, but the heat of someone behind you.

A slow, calm breath ghosted over the back of your neck. Warm, steady.

Then the arm.

An arm wrapped around your waist. A hand splayed low, fingers spread wide and firm across your stomach, half tucked beneath the hem of your camisole.

Your breath hitched—eyes fluttering open as your senses slowly caught up to what was happening.

Seungmin.

He was pressed flush against your back now, close in a way that neither of you had planned. Your ass rested snugly against his hips, your legs curved toward your chest in a soft tuck, his body following the shape of yours like he’d been molded to it in sleep.

The realization hit like a slow, hot wave:

Somewhere between drifting off and now, you’d gravitated toward each other. Maybe it had started with a brush of knees. A shared pillow. Maybe he’d pulled you in. Maybe you had backed into him without thinking.

But now?

Now, you were wrapped in him.

And he was touching you.

That hand—broad and warm—shifted slightly, fingers flexing in his sleep. His knuckles grazed higher up your stomach, a slow, unconscious movement that felt more like a caress than a twitch.

Your skin prickled.

Your breath stuttered again.

And that was before you felt the subtle, unmistakable pressure against your ass.

He was hard. Not fully, not completely, but enough that the bulge was there—thick and lazy, tucked against the dip of your curves like it belonged there.

You froze.

Every nerve in your body suddenly wide awake.

It was still innocent enough. He was asleep. Dreaming. He wasn’t doing anything on purpose. But the heat that licked up your spine didn’t care about intentions. It cared about the weight of him behind you, the way his fingertips had curled slightly, like they liked the skin they’d found.

Your thighs pressed tighter.

Seungmin murmured something in his sleep. A sound low in his chest. And then—

His hips shifted.

Just a fraction. But enough.

He pressed into you.

Your lips parted, breath shaky, heart slamming against your ribs as his hips settled again, snug against the curve of your ass like he’d wanted to be closer. Like his sleeping body knew what it wanted, even if his mind hadn’t caught up.

You stayed still, not daring to move. Not even blinking.

His fingers on your stomach moved again. Slow. Dragging higher. The edge of his pinky grazed the underside of your breast, just barely. Not a grab. Not a grope. Just enough to send a thrill zipping through your chest.

You swallowed.

Carefully, silently, you reached down and clutched the duvet a little tighter.

But you didn’t move away.

And neither did he.

You stayed frozen.

Not because you were scared. Not because you didn’t want it. But because the smallest twitch of movement might’ve broken the spell—and right now, with his hands on you, his body warming your back, and his breath soft and steady against your neck… you didn’t want it to stop.

Even if he didn’t mean it.

Even if he wasn’t fully awake.

Even if this wasn’t supposed to happen.

Your body didn’t care about reason. Your body cared about the ache that had been living under your skin for too long. The way your thighs clenched when his fingertips brushed just under the curve of your breast again. The way your stomach fluttered when he pulled you closer, unconsciously grinding that hardening length against the softness of your ass.

A soft sound slipped from his throat—barely a hum, muffled into your hair.

Then his hand moved again.

Slow. Searching. Sliding downward over your stomach, like he was touching something delicate in his dream—fingertips gliding beneath the hem of your camisole, callused pads grazing skin that hadn’t been touched in months.

You held your breath. Every muscle tensed, every inch of you begging for more and terrified of it all at once.

Then the other hand found your hip.

It gripped you there—fingers digging into the flesh, like he was holding on. Like he needed to.

Your eyes fluttered shut.

His hips shifted again. His hard cock pressed tighter against your ass, no longer just a ghost of a touch but a full, heavy presence—throbbing through the fabric of his sweats, thick and real and there.

A soft gasp caught in your throat.

And then—God—his hands started moving.

The one on your stomach caressed upward, grazing the underside of your breast again with just the backs of his fingers. Not a grope. Not rough. But reverent. Careful. A sleeping man worshiping a dream he didn’t know was real.

The other stayed firm on your hip, squeezing lightly, rhythmically, as if guiding himself into the curve of your ass with slow, sleepy rolls of his hips.

You bit your lip so hard it almost hurt.

Because your body… it betrayed you.

Your nipples hardened, tight and sensitive beneath the thin fabric of your cami. Your thighs pressed together, desperate, seeking friction. And heat pulsed low in your stomach—building with every moan that slipped from his lips. Tiny, broken little things. Like he didn’t even realize he was making them.

You’d never heard Seungmin make those kinds of sounds before.

And you weren’t even sure he was fully awake.

Your breath shook. Your hand fisted into the duvet. You didn’t move, not an inch—but God, you felt everything. And you wanted more.

You wanted to press back into him.

You wanted his hands higher. Lower.

You wanted—

“…Hnn…”

A little whimper escaped him—almost helpless.

And then—his fingers twitched again.

Dragged higher.

This time brushing—accidentally, devastatingly—over your nipple.

But then didn’t mean to move.

Not really.

Not in a way you could blame on sleep.

But the ache had settled too deep now, thick and warm in your belly, and the feel of his hands on your skin—soft and curious and a little desperate—was unraveling your last thread of willpower.

So you gave in.

Just a little.

A slow, subtle push of your hips back into him—just enough for your ass to press tighter into the hard length straining behind his sweats. Your breath caught in your throat, chest tightening as the hand on your stomach twitched in response… and then slid up.

His palm cupped your breast.

Full, warm, heavy in his hand.

You gasped—a soft, broken little sigh—because the pad of his thumb grazed your nipple again through your top, and it was too much, too sensitive, too good. Your back arched into it instinctively, the quietest sound escaping your lips, and you felt him—

Stilling.

Breathing.

Then freezing.

Seungmin’s body went stiff behind you.

Like a man pulled straight out of a dream and dropped into a nightmare.

His hand stopped moving. His hips locked. His breath caught like he’d choked on it—and then dragged in sharp and tight, like he couldn’t even remember how to breathe anymore.

“…fuck.”

The word was barely audible. Choked. Wrecked. He jerked his hand away from your breast like he’d been burned, stumbling backward out of the bed in a tangle of limbs and blankets, his body trembling with confusion and guilt and raw panic.

He stood there beside the bed in nothing but a loose tee and sweats, hair messy, eyes wide, lips parted, and face pale in the blue light bleeding through the hotel curtains.

“I—I didn’t—I thought—” he stammered, hands raised like he’d accidentally committed a crime.

“I was dreaming,” he said, voice hoarse. “I didn’t know—fuck, I didn’t know it was you—”

You sat up slowly, duvet still pulled tight to your chest, your body flushed and your heart hammering so hard you thought it might burst through your ribs.

“I’m sorry,” Seungmin said, breathless, eyes darting everywhere but your face. “Shit, I touched you, I—God, I’m so sorry.”

He backed away, visibly shaking. “I swear I wasn’t—fuck, I didn’t mean to—”

You should’ve said something. Anything.

But you were still reeling—body buzzing, skin on fire, the ghost of his touch still etched into your chest.

And for a moment, neither of you moved.

Until he did—

You didn’t mean to stop him. Didn’t plan it.

Didn’t think it through.

But the second he took a step back—panic all over his face, like he was ready to disappear and pretend this never happened—your voice came out, small and raw, right before you could even breathe it back.

“…Seungmin.”

He froze.

Turned slowly. Eyes wide. Chest heaving.

You just looked at him—bare shoulders rising and falling beneath the duvet, hair tousled from sleep, lips parted, heart thudding behind your ribs like it wanted to escape.

“I…” you started, the words thick in your throat. “It’s okay.”

His brows furrowed. “What?”

“I didn’t stop you,” you said softly, eyes searching his. “Maybe… I didn’t want to.”

The room went silent.

And Seungmin—sweet, shy, brilliant Seungmin—stood there like the air had been punched from his lungs.

“You—” He blinked hard, swallowing, jaw clenched like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. “You didn’t want me to stop?”

“I should have,” you said, honestly. “But I didn’t.”

You sat up a little, the duvet sliding down with the motion—revealing the thin strap of your camisole slipping off your shoulder, and just the barest peek of soft skin beneath it. The hem had already ridden up, underboob visible, your thighs spread slightly beneath the covers, body warm and flushed and so real in the low light.

Seungmin’s breath hitched.

You caught the way his eyes flicked down—just for a second—before he snapped them away, fists clenched at his sides, every muscle in his lean body tense.

“I’m your tour manager,” you whispered, more to yourself than him. “If I hadn’t been so tired, I could’ve sorted your room. I should’ve gone to the reception or called someone. I should’ve helped you.”

You looked down at your lap, voice quieter now. “Instead, you walked into my room. I was basically naked. And I let you into my bed.”

Seungmin stayed quiet. Still trembling. Still hard. You could see it—his sweats doing nothing to hide the thick, straining outline pressing forward. He wasn’t even drunk anymore. Just dazed. Wrecked. Fighting something inside him that was so clearly losing.

“And I didn’t stop you,” you finished, eyes lifting to meet his again. “Even when I should have. I let it happen. So…”

You took a breath.

“…you don’t have to go.”

His eyes locked onto yours.

And fuck, the look in them—like every wall he’d carefully built was cracking, like he was fighting to be good, to be professional, but his body was screaming something else entirely. Something raw. Something needy.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said hoarsely.

“Like what?”

“Like you want me.”

The duvet slipped lower when you shifted—bare thighs now visible. And Seungmin’s gaze flicked downward again. Just for a second. Just long enough to see how your cami clung to the swell of your chest, how it had ridden so high your round underboobs were visible, soft and tempting and so close.

You tilted your head, slow. Careful. Still quiet.

“…What if I do?”

That was it.

That was the moment.

Because Seungmin’s lips parted—eyes flicking back to yours, mouth pink and breath shallow, his cock visibly throbbing behind his sweats. The hunger was there now. He wasn’t just hard—he was wrecked by the sight of you, sprawled out like a dream he hadn’t meant to touch, and couldn’t resist anymore.

You were still his tour manager.

Still the professional. Still the one with authority.

But in that moment, with your hair a mess and your thighs spread and your lips barely parted in invitation—God, you looked so soft. So warm. So fucking beautiful it hurt.

And he had such a crush on you. Always had.

Maybe now he didn’t want to pretend otherwise.

Seungmin didn’t move at first. He just stood there, staring—like he couldn’t believe what was in front of him. You, almost bare-chested and flushed, thighs pressed tight beneath you, nipples peaked and your chest rising with every slow breath. His eyes dropped to your breasts, and he swore under his breath, the tension in his throat thick enough to choke on.

When you didn’t move to cover yourself, he dragged his gaze back up to yours.

Like he was waiting for the world to stop him.

Like he was seconds away from burning.

You didn’t say anything. Just held his stare and reached for his hand, curling your fingers around his and guiding it to your face—pressing his palm to your cheek.

That’s when he cracked.

His hand tightened. His jaw flexed. And then he moved—fast and quiet, crawling onto the bed over you with one knee on either side, not touching you yet, just looking down like he still couldn’t believe it was real.

“Tell me this isn’t a dream,” he said hoarsely, voice thick. “Please.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.

Because your body did—arching subtly, thighs parting slightly beneath him in silent invitation.

He bent down, mouth finding the slope of your neck like he’d been aching for it for years. You gasped, head tipping back, the heat of his breath dragging over your collarbone. Then his hands—those long, trembling fingers—finally reached your breasts. He cupped them like they were something sacred, thumbs brushing over your nipples in slow, reverent circles.

“God,” he whispered against your skin. “You feel…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. Didn’t have to.

His tongue found your nipple and you gasped, back arching under him. He was breathing harder now, grinding against your thigh through his sweatpants, restraint unraveling one touch at a time. His lips moved from one breast to the other, mouth open, hot and wet, tongue lapping and sucking until your thighs started to tremble beneath him.

“You don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he said against your skin, voice guttural.

You looked up at him, wrecked already, pupils blown wide. “Then show me.”

Something in his expression darkened.

And just like that, he sat back, pulled the duvet the rest of the way down, and let his eyes roam over every inch of you. His chest heaved once. Twice.

Then he dragged your panties down your legs, slow, savoring it, watching the fabric slide off your body like it was the last thing tethering you to decency.

He swore under his breath again.

You shifted, but he stopped you with a firm hand on your hip.

“Don’t move.”

He stripped his sweatpants in one motion, cock heavy and flushed and hard as it slapped against his stomach. You couldn’t look away. Couldn’t breathe. He was beautiful, yes, but there was something feral now in his silence—something hungry and barely restrained.

You reached for him, and he let you. Let you wrap your fingers around him, let you guide him down to your mouth.

But just as you leaned in, he caught your wrist.

His voice dropped an octave.

“You do that and I’m not going to last.”

Your smirk faltered.

“You think I care?”

And before he could stop you again, you leaned down and took him into your mouth—hot, slow, tongue dragging along the underside as your lips slid down inch by inch. He let out a strangled sound, fists curling in the sheets on either side of him, chest rising fast.

“Shit—don’t stop—fuck—”

You didn’t. You moaned around him, letting the vibrations buzz through his cock. Your fingers curled at the base, your pace teasing at first, and then faster—your lips slick, jaw flexing as you swallowed him deeper.

He groaned, head falling back, hair sticking to his forehead.

“Fucking hell—how are you—” He choked, hips twitching. “You’re gonna make me—”

You pulled off with a gasp, a line of spit catching on your lip as you looked up at him, flushed and ruined.

Seungmin reached for you in a blur.

His hand wrapped around the back of your neck, dragging you up until your lips crashed into his. He kissed you like he wanted to memorize you, like he wanted to devour you—and as he pushed you back against the mattress, the last trace of hesitation fell away from him.

“This shouldn’t be happening,” he murmured against your mouth. “But I’m not stopping.”

And then he pressed the head of his cock against your soaked entrance, dragging it slow, teasing, watching your body react—watching your legs fall wider, your breath hitch.

“Is this what you want?” he asked, voice low and ruined. “Say it.”

“Yes, I want it.”

His cock nudged at your entrance—thick, hot, pulsing. You whimpered just from the feel of it pressing against you. Seungmin’s eyes locked on yours, blown wide, hair damp, jaw clenched so tight it ticked beneath his flushed skin.

“I want to fuck you so bad,” he murmured, voice wrecked. “But if I move right now, I’m gonna come.”

You bit your lip, your hips already rocking forward the slightest bit, aching for him.

“Please do it,” you whispered. “Slow. I want to feel every inch.”

He groaned like he was in pain and slid in—just the tip.

Then deeper.

And deeper.

You cried out when he bottomed out inside you, your walls stretching to take him, fluttering from the fullness. His head dropped to your shoulder as he trembled above you, trying so fucking hard to stay still.

“Fuck—” he rasped, breath hot on your neck. “You’re—Jesus, you’re tight. Warm. You feel so—fuck—I can’t—”

His hips rocked once, slow, thick drag of cock that pulled a breathless moan from your throat. He kissed your collarbone, hands gripping your thighs, keeping your legs spread wide for him as he started fucking you in slow, careful thrusts.

Each one sent shocks through your spine—steady, deep, possessive. He groaned every time he sank back in, voice rough with disbelief, hips shuddering as he fought not to lose it.

“You have no idea,” he whispered, “how long I’ve thought about this.”

“You’re not what I expected,” you breathed, already gasping as he set a slow rhythm, grinding in circles that had your toes curling. “You’re so—”

You didn’t finish the sentence.

Just moaned, softly, “Oh Baby…”

The effect was instant.

Seungmin froze mid-thrust.

His eyes met yours—dark, blown wide, almost dangerous.

“Say that again,” he said, low, like a growl from deep in his chest.

You blinked up at him, surprised, breathless. “…Baby.”

He snapped.

His mouth was on yours, desperate, tongue tasting every sound you made. Then he grabbed your hips and started fucking you with rougher, sharper thrusts—still deep, but now filled with urgency.

“You feel that?” he panted, hips snapping forward again. “That’s mine. You understand?”

You whimpered, clinging to him, head rolling back as he fucked you like he was trying to brand you.

“God, you’re so good,” he moaned, voice cracking. “Can’t believe you’re letting me do this. Can’t believe I’m inside you like this.”

You barely heard him—you were too busy writhing, body twitching under him, orgasm crawling up your spine like wildfire.

But you wanted more. You wanted to see him break.

You pushed at his chest, flipping him over and straddling him in one breathless motion. He let you, watching you like he was starved, lips parted as you lined him back up and sank down on him, slow and tight and trembling.

“Oh, fuck,” he gasped, gripping the sheets. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You started riding him, steady at first—hips rolling, eyes locked on his, both of you completely lost in the sight of your bodies moving together.

But when you leaned forward, whispering “You like this?” into his ear—

—he moved.

Fast.

One hand grabbed your throat, not choking, just holding—just owning. His other arm locked around your waist, and suddenly he was fucking up into you, lifting you off the bed with every brutal, delicious thrust.

“Is this what you wanted?” he growled. “Wanted to ride me, make me lose my fucking mind?”

You gasped, fingers flying to his wrist, not to stop him—just to feel him. His cock hit deeper like this, angled right against your sweet spot, and your thighs started to tremble from the sheer power of his pace.

You couldn’t answer. Couldn’t breathe.

“Look at me.”

You did—and his face. God, his face. Eyes locked on yours like he was watching you fall apart just for him.

“I’m gonna come,” he warned, voice hoarse. “You’re gonna take it. All of it.”

Your orgasm was still crashing through your body when Seungmin moved again.

Without warning, he flipped you onto your stomach, strong hands manhandling you like you weighed nothing. You gasped into the sheets, dizzy from the sudden shift—but the moment your cheek hit the pillow, you felt him behind you again, kneeling between your thighs, gripping your hips like he was about to lose himself.

“Fucking perfect,” he growled, voice low and wrecked as he stared at the arch of your back, your ass up high, your cunt slick and pulsing from how hard you’d just come. “You look like this and expect me to hold back?”

You whined into the sheets, pressing your hips up for him—begging without words.

He lined up.

And slammed into you.

You screamed.

It wasn’t pain—it was bliss. He was fucking deeper than before, harder, snapping his hips against your ass so roughly you could hear the wet slap echo in the room. You clawed the sheets. Your voice was a broken string of moans and gasps.

Every time he drove in, your ass bounced back against him, the sting of skin on skin turning into pure heat.

Then—smack.

His hand landed hard on your ass.

You cried out, back arching like a bow.

“Oh my god—Seungmin—!”

He did it again. And again. Spanked you until the skin burned and the sounds were too filthy to be real, and he was groaning behind you like a man possessed.

“I’ve dreamt of this,” he gasped, watching the jiggle of your ass as he fucked you. “Touching you. Being inside you. You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

His hand slid forward, fingers pinching one of your nipples, twisting it, tugging until you choked on a sob.

“Please—please—” you begged, not even sure what you were asking for anymore.

He leaned over your back, his breath hot on your ear. “Begging already?”

You were shaking. Crying out for more. The sound of skin on skin filled the room, wet and wild, and his rhythm got even more brutal—like he was trying to ruin you for anyone else.

“You want me to break you?” he whispered, thrusting deep and hard enough to push you forward.

“Yes—Seungmin—please—”

He pulled out suddenly and flipped you again, your body pliant and trembling as he pushed your knees up and apart, exposing you completely. He hovered over you, eyes wild, jaw slack, body covered in a sheen of sweat.

“You’re mine right now,” he said, voice trembling from restraint, “and I’m gonna make sure you never forget it.”

Then he sank back into you and started pounding again—deep, rough, so good you couldn’t breathe. Your breasts bounced with every thrust, and Seungmin’s hands were everywhere—gripping your thighs, tweaking your nipples, palming your throat just enough to make your head spin.

“Say it,” he growled, eyes locked on yours. “Say I’m the only one who’s ever made you feel like this.”

“You are—fuck—you are—” you cried, losing yourself completely as another orgasm tore through you, clenching so tight around him that he finally let go.

He groaned—loud, raw—head thrown back as he spilled inside you, hips still moving like he couldn’t stop. Like he didn’t want to.

Even as he came, he kept fucking you.

Slow now. Deep. Letting it ride out as long as possible.

His voice cracked when he said, “I don’t think I’ll be able to stop.”

And honestly? You didn’t want him to.

⸻

The room was quiet now, save for the hum of the air conditioning and the sound of your shaky breathing. Your body was limp beneath him, boneless, skin slick with sweat and heat and everything he’d just poured into you. He was still inside, still twitching a little, as if even his cock didn’t want to leave your warmth.

But then Seungmin exhaled—shaky and slow—and pulled out of you with a soft hiss. He moved so carefully, hands trembling a bit as he reached for the discarded duvet to cover your body, his eyes wide and stunned, his lips parted like he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened.

You watched him sit back on his heels, hair sticking to his forehead, cheeks flushed, lashes low. The confidence—the filth—the devastating way he just fucked you… it was gone.

Now he looked shy.

Almost embarrassed.

“…Did I hurt you?” he asked quietly, reaching for the tissues from the nightstand. His voice was soft again—barely a whisper. “I didn’t mean to be that rough. I just— I kind of lost it.”

You smiled, dazed and aching but full of warmth, watching as he carefully cleaned you up. He was so gentle, even shaking a little, his thumb brushing your inner thigh like he didn’t know if he had the right.

You pushed yourself up slightly and cupped his jaw. “Seungmin.”

His eyes flicked up to yours.

“I’m fine. Better than fine.” You leaned in and kissed him—slow and deep, tasting the way his breath hitched in surprise. “You don’t have to be so scared. I wanted it. All of it.”

He let out a sigh, the kind that sounded more like relief than anything else.

When you broke the kiss, he hesitated, then bent to grab the shirt he’d worn earlier that night from the edge of the bed. “Here,” he murmured, helping you slip it over your head. It was soft and warm, and it smelled like him—clean laundry and sweat and the tiniest hint of cologne. He smoothed the hem over your hips gently, reverently, then looked up at you with those sweet, wrecked eyes.

“…I’ll shut up now.”

You laughed softly and dragged him into the bed beside you. He climbed in, curling behind you like it was the most natural thing in the world, pulling you into his chest, holding you so tight it was almost like he didn’t trust himself to let go.

And for a few minutes, it was just quiet. Breathing. His nose buried in your hair. Your fingers lightly tracing the lines of his knuckles where they rested over your stomach.

Then you whispered, “No one has to know, right?”

He stiffened slightly. “Right.”

“But…” you tilted your head back, meeting his eyes, “I wouldn’t mind if it wasn’t just a one-time thing.”

Seungmin blinked. His voice cracked when he said, “You mean that?”

You nodded, smiling softly. “There’s no going back to pretending we’re just coworkers. Not after this.”

His arms tightened around you.

“Good,” he murmured, lips brushing your shoulder. “Because I don’t think I could look at you like that again. I want this. You. As much as you’ll let me have.”

And then he kissed your neck—so softly, so sweet—and whispered, “I’m yours if you want me.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authors note: The way Seungmin has been creeping up on me and wrecking me these days???? Then that cute abs reveal? Safe to say he’s stuck in my head and Ive been thinking about this scenario for a VERY long time🥹

Also, we’re almost at 2k guys! 😭😭😭😭 you guys are the best fr!

Taglist: @tsunderelino @innieandsungielover @inlovewithstraykids @reignessance @jeonismm @sttnficrecs @herejusttemporary @krssliu @kenia4 @miilquetoast @thackery-blinks @leeminho-hall @suga-is-bae @butterflydemons @inejghafawifesblog @malunar28replies @minchanlimbo @mal-lunar-28 @breakmeofftbr @itvenorica124 @slut4junho @deepblueocean97 @thequibbie @yaorzu-blog @imagine-all-the-imagines @just-bria @mischievousleeknow @ifyxu @melanctton @thelostprincessofasgard @binniebb @sillylittlecat1 @darkwitchoferie @m-325 @headfirstfortoro @imseungminsgf @ihrtlix @vernorica123 @hwangjoanna @swordswallower2000 @niki007 @yxna-bliss @firelordtsuki @justwonder113 @mbioooo0000 @sammhisphere @nebugalaxy @cutecucumberkimberly @chancloud8 @sunflwerstar @shxdowofdarkness @aeyla @annyeongffs @beppybeesnuggets @iamwritteninyourstars @crisle19 @stxysakura @ocean-glacierblue

[cherryoatchai]

no one writes this man like you do😰

How he fucks after a long day | Bang Chan Edition

Bang Chan x Reader | post-schedule, possession-heavy, overstimmed, voice-ruined, filled to the brim, worshipped after

🔞synopsis: Bang Chan comes home at 12:47AM—jaw tight, eyes dark, body stretched thin from hours of forced smiles and endless demands. He doesn’t speak much. Doesn’t have to. You open your arms. He falls into them. And then he takes you—slow at first, then all at once. He fucks like he’s trying to empty himself inside you. Like you’re the only thing keeping him from shattering. Like he’s owed this. You let him use you, fill you, break you. And afterward? He holds you like you’re the most precious thing in the entire world, which you are. Because when Chan’s had a long day, he doesn’t need rest—he needs you.

💌a/n: WOW OKAY HI UM. I'M SO SORRY THIS WAS POSTED LATE WTFFFF 😭😭😭 This was originally gonna be like... an OT8 blurby mini thing??? But then I sat down to write Chan’s part and my brain was like “haha what if he broke your back and your brain and then bathed you tenderly after” and I blacked out. So yeah. This is now a per-boy thing. Because apparently I want to be spiritually rearranged 8 different ways. If you made it to the end... I love you. And I hope you’re hydrated. And sitting down. Or not. Maybe you need to pace the hallway like a Victorian widow. Same tbh. p.s. Reblogs > love & forehead kisses, always. Pls feed the beast. p.p.s. I will be posting more of this series every week, my new filthy friday shit p.p.p.s. If you’re hoarse and can’t say his name anymore… good. That’s canon.

⚠️ warnings: 18+ | MINORS DNI | Dom!Chan | Sub!Reader | PIV sex (unprotected, wrap it up whores) | overstimulation | multiple orgasms + squirting | creampie | manhandling | spanking | hair pulling | choking (light) | dirty talk | possession kink | cock-drunkenness | drool | tears | aftercare | bath scene | Chan is feral then soft

📌 Please read responsibly. Hydrate. Stretch. Let Chan carry you to the bath when you're done sobbing.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » I Need a Girl — Taeyang ft. G-Dragon « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:40 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

The door clicks open at 12:47AM.

No keys jangling. No voice calling out your name. Just the low creak of the door and the soft thud of sneakers being toed off in the dark.

You don’t move from the couch, blanket pulled tight around your legs, phone abandoned on the side table. You heard the schedule ran long. Knew the photoshoot got pushed back, the meeting extended, the practice ran into overtime. Knew it from the unread texts he didn’t send. Knew it from the heaviness in the air before he even walked through the door.

Chan appears in the hallway light like something out of a warzone. Hoodie half-zipped, beanie pulled low, jaw tight, and eyes so dark you almost flinch.

He doesn’t look at you right away. He leans forward, hands braced on the entryway wall, head bowed like he's holding himself together through sheer will. A few seconds pass. He breathes in deep—slow, through his nose—and finally lifts his head.

“Hey,” he says, low and raw. “You’re still up.”

You nod. “Was waiting for you.”

And that’s when it breaks.

Not loudly—not with shouting or slammed fists or messy tears. No, Bang Chan unravels quietly, with purpose. He kicks off his shoes, shrugs off his hoodie, and moves toward you without hesitation.

The blanket slips from your legs as he sinks to his knees between them, dragging your body forward by the hips until you’re teetering on the edge of the couch, his face pressed into your stomach, breathing you in.

His voice is muffled. “I needed you tonight.”

Your hands find his hair, carding through the sweat-damp roots at the nape of his neck. “You have me,” you whisper. “I’m right here.”

He exhales, shaky and long, and it ghosts against your skin like he’s been holding his breath all day. One arm wraps fully around your waist, anchoring himself. The other slides up your back beneath your shirt, palm searing hot and slightly trembling from exhaustion.

You feel it in the way his body leans into yours, not just wanting contact—needing it, like he’ll collapse if he doesn’t touch every inch of you.

“I was so close to losing it today,” he murmurs, voice gravel-low. “Everyone pulling at me, asking for more, expecting me to smile, to lead, to fix everything like I’m not already falling apart.”

He tilts his head up slowly, eyes locking with yours. And that’s when you see it. Not anger. Not frustration. But that quiet, dangerous edge that only surfaces when he’s past the point of tired—when he’s empty, spent, and still expected to give.

“I didn’t even text,” he says. “Didn’t have the energy. Just kept thinking about you. About this. About your mouth. Your skin. The sound you make when I get deep and slow, when I don’t let you cum until I’ve had my fill.”

Your breath catches. Heat coils low in your stomach. But you don’t speak. You just nod.

And that’s all he needs.

Chan rises without a word, scoops you into his arms effortlessly, and carries you to the bedroom like you weigh nothing at all. He sets you down on the mattress gently, but there’s nothing soft in the way he pulls his shirt off—like he’s peeling off the day. The tension in his shoulders, the bite in his jaw—it’s all still there, carved deep.

You reach for him and he’s on you in seconds, slotting his body over yours, mouth finding your collarbone, your neck, your pulse point—sucking, not kissing. Leaving evidence.

“You’re gonna let me fuck the stress out, right?” he murmurs. “No teasing. No bratting. Just you, taking everything I give you.”

You nod, gasping when his hand slips under your shirt and cups your breast. He hums, pleased, and rolls your nipple between his fingers until your back arches.

“Say it,” he growls into your skin. “Say it’s mine tonight.”

“It’s yours,” you whisper, voice already breathy.

“No,” he says, pushing your shirt up and tugging your shorts and panties down in one fluid motion. “I want to hear it begged.”

His palm slides between your legs, fingers barely brushing your folds—and even that light touch has you twitching. You’re already wet. He smiles against your stomach.

“Oh baby,” he whispers, kissing down the inside of your thigh. “You missed me that much?”

You nod, but it’s not enough. He drags a single finger up your slit, slow and precise, watching the way your thighs jerk.

“Say it.”

“Yours,” you pant. “I’m yours, Chan—please, please just touch me—”

“Oh, I’ll touch you,” he murmurs, licking a stripe up your inner thigh, so close it hurts. “I’m gonna ruin you first.”

His mouth replaces his hand without warning, tongue sliding over your clit with practiced pressure. He holds your thighs down with iron grip, not letting you move, not letting you close your legs. It’s brutal. Precise. Ruthless.

And you’re already shaking.

Chan doesn’t moan when he eats you out. He growls. Low, animalistic sounds that rumble against your soaked cunt, the kind that make your head fall back and your fingers claw into the sheets.

He drags the flat of his tongue up and down your folds, slow and fucking thorough, before circling your clit and sucking it into his mouth. His lips seal around it, pressure perfect, tongue flicking rapid-fire. It’s overwhelming.

“C-Chan—fuck—” You arch off the bed and he slams your hips back down, forearm pressing you into the mattress.

“No running,” he mutters against you, lips wet, beard-stubbled chin glistening. “You said you were mine—prove it. Take it.”

He flattens his tongue and licks you open, slow and wide, groaning like he’s addicted to the taste. Then—without warning—his fingers replace his mouth.

Two.

Thick.

They sink in easily, your walls fluttering around the sudden stretch, and he doesn’t ease you into it. He fucks them in deep and curls them instantly, grinding them right against your front wall with unholy precision.

“God—Chan, wait, I’m—!”

“I know you’re close,” he snaps, thrusting his fingers harder. “You think I can’t feel you squeezing me like that? Go ahead, cum. Right on my fingers.”

And you do. With a sharp cry, your back bows off the bed, legs shaking violently as you cum around his hand, his name torn from your throat like a confession.

But he doesn’t stop.

Doesn’t even slow.

Your vision’s still going white when he dives back in, mouth and fingers working in tandem now—tongue flicking your overstimulated clit while his fingers piston into your cunt with vicious rhythm, fucking you through the high and straight into another.

You sob, eyes fluttering, chest heaving. “Too much—wait—Chan, I can’t—!”

“Yes, you can,” he says darkly, gaze burning as he lifts his head just enough to speak. “You will. Gonna make this whole bed smell like you. Gonna make sure your body doesn’t forget me tomorrow when you can’t sit right.”

He spits on your cunt, spreads it with his thumb, and licks it all back up again. You're wrecked. Legs trembling, thighs twitching, jaw slack.

Then—a third finger.

You gasp, back arching off the bed as he eases it in with a filthy moan.

“Ohh, baby,” he breathes, curling all three. “Look how good you take me. So fucking tight still. This pussy was made for me.”

His tongue returns to your clit, relentless. His hand thrusts harder now, fingers scissoring, finding every nerve-ending inside you and setting it on fire.

Your second orgasm crashes into you with no warning—louder, messier. You cry out, legs jerking, and this time you try to pull away—

But Chan’s not done.

“Don’t you dare run,” he snarls, gripping your thighs and forcing you open again. “You’re gonna give me one more. Be good and give me one more, and then I’ll fuck you full, yeah? That’s what you want, right?”

You sob, nodding frantically. “Yes—yes, Daddy, please—”

He grins, fucking his fingers in deeper, curling right into that spot that makes your vision split.

“There she is,” he whispers. “There’s my good girl. Ruin for me, baby. Just once more.”

And you do. You break for him. Again. Completely.

Your thighs squeeze around his shoulders, your voice shatters, and your cunt gushes around his hand as he fucks you through your third orgasm, slower now, working you through the comedown.

And only then—only then—does he finally pull back.

He drags his soaked fingers from your body, glancing down at the mess with unfiltered hunger, and then sucks them clean, tongue slow, eyes locked on yours.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You taste like you missed me.”

You try to answer—try to speak—but it’s just a moan. Your hips roll, desperate and aching for him, and he smiles. That slow, smug curl of his lips that only appears when he knows he’s got you undone.

He stands.

Fists the waistband of his sweats. And pulls them down.

His cock springs free—thick, flushed, already leaking. Heavy and hard, it slaps up against his lower stomach, veined and angry with need. He fists it immediately, pumping once, twice, with a groan that sounds like he’s been holding back for hours.

“Fuck, look at you,” he growls. “All open and messy for me. You want it?”

You nod frantically. “Want it, want you, need you inside—”

“You’re gonna take it,” he says through clenched teeth, lining himself up. “And you’re gonna keep still while I fuck you like I’ve been dying to.”

He doesn’t tease.

Doesn’t drag it out.

He presses the blunt, swollen head to your soaked entrance and sinks in slow, forcing your walls to stretch wide around the thick, burning push of him. Inch by inch, and every second of it feels like you’re being split open in the best possible way.

You moan, legs trembling, eyes fluttering. “So big—fuck, Chan—”

He grits his teeth. “Yeah? Feel me now, baby?”

He bottoms out in one final thrust, hips flush to yours, the base of his cock grinding against your sensitive folds. You gasp at the fullness, at the pressure, at how deep he is—like he’s in your fucking stomach.

And then he starts moving.

It’s not gentle. It’s not slow.

He pulls out halfway and slams back in with a sharp growl, setting a rhythm that’s punishing, relentless, animalistic. His hands lock around your hips, dragging you into every thrust as his cock splits you open again and again.

“S’fucking tight,” he hisses. “Even after all that—you’re still choking me.”

You cry out, your hands scrabbling for purchase, grabbing fistfuls of the sheets as he pounds into you.

“Chan, I’m gonna—can’t—too much—”

“No,” he snarls, eyes wild. “You can take it. You will take it. You’re mine, remember?”

His hand wraps around your throat—not tight, just enough to ground you, to own you—and he leans down, fucking you even deeper.

“You think I don’t dream about this?” he growls against your mouth. “You think I don’t fucking ache to come home and bury myself in you? To hear you moan my name while this pussy milks me dry?”

You sob his name. Broken. Desperate.

And he loses it.

Chan switches, pulls out of you and flips you over in one motion, dragging your hips up and plunging back into you from behind. One hand fists in your hair, the other comes down hard on your ass.

“Arch that back. Just like that. Fucking perfect—”

You’re a mess. Drool on the sheets. Tears streaking your cheeks. Your body trembling, slick gushing with every thrust as he ruins you from behind, his cock hitting deeper, harder, brutal in its precision. Chan grabs a fistful of your hair and yanks you back into his chest, forcing your spine into a perfect arch. The shift in angle punches a moan from your lungs so loud it startles even him.

“There it is,” he growls, voice vibrating against your neck. “That’s the spot, yeah? Right fucking there—where I split you open just right?”

You sob. There are no words left. Just sounds—guttural, broken, high-pitched gasps every time his cock slams into your sweet spot. You try to speak. Try to say “yes,” try to say “more,” but it comes out slurred, useless. Just wet, incoherent babbling as spit leaks from the corner of your mouth and stains the sheets.

“Can’t even talk,” he chuckles darkly. “Already cock drunk? But I’m not done yet, baby.”

He slams in once, hard, deep—and then smacks your ass again, harder this time, the sound ricocheting off the walls. You jerk forward, whimpering, and he doesn’t let you run.

Another slap. And another. Your ass stings, heat blooming where his palm leaves its mark. Your legs quake.

“This what you wanted?” he snarls, yanking your head back by your hair. “Waiting for me, dripping and desperate, just begging to be fucked stupid?”

You moan something—nonsense, vowels, his name maybe—and he grins against your shoulder.

“That’s right. All you can do is moan and take it. My perfect little fucktoy.”

He shoves your head back into the mattress and folds over your back, hips still pistoning in relentless rhythm. You’re choking on the air now, gasping, broken, tears wetting the sheets below you.

“Feel that?” he hisses. “That’s me, right here.” He presses a hand to your stomach, feeling the outline of his cock pushing up through your guts.

You moan so loud and that only spurs him on more. Those pretty sobby moans of yours. He slides his hand back down between your legs, fingers rubbing your swollen clit in cruel, fast circles as he pounds into you harder—so hard you feel the bedframe shake.

“Cum again,” he pants. “Soak my cock, baby. Let go for me.”

You sob, body convulsing, legs giving out as another orgasm crashes into you full-force—violent, pure nerves. You squirt, slick gushing out around his cock, and he groans, hand tightening on your hip.

“Fucking hell—yes, just like that. You’re so messy for me—so good—fuck—”

You collapse face-first into the mattress, body twitching from overstimulation, and Chan finally slows.

But doesn’t stop.

He grinds now, deep and slow, still buried inside your fluttering cunt, letting you feel every thick inch drag against hypersensitive walls.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “Cock-drunk little mess. Can’t even lift your head.”

He pulls out slowly, and you whimper at the loss—but then he spreads you with both hands, watches your hole pulse and clench on nothing, leaking everywhere.

“Oh, baby,” he groans. “You can take more. I’ll make it so good—fill you up till you’re leaking for hours, promise.”

Your throat works around a whimper, drool still pooling on the sheets, legs useless, mind white-noise and static. You try to lift your head, try to respond—you can't.

And Chan fucking loves that.

“God, you’re so far gone,” he breathes. “You don’t even know your own name right now, do you?”

You manage a broken, garbled sound—it might be “no,” might be “Chan,” might be nothing at all.

He fists his cock at your entrance, rubbing the head through the slick dripping down your thighs. You jolt. Twitch. Cry out. He shushes you with a gentleness that doesn’t match the way he ruts forward again, cock forcing its way back into your swollen cunt with a slick, filthy sound.

“Shhh, I know,” he coos. “You’re sore, baby, I know. Just let me in. I’ll take care of it.”

You’re shaking. You feel everything. Every vein, every pulse, every drag of his thick length through oversensitive, spasming walls.

“You’re taking me so well,” he groans. “Still so tight. So good. Gonna make me fucking cum—fuck, you feel too good—”

He folds over you again, chest to your back, lips right at your ear. One arm wraps under your body, hand sliding up to cup your throat, the other pulling your hips back into him like he’s anchoring himself inside you.

“You’re mine, yeah?” he whispers, voice cracking. “Say it.”

“I’m—yours,” you sob, voice barely there. “Always—always yours—”

That’s all it takes.

His rhythm breaks. Hips stutter. A strangled noise rips from his chest as his cock jerks deep inside you—and then he’s cumming, hard, deep, spilling hot inside your pulsing cunt as his breath shudders against your neck.

“F-fuck—yes—yes, take it, baby, take all of it—mine—”

You feel it fill you.

Hot. Heavy. Endless.

And he doesn’t pull out.

He stays buried deep, hands trembling now, forehead pressed to your shoulder as he rides the aftershocks in low, shallow thrusts, grinding his release deeper, forcing it to stay, until he stills. Stills for a second to catch his breath and then finally, slowly—slowly—coming back to himself.

His trembling exhales even out. His lips brush your shoulder once, then twice, softer every time. He presses a kiss to your spine. Then one behind your ear. Then to the crown of your head, murmuring into your hair:

“Breathe with me, baby. Just like that. That’s it.”

You’re limp beneath him. Boneless. A little teary. You feel sticky and sore and full—but also safe. Because Chan never lets go.

He finally pulls out, and you both whimper at the same time—you from the emptiness, him from the sensitivity. He cups between your thighs, tries to catch the cum that’s already starting to drip out.

“Fuck,” he whispers, in awe. “I really stuffed you, didn’t I? It’s still warm inside.”

You make a small, broken noise that could be a laugh—or just the air leaving your lungs. He leans down and kisses your temple again.

“Don’t move, angel. I’ve got you.”

He disappears for only a second, then returns with a clean towel and warm water from the ensuite. You blink blearily as he lifts one of your thighs, murmuring apologies as he wipes between your legs with the gentlest touch, catching every drop of the mess he made with soft, rhythmic circles.

“So good for me,” he says, more to himself than to you. “So, so good.”

He helps you sit up slowly, presses a bottle of water to your lips, and watches as you drink—holding the back of your head like you might fall apart again. When you're done, he slips his hoodie over your head, and it swallows you whole.

You feel tiny inside it. But so warm.

He kisses your nose. “Gonna run a bath, alright? I want you warm and floating. You’ll feel better in the water.”

The lights in the bathroom are dimmed. Steam rises off the tub. He sinks in first, and then pulls you in with him—your back to his chest, thighs folded over his, your head tucked beneath his chin.

There are no words for a long while.

Just his fingertips gliding over your arms, your legs, tracing circles over your hips beneath the water. His lips press to the back of your shoulder, then to your cheek.

Then softly—brokenly—he whispers: “I didn’t mean to go that hard.”

You turn your head slightly, looking up at him. His eyes are filled with something too deep to name—something that looks like guilt and devotion tangled together.

“You needed it,” you rasp. “I wanted it.”

“I was rough,” he says, kissing your wet lashes. “You cried.”

You smile—barely. “You always make me cry.”

“Yeah,” he whispers, nose brushing your hair. “But not like that.”

You twist slightly in his arms, enough to face him now. Your hand cups his cheek. “I felt loved. Even when it hurt. Especially when it hurt.”

His eyes flutter shut, and he nods once—like it cracks something open in him. “You’re my safe place,” he murmurs. “The only thing I want to come home to.”

You nuzzle into his chest. “You can fuck me into the mattress whenever you need to. Just don’t forget to kiss me after.”

He lets out a shaky breath—half laugh, half relief—and kisses you now, long and slow and soft.

“I’ll never forget to kiss you.”

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

[cherryoatchai]

absolutely divine ✨️

Nowhere To Hide

Bestfriend! Hyunjin x Reader

Tags: mutual masturbation, porn, closet sex, rough sex, first time together, desperate thrusting, overstimulation, hand over mouth, biting, semi-public sex, stifled moans, creampie, aftershocks, dazed clinging, emotionally intense

Word count: 4.1k

Summary: you’re just his best friend; his open-minded, dangerously close, overly flirty best friend. so when hyunjin tells you he can’t watch porn unless someone else is in the room… you roll your eyes and let him do it. but you don’t expect to stay. you don’t expect to watch. and you definitely don’t expect to end up with his hand around your mouth, legs shaking, his cock deep inside you in a locked closet at a house party four days later.

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

You and Hyunjin had always been open with each other.

It was part of the reason your friendship worked — that weird, shameless kind of bond where nothing was off-limits. He could talk to you about anything. You could say things that would’ve made other people flinch, and he’d just laugh, head tipped back, telling you that your brain was his favorite place in the world.

There were no rules. Just you, and him, and the strange little rhythm you’d fallen into over the years. Late-night hangouts, casual sleepovers, the occasional too-long hug when one of you needed something unspoken. No lines ever crossed, but plenty blurred.

So when he asked you to come over that night — casual, chill, just to hang — you didn’t think twice.

You showed up in your usual post-shower state: oversized hoodie, bare legs, the kind of soft cotton underwear that felt like home. His place was warm, clean in a way that said he’d tried to impress you without saying it out loud.

He opened the door, hair messy, smile crooked. “You’re late.”

“You’re lucky I came at all.”

He stuck his tongue out. “You always come when I ask.”

You rolled your eyes, stepping in.

Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the quiet intimacy of the night. But somehow, two episodes into whatever trashy dating show you’d landed on, something shifted.

“Do you mind,” Hyunjin said, reaching lazily for his iPad, “if I put something else on?”

You shrugged. “Sure.”

You didn’t expect him to open his browser and pull up porn.

“Hyunjin—”

“Don’t freak out,” he said, like this was totally normal. “I’m not gonna jerk off. Just… I don’t know. I like having it on sometimes.”

You stared at him. “With me right here?”

“That’s the point.”

You blinked.

“I can’t enjoy it when I’m alone,” he said with a small shrug. “It’s not hot unless someone else is in the room. I’m not gonna do anything unless you want me to. I just… I don’t know. It feels less sad this way.”

You stared at him, mouth opening, then closing.

“Hyune,” you said slowly. “That’s not normal.”

He grinned, eyes bright with mischief. “You say that like I’m trying to be normal.”

Your instinct was to say no. To laugh it off. To tell him he was fucking insane and grab your shoes. But you didn’t.

Instead, you sighed, shaking your head, and muttered, “Fine. But you’re not allowed to make this weird.”

“I never make anything weird.”

“That’s the biggest lie you’ve ever told.”

He winked. “And yet… you’re still here.”

⸻

The video was loud. That was the first problem. The moans were high and breathy and clearly real — not the fake, over-the-top stuff that was easy to ignore.

The second problem was Hyunjin himself.

He didn’t just watch it. He felt it. Breathing in these slow, shallow hitches. Sinking back into the pillows like he was alone, even though you were right there.

You weren’t even watching the screen. You were watching him.

His mouth was slightly open. His chest rose and fell under the soft black tee he’d half-tucked into those stupid grey sweatpants — the ones you’d teased him about a thousand times for being too dangerous.

And then… he moved.

Just a shift of the hips at first. Then his hand — long fingers twitching — rested near his thigh. A rub. Absentminded at first. Then another. Slower. Firmer.

Your stomach dipped.

He groaned, soft and low. His head tilted back.

And that sound — fuck, that sound — sent a pulse straight between your legs.

You tried to ignore it. You tried so hard. But your body was already reacting before your brain could process what was happening. Your thighs pressed together. You adjusted your hoodie. You stopped breathing entirely when his eyes flicked toward you and then dropped — low, slow, hungry.

“You good?” he asked, voice hoarse.

You nodded too quickly. “Fine.”

He smiled — a little too knowingly — and exhaled. “Fuck, she sounds like you.”

You blinked. “What?”

“The girl. On the video.” His voice was dreamy, almost dazed. “She moans like you.”

You stared at him. “How would you even know that?”

He looked at you then, eyes dark and shining. “You think I’ve never heard you?”

Your skin went hot. “Hyunjin—”

“I wasn’t trying to. But you always leave your door cracked. And sometimes I’d just be passing by and then… you’d make this sound. Like you didn’t know how to stop yourself.”

You opened your mouth to say something — anything — but then he moaned again. This time because of you. He was hard now. Very visibly hard.

“God,” he whispered. “Why is this so much hotter with you here?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Your body was buzzing. Your underwear damp. And every inch of space between you suddenly felt razor-thin, unbearable.

“Touch yourself,” he said, almost breathless.

You shook your head, barely.

He leaned in, voice low. “Please.”

You swallowed. “Why?”

“Because I need it,” he said, groaning again as he pressed into his palm. “And I don’t want to be the only one.”

His eyes flicked to your legs.

“You’re turned on.”

“I’m not—”

“You are.” His voice was firmer now. “I can see it. The way your thighs are clenched. The way you’re breathing.”

You looked away. He reached out, gently brushing your knee.

“Look at me.”

You did.

“I swear,” he said, “I’ll stop if you tell me to. But if you want this even a little… just stay.”

You exhaled. Shaky. Unsure. Wet.

And you stayed. Neither of you said anything for a long moment.

The porn still played softly in the background, but it was just noise now — the tension in the room had turned so dense it pressed in on your skin like heat, like breath.

Hyunjin dragged his bottom lip between his teeth and exhaled slowly through his nose. His hand hadn’t left his lap.

You were still watching him.

And he was watching you watching him.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asked, voice hoarse.

Your chest tightened. “No.”

That was all he needed.

He shifted closer, just barely, and let out a sound — low, needy — as he rolled his hips against his palm. The motion was subtle, but it jolted through you like lightning. He rubbed again, slow, firm, a deliberate drag of pressure down the thick line in his sweatpants.

Your thighs clenched instinctively. You were soaked. You could feel it — the press of cotton against slick skin, the fluttering ache that had been growing steadily in your core from the moment he started moaning.

He looked drunk off it. His mouth was open, panting softly. His eyes flicked over your face, down your body, then back to your eyes.

“Touch yourself,” he said again, quieter this time. “I want to see what you look like when you’re needy.”

You let out a breath that trembled.

Your hand moved before your mind could stop it — sliding under the hem of your hoodie, then beneath the waistband of your underwear. Hyunjin’s eyes followed every inch.

“Oh my god” he whispered.

Your fingers dipped into yourself. Soaked.

Your breath hitched hard.

Hyunjin groaned — loud, ragged — and dropped his head back against the headboard, his hand now gripping the full length of his cock over his sweats. The bulge was thick and heavy, straining the fabric.

“Fuck, you’re touching yourself,” he rasped. “I can’t believe you’re actually…”

You moaned — quietly, shakily — and he snapped his eyes open.

“Say something,” he begged. “Tell me what you feel like.”

“I’m wet,” you whispered, eyes closing. “I’ve never been this wet just from watching someone.”

That made him gasp.

“God—fuck—” He shoved his sweatpants down just enough to free himself, and suddenly you couldn’t look away.

He was long, flushed red at the tip, already glistening with pre-cum.

You whimpered.

His eyes fluttered shut at the sound.

“You’re fucking beautiful,” he muttered. “You know that? Just—so fucking pretty when you touch yourself like that. Show me more.”

You moved your fingers again, slow and deliberate, spreading the slickness and brushing over your clit. Your hips arched subtly into the motion, breath stuttering.

Hyunjin watched like a man starved.

“I want to taste you,” he said suddenly, voice broken. “Fuck—I want my face between your legs so bad.”

Your whole body shuddered.

He jerked himself once, twice — not fast, but hard. Focused. Like he was trying to memorize the way it felt while staring at you.

You moaned again, louder this time. Embarrassed at how fast your body was unraveling.

“I’ve thought about this before,” he confessed, still stroking. “Not like this exactly. But… you. Under me. Wet and panting. Saying my name.”

You bit your lip, fingers moving faster now. “I didn’t think we’d ever—”

“Me neither,” he whispered. “But now I don’t even want to stop.”

The air was charged, burning.

You were close. So close it was making your knees tremble.

Hyunjin leaned in again, his free hand brushing against your thigh as if asking for permission.

You didn’t stop him.

His lips were inches from your ear when he whispered, “Let me help.”

You paused. Swallowed.

He watched you — tense, hopeful, ruined — until you nodded.

And then… the shift happened.

Hyunjin slipped his hand down, fingers brushing yours under the band of your underwear. You gasped, but didn’t pull away. He cupped you gently, middle finger sliding through the mess you’d made.

“Oh my fucking god,” he whispered. “You’re soaked.”

Your head dropped against his shoulder.

“You made me like this,” you breathed.

“Yeah?” he said, voice shaking. “You like watching me stroke my cock for you?”

You whimpered again. “Yes—fuck, yes.”

He slid his finger in, slow and deep, while still stroking himself with the other hand. You cried out, biting down on your hoodie sleeve as he moved inside you, curling slightly.

“Come for me,” he said, lips against your temple. “Please. I want to see you fall apart.”

It didn’t take long.

Your body clenched tight, the pressure building sharp and sudden until it broke — heat flooding you from the inside out, your voice catching as you gasped and ground against his hand.

Hyunjin let out a desperate groan and came right after you, hot and heavy against his stomach, chest rising in ragged breaths as his hips jerked through the last few strokes.

You both collapsed sideways into the pillows, breathing hard, sweaty, trembling.

For a moment, it was quiet.

Then—

“That was…” you began, voice wrecked.

“I know.” He laughed, still panting. “I know.”

You turned your head to look at him. His hair was a mess. His lips were red. His eyes were soft now — not teasing, not smug. Just open.

“That didn’t feel casual,” you whispered.

His gaze dropped to your mouth.

“No,” he said. “It didn’t.”

You didn’t know what would come next.

⸻

The worst part wasn’t what happened between you.

It was the silence after.

The way everything between you and Hyunjin felt louder because no one was talking about it.

You’d spent the last three nights pretending that orgasm hadn’t happened. That your fingers hadn’t tangled with his. That he hadn’t whispered I want to taste you while stroking himself, eyes on your mouth.

You didn’t talk about it. You couldn’t.

But the tension between you? You may as well have been shouting.

He sat closer now. Looked longer. He didn’t tease like he used to — not playfully, not harmlessly. Now every glance had heat. Every brush of skin felt intentional.

So when Jisung shouted across the living room, “Let’s play hide and seek — losers get a punishment dare,” you already knew something was going to go wrong.

Because you and Hyunjin couldn’t be trusted anymore.

⸻

You didn’t even plan to hide in the closet.

You were laughing, breathless, the count ticking down — Ten! Nine! Eight! — and you darted around a corner in the hallway looking for literally anywhere to disappear.

The closet door was cracked open.

You pushed in and—

“Shit—!”

A hand reached out to yank you the rest of the way in.

Hyunjin.

He shoved the door closed behind you both, muffling your gasp, then exhaled hard against your ear.

You were chest to chest. Pressed flush to him. The closet was barely the size of a broom closet — coats brushing your cheeks, the smell of old cedar, the wood beneath your bare feet cool from the tile.

“Seriously?” you whispered, half-giggling. “You’re here?”

“You ran into me,” he hissed. “Be quiet—”

Footsteps passed in the hallway. The sound of someone shouting: “Not in the bathroom!”

You both stilled.

And then you started laughing.

Quiet, breathy little giggles that made your shoulders shake. His hands were on your hips now, steadying you, his face so close you could feel his mouth twitch into a smile.

“Shhh,” he whispered, amused. “You’re gonna get us caught.”

“It’s your fault,” you whispered back.

“Yeah?” His breath ghosted your cheek. “Pretty sure it’s yours.”

Your back hit the wall as you shifted to give him room. But there was no room. Nowhere to go.

His thigh brushed up between yours. Your knee bent just slightly.

And that’s when you felt it.

The slow, unmistakable press of something hard against your hip.

You froze.

Hyunjin did, too.

“Hyunjin—?” you whispered.

He didn’t answer right away. His breath had turned shallow, his forehead dropping forward slightly to rest against the wall beside your head.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally. “I can’t help it.”

His voice was low. Strained. Honest.

You swallowed.

It didn’t feel like a joke. It didn’t even feel like a dare. It just… was. Real. Present. Pressed right up against you.

The memory of that night came rushing back — the way he gasped when you moaned, the wet sound of your bodies moving in sync, the look in his eyes when he touched you like it meant something.

And now you were here.

Too close. Too warm. Your short dress had ridden up when he pulled you in, and your bare legs were brushing his sweatpants with every shaky inhale.

You should’ve moved away.

You didn’t.

Instead, you whispered, “This is dangerous.”

He nodded. Barely. “I know.”

Your hands were on his chest, fingers curled into the soft fabric of his shirt. His hands still sat heavy on your hips. Neither of you were breathing quite right.

And then—you shifted.

Just the smallest movement. An unconscious roll of your hips as you tried to balance.

And Hyunjin let out the quietest, shattered groan.

Your stomach dropped.

“Don’t do that,” he whispered.

“Do what?” But your voice was thinner now.

“That.”

You did it again. Just to be sure. The press of your core against him was slow, experimental — your thin underwear the only barrier between your body and the thick, hard line of his cock beneath his sweats.

He whined.

Low, soft, desperate.

His forehead dropped to your shoulder. You felt him tremble.

“You can’t grind on me like that,” he breathed.

“You were already hard.”

“And now you’re already wet.”

The words punched the breath out of your lungs.

You didn’t say anything — couldn’t — and instead let yourself roll against him again, slowly this time, hips rocking once more into his.

His mouth dropped open. You felt it brush your skin.

“Fuck, you’re killing me,” he groaned.

The coats swayed faintly beside you as he gently pressed you back into the wall, his hands tightening at your waist, thumbs brushing under the edge of your dress.

You gasped quietly as he rocked up into you, the friction too good, too familiar.

“I think about it every night,” he whispered, like it hurt. “The way you sound when you come. How soft you were. How hot your hand felt over mine.”

You were burning.

Your body responded before your mind did — rocking again, your arms slipping up around his neck to muffle a soft, stuttering moan into his shoulder.

He cursed under his breath.

Then he stilled. His hand cupped your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his.

“Tell me to stop,” he said.

You didn’t.

Instead, you leaned in — your lips brushing his, breath against breath, heart in your throat.

And that’s when the closet door creaked.

“Anyone in here?” someone called.

You and Hyunjin froze.

Your mouth hovered over his.

Neither of you moved. Neither of you dared.

The door didn’t open.

Footsteps passed.

And the second you were alone again, Hyunjin exhaled.

You were still catching your breath when you heard it.

The soft click of the inside lock.

Hyunjin had turned the tiny latch on the closet door — sealing you both inside.

Your eyes darted to his, wide, breathless, heart kicking.

“What are you doing—?”

But he was already shifting you, gentle but firm.

Turning you in the dark, pressing your front to the wall of the closet, your palms flat against the wood paneling, your chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths.

His voice came at your ear, low and wrecked. “I can’t pretend anymore.”

His hands slid up your thighs — slow, reverent, shaking slightly — fingers brushing the hem of your dress, pushing it higher until it was bunched around your hips.

You gasped when you felt it — the warm weight of his cock, thick and flushed, freed from his sweats and nestled right in the crease of your thighs. Hot, hard skin against the damp cotton of your panties.

“Hyunjin—” You tried to say something. Anything.

But then he rocked forward.

And your mind blanked.

The first thrust wasn’t deep, wasn’t precise — just a desperate press of his cock between your thighs, dragging the thick head right along your clothed pussy.

You whimpered.

Your knees nearly buckled.

His breath left him in a shaky hiss. “Holy fuck—”

You didn’t realize you were moving until you were rocking back against him — instinctive, helpless — meeting every slow rut of his hips with the arch of your spine.

The friction was perfect.

Each thrust of his cock between your thighs rubbed right against your clit through the soaked fabric. It felt filthy. Overwhelming. Like a fever dream you didn’t dare wake up from.

And then his mouth was on your neck.

Hot, open, wet kisses down your jaw, your pulse, his tongue tasting your skin like he’d wanted to for years. His hands grabbed your hips, greedy now, pulling you tighter against him with every roll of his body.

You were panting, trembling, moaning softly into the wall with every pass of his cock between your slick thighs.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered, voice unraveling, “you feel so—shit—so soft.”

You turned your head, breath shallow, eyes finding his in the dark.

“Hyunjin,” you whispered.

His mouth crashed into yours before the word could fully leave you.

It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t careful.

It was desperate.

Tongue and teeth, lips parted, mouths gasping against each other like this kiss had been trapped between you for years. Like he was starving for it. Like you’d never survive it.

You grabbed at his hair. He groaned into your mouth.

His hand slid up your front, fingers curling under the fabric of your dress, and suddenly he was palming your breast — rough, hungry, his thumb brushing your nipple through the lace of your bra.

You arched into his hand.

He bit your lip.

You whined, trembling, your voice cracking. “I need you.”

He froze.

Your words hung in the air — too raw, too loud, too real.

Then he growled, deep in his chest.

And his hand moved.

Down your stomach. Past the waistband of your underwear. Two fingers slid through your soaked slit and came away dripping.

He hissed, whispering something under his breath you couldn’t catch.

Then he hooked his fingers under your thong — pulled it aside.

And you felt him.

The head of his cock, hot and heavy, slipping between your folds. Your knees nearly gave out.

“Are you sure?” he breathed. “Fuck—tell me.”

You didn’t hesitate.

“Yes. Please—”

He didn’t wait another second.

He gripped your hip, braced a hand on the wall beside your head, and with a single smooth thrust, sank into you.

You gasped — loud and broken.

He groaned like it hurt.

Like he’d been dreaming of this for too fucking long.

You could barely breathe.

He filled you so completely you felt split open. Every inch of him slid deep, hot and thick, your body clenching around him like it had been aching for this—like it knew him.

Hyunjin stayed still at first.

Forehead to your shoulder, panting, hand tight on your hip like he was trying to ground himself.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “You feel like heaven.”

You whined — a low, raw sound — hips rolling back into him, your fingers scraping the wall for anything to hold on to.

That was all it took.

His restraint snapped.

His hips drew back.

And then he started fucking you.

It wasn’t slow anymore.

It wasn’t careful.

It was frantic, overwhelming, wet — the obscene slap of skin-on-skin muffled only slightly by the coats around you, your slick dripping down the inside of your thighs with each thrust.

You tried to be quiet. You really did.

But every time his cock drove into you, you couldn’t stop the moans — breathy and soft at first, then high and frantic as his pace picked up.

And when a louder gasp escaped your mouth—

His hand clamped over it.

Large, warm, shaking fingers curled across your lips, muffling the helpless sounds spilling from you as he pounded into you from behind.

You whimpered into his palm.

His voice broke right beside your ear. “I’m sorry, baby—I need you quiet—can’t let them hear—”

You nodded. Barely.

But your body was shaking. Your walls fluttering around him. And Hyunjin knew you were close.

So he got mean.

Rougher.

He slammed into you harder, his cock dragging across all the right spots, your thighs trembling from the pressure of each thrust — and the filthiest part? You were soaked. The squelch of your cunt around him was wet and loud and pornographic, and it only made him fuck you harder.

You bit down.

Hard.

Right into the base of his palm as his hand stayed tight over your mouth.

He groaned, bucking into you like it drove him insane.

“Shit—fuck, just like that—”

He lost rhythm for a second, stuttering into you, hand slipping from your mouth to your throat, thumb under your jaw to tilt your head back, mouth against your skin again.

Then he bit down.

His teeth sank into the soft curve of your shoulder as he buried himself deep, his moans muffled into your skin.

You swore you blacked out for a second.

You couldn’t tell which way was up anymore — just the overwhelming drag of his cock, the heat in your belly, the white-noise roar in your ears as your orgasm crept higher, hotter, inevitable.

“Fuck—Hyunjin—I’m gonna—”

“I know,” he groaned. “I feel you, baby—fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight—”

You came with a cry into his wrist, your whole body spasming.

Everything snapped — the pressure, the tension, the weeks of unsaid things between you, all of it boiling over in that moment as you fell apart on his cock.

He barely held it together.

You felt him twitch inside you, pace faltering, his voice falling to ragged, desperate whimpers.

“Fuckfuckfuck—oh my god, I’m gonna—can I—inside—?”

You nodded, dazed. “Yes—yes, please—”

One more thrust. Deep. Hot.

And he came with a bitten-off moan into your neck, his body jerking hard as he spilled into you — thick, hot spurts of cum painting your insides, his cock buried deep as he rode out every last pulse, twitching and trembling.

You slumped forward, boneless.

His arms caught you. Held you there.

Both of you breathing like you’d run miles. Sweaty. Shaking. Still joined, still stuffed full.

The closet spun in silence.

And when his hand finally fell from your mouth, you whispered — voice shot, lips swollen —

“…We can’t ever just be friends again, can we?”

And Hyunjin, still inside you, kissed your shoulder like it was a promise.

“No,” he said. “We’re so fucked.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authors note: HIIIIIIIIII!!!! Breakfast is served (or lunch or dinner lol) 😂 personally i think this is the filthiest hyunjin fic i have written… right? I cant even remember lol! So i got that closet idea from this edit… saw it and my brain short-circuited 😭🫠❤️ And now we are here!

Give this a lot of love! Also update; i have officially started writing my first original novel 🥹 ahhhhh

Taglist: @malunar28replies @minchanlimbo @mal-lunar-28 @breakmeofftbr @itvenorica124 @slut4junho @deepblueocean97 @thequibbie @yaorzu-blog @imagine-all-the-imagines @just-bria @mischievousleeknow @ifyxu @melanctton @thelostprincessofasgard @binniebb @sillylittlecat1 @darkwitchoferie @m-325 @headfirstfortoro @imseungminsgf @ihrtlix @vernorica123 @hwangjoanna @swordswallower2000 @niki007 @yxna-bliss @firelordtsuki @justwonder113 @mbioooo0000 @sammhisphere @nebugalaxy @cutecucumberkimberly @chancloud8 @sunflwerstar @shxdowofdarkness @aeyla @annyeongffs @beppybeesnuggets @iamwritteninyourstars @crisle19 @stxysakura

[cherryoatchai]

F i r s t W o r s h i p

Vampire!Hwang Hyunjin x Reader | sacred hunger, paint-stained thighs, first bite on the gallery floor

🔞synopsis: You were just a broke barista pulling late-night shifts, trying to make rent and forget how hard life kept fucking you over. Hwang Hyunjin was the mysterious regular with ink-stained fingers and eyes that lingered too long—always showing up at 11:47PM, always watching. Then came the offer: a job at his gallery, a thick envelope, and a contract you weren’t supposed to take seriously. You did. Now? You’re in too deep. You know what he is. And you’ve let him taste you anyway.

💌a/n: WOW. I was genuinely scared I’d have to do two parts like I did for Changbin’s filthy mess of a fic but somehow??? by the grace of horny vampire gods and Hyunjin’s unhinged mouth??? it all FIT in here??? PRAISE BE. WEDNESDAY = WRECKED-NESDAY NOW, YOU'RE WELCOME. Anyway—how’s everyone’s blood pressure? Hydrated? Neck intact? Emotionally ruined by soft aftercare and paint-smudged praise?? Good. That’s the goal. p.s. Reblog if your panties disintegrated p.p.s. The gallery is now closed for renovations (they’re repainting the fuck table) p.p.p.s. If you read this with your legs crossed and still gasped out loud? You’re valid

⚠️ warnings: 18+ / MINORS DO NOT INTERACT | Vampire themes (biting, blood drinking, supernatural elements) | Bloodplay & light blood consumption during sex | Oral sex (f. receiving) | Rough sex, intense dom!Hyunjin energy | Marking (bite marks, paint smearing) | Praise & worship kink vibes | Mild possessiveness | Paint kink (literally. it’s hot) | Slightly feral romantic declarations | Silly contract mentions (yes there are clauses like “mandatory hand-holding”) | Fluff, aftercare, wine, and gallery sex.

📌 Please read responsibly. Stretch. Stay hydrated. Do not let Hyunjin paint unsupervised.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » Bite Me — ENHYPEN « 0:58 ─〇───── 2:38 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

You smell like espresso grounds, paint thinner, and the inside of a subway tunnel at 3AM. Your professors would probably call it grit. Your bones would call it exhaustion. Your bank account would call it “survival with milk foam on top.”

You’re twenty-three. An art student at a mid-tier university with a great experimental program but terrible dorm plumbing. Your days are filled with critiques you don’t care about, roommates you barely see, and canvases you can’t afford to replace. Your nights? A hot mess of half-finished homework and part-time shifts at Solstice, the little coffee shop wedged between a dry cleaner and the outer walls of Luxe Health—the infamous, neon-washed medical fortress you’re pretty sure is a tax shelter for emotionally volatile rich people.

But you like Solstice. The machines squeal and the tips are trash, but it smells like cardamom and toasted almonds, and the late shifts are yours alone. No manager hovering. No influencers trying to spell their names in the foam. Just you, your playlist, and the occasional chaos of the espresso machine threatening to explode mid-steam.

You aren’t supposed to sit while on shift, but your manager isn't here and your feet are killing you, so you perch on the stool behind the counter, sketchbook balanced on your knees, the filter coffee from hours ago cold beside you. The sketch you’re working on is barely taking form—just the curve of a shoulder, a flash of a collarbone, the hint of something too tender to finish. You don’t remember who you were drawing. You never do, lately.

You’re halfway through shading a jawline when the bell over the door chimes.

You don’t have to look up. You already know it’s him. The same customer. Always at night. Always when you’re alone. Always... strange.

He’s tall, always dressed like he’s stepped out of a dream filtered through grayscale. Sometimes in loose black knits, sometimes in impossibly tailored coats. His hair changes—sometimes long and silky, sometimes tied back—but the eyes stay the same. Sharp. Curious. Slightly amused. And god, intense. Like he’s seeing things behind your face.

You don’t know his name. You’ve never asked. You just call him 11:47PM, because that’s when he always walks in. Not 11:45. Not 11:50. 11:47. Like clockwork. Like ritual.

And he orders coffee.

Not the kind of coffee someone just likes. No, he orders like it’s a test.

“Oat milk. Two shots of espresso. Honey. A dash of cinnamon. Extra hot. No lid.”

He never takes it to-go. He drinks it slow, eyes flicking over you when he thinks you won’t notice. You always notice. But you pretend you don’t. Because you’re tired. Because your tuition is due. Because you’re not letting some six-foot mystery man with perfect bone structure throw your routine off-balance.

Still, there’s something about him.

Once, he left a napkin behind with a sketch on it. Not a doodle. A sketch. Detailed. Elegant. Sharp. You recognized your hands in it. The way your fingers grip the portafilter when you’re distracted. You stared at it for five minutes, then folded it up and stuck it in your journal like a lunatic.

Another time, he asked you what your favorite pigment was.

Not color. Pigment.

You said burnt sienna. He smiled like that meant something.

It’s stupid. He’s probably some bored rich guy slumming it with overpriced coffee and staring at the help for fun. Maybe he’s one of those Luxe clients—they all give off weird energy anyway. You've heard the rumors. The place treats the ultra-rich. People say it specializes in impossible medicine. Some say it’s for trauma. Some whisper about bond therapy and blood contracts, which sounds like fantasy bullshit. You've always figured it’s just another hush-hush clinic for the elite.

Still, you’ve seen the clients. They don’t blink. And they never order anything but black coffee when they come in.

Except him.

He drinks it sweet. Always sweet.

La Venera is not open to the public.

There’s no street-facing sign, no Instagram account, no QR code by the door. If you know, you know. If you don’t—you’ll walk right past the ivy-covered building tucked behind Luxe Health’s eastern wall, mistaking it for a haunted boutique or the private home of someone obscenely wealthy.

It’s both.

Inside, it smells like centuries-old oil paint and carefully calibrated sandalwood. The ceilings are high. The air hums. There are no labels on the walls. No placards. No prices. Only magic.

Hyunjin stands barefoot in the center of his private studio, shirt half-unbuttoned, hair tied back with an indigo silk ribbon. His fingers are stained with deep violet and dried black—he hasn’t slept, hasn’t spoken, hasn’t done anything except paint her wrist over and over for the last three hours.

Not her whole body. Not her face. Not yet. Just the wrist. The way she presses it to the side of the espresso machine when she’s tired. That little flick of tension like her blood doesn’t want to stay inside.

He can’t get it right.

The angle’s off. The light’s wrong. It’s not singing like it did the first time he saw her. She had cinnamon on her cheek and ink under her nail and a smile so exhausted it almost broke him.

He slams the brush down, muttering curses under his breath, and drops into the cracked leather chair in the corner of the studio. His neck arches over the backrest, and for a moment, he just breathes.

“You’re being weird again.”

Jisung’s voice cuts through the silence like a butter knife sawing a steak. He’s perched upside down on the studio couch like a raccoon. His fangs are just barely visible as he chews on a licorice wand he definitely shoplifted.

Hyunjin doesn’t move. “You broke in again.”

“Wrong. I haunt this gallery. I’m part of the aesthetic.”

“You’re wearing crocs.”

“Vampire crocs.”

Hyunjin sighs. “Get out.”

From the doorway, a new voice adds flatly, “Don’t bother. He’s been here since lunch.”

Seungmin, in a three-piece suit with blood-proof lapels and the world’s most aggressive Excel spreadsheet tucked under his arm, steps into the room with the air of someone who has already filed two lawsuits today and is looking for a third.

“I brought your Luxe contracts. And a cease-and-desist from the Yoon heiress who said your last exhibit gave her ‘emotional vertigo.’”

Hyunjin finally opens his eyes. “That wasn’t me. That was the installation piece by the fledgling from Berlin.”

“She passed out during the opening night, so now you own it. And I had to convince the board that scent-trigger hallucinations are a therapeutic risk, not a war crime.”

Jisung snorts. “God, I love this place.”

Hyunjin sits forward, hands steepled under his chin. His tone shifts—low, measured. The Artist, not the Friend.

“Do either of you remember the girl from the coffee shop?”

Seungmin doesn’t blink. “The one who smells like fig and insomnia? Yes.”

“She’s in one of his paintings,” Jisung offers. “It’s creepy.”

“It’s not creepy,” Hyunjin mutters.

“She’s mortal,” Seungmin says carefully.

“I know.”

“She’s not your doll.”

“I know.”

There’s a long pause. Hyunjin stands. Walks toward the canvas. Looks but doesn’t touch.

“She’s also—”

Jisung groans. “Don’t say the one. If you say ‘the one,’ I’m eating myself out the window.”

Hyunjin just smiles, slow and dangerous. “She’s not the one. She’s the only. And I’m not touching her. I’m not even talking to her. I just…”

He exhales, like it hurts to hold it in. “I like the way she says my name when she doesn’t know it.”

Seungmin’s eyes narrow. “That’s poetic and deeply concerning.”

Hyunjin turns, something glowing in the edges of his gaze. “I’m going to offer her a position at La Venera.”

“No, you’re not,” Seungmin says immediately.

“Yes, he is,” Jisung grins. “And I want to watch her find out.”

Hyunjin walks back to his chair, sits down, and picks up the brush again.

“She’s going to enter my world eventually,” he murmurs, voice steady now. “I’d rather it be with a canvas in front of her… than a collar on her throat.”

Neither Jisung nor Seungmin replies.

Because they know what Hyunjin is. What it means for him to wait. What it would mean for him to take. They know the price of devotion in the hands of an Abnormal.

It’s 2:41PM on a Thursday and everything is going wrong.

The milk steamer is hissing like it wants to die. Your shift lead called in “emotionally unavailable.” You’re running on four hours of sleep and one granola bar. And worst of all—your rent is due in five days and your bank app literally laughed at you this morning.

You’ve been doom-scrolling scholarships in between drink orders. One of them requires a 2,000-word essay and a watercolor portfolio. You haven’t even finished your second sketch. You can’t even afford watercolor paper. You’re down to notebook scraps and hope.

You’re mid-pour on an iced vanilla latte when the bell above the door rings.

You don’t look up.

You’re not ready for another corporate intern with daddy’s credit card and a vague idea of what “oat milk” is.

“Is this place always this dramatic?” “It’s charming, leave it alone.” “No, really—did that espresso machine just growl?”

Your head snaps up.

There are three men walking toward the counter.

One of them is Seungmin, in a beige wool coat so sharp it could sue you. He’s holding a tablet and giving the espresso machine a look like he wants to take it to court. The second is Bang Chan—yes, that Bang Chan, CEO of half the Luxe Health empire and owner of the sleepless, protein-shake-laced aura of someone who hasn’t rested since 1802.

And the third—

The third is him.

Your 11:47PM. But it's not 11:47PM. It’s daylight. And he’s here. With people. Smiling. Laughing softly. Real.

You short-circuit a little. Because Hyunjin looks completely different under sunlight.

No coat. No all-black. Just a loose linen button-up with paint under the cuffs and sunglasses pushed into his hair. His jawline still looks carved from something divine, but now he looks… casual. Devastating. Golden.

You hate him a little for it.

He steps up last, eyes flicking over the pastry case, then to you. “Hi.” His voice is soft. Even. Like a note played low on a cello string.

You don’t move. Don’t breathe. Just stare like an idiot.

Seungmin raises an eyebrow. “This is the barista you’re always—?”

“Seungmin,” Hyunjin says sharply, but there’s color rising in his cheeks. “Shut up.”

Chan smiles like he knows too much. “He’s your biggest fan. We’ve had to adjust entire meetings around your closing shift.”

Hyunjin mutters something under his breath.

You look down quickly, cheeks hot. “Uh. What can I get you?”

They order like it’s a script. Chan goes for something double shot and over-complicated. Seungmin asks for straight black.

And Hyunjin—Hyunjin just watches you for a second too long before murmuring: “The usual. If you remember it.”

You do. Of course you do. You turn away to start the drinks, willing your face to chill out.

They take a seat near the window, just in your periphery. You hear them murmuring, laughing low. Chan mentions something about restructuring Luxe’s trauma unit. Seungmin’s complaining about paperwork. Hyunjin says nothing at all.

But you feel him watching as you work on those damn drinks. Eventually you finish them, one by one, hands steady only because they’ve done this a thousand times. Your mind, though, is chaos.

You’re behind on rent. Your scholarship essay’s still blank. You can’t afford new brushes and your last painting bled through the paper because you used the wrong primer. You’re not sure if your professor hates you or just sees you as another burnout-in-progress. You haven’t called your mom in two weeks. And now—

Now the most unsettlingly beautiful man you’ve ever met is sitting in a sunlit booth, laughing with two men who could easily buy the building you live in without blinking.

And he’s watching you. Still. Always.

The moment the last drink is capped, you straighten the tray and take a slow breath, prepping to walk it over.

But before you can move, he’s there.

Hyunjin.

He’s walked up to the counter without a sound—just appeared like smoke, lean and quiet and sharp around the edges. He reaches for the tray, one elegant hand sliding beneath it.

You blink. “I—I can bring it over.”

He tilts his head slightly, expression unreadable. “Let me.”

The silence is heavy but not uncomfortable. He doesn’t move yet. Doesn’t leave. Just stays there, holding the tray between you, like it’s an excuse.

“You looked stressed.”

His voice is low. Quieter than the steamer. Quieter than the traffic outside.

You laugh, a brittle sound. “That obvious?”

He doesn’t smile. But his gaze softens, just enough to knock the wind out of you. “A little.”

You try not to fidget. You fail. “It’s just... life.”

He nods like he understands more than he should. Then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, he says: “I’m Hyunjin, by the way.”

Your eyes flick up to his, startled.

“Hwang Hyunjin.” He says it like a brushstroke. Like poetry. Like an invocation.

You stare. You weren’t sure he had a name. He’s always just been 11:47PM, the man who drinks cinnamon-sweet espresso and leaves art behind like breadcrumbs. Now he’s real. Named. Standing inches from you in the broad afternoon light.

You swallow. “...Hi.”

His mouth curves at the corners. “And you?”

It takes you a second to remember your own name. When you say it, he repeats it under his breath, like he’s tasting it. “Mmm. I thought so.”

You blink. “You—what?”

But he’s already turning, lifting the tray with one hand like it weighs nothing. You catch a glimpse of black ink on his wrist—just the edge of something. A sketch? A rune? You don’t know.

He glances back once before walking away, voice barely audible.

“It’s a good name. You wear it well.”

And just like that, he’s gone again—sliding back into the booth beside Chan, the tray set down with a fluid grace you try not to watch. Seungmin mutters something, Chan laughs, and Hyunjin just takes a sip of his drink like nothing happened.

But something did happen.

Your name is sitting in his mouth now. And he gave you his.

And that shouldn't matter. Not when your rent’s due and your life’s falling apart and you’re just a barista with too many side hustles and a sketchbook full of dreams.

But somehow… it does.

With the tray on the table and Hyunjin finally seated, Chan raises na eyebrow, bringing his cup closer and stirring it slowly. Seungmin on the other hand doesn’t even look up from his tablet.

“So,” Seungmin says. “You finally spoke to her. Do we call the Vatican or just update the group chat?”

Hyunjin glares.

Chan grins. “How’d it feel?”

Hyunjin doesn’t answer. Just lifts his drink and stares into the foam like it holds ancient prophecies.

Seungmin closes his tablet with a click and leans forward.

“Be honest. Did your fangs itch? Did your heartbeat stutter? Did your ancient vampire soul hum in recognition when she handed you oat milk?”

Hyunjin gives him a flat look. “You’re incredibly annoying for someone whose job is literally vampire litigation.”

Seungmin smirks. “And you’re incredibly dramatic for someone who’s been simping over a mortal for nine months and counting.”

Chan, as always, tries to keep the peace. “Okay, maybe let’s not say simping. Hyunjin has… a deep artistic interest in her essence.”

Seungmin: “That is so much worse.”

Hyunjin leans back, long fingers tapping against the cup. His voice drops. “She looked tired today.”

That quiet, aching tone has Chan sobering instantly. “Hyunjin—”

“Not just physically. Tired like… like she’s been holding something up too long. Like if she puts it down, the world will fall apart.”

Seungmin sips his coffee. “Sounds like someone who’s one paycheck away from applying to vampire sugar daddy programs.”

Hyunjin doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even smile. “I've said it before, Seungmin knows, he was there but I want to offer her a position at La Venera.”

Chan chokes slightly on his drink. “You want to what now?”

“She’s an artist. She doesn’t know it yet, but she is. I’ve seen her sketches.”

Seungmin’s brows lift. “You’ve been stealing her sketches?”

Hyunjin rolls his eyes. “No. She leaves them out while she pours drinks and I have eyes. She drew a shoulder once that made me feel like I’d been stabbed.”

Chan wipes his mouth, trying not to smile. “Okay, but offering her a job is serious.”

“I’m not going to feed from her,” Hyunjin snaps. “I just… I want her close. I want her somewhere she can breathe.”

Seungmin taps a finger against the tabletop. “You say that now. But what happens when she starts leaving fig-scent trails in the gallery halls and you black out mid-curator meeting?”

Hyunjin doesn’t respond. He looks out the window instead, where the afternoon light hits your face behind the counter. You’re wiping down the milk steamer, focused, frowning at something sticky on the side. You bite your lip in concentration and his hand tightens around the cup.

“I won’t touch her,” he says quietly. “Not until she knows what I am. Not until she chooses it.”

There’s a long pause.

Then Chan, gently: “You know if you bond to her, there’s no undoing it. You won’t be able to feed from anyone else. You’ll start dreaming in her voice. Her pain will be your pain.”

Hyunjin nods once, solemn. “Good.”

Seungmin groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Oh my god. He’s already feral. We’re gonna have to put him in an emotional containment unit.”

“Do we have one of those?” Chan mutters.

Seungmin deadpans, “You’re looking at it.”

Across the room, the espresso machine wheezes again. You sigh dramatically and kick it like it personally owes you money.

Hyunjin watches, expression unreadable.

“You’re going to fall in love with her,” Chan says softly.

Hyunjin sips his drink, eyes never leaving you. “I already did.”

It’s past midnight when he shows up again.

You’re halfway through wiping down the counter, hair scraped into a loose bun, sleeves rolled up, brain fogged with exhaustion and numbers you can’t make work. Your rent spreadsheet’s open on your phone, mocking you in soft blue light. You’ve been staring at the same three digits for twenty minutes, trying to figure out what you can sell without risking prison.

The bell above the door chimes.

You don’t look up right away. You already know who it is. Only one man steps into Solstice at this hour like he owns the dusk.

When you finally glance over, he’s standing there with a look you haven’t seen on him before—calm, yes, but layered with something serious. Intentional. Purposeful.

Not 11:47PM anymore. Just Hyunjin.

He doesn’t speak immediately. Just approaches the counter with a strange gentleness in his steps, like he’s afraid he’ll scare you off.

“I have a proposition,” he says.

You blink. “You’re not even gonna order a drink first?”

He gives the smallest twitch of a smile. “No. Because this time, I’m not here for coffee.”

He places something on the counter. An envelope. Heavy paper. Deep navy. Embossed in silver foil with a symbol you vaguely recognize—an abstract flower. No words.

“La Venera,” he says, when you don’t reach for it. “My gallery.”

You look at him. Really look. He’s not dressed for night this time—no tailored coat, no dramatic scarf. Just a soft black sweater, loose at the collar, sleeves pushed up. You can see the veins on his forearms. His fingers ink-stained again.

You blink. “What is this?”

“I want to offer you a job.”

Your body stills.

He continues, quiet but clear. “I need an archival assistant. Someone to help catalogue sensory pieces, assist with restoration, prep gallery spaces. It’s a paid position. Flexible hours. Health benefits. Artistic credit if applicable.”

You stare at the envelope like it might bite you.

Then you laugh. A little wild, a little broken. “Is this because I make good coffee?”

“No.”

“Because I’m broke?”

“No.”

You fold your arms. “Then why?”

He looks at you like that’s the stupidest question in the universe. But when he speaks, it’s soft. Earnest.

“Because you’re an artist. Because your sketches hold more feeling than half the exhibitions I’ve hosted this year. Because you look at color like it breathes. And because you’re wasting your brilliance wiping down countertops at 1AM.”

You open your mouth. Close it. Try again. “Why now?”

His gaze darkens, just slightly. “Because today, I saw the stress. I saw the anxiety in your eyes. You needed something. And I have something to give.”

You stare at him, heart pounding. “You’re serious.”

“Completely.”

You hesitate. “Don’t you have, like… a board of directors or something?”

Hyunjin lets out a slow exhale, then mutters, “They've already signed off.”

You’re just standing there. Baffled. Shaking a little.

He steps closer. “You can say no,” he says softly. “But I’m hoping you won’t.”

Your hands tremble as you finally reach for the envelope. It’s heavier than you expect. Warm, somehow. You whisper, “You barely know me.”

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t joke. “I know enough.” And then, quieter, almost reverent. “I know your name.”

You’re still holding the envelope when he speaks again.

“Let me give you my number.”

The words hang in the air, suspended somewhere between polite professionalism and something heavier. Denser. Your fingers curl tighter around the envelope.

He watches you closely, but not like he’s trying to push. If anything, he’s pulling back. Like he knows he’s close to the edge of something sacred.

“I don’t want to pressure you,” he adds, voice softer now. “This isn’t about obligation. It’s not a test. I just… I want to give you space. Time. So if you want to ask questions, or scream at me, or send me your answer at three in the morning… you can.”

He pulls out his phone, unlocks it, and turns it toward you.

Contact Name: Hwang Hyunjin Number: already typed, waiting for you to copy it into yours.

You stare at it for a beat too long.

“I’m sorry,” you mutter, voice cracking. “I just. This is a lot. I don’t usually get handed jobs by—by strangers who stare at me like I’m a poem.”

He huffs out a breath. “You’re not a poem.”

You flinch, but before the insecurity can rise, he steps in—fast, quiet, sure.

“You’re not a poem,” he repeats. “You’re the space between them. The silence that makes everything else hit harder.”

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.

He glances at the phone in his hand, then at you.

“I’m not asking you to jump. I’m just—” he breaks off, then exhales, steadier. “I’m offering you a ledge. If you want it.”

You reach for your phone. Not because you’ve decided. Not yet. But because there’s something in his voice that feels like a balm. Like a promise.

You copy the number. You type his name. You don’t save it with a heart. But maybe you will later.

He takes a step back, like he doesn’t trust himself to stay too close. “Text me,” he says. “Whenever. About anything.”

You manage a nod. “Okay.”

He holds your gaze for a breath longer. Then turns. At the door, with one hand on the handle, he glances back. “I’ll see you,” he says quietly. “Soon, maybe.”

And then he’s gone. Out into the night. Leaving behind the smell of cinnamon and ink and something older, deeper, laced with longing.

You don’t open the envelope right away.

You carry it home like it might detonate, like maybe it's enchanted—because something about it feels heavy in the wrong way. Or the right way. Or the way that makes your stomach hurt a little because you haven’t eaten in six hours and now you’re anxious on top of that.

When you finally do open it—after showering, after peeling off your coffee-stained shirt, after sitting in your underwear on your bed with a bag of discount rice crackers—you read the contents three times.

Then you read it a fourth time out loud.

It’s real.

A real offer. A real gallery job. A real salary. A real health plan, for god’s sake.

You flop backwards against your bed and stare at the ceiling.

You stare at the ceiling for a very, very long time.

PROS LIST (scribbled into your sketchbook, messy):

Paid position. Regular hours. Steady income.

Access to a legit gallery?? Your professors would foam at the mouth.

Hands-on restoration work. Archive credits. ARTISTIC. CREDIT.

Actual studio space.

Might finally sleep more than five hours.

Might actually get to use your degree.

Also, Hyunjin.

CONS LIST:

He might be joking.

He might be a sociopath.

He might be a vampire.

He might be a vampire sociopath.

What if you fuck it up?

What if you fall for him?

What if you already are?

You roll over. Groan. Kick your blanket off. Pull it back on. Check the time. 3:14AM.

Your phone is still sitting on your pillow, like it’s watching you. You open your texts. His number is there, unsent to. Quiet. Waiting.

You open the keyboard. You close it. You open it again.

Type:

Hey

Delete.

Hi, it’s me from the café

Delete.

Sorry this is late

Delete.

Is the offer still open?

Delete.

I’m in.

You stare at it. Your heart is going way too fast for someone lying down. You stare at it for so long the screen goes dark. You unlock it again. The message is still there.

You hit send.

Stare at the word Delivered like it might bite you. It doesn’t. You toss the phone aside and bury your face in your pillow.

“Oh my god what did I just do.”

Your phone buzzes immediately. You freeze. Slowly reach for it.

[Hyunjin] I’m smiling like an idiot right now. I’ll send you the onboarding info tomorrow. Sleep well. I’ll see you soon.

You stare at the screen. Then, without thinking, you text back:

[Y/N] okay goodnight (don’t be creepy tomorrow)

Three dots appear. Then vanish. Then appear again.

[Hyunjin] No promises. (but I’ll try) … you’ll look beautiful there

Your heart does something dangerous. You toss the phone again, face burning.

The ceiling stares back at you, smug.

You’ve been at La Venera for a week and a half, and it still doesn’t feel real.

Your shoes still squeak a little when you walk down the main corridor. Your badge doesn’t scan right on the first try. You flinch every time someone in a power suit brushes past you, convinced you’re not supposed to be here.

But nobody kicks you out.

In fact, everyone treats you like you belong. Like you were expected. Like they knew you were coming long before you did.

Which is wild, because just two weeks ago you were trying to figure out if you could stretch one pack of ramen over three days. Now you're—

You're doing archival work. In a vampire-run gallery. Handling paintings that breathe when the lights dim. Sorting sketches that buzz with latent magic. Cataloguing scent-trigger memory pieces so old they predate electricity.

The first week at La Venera feels like walking into a fever dream with a paycheck.

You expected silence. Cold marble. Gallery girls in neutral-toned trench coats clicking their heels in unison. Instead?

You got velvet hallways that hum softly. Canvases that feel warm when you pass. A lighting system that seems to respond to mood, not switches. You don’t know what it’s wired to—but it never makes you flinch. You feel seen here. Calmer, even when you're not.

Your job, officially, is “Archival and Spatial Assistant.” Which is a fancy way of saying:

You help catalogue paintings and installations—some with titles that feel like confessions.

You help log restoration projects—most of which involve materials you've never seen before. (There was one with glass that bled when touched. You didn't ask questions.)

You prep rooms for new showings, usually with exact scent profiles you’re not allowed to adjust. (Hyunjin once asked you to “diffuse the mood of heartbreak, but quietly.” You improvised with vetiver and bergamot. He looked at you like you hung the moon.)

Your first paycheck was more than your rent.

You didn’t cry when you saw the deposit. But you did sit in the back stairwell during lunch and stare at the notification for twenty minutes while your sandwich went cold.

You’re still in school, still dragging yourself to morning lectures, still scribbling in your sketchbook on the subway—but things feel different now. Looser. Brighter. Like some part of you that had been clenched for years has finally started to uncurl.

And then there’s Hyunjin.

The man is always there. Sometimes barefoot. Sometimes covered in paint. Sometimes in clothes that make you feel like an underpaid extra in an art film.

He never tells you what to do. Just asks questions. Gentle ones. Like:

“What does this color feel like to you?” “If this canvas had a heartbeat, where would it echo?” “Would you let me paint your hands?”

You pretend to scoff when he says things like that. But your cheeks always go warm.

You’ve caught him sketching in the margins of his clipboard. You’ve also caught him watching you through the glass of the east exhibit room while you were hanging tags, like you were the art and he was the patron.

He hasn’t touched you. Not once.

But sometimes when you pass by him, your skin buzzes like you walked through a sunbeam that knew your name.

You still don’t know what kind of gallery this is, exactly. You’ve heard whispers. Felt things shift in the air when certain pieces are moved. Watched a visitor break down sobbing in front of an installation that looked like nothing but gold wire and black canvas.

You asked Hyunjin once what the gallery was really for.

He just smiled—soft, tilted, something private burning in his eyes—and said:

“Healing. For people who can’t be healed anywhere else.”

It’s vague. Maybe pretentious. But it stuck. Just like everything about him does.

Now, almost three weeks in, you’ve stopped asking if any of this is real.

Hyunjin sits in his usual seat—third from the end, closest to the windows—legs crossed, one elbow on the table, cheek propped on his ink-stained fingers. He hasn’t spoken in the last ten minutes, which is both expected and deeply suspicious.

Across from him, Seungmin is clicking through projected bond compliance data with all the energy of a man personally offended by color-coded bar graphs.

“To summarize,” Seungmin says dryly, “we’ve had a 12% increase in post-feeding bond instability among Normals, most cases linked to improper scent-regulation. I’d like to remind you all that feeding while emotionally compromised is still illegal under Article VI unless a certified specialist is present.”

Chan sighs into his third protein-enhanced blood pouch. “We know, Seungmin.”

Seungmin doesn’t even blink. “Do we, though? Or are some of us letting post-orgasmic bite patients wander off with unsealed bond marks and no stabilization protocols?”

Felix raises his hand enthusiastically. “I stabilized one with a coloring book yesterday!”

Everyone turns.

Felix beams. “We did a whole page together. She stopped crying after the glitter gel pen!”

Chan rubs his temples. “That’s not in the standard manual, Felix.”

Felix: “Healing isn’t linear.”

Hyunjin, without lifting his head: “Neither is her emotional damage now that she’s bonded to a man who calls himself BloodDaddy27 on private forums.”

Jeongin snorts from where he’s half-sprawled across his chair, spinning a silver bond-ring on one finger. “I told you guys to screen for usernames. I’ve got a list.”

Seungmin narrows his eyes. “Why do you have a list?”

Jeongin shrugs. “Field research. Curiosity. Morbid pleasure.”

Chan turns to Hyunjin, finally. “And you? Anything to report from La Venera?”

Hyunjin shifts, straightens slightly. “We’re holding steady. Emotional stabilization is optimal. I’m running two scent therapy rotations and three dreamscapes for long-term bonded patients.”

Seungmin squints. “Didn’t you onboard a new assistant?”

There’s a beat.

Then: “Yes.”

Chan perks up. “The barista?”

Jeongin grins. “The cute one?”

Felix gasps. “The fig and cinnamon girl?!”

Hyunjin glares. “Don’t call her that.”

Seungmin cocks his head. “Why not? You were calling her ‘wrist girl’ for three months before she knew your name.”

Hyunjin groans and sinks back in his chair. “I hate all of you.”

Felix reaches over and pats his hand. “We love you too, baby bat.”

Chan hides his smile behind his cup. “You gonna tell her what we are?”

Jeongin leans in, conspiratorial. “Or you just gonna wait ‘til she walks in on someone regrowing their femur in the bonding lounge again?”

Seungmin smirks. “Perfect. Add that to the minutes: Director Hwang is still emotionally constipated and in vampire love denial.”

Felix hums. “She’s gonna find out eventually, you know.”

Jeongin: “And when she does, we all get to watch.”

Seungmin exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Okay,” he deadpans. “That was fun. Now can we please return to the actual agenda—specifically, the surge in unstabilized bonds in non-monogamous feeding clusters—before one of you tries to host a Bachelor-style vampire dating show.”

Felix perks up. “Wait, that’s actually not a bad—”

“Felix, I will file a cease and desist on your existence.”

Chan clears his throat, trying to steer them back. “Right. Yes. Important. Legal. Medical. Bond law things.”

“Thank you,” Seungmin says. “Finally, some maturity.”

“...But,” Chan adds slowly, eyes twinkling, “I am curious how Hyunjin plans to keep his emotional regulation intact when he inevitably bites the girl he’s already spiritually married to.”

Hyunjin makes a strangled noise halfway between a growl and a whimper. “I’m not— she’s not— we’re not—”

Jeongin: “So you are planning to bite her.”

Hyunjin: “No!”

Felix: “You want to.”

Chan: “You need to.”

Jeongin: “You’ve fantasized about it.”

Hyunjin: “I am literally going to erase all of you from my dreamweaving files.”

Seungmin slaps the table. “STOP.” The lights in the room flicker in sync with his tone. Vampiric authority does that sometimes.

He breathes out slowly, resets his composure, and looks directly at Hyunjin.

“Do you have any intention of feeding from her?”

There’s a long pause.

Hyunjin lowers his gaze to the table. His voice is quiet.

“I want to present her with a blood doll contract.”

The room stills.

Jeongin sits up straight. Chan’s brow furrows. Felix’s eyes widen.

Seungmin blinks once. Twice. Then leans forward, tone razor-sharp. “You’re serious?”

Hyunjin nods, gaze still fixed on the grain of the table. “I’ve reviewed the clauses. It’s not about possession. Not even regular feeding. I just… I want her protected. Respected. And compensated. I want her to have everything.”

“And?” Seungmin prompts.

Hyunjin’s jaw tightens.

“And I’m scared she’ll run,” he admits. “I’m scared she’ll look at it and see chains. Or see me as… not human anymore. And I’ve worked so hard to earn her trust without lying. But the second she finds out what I am—what we all are—everything could fall apart.”

Felix frowns, genuinely worried now. “You don’t think she’ll understand?”

“I think she’s brave,” Hyunjin says softly. “But I also think she’s tired. The world’s been cruel to her. And I… I don’t want to be another thing she has to survive.”

A rare hush falls over the room.

Even Jeongin doesn't joke this time.

Chan leans forward, voice gentle now. “Then don’t make it about the contract. Don’t make it about feeding. Make it about choice. About care.”

Seungmin sighs, but it’s not annoyed. It’s thoughtful. “If you’re going to do this,” he says, “run it through me. I’ll help draft it. We’ll keep it clean.”

Hyunjin finally looks up. “You’ll help?”

Seungmin shrugs. “I’m already emotionally invested. Might as well make sure you don’t accidentally traumatize her with clause 14B: ‘Incidental Biting During Emotional Overload.’”

Felix beams. “She’s gonna say yes.”

Jeongin: “And then she’s gonna ruin you.”

Hyunjin exhales, slow and shaky. But he’s smiling now. Just barely. “I hope so.”

Seungmin clears his throat sharply, flipping a page on his legal pad with the precision of someone barely restraining a murder charge. “Okay,” he says, with the forced calm of a man clinging to the last thread of his sanity, “now that we’ve all emotionally waterboarded Hyunjin and collectively destroyed the sanctity of this boardroom—”

“I didn’t destroy anything,” Jeongin mutters.

“Jeongin.”

“What? I’m just saying. I was enhancing the narrative.”

Chan snorts. Felix tries (and fails) to hide his giggle behind his thermos.

Seungmin gives them all a slow, withering look. “Can we please return to the actual issue of bond destabilization among Normals before another one of you suggests forming a blood doll boy band or something?”

Jeongin perks up. “Wait—”

“No.”

“But—”

“No.”

Hyunjin leans back in his chair again, mouth twitching. “Can I be the mysterious one with the eye scar?”

“There is no band.”

Felix whispers, “He’d look so good with an eye scar.”

Jeongin: “I’ll do it with makeup. I’ve got a kit in my car.”

Seungmin slaps his folder shut. “I swear to the ancestors, if we don’t get through the next agenda item in the next ten minutes, I’m putting you all on scent suppression for a week.”

A collective gasp echoes around the room.

Hyunjin straightens like someone just threatened his muse.

Felix clutches his throat. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

Chan raises his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay! Back to business. Jeongin, update on the revised stabilization rings?”

Jeongin sighs dramatically, sliding his chair back into place.

“I miss when this job was fun.”

Felix pokes him with a straw. “You mean when no one was watching you lick classified artifacts in the archives?”

“One time!”

Hyunjin snorts.

Seungmin slams the next report down on the table. “Focus. Rings. Reports. Regulation. Go.”

And just like that, the chaos reins itself in—barely.

It’s been almost a month since you started at La Venera.

You’ve stopped checking if the floor hums under your feet. You’ve stopped jumping every time a painting pulses in your periphery. You’ve even stopped questioning why the gallery’s scent diffusers never need refills, even though the rooms always smell exactly right—like rain before thunder, or burnt sugar, or old cedar and something you can’t name.

You’ve adjusted. You've even met Hyunjin's buddies from Luxe Health. But you haven’t stopped watching Hyunjin. And he hasn’t stopped watching you.

Right now, you’re alone in one of the smaller south studios—well, mostly alone. A half-primed canvas leans against the far wall. You’re working on a restoration sketch by request—an old piece with faded floral textures and an underpainting that bleeds through like a ghost. There’s pencil smudged along your cheekbone. A streak of burnt umber on your forearm. Your shoes are off, forgotten near the door.

It’s quiet. Warm. You feel steady.

Until the door creaks open behind you.

You glance up—already knowing who it is.

Hyunjin steps inside, coat slung over one shoulder, sleeves rolled to the elbow, jaw set like he’s preparing for emotional war. He pauses when he sees you barefoot, brush between your teeth, squinting at the canvas.

His lips twitch.

“You look like you’ve been painting with your face.”

You take the brush out of your mouth. “It’s called immersive technique.”

He smiles faintly. Then his gaze flicks toward the table in the corner, where a slim leather folder now sits—dark red, worn at the edges. You didn’t notice him set it down.

That… isn’t good.

Hyunjin clears his throat.

“Do you have a minute?” he asks.

You nod slowly, placing your palette down. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t sit immediately. Just stands there, like he’s trying to figure out the least terrifying way to do something obviously terrifying. Finally, with an exhale, he lowers himself onto the edge of the bench across from you, legs long, fingers clasped in his lap.

“I’ve been working on something,” he says. “With Seungmin.”

You glance toward the folder.

“That?”

“Yes.”

You wait. He doesn’t speak. You raise a brow. “Is this the part where you tell me I’m dying?”

“No,” he says quickly. Then, grimacing: “Unless you decide to sprint full-speed out the door after I explain what this is. In which case, I may die. Of humiliation.”

You laugh once, caught off-guard.

He runs a hand through his hair. “Okay. Okay, I need to do this right.”

Then he looks at you—really looks—and the air in the room shifts. Grows heavy. Intent. “I think you’ve noticed by now… that I’m not quite like most people.”

You stare. He waits.

“…Yeah,” you say slowly. “I’ve noticed.”

He doesn’t blink. “What gave it away?”

You tick off your fingers. “You don’t breathe when you’re focused. You appear in rooms I swear you weren’t in two seconds ago. You move like you're made of silk and threat. You smell like rain and blood and something I don’t have words for. Also, Jeongin called you ‘feral batboy’ when he thought I wasn’t listening.”

Hyunjin’s face does something strange—somewhere between resigned and lightly horrified.

“Of course he did.”

You cross your arms, heart suddenly loud in your chest. “So? What are you?”

He leans forward slightly. Doesn’t reach for you. Just lets the silence stretch. “I’m a vampire.”

The words hang in the air like brushstrokes left too wet on canvas. You blink. Wait for your body to panic. It doesn’t.

“…Okay,” you say.

Hyunjin blinks. “Okay?”

“I mean,” you shrug, “I figured. Kinda hard not to. Also, no one human makes eye contact like you without committing a felony.”

He laughs—soft, breathy, almost disbelieving.

You tilt your head. “So what’s in the folder?”

His expression shifts again. Calmer now. Serious. But not cold. “It’s a contract. For a Blood Doll agreement.”

You still.

He rushes to explain—calm, careful, every word deliberate.

“It’s not ownership. It’s not servitude. It’s a choice. A protected, mutually beneficial arrangement. It would allow me to feed from you—with your consent only—and, in return, provide you with access to protection, medical care, housing if you ever need it, and a bond stabilizer on-call.”

You exhale slowly, mind racing.

He holds your gaze. “But I don’t want to pressure you. That’s why I waited. That’s why I’m telling you everything now.”

You look down at the folder. Then back at him. “Why me?” you ask, voice quieter now. “Why me, Hyunjin?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Because your heartbeat was the first sound I wanted to make into art.”

You stare at him for a beat longer, then drop your eyes to the folder in front of you, fingers brushing the cover. It’s warm, like it’s been held too long—like it carries the tension still sitting in his shoulders.

You can feel his eyes on you. Expectant. Bracing.

You sigh.

“…Hyunjin,” you say slowly, “you’re looking at me like I’m supposed to faint or something.”

He stiffens. “You’re not… disturbed?”

You raise an eyebrow. “You drink blood. You run a dream-soaked gallery with haunted walls. I’m pretty sure I saw a man disappear into a painting last Tuesday. Honestly, this is the least weird part.”

He blinks. “You believe me?”

“Yes?”

“You’re not scared?”

“No?”

“You’re not going to, I don’t know—throw holy water at me or ask if I sparkle in the sun?”

You squint. “Do you?”

“No!”

“Then what are you freaking out about?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Stands up suddenly and starts pacing—back and forth like an immortal cat having a meltdown.

“I had a whole speech prepared,” he mutters. “I had metaphors. Emotional imagery. I was going to offer to let you touch my fangs.”

You make a face. “Okay, that’s a weird opening.”

“I thought you’d panic!” he snaps, waving a hand. “Or scream. Or tell me I was insane. I rehearsed how to calm you down for days. I had Felix run empathy drills with me. Jeongin staged a mock-rejection so I’d practice emotional resilience!”

You blink. “He what?”

“He wore a wig and pretended to be you! It was very moving!”

You burst out laughing—actual, full-bodied, shoulders-shaking laughter. “Oh my god.”

Hyunjin stops pacing. Watches you like you’ve grown a second head.

You wipe a tear. “I’m sorry. You’re just… you’re so stressed.”

“Of course I’m stressed,” he groans, dragging a hand through his hair again. “You’re the first person I’ve ever wanted to ask this of. And you’re just—casually accepting it like I invited you to brunch.”

You give him a crooked smile. “Would there be coffee at vampire brunch?”

He groans louder, flopping dramatically onto the studio chaise like he’s ready to die (again). “You’re going to kill me. Emotionally.”

“Not unless you bite me first.”

He stares at you, stunned into silence.

You blink. Then laugh again. “Kidding! Kind of. Jesus.”

There’s a long pause. Then—quiet, strained: “Do you want to read it?” he asks, nodding toward the folder.

You meet his eyes. “Can I ask you something first?”

He nods.

“…Does it hurt?”

That stills him. “No,” he says softly. “Not if it’s done right. Not if it’s wanted.”

You stare at him a moment longer. Then slowly—very slowly—you pull the folder toward you. Your heart’s beating harder now, but not from fear. You’re curious. You’re cautious. But you’re not afraid.

You finally open the folder, and the first page is neat, clinical. Printed on heavy cream stock, sealed with Luxe Health’s red insignia in the top right corner. There’s a faint scent to the page—something like lavender and rain-damp cedar. You’re willing to bet that’s Hyunjin’s idea.

You read aloud, slow and skeptical: “This agreement is formed between the consenting parties, hereinafter referred to as the Donor and the Vampire.”

You look up. “Did you really label yourself ‘the Vampire’?”

Hyunjin, sitting cross-legged across from you, flushes faintly. “Seungmin said it was legally required.”

You turn the page. Clause 2: Consent and Clarity. It’s fine. It’s detailed. It’s normal.

Until you reach the end of the paragraph:

“The Donor is entitled to withdraw consent at any time, with immediate cessation of physical or magical interaction. Unless, per emergency clause 4.6, the Vampire is in feral state or otherwise mentally compromised—see Appendix B: ‘What To Do If I’m Feral.’”

You lower the page slowly.

Hyunjin avoids your eyes. “I didn’t want you to be unprepared.”

You turn to Appendix B. At the top of the page—written in his handwriting: “Step 1: Say my name. Calmly. Softly if you can. If I’m too far gone, step 2 is—”

You squint. “Hyunjin, is this a poem?”

He’s blushing now, full-body. “It’s a… poetic protocol.”

“Who let you write this?”

“Seungmin! But he had a migraine and said ‘do whatever, I don’t care if she thinks you’re a rabid squirrel.’”

You choke on your laugh. Next clause: Feeding Conditions. This one looks more serious—routines, limitations, recovery protocols. But under “mutual comfort rituals,” there’s a handwritten addition: “Options include: warm compress, post-feeding tea, soft hand-holding, forehead kisses (pending approval), playlist exchange, and shared naps.”

You glance up slowly. “Hand-holding?”

“I was trying to make it less scary,” he mumbles.

“Forehead kisses?”

“That one was Felix’s idea.”

“…Shared naps?”

“I get cold.”

You hide a smile behind your hand.

Next clause: Emotional Compatibility. You read the first sentence and immediately choke. “Donor and Vampire acknowledge a pre-existing emotional connection, defined as one or more of the following: mutual attraction, obsession, unspoken yearning, awkward flirting, stolen glances, pining, lowkey soul-bonded tension, or vampire longing of the aesthetic variety.”

You nearly drop the folder. “Hyunjin.”

“I panicked!”

“This isn’t a contract, it’s a Wattpad fic!”

“I panicked with love.”

He reaches over, gently tugs the folder back, flipping a few pages ahead. Then, softly: “This is the real part.”

You glance down. It’s a smaller section. No frills. Just clean, tight script.

“The Vampire will never feed without consent. The Donor’s safety, agency, and peace of mind are paramount. If at any point trust is lost, the bond dissolves immediately. This is not ownership. It’s a promise.”

You’re quiet for a long moment. Hyunjin doesn’t move. Doesn’t push. You glance back at him, and something in his expression—hopeful and scared and bare—makes your throat tighten.

“Is this what you really want?” you ask quietly.

He holds your gaze. Nods. “I want to protect you. Nourish you. Be something soft where life has only been sharp.” A breath. “And, okay, maybe I want to taste your pulse with your name on my tongue. But only if you want me to.”

Your fingers linger on the edge of the folder.

It’s warm now—probably from Hyunjin’s hands, maybe from yours. Maybe from the strange heat that’s bloomed in the space between you since the moment he slid it across the table. A heartbeat stretched thin with nervous laughter, too-honest confessions, and something quiet you can’t name yet.

You flip back through the pages one more time.

There’s the clause about his feeding habits—clinical, respectful, careful. There’s the appendix with emotional safewords (you’ll never let him live down “moonbeam” as an emergency code). There’s even a ridiculous but kind of touching section about post-bond stress baking, apparently encouraged by Jeongin and reluctantly approved by Seungmin, written in blue glitter pen.

There are clauses about sleep cycles, magic regulation, scent imprinting.

But most of all—there’s him. Messy, obsessive, overthought him.

You look up again.

Hyunjin’s gaze is steady, but his fingers twitch slightly in his lap, betraying the nerves. He’s not hiding it—how much this means to him. How much you mean to him.

“I should be freaked out,” you say finally, voice quiet. “Like, terrified. Vampires? Blood contracts? Scent mapping? What even is my life.”

Hyunjin doesn’t say anything. He just watches you—open, vulnerable, waiting. You close the folder gently. “But the truth is… I think I was more afraid before.”

That makes him blink.

You shrug, smiling a little, almost sheepish. “Rent was due. My body was aching from stress. No one looked at me like I mattered. Not really. Not like—like I was someone worth keeping warm. You did. You do.”

His lips part, a soft breath escaping.

“So yeah.” You reach for the pen clipped to the folder. “I’ll do it. I’ll be your donor. If you’ll still have me.”

Hyunjin just stares for a beat—like you’ve knocked the air out of his lungs.

Then: He exhales, almost shakily. And nods. “Yes. God—yes.”

You glance down, pen hovering. “Do I sign in blood? Or…?”

Hyunjin laughs—full and bright, the sound of something uncoiling in his chest. “No. Regular ink is fine. I mean, unless you want to be dramatic.”

You arch a brow. “Is this your way of asking to bite me already?”

“Absolutely not.” He coughs. “Not yet. Not until you’re ready. But… I might bring cookies next time. Or wine. Or that playlist you mentioned.”

You sign your name slowly at the bottom. Set the pen down. Look up. And smile. “Then I guess we’re official.”

Hyunjin’s expression softens—tension gone, replaced with something warm. Like you just gave him the stars.

Being a blood doll for Hwang Hyunjin doesn’t feel like what you expected. No dark castles. No red silk cloaks. No eerie glowing eyes or candlelit rituals with ominous Latin chants in the background. No—being his blood doll feels like…

A slow bloom. A brushstroke dragged gentle across canvas. Because he hasn’t touched you. Not like that. Not even close. He hasn’t bitten you. Hasn’t asked to. Hasn’t so much as brushed your pulse with his mouth.

And yet—your whole body knows he wants to. Knows when he wants to. How? It’s in the way he looks at you over the rim of his coffee cup during late night gallery closings. In the way his pupils dilate the moment you wear anything with an open neckline. In the way his voice dips lower—just a notch—every time you say his name.

Sometimes, when he’s standing too close while reviewing a piece of your work, you can feel the heat of it—his restraint. Razor-edged, aching.

It’s intoxicating. And a little terrifying. And you’re not entirely sure which part of that you like more.

You learn fast.

Vampires are real, yes. But they’re not monsters. Not the way you thought. Some are ancient and still follow strict caste hierarchies. Some are chaotic as hell (see: Jeongin and his constant snack hoarding). Some are gentle. Others are feral.

But all of them? Hungry.

You read the manuals. Talk to Felix, who is sunshine wrapped in fangs. You quiz Seungmin on post-bond regulations (he slides you a spreadsheet at one point, muttering something about “romantic illiterates” and “legal liability”). Jisung drops a bottle of scent stabilizer on your desk one morning and says “Just in case he gets too close and forgets you’re fragile.”

Hyunjin is not pleased about that.

He sends you a bouquet the next day, bigger than your torso. There’s a handwritten note that reads: “You are not fragile. You are divine. But yes, please wear the stabilizer. I might die otherwise.”

You choke. Text him something snarky.

He replies with a playlist titled: For Your Arteries Only.

Dates with Hyunjin are… ridiculous. One night it’s a museum after-hours. He charmed the curator. You wandered between sculptures with his hand on your waist. Another night he brings you to the roof of La Venera where he’s strung up fairy lights, laid out a whole picnic, and painted your name in gold onto a new canvas titled Linger.

He gifts you a bracelet infused with his scent. Not enough to trigger anything—but enough to soothe, to remind. He says it’s so “you don’t forget he’s thinking about you.” You wear it every day.

There’s longing in every glance. Every near-touch. Every pause.

But still—no bite. Not yet. It’s a dance. A dangerous one. And you’re starting to ache for it.

Late nights at La Venera are dangerous things.

Especially when it's just the two of you. Especially when the lights are low, the windows fogged, and there’s red wine breathing open on a side table.

It’s not a date, not officially. You’ve stopped calling them that.

You just show up after hours now, keying in the back entrance like you belong. Sometimes with paints. Sometimes with pastries. Sometimes in your softest clothes, because you know he'll look.

Tonight it’s all three, especially in that baby pink short dress.

Hyunjin's already there when you arrive, barefoot, sleeves rolled, brush between his fingers. There's music playing—something old and low and smoky—and he doesn’t turn around when the door clicks shut behind you.

He just says, without looking, “You’re late.”

You smile. “I brought cake.”

That earns a glance.

His mouth twitches. “You’re forgiven.”

You set the cake down. Pour the wine. Tug on one of the smocks he keeps just for you and take your place beside him, canvas already waiting.

For a while, it’s quiet.

Just brushstrokes and breathing. Paint splattered fingers. The occasional soft hum as he dips into the music.

But tension has a shape.

It slinks into the room sometime around the second glass of wine—wraps itself around your spine, curls beneath your skin. You catch it in the way his eyes keep drifting. The way your knees bump under the table and neither of you pull away.

He’s painting something crimson and abstract. You’re painting with more control, lines deliberate, precise. But your hand slips once—maybe on purpose—and leaves a streak down your arm.

You groan. “Ugh. This is the third shirt I’ve ruined this week.”

Hyunjin glances over. Sees the streak of red.

Still wet. Still gleaming.

His breath catches.

You raise a brow. “What?”

“Nothing.” He looks away too fast. “Just… the color suits you.”

You smirk. “You mean the paint?”

He doesn’t answer. You step closer. There’s wine on your tongue and something slow curling in your gut. “Hyunjin,” you say softly. “You’re staring.”

He turns his head. And fuck. The look he gives you is hungry. Not starved. Not lost. Hungry. Focused. Intent. Like he knows exactly what he wants and exactly where it’s sitting—in a paint-smudged smock, holding a half-empty glass, five inches from his mouth.

You set your brush down. “Say it.”

His voice is rough. “Say what?”

“What you’re thinking.”

There’s a beat. Then: “I want to touch you.”

Your pulse skips.

“I want,” he continues, stepping forward, so close you can feel his breath, “to paint every inch of your skin. Slowly. With my mouth.”

Your hand tightens around your glass.

“I want,” he murmurs, reaching out to gently wipe the paint from your arm with his thumb, “to ruin you the way I ruin canvases. Obsessed. Careful. Covered in color you’ll never quite wash out.”

You swallow. Hard. “…And then?” you whisper.

He smiles. Feral. Tender. Godlike. “Then I’ll ask if I can taste you.”

Your breath catches, tight in your throat, sharp in your chest. There’s a kind of stillness in the air now. The kind that comes just before the thunder hits. It stretches between you like a wire strung too tight, humming with something electric and inevitable.

You whisper, “Then ask.”

Hyunjin doesn’t move right away. Just watches you. Studies you. Like you’re the painting now. The masterpiece. And he’s trying to memorize every brushstroke before he dares touch the canvas. His hand comes up slowly, fingertips ghosting over the curve of your jaw, then settling at your throat—not pressing, just resting. Just feeling. His thumb brushes the column of your neck, slow and reverent, right over the pulse.

You feel the moment he hears it. Feels it. Counts it. His eyes flutter shut, a breath hitching in his throat. Then: “May I taste you?”

You don’t speak. You just set the glass down and tilt your head. Bare your throat like a prayer.

That’s all the answer he needs.

Hyunjin leans in, mouth brushing the shell of your ear. “Tell me if you want to stop.”

You nod. “I won’t.”

His lips trail down your neck, slow and featherlight, like he’s tracing each vertebrae with intention. You’re trembling—god, you’re trembling—and you don’t even realize your fingers have curled into the front of his shirt until he groans, low and broken, against your skin.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “You smell like—” He doesn’t finish the sentence. Maybe he can’t. Then, finally, he opens his mouth. You expect fangs. Expect pain. But all you get is heat. His lips press to your neck—not biting, not yet. Just a kiss. A kiss, like he’s falling in love with the shape of you. Then another, just below. Then a third, just where your pulse is fluttering like mad.

Your knees go weak. “Hyunjin—”

“I won’t rush it,” he murmurs. “I want you to want it.”

“I do.”

He pulls back just enough to meet your gaze. His pupils are blown wide, lips red and parted, chest rising and falling like he’s struggling to hold himself still. You feel the tension in him—every thread of restraint knotted tight in his shoulders, his hands, the set of his jaw.

You nod again, voice barely above a whisper. “Then do it.”

Hyunjin stills before he finally slips a hand behind your neck, the other splayed warm against your lower back, drawing you into him like he’s already halfway drunk on your scent. His breath stirs against your throat, warm and trembling.

“I’ll be gentle,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “But it won’t be clean. I’ve wanted this for too long.”

You shiver. “Then make it messy.”

He groans low and ruined at those words leaving your pretty lips. And then you feel it. The change in the air. The shift in him. Not dangerous. Just real. The veneer of restraint slipping. Vampire. Lover. Yours. His mouth finds the spot just below your jaw, where your pulse jumps frantic beneath the skin. You feel his tongue first—hot, wet, a slow swipe—and then the sharp drag of fangs.

Not pain. Pressure. And finally, sink.

Your gasp is swallowed by his moan. It’s everything at once: the pierce, the heat, the sudden rush of pleasure that rolls through you like molten silk. You clutch at his shirt, grounding yourself, but you’re already floating—your head tilting back, mouth falling open, a soft whimper escaping without your permission.

Hyunjin groans into your skin, feeding in slow, aching pulls. His grip tightens, but he doesn’t hurt you—just holds you, like you’re something fragile and vital and his.

He’s panting now, breath ragged between each mouthful. “So sweet,” he gasps, pulling back just enough to look at you, mouth stained red. “Fuck, baby. You taste like yes.”

You reach up, touch his face. “You okay?”

He laughs—wrecked, breathless, delirious. “I just tasted you for the first time and you’re asking if I’m okay?”

You smile. “You look high.”

“I am.”

He kisses you then. Hard. Desperate. Deep. And that’s what does it. Your hands fumble at his shirt. His tongue licks into your mouth like he’s trying to memorize you. His hips slot between your legs. He lifts you onto the nearest table—canvas and paint pushed aside—and his hands slide under your thighs, your shirt, your skin.

Everywhere. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t fumble. But god, he’s hungry. “Tell me,” he pants against your lips. “Tell me you want more.”

You grab his belt. “I want everything.”

His mouth crashes into yours again and groans deep, broken, like your voice just punched the air from his lungs.

And then his belt hits the floor.

Hyunjin kisses like he paints—messy, obsessive, sacred. His hands drag up your thighs, slow and reverent, thumbs brushing the crease where your legs meet your hips like he’s praying to the altar of your body. You gasp into his mouth, arching when he presses forward, the hard line of his arousal grinding against your clothed core.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “You’re already shaking.”

You are. You don’t care. You tug his shirt over his head, toss it blindly behind you. He’s all lean muscle and inked skin, his body as beautiful and deliberate as one of his gallery pieces—except this one’s pressed against you, flushed and trembling, pupils blown wide with need.

He leans in, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, trailing over the fresh bite like he’s blessing it. “Still good?”

You nod, breath hitching. “More than good.”

He smirks against your skin. “Perfect.”

Then his hand slips between your legs.

You gasp, hips bucking into his palm as he strokes you over your underwear—slow at first, teasing, just enough to make you need. He watches your face the whole time, lips parted, lashes low, expression wrecked with restraint.

“You’re wet through,” he murmurs. “Is this all for me?”

You manage a nod.

Hyunjin presses a kiss to your jaw. “Then let me have you.”

He drops to his knees like it’s instinct. Worship. Pulls your panties aside and buries his face in your cunt like he’s been starving. You moan—loud, unfiltered—as his tongue licks a hot stripe through you, slow and greedy, followed by a groan that vibrates against your clit.

He doesn’t let up. One arm wraps around your thigh, holding you open. The other hand grips your hip like he’s afraid you’ll float away. His mouth is relentless—sucking, licking, tasting every inch of you with single-minded devotion.

Your head falls back with a cry. You barely register the sound of your wine glass tipping, paintbrushes clattering to the floor. None of it matters—not when he’s devouring you like this.

Hyunjin groans again, low and obscene, the sound vibrating straight into your core. His tongue moves in slow, deliberate circles, dragging over your clit with maddening precision. Then he flattens it, sucks gently—then harder—and your entire body jolts.

“Fuck—Hyunjin—” you gasp, fists tangled in his hair, back arching off the table.

He moans into you like your pleasure is his oxygen. His grip tightens on your thigh, fingers digging into your skin as he licks deeper, deeper, like he’s trying to reach the parts of you untouched by anyone else. His nose brushes your mound, his lips slick and flushed, his tongue fucking into you like he’s trying to memorize the taste.

Every time you gasp, every whimper, every broken moan—he reacts. Groaning. Growling. Thrusting his hips against nothing. He’s needy for it, like he’s drunk on you, like the taste of you is something holy and forbidden and addictive all at once.

“Shit—” you choke, thighs trembling, nails dragging down his back. “I’m—I’m gonna—”

Hyunjin doesn’t stop. If anything, he gets hungrier. His arm hooks under your leg, anchoring you in place as he doubles down—his mouth messy, insistent, wet and hot and perfect as he drags another moan from your throat.

Your orgasm hits like a punch. Sharp. Shattering. You cry out, legs clamping around his head, hips grinding into his mouth—and he just takes it, groaning low, tongue still working you through it, slow and reverent, like he lives here now.

You collapse back onto the table, panting, muscles twitching.

Hyunjin finally pulls back, face soaked, lips swollen, eyes feral. He licks his mouth, slow and shameless, and smirks.

“You taste like I imagined,” he says, voice hoarse. “Better, even.”

You stare at him, dazed. “You imagined?”

“All the time,” he confesses. “You think I came to that coffee shop for the espresso?”

You huff a laugh—then gasp when he stands and leans over you again, cock pressing hot and hard against your soaked core. “Hyunjin—”

“I’m not done,” he whispers. “That was just the appetizer.”

Your reply is a whimper. You barely get a breath before he’s kissing you again—deep, wet, slow, like he wants to taste himself on your tongue. It’s messy and needy and addictive, and you moan into his mouth as he grinds down just enough for you to feel the thick press of his cock against your core.

You shiver. “You’re still dressed.”

His lips brush your cheek, your jaw, down your throat. “So are you,” he murmurs. “But not for long.”

You feel his hands on your hips, gentle but certain, sliding under the hem of your baby pink dress. His fingers drag the fabric up, inch by inch—slow, reverent, like he’s unwrapping a gift he’s been dreaming about for centuries.

“You wore this on purpose,” he says against your collarbone. “Didn’t you?”

You hum, teasing. “What if I did?”

He groans, teeth grazing the shell of your ear. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“Not likely,” you smirk. “Vampire, remember?”

“Then you better haunt me if you stop.”

You laugh—but it turns into a gasp when his fingers reach your straps. One slips down your shoulder. Then the other. You’re left breathless, chest rising and falling as he slowly peels the dress down your body—exposing soft skin, curve by curve. He pulls back just enough to look at you. And fuck. The way he looks at you. Like you’re made of starlight and honey and sin. Like he’s never seen anything so utterly divine.

“You’re perfect,” he says, more reverent than cocky now. His voice drops, all velvet and hunger. “So fucking perfect.”

Your dress pools around your waist. Your panties are still ruined, damp and sheer and clinging to your thighs. His hands are warm on your ribs, his mouth back on yours, kissing you slow, deep, possessive.

You tangle your fingers in his hair, tug lightly.

Hyunjin groans, rolling his hips against you. “Don’t tempt me.”

“You’re the one stripping me on a paint-stained table, Hyunjin.”

He laughs into your mouth. “Yeah, well. You started it.”

Then he kisses his way down your body again. Over the tops of your breasts, between them, pausing to look up at you as he presses a kiss to your sternum.

His hands ghost over your waist, your thighs. He kisses your stomach like it’s holy. Then he rests his cheek just above your hipbone. Closes his eyes. And whispers, “Can I have you?” Not hungry. Not demanding. Just honest.

Your voice is soft. “Yes.”

He lifts his head. Smiles. Wrecked. Beautiful. “Good,” he breathes, brushing his lips over your thigh. “Because I want to ruin you slowly.”

You don’t even realize he’s dipped his fingers into the paint until they’re streaking color across your thigh.

A lazy, sensual drag of crimson. Then gold. Then a shade that might’ve been violet once but is now smudged into something deeper—bluer, like bruises left by desire.

You stare down at the mess he’s making of you.

“Hyunjin—” you start, breath hitching.

But he’s already pressing his thumb in, right where the pulse beats strongest in your hip. Smearing paint there too, like a signature.

“I said I’d paint every inch of your skin,” he murmurs, voice gone thick with arousal. “Didn’t say I’d use a brush.”

You whimper as his hands move up, warm and stained, tracing your waist with gentle reverence. Every stroke leaves another streak—colors mixing with heat, desire, devotion. He’s marking you. Not with fangs. Not yet. But with art. With intention.

“You’re my favorite canvas,” he breathes, pressing a soft kiss to the spot where pink meets your ribcage. “And I’ve waited so long to paint you right.”

You’re trembling again, legs spread open over the table, your dress bunched at your hips, panties still pushed aside. And then—

smear.

His paint-slick fingers slide between your thighs.

You moan, body arching at the sensation—cool paint, warm touch. He groans in return, low and ruined, watching the way your body reacts.

“You like that?” he whispers.

“Yes,” you gasp. “Fuck—yes.”

His other hand slides down, the one not covered in paint and his fingers spread you open. Watching your cunt flutter around nothing before sliding two fingers inside without warning. You cry out, back arching, and he curses under his breath.

“So fucking tight,” he pants. “So wet for me already.”

You clench around him at the praise. He’s relentless now—thrusting his fingers deep, curling them just right, hitting that spot again and again until your thighs are shaking. His thumb finds your clit, rubbing tight, messy circles that make your head fall back, breath caught between sobs and gasps.

“Hyunjin—fuck—please—”

He leans in, paint and sweat smearing across your body, kissing your mouth hard—tongue sliding over yours, desperate and consuming. He’s grinding against you now, cock thick and hard through his pants, and you can feel him—every twitch, every pulse. He’s shaking.

When he finally pulls his fingers from your cunt, he licks them clean. Slowly. Watching you the whole time.

Then he stands, yanks open his belt, shoves his pants and boxers down just enough. His cock springs free—thick, flushed, leaking and so so so fucking pretty.

“Turn around,” he rasps. “Now.”

You scramble to obey, breathless, heart pounding. He bends you over the table, knocking brushes and palettes aside. The edge digs into your hips. He drags your panties all the way down this time, discards them like nothing.

A pause.

Then the blunt head of his cock presses to your entrance, slick with your arousal.

You brace yourself and then he slams in with a growl. You scream. There’s no other word for it. He’s huge, filling you all at once, stretching you wide until you’re trembling, dripping, wrecked from the very first thrust.

“Fuck, fuck—you feel like heaven,” he groans, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. “You were made for this.”

He sets a brutal rhythm, hips slamming into yours with relentless force, the sound obscene—wet, loud, raw. You’re gasping, moaning, sobbing his name. Your nails dig into the paint-slick table, searching for purchase as he drives into you over and over and over.

But then there's a shift.

The change in air pressure. The low, guttural noise from his throat. The way his fangs press gently against the back of your neck when he leans down.

“Can I?” he whispers, voice shaking. “Please.”

You nod, eyes wide. “Yes. Please.”

He moves with sudden precision—pulls you up, flush against his chest, one arm wrapped tight across your stomach to hold you still. You feel the tip of his cock grinding deeper, right into that devastating spot and sinks his fangs into the side of your neck.

He feeds like he fucks—deep, desperate, consuming. You feel his tongue lapping against your skin, the pull of your blood as his cock pounds into you, merciless and raw. Hyunjin groans against your skin, breath ragged, blood-slick lips brushing the curve of your neck as he thrusts into you.

“God, you taste like I dreamed,” he pants, voice thick with devotion. “Like every fevered thought I tried to paint away.”

You whimper, head falling back against his shoulder. His arms are locked around you—one firm across your stomach, the other rising to cup your breast. His thumb drags over your nipple, slick from paint and sweat, and you cry out at the sensation. Every inch of you feels claimed.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “So beautiful. Letting me have this. Letting me have you.”

Your hips jerk as he finds that devastating angle again, cock hitting deep, grinding into your softest spot. His rhythm stutters, overwhelmed, and he bites down gently—not piercing again, just mouthing over the mark he’s already made like he can’t bear to let it go. His hands are everywhere. Mapping you. Cradling you. Worshiping every curve and tremble.

You turn your head just enough to meet his mouth, and he kisses you like a prayer—open, slow, full of everything he can’t say out loud. His fingers find yours, lacing them together against your belly, holding you there while he fucks you through every wave of pleasure.

“I’ll give you everything,” he whispers, voice cracking, almost reverent. “Every color. Every breath. I’ll keep you safe. I’ll keep you mine.”

You’re shaking, unraveling, heart slamming against your ribs as pleasure coils hot and heavy in your core. His mouth is still on your neck, licking at the blood he’s already taken, and it’s obscene—how sacred it feels.

“Fuck,” he groans, voice cracked open. “I can feel you—so tight, so close.”

You whimper his name, breathless. “Hyunjin, I’m—fuck, I’m gonna—”

“I know.” His hand leaves your breast just long enough to slip between your thighs, fingers finding your clit with devastating precision. “Let go for me. Come on, baby. Let me feel you.”

The wave hits you hard. You break with a cry, clenching around him, trembling so violently you would’ve collapsed if he wasn’t holding you so close. His name tears from your throat as your orgasm rips through you—blinding, wet, all-consuming.

And that’s all it takes.

Hyunjin moans—shattered, holy—and slams into you one last time, cock twitching as he spills inside you, deep and hot, his cum triggered by your body milking him for everything. He clutches you tighter, hips jerking with each pulse as he rides it out, breath ragged in your ear.

The room stills.

Your bodies tremble together, covered in sweat, paint, blood, and each other. He doesn’t pull away. Just holds you, his face buried in your shoulder.

“You okay?” he whispers, voice hoarse.

You nod, barely able to speak. “Yeah. You?”

A pause.

Then he exhales a shaky laugh. “I’ve never felt more alive.”

You lean back enough to look at him, and he kisses you slow, reverent, ruined. A painter still in love with his masterpiece. A vampire utterly undone by your name.

You groan as he gently pulls out, both of you wincing from overstimulation and the messy, perfect aftermath. His hands are still on your hips, like he doesn’t trust the world not to snatch you away if he lets go.

“Don’t move,” he says, voice wrecked but soft.

You blink up at him, flushed and dazed. “Wasn’t planning to. I think my soul just left my body.”

Hyunjin snorts, then immediately leans down to kiss your cheek, your jaw, your temple. “Come back. I’ll bribe you with chocolate strawberries.”

You hum. “Tempting. But I might be a ghost now. Floating forever in post-orgasmic bliss.”

He laughs, full-bodied and beautiful. Then—with ridiculous gentleness—he slips your underwear back into place, finds a paint-smudged blanket from the supply room, and drapes it around your shoulders before lifting you bridal-style off the table.

You yelp. “Hyunjin—!”

“Shhh,” he says dramatically, “you’ve been through a lot. You were viciously attacked by an art-horny vampire.”

You burst into laughter. “Art-horny?!”

He grins as he settles onto the floor with you in his lap, wrapping you both in the blanket. “What would you call it?”

You pretend to think. “Mmm… a tragic case of palette-induced pussy worship?”

He absolutely loses it. His head drops to your shoulder, shaking with laughter. “I hate you. I love you. I hate that I love you. What the fuck.”

You grin, nuzzling his hair. “You’re welcome.”

There’s a beat of comfortable silence—your breathing syncing, his arms warm around you, the room still smelling of paint and sex and something sweeter. He lifts his head, just enough to meet your eyes.

“Was it too much?” he asks, quieter now. “The bite. The… everything.”

You shake your head. “It was perfect. It was you.”

His whole face softens, pupils still wide from feeding but laced now with something gentler. “I didn’t know I could feel this full without dying.”

You press your forehead to his. “You didn’t. You lived.”

He exhales a shaky laugh, nuzzles your nose. “You’re so soft right now. It’s killing me.”

“You literally already bit me.”

“Yeah, but that was sexy soft. This is like... soul-level softness.” He pauses. “Do you want a warm cloth? Tea? A seven-course meal? A small kingdom?”

You giggle, snuggling in. “I want to stay right here for a bit. Maybe cuddle. Maybe nap. Maybe kiss until we’re bored of each other.”

Hyunjin smiles like he’ll never be bored of you. “Cuddle I can do.”

And he fucking does and later? he tries to feed you grapes and accidentally drops them down your shirt.

You smack him with a paintbrush.

He swears it’s part of the aftercare.

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

[cherryoatchai]

M a r k e d b y Y o u

Tattoo Artist!Lee Felix x Reader | Piercings. Patience. He called you “princess” and kissed you like a prayer

🔞synopsis: Tattoo Artist AU. You’ve been in his chair before. Piercings, mostly—ears, belly button. He always lets you choose the placement, shows you the options with gloved hands, calls you princess in that low, honey-drip voice like it means something. But this time it’s different. You’re back for a nipple piercing. The one you’ve been thinking about for months. The one only Felix could ever do. And he’s still careful. Still soft-spoken. Still sunshine-wrapped-in-black-ink. Until he’s muttering “You’re not just anyone.” Now you’re on his table again. Half-naked. Tattooed. Moaning. Marked. He touches you like you’re sacred. Fucks you like he’s starving. And when he says “Be my good girl one more time”—you fall apart all over again.

💌a/n: i took soooo many breaks while writing this… like at one point i paused to eat a grape and then just stared at the ceiling for 20 minutes. post-nap vibes. zero momentum. negative discipline. BUT I FINISHED. BYE. if something doesn’t make sense, or there's a typo, or the formatting is stupid and chaotic?? no you didn’t. you saw NOTHING. i write in markdown and vibes. we ride at dawn. also this is 1000% lee felix coded like?? sunshine man who eats you out until you cry?? puts his hoodie on you after?? feeds you a microwave rice bowl and calls it five-star dining?? yeah that’s him your honour. p.s. reblog if felix should ruin you gently p.p.s. debating squid games au!skz where seungmin wins because he cheats p.p.p.s. going to sleep now. if you see me online again tonight—no you don’t

⚠️ warnings: 18+ ONLY | MINORS DNI | nipple piercings (procedure described) | tattoo scene (needle, stencil, positioning, mild pain mention) | oral sex (f!receiving, overstimulation, praise, degradation) | multiple orgasms | unprotected sex (don't be dumb irl. wrap it up) | filth language (he calls you princess and good girl and my canvas while literally buried in you) | possessive felix, soft dom felix, worship kink, marking kink | implied creampie | tattoo studio sex (felix is a professional except when he's not) | aftercare so tender it could kill a victorian child | reader gets emotionally and sexually obliterated and loves every second | dangerously high amounts of sunshine-boy-turned-dirty-mouth menace energy | minho lives upstairs and has heard them multiple times, he's annoyed

📌 Please read with caution. Hydrate. Stretch. Sit on a towel. Text your piercer a respectful “thank you”.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » Trouble— EXO « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:17 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

You don’t remember the exact moment it shifted—when curiosity became ritual.

It might’ve been the second time you sat in his chair, hands tucked under your thighs, letting him talk you through the angles of your ear like it was a constellation map only he could see. You'd walked into NO SAINT INK on a whim, a dare, a half-formed promise to yourself that you’d stop saying “maybe next time.” You hadn’t planned on choosing him.

But Felix had looked up from the back of the shop—half-crouched on a rolling stool, sketchbook open on one thigh, sunflower-blond hair tucked behind a pierced ear—and smiled at you like he’d been expecting you.

And that was it.

He patted the vinyl seat beside him like he already knew where this was going and you made yourself comfortable on it.

That was six months ago.

Now? You’re the kind of regular who doesn’t need to check in at the front. Chan gives you a lazy wave and goes back to the books. Seungmin nods from his little corner, earbuds in. Jisung usually grins and whispers something stupid under his breath as you walk by—but Felix? Felix always knows you’re coming.

Your file probably says four things:

– multiple cartilage – curated constellation piercings, designed together – naval (freehand, perfect placement) – Felix only.

And it’s not that the others aren’t good. They are—exceptional, even. It’s just that Felix makes it feel like more.

Felix has sunlight in his veins and something far darker in his smile. To most people, Felix is gentle. Patient. Calming. He hums when he works. Offers you a blanket if the studio’s cold. Lets you squeeze his wrist if you’re nervous—never flinches, just murmurs, “that’s it, angel. keep breathing.”

But under that softness is something sharper. You see it in the way his hands move.

He’s a piercer first, tattooer second. Specializes in placements that most artists shy away from: dermals, navals, nipples, genitals, and other delicate zones. He says he likes the precision of it. The trust involved.

“People forget how intimate piercing is,” he told you once. “You have to earn someone’s body. Be calm enough they let you near it. Gentle enough they want you to stay.”

When he tattoos, he prefers sacred geometry, micro-script, and emotional etchings. Crescent moons behind ears. Names in Morse code along ribs. Protection symbols. Memorial pieces. He doesn’t chase shock value—he tattoos meaning.

“Needles hurt. Might as well make it count.”

He rarely books more than one client a day. He gives too much of himself each time.

But with you? He always says yes.

You and Felix had started professional. It always was. Until it wasn't. Because by then, it became something else.

The way he’d guide your breathing—not just for the pain, but to calm the tremble in your voice when you asked about your next piercing. The way he remembered you drink peach tea, not green. That you like to see the jewelry options laid out first, like you're choosing a path. The way he held your hand a beat too long. Pressed gauze to your skin with a feather-light touch that lingered.

You knew it wasn’t just you. You’ve seen him work on others. You’ve seen the difference.

Felix is kind to everyone. But he’s tender with you.

You don’t flirt outright—there’s too much electricity in the silence. But you watch each other. You hover in his orbit like a star caught in slow collapse.

He calls you “darling,” “brave girl,” “pretty thing.” Sometimes he texts you the night before your appointments:

“room’s prepped. miss you a little.” “got new titanium pieces. want you to be the first.” “can’t wait to see what you wear for me this time.”

You think he notices your body more than he lets on. You’ve caught him watching—low eyes, parted lips, tongue brushing his lower lip.

But he’s never crossed the line. Not once. Which is why you’re nervous now. Because your next appointment? You asked for nipple piercings.

And maybe—maybe a tattoo. You haven’t told him where yet. Nor what the design is, yet.

The bell over the door chimes as you step into NO SAINT INK, and before you can even take two steps inside, you hear it.

“SHE’S BACK!” “Hide the lube!” “She’s got that ‘about to do something reckless’ walk again!”

You sigh. Loudly. Dramatically. “I hope all your piercings reject and your cartilage gets infected.”

Han Jisung appears from behind the front counter like a raccoon crawling out of a snack bag, a half-eaten protein bar in one hand and glitter under his eyes. “Babe, please,” he grins, wide and shameless. “You’ve been threatening me with infection kink since your second appointment.”

From the corner, Seungmin doesn’t even look up from his iPad. “Because you act like you want one.”

“Don’t kink-shame me in my own place of worship,” Han mutters, then drops his voice a few octaves and mock-moans, “oh no, doc, I have sepsis—”

“Stop,” Chan groans, emerging from the back office, rubbing his temples like he’s been hearing this conversation in surround sound all day. “Don’t scare off the paying clients.”

You flash him a sweet smile. “If you wanted professionalism, you wouldn’t have hired them.”

“Touché,” he concedes, then offers you a hug. You melt into it. Chan smells like sage, mint, and the weight of adult responsibility. “You’re here for Lix?”

You nod, and Han makes a soft oohhhh in the background like he’s watching a sex scene through a cracked door.

“Big day,” he whispers like a narrator. “Big... titties.”

Seungmin finally looks up. “Are we done pretending she doesn’t have favorite-client status? Felix literally skipped lunch to get the room ready for her.”

You raise an eyebrow. “He skipped a meal?”

“Voluntarily,” Chan confirms, crossing his arms. “Said something about making sure the setup was ‘extra calming’ and ‘not rushing the process.’ He even polished the mirror. You got him nervous.”

Han gasps. “He cleaned something? For someone other than himself? Girl, are you getting pierced or proposed to?”

You flip him off on your way past the counter, but you’re smiling. Because yeah. You’re nervous too. But also… something about this feels right. Like walking toward a decision you’ve already made in your bones.

You stop at the hallway, just before the private room where Felix usually works.

The door’s closed. And your heart is racing.

Chan notices. He leans in a little, softer now. “You okay?”

You nod. Then bite your lip. Then shake your head and whisper, “He’s gonna see my boobs, Chan.”

Han yells from the counter, “BOOBS CONFIRMED! I REPEAT, BOOBS CONFIRMED.”

Seungmin sighs. “This is why we can’t bring you anywhere.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “I hate it here.”

“Do you want me to escort you to the back like a lady of honor?” Seungmin deadpans from the corner without glancing up.

“Do you want to get stabbed with a sterilized piercing needle, Seungmin?” you shoot back.

“I’d let Felix do it,” he says casually, flipping the page on his iPad. “He has nice hands.”

Chan sighs. “This is becoming a lawsuit.”

Han’s already up on the counter like a meerkat, one hand to his ear like a news anchor.

“BREAKING NEWS: LOCAL BAD BITCH ABOUT TO SHOW TITTIES TO CERTIFIED SWEETHEART WITH KNIFE SKILLS—WILL SHE SURVIVE THE HORNY?”

“Find out next time on Nippled and Afraid,” Seungmin adds.

That’s when the door creaks open behind you and you freeze like a sim with a full bladder.

Felix steps out of the room.

He’s wearing black joggers and a fitted tank, gloves already on, a silver chain glinting at his throat. His hair’s tied back loosely, showing off the piercings in his ears and the constellation tattoo on the side of his neck that you’ve definitely stared at way too long. There’s a clipboard in one hand, and a titanium barbell balanced on the tip of one glove.

He looks between you and the absolute shitshow happening behind you.

“…Did I miss something?” he asks, blinking slow, voice smooth as fuckin’ butter.

“No,” you say too fast.

“Yes,” Han counters immediately. “It’s a boob day.”

Felix’s mouth twitches like he’s trying so hard not to laugh. His eyes find yours—warm, soft, but also glinting with the tiniest bit of mischief. “Is that right?”

“No,” you say again. But this time it’s more like a squeak. A guilty, betrayed-by-your-own-mouth squeak.

“Honestly,” Seungmin adds helpfully, “I’d be nervous too. She has a lot of boob.”

“SEUNGMIN.”

“Just being body-positive.”

Felix hums under his breath, completely unbothered, tilting his head like he’s studying you. “Want me to clear the hallway for your modesty?”

You narrow your eyes. “I hate you.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.” He turns to the boys and deadpans: “If you three don’t shut up and go away, I’ll pierce each of your tongues with no anesthesia and a broken clamp.”

Han gasps. “You wouldn’t.”

Felix raises an eyebrow, still calm, still polite. “Test me.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then Han grabs Seungmin by the arm. “Okay, we’re leaving! Everyone respect the boob event! LET HER LIVE!”

Chan gives you a wink and a mock-salute as he herds the feral duo out. “Tell him if he makes you cry in a bad way, I’m docking his pay.”

Then, finally, blessedly, they’re gone.

And Felix is looking at you like you’ve already undressed for him. “You ready?” he asks, that same gentle voice he always uses when he’s about to touch you.

You exhale. And nod.

Finally, you step inside, and the door clicks softly shut behind you.

It’s quiet now—just the low hum of the sterilizer in the corner and the faint lo-fi beats playing from a speaker tucked onto a shelf. The room smells like warm alcohol wipes, vanilla lotion, and Felix. That signature, indescribable scent you’ve come to associate with safety and danger at the same time.

The chair’s already reclined. Fresh black sheet. Towel folded neatly at the headrest. Paper tray lined up with tools—everything gleaming, precise, ready for you.

Felix follows you in, calm and unhurried, and says, “You can sit or lie down, whatever feels best. We’ll talk through everything first.” And then, in that same soft voice—

“No rush. You’re in my space now.”

You move to the chair, slowly. Your thighs graze the vinyl. The seat is cold at first, but it grounds you—forces you to breathe as you lower yourself in and let your arms rest by your sides. You try not to think about how exposed you’re about to be. About the way your heart is pounding out of your chest. About how many times you’ve imagined this exact moment but never thought it would feel like this.

Felix walks over, still gloved, and holds out the barbell he’d been carrying—pinched delicately between latex fingers. It’s titanium, rose gold anodized, and so small it looks almost delicate.

He holds it up to the light.

“This is one option,” he says gently, then places it on a sterile pad and gestures to a small velvet tray. “But I have a few others. Different finishes, gemstone ends, opal, flat discs, silver, matte black. Depends how flashy—or soft—you want the look to be.”

You glance at the tray. It’s absurd, really, how careful he is—still in gloves, still surgical in motion, even though this isn’t the procedure yet. You’ve seen him do this before, for your ear jewelry, for your navel. He always uses gloves when presenting the options. Won’t touch the pieces bare-handed, even if you’re just browsing.

Because Felix doesn’t just pierce people. He ritualizes it.

He kneels a little to your eye level now—still at a distance, still giving you space. “You okay so far?”

You nod, maybe a little too quickly. “Yeah. Just…” You inhale. Exhale. “…I can’t believe I actually booked this.”

A slow smile curls onto his lips. His eyes flick down, briefly—so brief it could be missed. “Been thinking about it for a while though, haven’t you?”

You nod again, quieter this time. “Since my second piercing.”

He tilts his head, amused. “The conch?”

“Yeah. You were so… professional about it. I kept waiting for you to… I don’t know.”

“To flirt?”

You pause. Then smile. “Kinda.”

He shrugs, eyes soft but glinting. “Didn’t wanna mess with your comfort. But if it helps—” He leans in slightly, voice lowering, velvet-sweet. “—I’ve been waiting for you to ask me for this one.”

Your breath catches.

He straightens again, walks over to a side drawer, pulls out a few more options, all titanium, all glittering under the soft room light. Then he turns back to you, lifts his hands—

“May I?”

You nod, and he comes closer, tray in one gloved hand, the other bracing lightly on the back of your chair. He holds the options near your chest—hovering just above the fabric of your top, not touching you yet, but close enough that your breath hitches again.

“These two would suit your skin tone best. See the undertones?”

You glance at the pieces. You barely register them. All you can think about is how close he is now. How his voice has dropped. How he hasn’t touched you. Not yet. But your body feels like he already has.

Then—gently—he steps back.

“Take your time. When you’ve chosen, I’ll walk you through prep and position. You can undress once you're ready.”

He turns toward the counter, reaching for a new pair of gloves—because he’s about to discard the current ones, the ones he used for the display.

“Can’t touch your skin with these,” he says over his shoulder. “You deserve clean hands.”

You inhale, exhaled as your eyes settle on the tray. Staring at it like it’s offering answers to questions you’re not brave enough to say out loud. You choose the daintiest one—a curved titanium bar with petite opal ends, almost iridescent in the light. Sweet. Soft. Girlish in a way.

He looks at your choice when you hold it up. And smiles. “Pretty,” he says, voice low. “Just like you.”

You pretend not to choke on your own breath.

He discards the gloves—carefully, methodically, snapping them off and dropping them into the bin—then slips on a new pair from the box near the sterilizer. You watch him like you’re under a spell. Every movement he makes is calm. Measured. Intimate, but professional. Not clinical. Never cold. Just… deeply intentional.

He begins laying out the setup.

A sterile tray. An unopened piercing needle—still sealed in its package. Forceps. A marker. Gauze. Saline. A mirror.

Then he turns to you, head tilting softly, voice warm. “Go ahead and take off your top and bra. You can lie back once you’re comfortable.”

You nod, pulse quickening, and stand slowly.

Your hands fumble at the hem of your shirt. You’re not shaking—not exactly—but you feel it. That thrum just under your skin. Not fear. Something else.

Excitement. Anticipation. The quiet ache of being seen.

You peel off your top, then unclasp your bra, letting both drop neatly onto the nearby chair. For a second, you hesitate—arms half-crossed like you might cover yourself.

But then Felix turns around. And the look on his face? Pure reverence. His eyes flick over you, but not in the way you expect. Not hungry or gawking. Just… soft. Quiet. Attentive. Like he’s seeing something sacred.

“There you are,” he murmurs. “Look at you.”

You bite your lip. “You’re not even trying to hide it, huh?”

He walks over slowly, already holding the marker, and gives you the tiniest smile. “Not today.”

You lie back onto the reclined chair, head resting against the folded towel, arms settling at your sides. The air is cool against your bare chest, but his gaze? His gaze is warm enough to burn.

He crouches beside you, just at the edge of the chair, keeping his hands respectful—but close. You can see the marker poised in his fingers.

“Okay, I’m going to mark the placement now. Just a little dot on each side. I’ll give you the mirror after, and you can tell me if you want any adjustments.”

You nod, and he leans in. You feel the gentle drag of his gloved hand against your ribcage. The marker dot is so light you barely feel it.

But his breath? You feel that. Warm. Barely there. Ghosting across your sternum like a secret.

“You’re doing perfect,” he murmurs, like it’s just for you.

He marks the other side. Mirrors the placement with quiet focus. Then pulls back slowly, just enough to grab the small mirror from the tray.

“Here,” he says. “Take a look. Let me know if it feels right.”

You hold the mirror with slightly shaky hands, angling it as best you can. The dots are perfectly placed—subtle, flattering, aligned with the natural curve of your chest. The bar you picked will sit like a tiny, glimmering crown. Delicate. Pretty.

Princess shit, honestly.

“It’s good,” you say quietly. Then again, stronger: “It’s perfect.”

He smiles at that. “Then we’re all set.” He pauses. “One last time—are you sure you want to do both today? We can always start with one and come back—”

“No,” you cut in, pulse thrumming. “I trust you.”

Felix stares at you, a smile making way to his face, all warm and sunshine. “Alright, angel,” he finally says. “Let me take care of you.”

Your chest rises and falls faster now, breath shallow. You try to stay calm, but then you hear it—

the snap of his gloves. New pair. Clean. Tight against his wrists. Your thighs clench.

He moves around you like a storm gathering quietly—no rush, just inevitability. He sets the tray beside the chair. Everything is in place. Except your mind. That left the second he called you angel.

“I’m going to clean the area first,” he murmurs, voice low, as he reaches for the antiseptic wipe. “It’ll feel cold.”

It does.

The moment the wipe touches your skin, your breath stutters. His fingers are firm and steady, gloved hand guiding the motion. He doesn’t linger. He doesn’t tease.

But the way he holds you? It’s reverent. Like you’re something breakable and beloved.

His eyes flick up—just once—to check your face. “Still okay?”

You nod, voice caught in your throat. “Yeah. Mhm. Yes.”

He lets out the faintest hum—satisfied. Then leans in just a little closer, one hand bracing at your ribcage as the other prepares the clamp.

“I’m going to place the tool now, just for alignment. It’ll pinch a bit.”

You know what’s coming. You’ve watched videos. You’ve had piercings before. But nothing prepares you for the feeling of Felix’s hands—one steady at your side, the other applying pressure with the clamp, his face so close to your chest, concentration written across his features like he’s painting you.

“Breathe in…” he says softly.

You do.

“Hold.”

You do.

“Now exhale—”

The needle goes through in one clean motion.

And you gasp. Not just from the pain—it’s sharp, yes, a sting that blooms bright and fast. But also from the sound that escapes you. A sound you didn’t mean to make. Breathy. Soft. Almost… needy.

Felix freezes for a second.

“You okay?” His voice is low. Thicker now. Like he felt it too.

You nod, blinking up at him. Your pulse is racing. Your skin is buzzing. There's heat pooling low in your stomach and you don't know if it's the adrenaline or him.

He gently slides the jewelry through, screws the dainty opal ball into place. It should honestly feel like relief. But instead, it feels like foreplay.

“That’s one,” he says, eyes meeting yours. “Want me to keep going?”

Your lips part. “Yes. Please.”

And god, the way his jaw tenses at that. He nods once, sharp and focused, then leans in again. This time, when he positions the clamp, you're already trembling sightly. His free hand rest heavier on your ribcage, his thumb just barely brushing your skin and you swear you feel it through the glove. Swear you feel him everywhere.

“Same thing,” he murmurs, voice rougher now. “Deep breath in…”

You inhale sharply.

“Hold.”

The second needle slides through and this time—you moan. Soft. Small. But unmistakable. Your body arches just slightly, involuntarily. And his hand? It flexes. Grips a little harder. Just for a moment.

“Fuck—” Felix whispers under his breath.

It’s the first time he’s broken. The first time he’s let it slip.

“Still good?” he asks, but it’s not just professionalism anymore. There’s something else there. Something tight. Raw.

You nod again, cheeks flushed, throat dry. “Y-Yeah.”

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath since you walked in. Then moves quickly—threads the second barbell through, secures it, wipes away the tiny dot of blood with gentle precision. Then sits back.

Just looks at you.

You’re breathing hard. Skin flushed. Lying there, bare, pierced, glowing.

And him? His gloves are still on. But his eyes? They’re filthy. “You did perfect,” he says, voice low and quiet like a secret. “So fuckin’ perfect for me.”

Your thighs clench again. He notices. He always notices. “Let me get you cleaned up,” he murmurs, reaching for the aftercare.

Felix grabs the clean compress and gently warms it in his hands. You watch him as he works—his fingers moving smoothly despite the gloves, the barbell glinting faintly as he adjusts the overhead light.

When he turns back to you, there’s something different in his expression. Still gentle. Still focused. But underneath it, there’s a tension. Like he’s gripping a secret between his teeth.

“Okay,” he says, kneeling beside the chair so he’s level with you again, “this’ll help soothe any swelling. Just a little pressure.”

He presses the warm compress to your skin with slow care, one hand steady against your ribs, the other adjusting the angle. And it should be nothing. Should be routine.

But you swear his thumb is tracing circles now. Tiny, slow ones.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. It shudders at the edges.

“Still doing okay?” he asks without looking up.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “More than okay.”

His eyes flick up. And you know he sees it. The flush in your chest, the rise and fall of your breath, the way your body is buzzing from more than just adrenaline.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs.

“Because you touched me like that,” you say before you can stop yourself.

That makes him pause. Like he’s deciding something. Like he’s reining something in. Then he smirks—small, dangerous, and too pretty to be fair. “Touched you like what?” he says softly.

“Like it that.”

Felix pulls back just slightly, enough to let the warmth of your words settle between you. “Well, it's because it matters how I touch you.” he says. “You’re not just anyone.”

You blink. “I’m not?”

He lets out a quiet laugh, something low and breathy that curls hot in your stomach. “You think I’d do all this for someone I don’t think about every night after closing?”

That sentence detonates somewhere in your lower stomach. You short-circuit for a full second. Your brain is like a hamster in a blender.

“I—”

He’s still crouched by the chair, head tilted, watching you watch him like you’ve never seen a man before. And honestly? Maybe you haven’t. Not one like this.

“Felix.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re... dangerously good at this.”

He blinks, brows lifting slightly. “At piercing?”

“No,” you say, breathless. “At flirting with surgical instruments in your hand.”

That earns you a real smile. Bright and shameless. “Guess it’s a niche skill.”

“Niche? You’re weaponized.”

“Only against you, angel.”

And that—that—makes you cover your face with both hands and groan into your palms.

He laughs, standing up slowly, stretching his arms a bit, letting his tank ride up just a little. Tease. He knows it. You know it.

You peek between your fingers. “You’re so annoying.”

“You’re so into it.”

“I’m dangerously into it,” you mutter. “You could tattoo the word ‘butt’ on my shoulder and I’d thank you.”

“Oh?” he smirks. “Is that your formal request?”

“No. I—” You sit up slightly, clutching the towel across your chest. “I do want a tattoo from you, though.”

His smirk softens into something intrigued. “You do?”

You nod. “Not today. God. Not today. I just got stabbed twice in the tits.”

He makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a suppressed moan.

You ignore it.

“But I want to book it,” you continue, trying to act casual even though your skin is still buzzing from the aftercare and your thighs are still clenching every time he calls you “angel.” “Like… I want something small. Pretty. Maybe something only I know the meaning of. Like my little secret.”

He raises a brow, hands in his pockets now. “And you want me to do it?”

You stare. “Are you high? Of course I want you. I don’t let just anyone mark me. We’re like three body mods away from you having squatter’s rights on my flesh.”

He blinks, then laughs, full and bright, head tilting back.

“Oh my god,” he says, wiping under his eye like you actually made him cry. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“I’m serious,” you pout. “Pencil me in.”

He bites his lip, still grinning. “How about I pencil you in… and then take you out after?”

Your eyes narrow. “Felix.”

“Yes?”

“Are you asking me out as a reward for surviving your nipple torture?”

He shrugs, shameless. “You were really brave. I feel like you deserve dinner. Or… dessert.”

Your jaw drops. “You absolute menace.”

“I’m marking it in my calendar,” he says, grabbing his phone. “Tattoo consult, followed by post-inking activities.”

“What does that even mean?”

“It means you’re gonna sit in my chair again. But next time, I’m gonna keep my gloves on longer.”

You freeze. He winks. And your heart falls straight out of your chest. “Okay,” you say, breathless. “Book it. Tattoo. Dinner. Dessert. All of it.”

Felix grins, bright as a sunbeam. “Can’t wait to ruin you gently.”

It’s been two weeks since Felix pierced your nipples.

Fourteen days. Three sleepless nights. One erotic dream that ended with you waking up with his name on your lips and your hand halfway down your pajama shorts.

You haven’t stopped thinking about it.

Neither has he.

Not that he’s said it outright—he’s still Felix. Still sweet and composed, still texting you photos of dainty jewelry he “could see on you,” still pretending not to be the same man who had his hands on your chest while whispering you’re not just anyone.

But something shifted that day.

Now, when you walk into NO SAINT INK, he doesn’t just smile at you. He drinks you in. Slow. Careful. A look that starts at your lips and ends somewhere around your thighs.

He texts you more. Dumb shit sometimes.

saw this meme, made me think of you (you in this case = a raccoon who stole a slice of cake and got caught) do you think a tattoo of a tiny sword on the hip is slutty or powerful? asking for science btw—piercings are healing perfectly. you’re a dream client. but you already knew that

You pretend to roll your eyes. But you also reread the messages before bed. And maybe… maybe you started taking more mirror pics.

He hasn’t seen them. Not yet. But you’re starting to want him to. The upcoming tattoo appointment is officially booked. He even texted you a calendar invite.

You haven’t picked a placement yet.

Mostly because every time you imagine his fingers trailing along your skin, pushing fabric out of the way, murmuring “here?”, you lose your train of thought.

And maybe part of you is holding back on purpose.

Letting it simmer.

Because if what happened last time is any indication, then the moment you’re in his chair again—bare skin under his hands, gloved or not—you’re not leaving without his name in your mouth. And maybe something else, too.

You arrive early.

The studio’s quiet when you walk in—Chan gives you a nod from the office, barely glancing up from the booking tablet, while Seungmin mutters something about “romantic tension causing a fire hazard.”

You ignore both of them. You’re too busy trying to keep your heart inside your chest.

You’re wearing a low-back slip dress. Thin straps. Just enough coverage to stay on the right side of “I’m here for body modification,” and the wrong side of “touch me and find out.”

Your phone buzzes.

[Felix]: back room’s ready, princess.

Your stomach flips. Your thighs tighten. You walk to the private room like it’s a confessional booth.

Felix is already inside.

And god, he looks even better. How does he do that, looking better every single time. All black: sleeveless tank, loose joggers that cling in the right places, chain resting on his collarbone, hair pulled back in a way that makes you want to pull it forward.

The moment he sees you, his mouth curves into something slow and hungry.

“Damn,” he says softly. “Didn’t even start yet and you’ve already got me sweating.”

You try to play it cool. Fail instantly. “You said dress up.”

“And you listened like a good girl,” he murmurs, stepping closer, voice dipping dangerously low.

You swallow. “You ready to mark me, or what?”

He exhales through a grin. “Yeah, let’s talk placement.”

You hand him a folded sketch you’ve been keeping tucked in your bag for days. He opens it carefully.

It’s a delicate little sword, no longer than your pinky finger. Wrapped in blooming wisteria vines. The blade’s curved, fine-line. A star sits just beneath the hilt.

Felix studies it for a long moment.

“What’s it mean?” he asks, voice quieter now.

You shrug, trying not to look too vulnerable. “Strength. Softness. Holding both. And... the star’s kinda a reminder.”

“A reminder of what?”

You meet his gaze, suddenly bold. “That someone sees me.”

He doesn’t say anything for a beat. Just nods, then turns away—like if he looks at you a second longer he might kiss you before any ink gets involved.

“Okay,” he says. “Where?”

You hesitate. Then: “Ribcage. Just under the left breast.”

He stills. “Fuck,” he breathes. “You’re trying to kill me.”

You smile sweetly. “Professional setting, Lee.”

“Right. Totally,” he mutters, already snapping on gloves. “Let me just get set up before I combust.”

He lays out the stencil, wipes down the table, pulls out the fresh needle packet. Everything crisp, sterilized, exact. But you can feel it—the same electric hum from before. Worse, now. Because you both know what it’s like to be this close. To almost touch.

“Go ahead and lie down,” he says, voice carefully steady. “Top off. I’ll drape you for modesty.”

You do.

And as your dress slips down, baring the same skin he pierced just weeks ago, you hear him suck in a breath.

Then softly: “Holy shit.”

Felix exhales like he’s trying to center himself, but his eyes are locked on the exposed skin below your collarbone — the left slope of your ribs, soft and curved and waiting for him.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, voice rough. “Didn’t mean to say that out loud.”

You smile, folding your hands over your stomach, trying to stay casual even though your pulse is in your throat.

“You did.”

He looks up at you, grinning now. “Can you blame me?”

You don’t answer. You just bite your lip. His eyes flick down. Linger. Then he clears his throat and reaches for the stencil.

“Okay. This’ll feel a little cold,” he warns.

You hum. “I remember. But you always warm me up after, don’t you?”

Felix freezes mid-step, eyes snapping to yours with that look. The one that makes your entire spine throb.

“I swear to god,” he mutters, gently pressing the damp stencil paper to your skin, “you’re gonna be the death of me.”

The stencil application is slow. Careful. His gloved hands cup your side, fingers anchoring just under the swell of your breast, dangerously close to where he pierced you weeks ago.

You try not to squirm. You fail.

He notices.

“You okay?” he asks, innocent on the surface, smug underneath.

“Your hands are cold.”

“Hmm,” he hums, pulling the stencil paper away. “Let me fix that.”

He presses one palm against your ribs skin to glove. His thumb brushes the curve of your side. Not high enough to cross a line. But enough to make you bite back a sound.

“You’re evil,” you breathe.

“I’m very, very good,” he corrects. “Now stay still. Gotta check the alignment.”

He picks up the mirror, holds it out for you to see. You crane your neck, exhaling hard.

It’s perfect. The sword lies just beneath the breastbone, angled ever so slightly with the shape of your ribcage. The wisteria wraps it like it’s meant to grow there.

“Yeah?” he asks.

You nod, dazed. “Yeah. Fuck. Yeah.”

Felix smiles like he just won something. Then moves to grab the machine.

You hear the buzz before you see it.

“Okay,” he says, glancing up. “This part’s gonna sting.”

“I’ve been pierced by you,” you smirk. “I can handle it.”

He laughs under his breath and leans over you again, lining up the machine with your skin.

You brace.

And then—

The first touch of the needle.

Sharp. Fast. Immediate. But then it shifts into something else. A burn that blooms. Pain edged in adrenaline, in control, in something almost addictive.

You exhale through it, jaw tight, legs flexing slightly.

Felix’s free hand presses flat to your side. Holding you steady.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Breathe for me, baby.”

Your stomach flutters. You blink up at the ceiling, trying to focus on anything else. But your mouth has a mind of its own. “So... where are you taking me for dinner?”

Felix doesn’t pause. “Bold of you to assume I’m feeding you before I wreck you again.”

You snort. Then wince. “Don’t make me laugh. You’re stabbing me.”

He grins. “I’m being gentle.”

You side-eye him. “Are you?”

“No.” He shifts the angle. “But you like it when I’m not.”

You whimper. Quiet. Almost embarrassed by it.

He hums in satisfaction. “But to answer your question,” he continues, voice calmer now, “there’s this place a couple blocks down. Little izakaya joint. Private booths. Good lighting. Excellent tempura.”

“Are you describing the menu or your date plan?”

He leans a little closer, eyes on the sword he’s carving into your skin. “Both. You’re gonna look good across from me. All marked up. Flushed.”

You exhale shakily. “You can’t say that while actively tattooing me.”

He glances at you—eyes dark and devastating. “Pretty sure I can. You’re letting me hurt you, princess. You really think I’m not gonna whisper things while I do it?”

And then he goes quiet. Focused. Working the needle with expert care, pausing every now and then to wipe your skin clean with soft pressure, checking the lines.

Eventually, the buzz of the machine softens as Felix lifts the needle for a moment, wiping across your skin with gentle pressure. You hiss through your teeth at the sting.

But you can feel him watching you again. Not just checking his lines. Watching you.

“You’re doing so good for me,” he murmurs.

Your breath catches. “You really like saying that, huh?”

His voice lowers. “Only when it’s true.”

Another pass. Another burn. You clench your fists against the tremble in your thighs. He’s too close. You’re too exposed. And the linework is almost done.

Which means... the night’s only beginning.

The machine buzzes again before a knock is heard at the door which then creaks open just enough for Chan's voice to call in: “Closing up now. You’re the last ones in. Don’t set anything on fire.”

Felix barely glances up. “Got it.”

You stare at the ceiling, heart suddenly pounding harder than before. Last ones in. No one else here.

The door clicks shut again.

Silence.

Felix shuts off the machine.

You look at him.

He sets it down slowly, like he’s placing a weapon back in its sheath. His gloves are still on, but the air in the room is different now. Thick. Humming with intent.

He wipes your skin again. Slower this time. Too gentle.

Then leans in, close enough that his breath ghosts across your ribs.

“You realize,” he says, barely above a whisper, “this is the second time I’ve made you moan while you were half-naked in my chair.”

Your throat goes dry. “Technically the third. I think I whimpered during the aftercare last time.”

Felix chuckles, low and dark. His hand rests over the tattoo now—protective, possessive, and still gloved.

“I didn’t forget,” he murmurs.

You shift slightly, tugging the dress back up, but he stops you with a hand on your wrist.

“Don’t.”

You blink. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t cover it yet,” he says. “Let me look.”

His gaze roams slowly over your side, over the glistening ink, the subtle swelling, the flush of your skin. Then his hand follows, gloved fingers brushing the skin just beneath the tattoo.

“Looks fucking perfect on you,” he says, voice gone low again. “Like it was always supposed to be there.”

You bite your lip. “You sound proud.”

“I am proud. I marked you.” He meets your eyes, something darker flickering there. “And you let me.”

You’re not sure who moves first.

But suddenly his hand is on your jaw. Your legs shift on the vinyl. His glove squeaks slightly against your skin. Your breathing is ragged. And his thumb brushes your bottom lip like he’s debating kissing you or dragging you under.

“You still want dinner?” he asks, voice wrecked.

“I want dessert first,” you whisper.

He pulls the gloves off in one swift motion, tossing them carelessly aside. His bare hands find your waist, your jaw, your thigh—wherever he can touch now that he’s allowed to.

“Fuck the reservation,” he growls. “I need to taste you first.”

But even as the words leave his mouth—his hands already roaming your bare waist, your hip, the edge of your thigh—he pauses. Breathless. Controlled chaos.

Then he closes his eyes, jaw clenched.

“Wait.”

You blink, wide-eyed. “Wait?”

His chest rises and falls with uneven breath. He’s so close. You can feel the heat of him between your legs, the tension in his fingertips like he’s holding back something feral.

But he steps back.

“I need to wrap the tattoo,” he says hoarsely. “You just got it. I’m not risking anything.”

It shouldn’t be hot. But it is. Because he wants you bad, and he’s still putting your safety first. You bite your lip as he turns, snatching a fresh piece of second skin from the pack and peeling the backing with shaking hands.

“I’m losing my mind,” he mutters.

“Same,” you whisper.

He crouches beside you again, this time gentle in a way that feels intimate. Like the moment after a storm, where everything’s still dripping wet and raw.

“Deep breath,” he says, laying the second skin gently over the tattooed ribs, smoothing it out with featherlight fingers. His hand lingers just a moment too long—thumb grazing the curve under your breast, jaw tight as he fights himself.

“There,” he murmurs. “Safe.”

Then he looks at you again.

“And now I’m going to ruin you.”

You don’t have time to respond.

He surges forward, lips crashing against yours with weeks of pent-up tension behind it—your moan swallowed into his mouth as he kisses you like he’s starved. His hands are everywhere: one in your hair, one gripping your thigh, tugging you to the edge of the vinyl chair like he’s claiming you.

Your dress is bunched around your waist. His tank top is halfway off. His mouth breaks from yours just long enough to trail kisses down your jaw, your neck, your collarbone—pausing just above where the second skin lies, like it’s a sacred barrier.

He doesn’t touch the tattoo. But everything around it? Fair game.

“You still sore?” he breathes against your chest, nipping the top curve just above the bandage.

“A little.”

He grins against your skin. “Good.”

His mouth moves lower—down your stomach, your inner thigh. Hands parting your legs with the kind of reverence you’ve only seen from him in front of his needles.

“You sure about this?” he murmurs, already undoing his joggers with one hand. “I need to hear it.”

“Yes,” you pant. “Felix—yes, fuck, I want you.”

“Say it again.”

“I want you.”

That’s all it takes, in a flash he sinks to his knees like a man at an altar. Hands sliding beneath your thighs, hoisting you further up the vinyl and hooks two fingers under the waistband of your panties, but briefly stops, looking up at you, eyes dark and blown wide.

“Last chance, princess,” he rasps. “You say the word and I stop.”

You barely breathe. “Don’t stop.”

The words barely leave your mouth before he drags the fabric down slow—like he’s unwrapping something precious. Your soaked panties slide over your thighs, your knees, then disappear, flung to the floor like an afterthought.

His eyes never leave you.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “Fucking dripping.”

He spreads you open with warm, steady hands, thumbs pressing into your inner thighs, holding you there like he owns the view. His voice drops, rich and wrecked.

“You’ve been thinking about this, haven’t you? Coming in here, dressing like that. Letting me mark you. Begging me with those pretty little sounds—”

You whimper.

And then his mouth is on you.

Tongue first—flat and slow, dragging up your folds with unbearable control. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t dive in like a man desperate. No—Felix licks like he’s tasting you for the first time. Like he wants to memorize the exact shape of your cunt with his tongue.

You gasp. Jerk slightly.

He hums against you, the vibration buzzing straight through your core.

“That’s it,” he murmurs between licks. “Give me all those sounds, baby. Be my good girl.”

You whine, hips twitching as he suckles gently at your clit—just once—before pulling back with a sinful, wet kiss.

“Fuck,” he groans. “You taste so fucking sweet. Gonna keep you here all night.”

And he doesn’t stop.

His tongue circles your clit slowly, rhythmically, until your legs start to tremble. Then he slides lower, dipping between your folds, gathering slick to drag back up—wet and messy and obscene. One hand shifts to grip your hip while the other trails up your thigh, presses down gently to keep you open.

He moans into you like he’s addicted.

And then? He sinks a finger inside.

You cry out—sharp, high, desperate. “Felix—”

“Shhh, I’ve got you,” he whispers, tongue still lapping at your clit. “You take me so fucking well. Look at you—already squeezing around one finger. You’re gonna fall apart for me, huh?”

You nod helplessly, hips canting against his face.

He adds a second finger—slow, deep, curling just right—and that’s when you nearly sob. His mouth never leaves your clit, tongue stroking in tandem with the push of his fingers, and you realize that he’s building you up on purpose.

“Such a good girl,” he pants between licks. “Letting me taste you like this. Letting me wreck you right where I tattooed you. You gonna cum for me, princess?”

You’re nodding—shaking—words gone completely feral. “I want it,” you whimper. “Want you—Felix, please, I’m—”

He curls his fingers just right. Sucks your clit just once—hard.

And you shatter.

Your orgasm hits fast and brutal, ripping through you with a cry that echoes off the studio walls. Your legs lock around his head, your hands claw for anything, and he rides it out—groaning against you like he could come from the taste alone.

But he doesn’t stop. Not even when you twitch. Not when you gasp. Not when your hand weakly pushes at his shoulder.

He pulls back just long enough to murmur: “You said dessert first.”

Then his tongue dives in again.

Your body’s still twitching, legs shaking from the first high when Felix licks up your center again—slow, deep, possessive. You gasp, nearly jolting off the chair.

“F–Felix—!”

But he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down. Instead, he presses a palm flat against your stomach to hold you down, keeps your thighs spread with one knee, and groans low into your pussy like he’s devouring you.

“Uh-uh,” he growls, lips slick, voice wrecked. “Not done yet. I haven't had my fill.”

You try to speak, to beg—but all that leaves you is a broken sound, wrecked and high-pitched as he suckles your clit again with cruel, precise rhythm.

It’s too much. You’re still raw from the last orgasm—nerves hypersensitive, thighs twitching, your pussy fluttering helplessly around nothing—

Until he slides two fingers back in.

“FUCK—Felix—!”

“Ohhh, that’s it,” he moans against your clit, fingers pushing in deep, curling—relentless. “That sweet little cunt knows exactly who she belongs to.”

You’re squirming, eyes rolling back, legs fighting between trying to clamp shut and fly open. But Felix is stronger—his grip on your hip iron-tight now, his tongue punishing you with pleasure.

“You gonna cum again for me?” he pants, lips brushing your soaked folds. “You gonna fall apart on my tongue like a good girl?”

You nod frantically—can’t even breathe right, tears blurring your vision as the coil builds again, faster, worse than before.

“Please,” you whimper. “Please, I—Felix—please I can’t—”

He fucks you with his fingers harder—wet, obscene sounds echoing through the room—and growls, voice dark and filthy:

“Yes, you can. You’re my canvas, baby. You take everything I give you. You always do.”

That’s it. That’s the push.

You shatter again—louder, messier, nearly screaming as your body spasms through the second orgasm. Your hips lift off the vinyl, legs thrashing, eyes rolling back as everything goes white.

Felix groans deep, pressing you down as you ride it out. Your hands claw at the armrests. Your voice breaks into sobs.

But he’s not done. He kisses your thigh. Licks a stripe back up your centre before he moans, “One more.”

You sob. “I can’t—!”

“Yes,” he whispers, brushing your overstimulated clit with his tongue again, softer now but no less deliberate. “You can. Gimme one more. Be my good girl. Let me break you open just once more.”

You’re crying now.

Not from pain. Not from fear. But from the intensity—the unbearable pleasure ripping through your system like a tidal wave you can’t crawl out from under.

“Please, please—” You don’t even know what you’re begging for. Release? Relief? For him to stop? For him to never stop?

Your voice cracks on the last word and that’s when it hits you again. The third orgasm crashes down. No warning. No buildup. Just your entire body convulsing. Your back arching off the chair. And a choked, wrecked sob ripping out of you, nothing coherent left.

Your cunt clamps hard around nothing—fluttering, pulsing, milking air like it’s looking for him—looking to be filled. Claimed. Ruined.

Felix groans, loud, grinding his hips into the edge of the vinyl chair.

He’s hard. Painfully hard. You can see it now—his cock straining against the fabric of his joggers, twitching as you fall apart for him a third time.

“Holy fuck,” he growls, finally pulling back, wiping his soaked mouth with the back of his hand. “You—fuck, baby—do you even know what you look like right now?”

You’re limp.

Spent.

Tears streaking your cheeks, lips parted, chest rising and falling as you try—fail—to catch your breath.

“You’re perfect,” he pants, running both hands up your thighs. “So fucking perfect for me.”

He presses a kiss to your trembling knee. Then your thigh. Then higher, higher—until he’s kissing the inside of your hip, nuzzling close but respectful of your fresh tattoo.

“Do you want more?” he whispers.

He doesn’t reach for his waistband. Doesn’t undo his joggers. He waits.

You. Choose. Even now. Even when he’s throbbing hard against the chair. Even when his hands shake with restraint.

You blink down at him, fucked-out and flushed, voice hoarse when you finally manage: “Take me. Please.”

He exhales sharply—like he’s been holding that breath since your first orgasm and finally shoves down his joggers, just enough to free his cock—thick, flushed, leaking—and fuck, he’s even prettier here too, hips flexing, tip already brushing against your thigh as he climbs up over the chair.

“No gloves now,” he says, voice dark. “You’re not my client anymore, princess. You’re mine.”

You whimper—wrecked and soaked, your thighs still trembling, your pussy still aching. But when he reaches down and strokes the head of his cock through your folds—slow, teasing, bare—your hips lift instinctively.

“Fuck,” he mutters, watching the way you glisten for him. “Still dripping. This all for me?”

You nod, brain fogged with lust, chest flushed. “I need you,” you whisper.

He lines up at your entrance, but doesn’t push in yet. Just lets the head of his cock press there—hot and thick and perfect. Your body clenches automatically, needy, desperate.

“Say it again,” he murmurs, mouth hovering over yours. “I need to hear it.”

“I need you, Felix. I need to feel you—raw, please, I want all of you.”

That’s it.

He kisses you—deep, possessive, tongue licking into your mouth as his cock finally pushes in—inch by slow, devastating inch.

You both groan into the kiss.

“Fucking hell—you’re tight,” he gasps, hips stuttering as he bottoms out. “God, you’re clenching like you were made for me.”

You cry out, arms wrapping around his neck, legs shaking from the stretch and the sensitivity and the overwhelming fullness. You’ve never felt this much before. Never this deep.

He stays still for a beat, forehead pressed to yours, letting your body adjust—whispering soft things against your cheek:

“So good for me.” “You’re taking me so well.” “Fuck, I could live inside you.”

Then he pulls back and thrusts. Slow. Heavy. The sound of skin on skin fills the studio, slick and obscene.

You moan with every stroke—every delicious drag of him inside you, cock pressing against spots you didn’t know you had. He’s everywhere—his scent, his voice, the weight of his body above yours.

“Tattoo looks even better now,” he pants, eyes flicking to your chest. “You all marked up, legs spread, letting me ruin you.”

Your nails scrape down his back. “Felix—faster—please—”

And he gives it to you, especially with the way you begged so prettily for him. His thrusts picking up—more urgent, more erratic—and your whole body jerking with the force of it.

Your cunt is so wet, so swollen, he slides in easily now—no resistance, just need. The table creaks. The studio hums. And Felix is panting into your neck, fucking you like he’s waited his whole life to.

“Gonna fill you up,” he growls. “Wanna come inside this perfect little pussy. You want that?”

You’re barely coherent now. Just sobbing, nodding, whimpering, “Yes—yes, please—I want it, want you—”

He presses a hand over your belly—right where the bulge of him shows through. “You feel that?” he pants. “That’s how deep I am. That’s what you do to me.”

You break.

Your fourth orgasm crashes into you like a goddamn tidal wave. Your body shakes violently, voice tearing out of your throat in a sound you don’t recognize, walls spasming around his cock like you’re trying to milk him dry.

And Felix? Felix is fucking gutted.

“Jesus fucking—baby,” he groans, dropping his forehead to yours, hips still grinding. “You’re so good—so fucking good—taking me like this, holding me this deep—”

Your mouth is slack. You can’t form a single word. Just loud, wet gasps as he fucks you through your fourth orgasm, dragging it out, drawing it longer, leaving you trembling and cockdrunk and gone.

“You don’t even know how pretty you look.” he murmurs, voice thick with reverence, filth, love.

Your fingers twitch against his arms. You manage a breathy, fucked-out, “Yours…”

That wrecks him.

He groans, low and animal, and his pace gets messier, sloppier—your pussy sucking him in with every thrust like it’s begging for his cum.

“Please,” you whimper. “Please, Felix—want your cum so bad—wanna feel it dripping out of me after—”

“Fuck.”

That does it. With one final, deep thrust—buried to the hilt, cock pressed right against your cervix—Felix shatters. His whole body tenses. His mouth drops open in a gasp. And then he’s spilling inside you—hot, thick, endless—his cum painting your walls as he groans your name like a prayer.

“Fucking hell—take it, baby—take all of it—”

You feel everything.

His hips twitch with every pulse, his cock throbbing as he empties himself deep inside your already ruined cunt. The warmth, the weight, the way he groans as you clench through the aftershocks—it’s overwhelming.

It doesn’t stop.

Even after he’s cum, he’s still rocking into you slowly, fucking it deeper, slow grind to push every drop in. Your body’s twitching, overstimulated and sensitive, tears sliding down your cheeks as you choke on another gasp.

Felix notices. He kisses them away. “Shh, I know,” he breathes. “You were so perfect for me. So fuckin’ good, baby.”

He finally stops. Still inside you. Still hard. Your walls are fluttering around him like they miss it already. Felix holds your face in both hands, thumbs brushing your cheeks, gaze soft and filthy all at once.

“You okay?”

You nod, blinking slowly. “Yeah,” you croak.

“You need anything?”

You smile, wrecked. “Water. And maybe a new spine.”

He laughs—sweet and hoarse—and kisses your forehead. “Don’t move. I’ve got you.” You don't even realize you’re trembling until Felix tucks a hand behind your knee and lifts your leg carefully—still inside you, still breathing hard, but already shifting into his softer mode.

His real mode.

“Hey, hey,” he whispers, kissing the sweat off your temple. “You’re okay. We’re done now, sweetheart. You did so good.”

You blink up at him, dazed, lips parted. And he’s looking at you like you’re made of stardust.

A few more deep breaths. Then, finally, he slides out of you. And you whimper. Instinctual. Empty. Felix immediately hushes you, hands gentle as they ease your dress back down over your hips. “I know. I know, baby. You were so full. Felt so good, huh?”

He reaches for the warm compress he prepped before the session—because of course he did—and begins gently dabbing your thighs. He’s not trying to tease now. Not trying to rile you up.

Just taking care of you.

Even wipes between your legs with a soft, sterile cloth, murmuring praise while he works. “You were amazing. So brave. Took everything. Let me see all of you. I’ve never—”

He cuts himself off. Focuses on unwrapping a clean second skin.

You murmur, sleepy but curious, “Never what?”

Felix glances up, eyes fond. “Never wanted to ruin anyone like that. And still hold them like this after.”

You bite your lip. Your heart is mush.

Once your tattoo’s dressed again—bandaged just right—he lifts you into his arms with a little grunt and a kiss to your forehead. “C’mon. You’re not walking.”

“I can—”

“Nope.” He’s already carrying you to the break room, cradling you against his chest like a princess. “You just had four orgasms and a full session. I’m your chair now.”

He sets you down gently on the couch, grabbing his own oversized NO SAINT INK hoodie and sliding it over your head like muscle memory.

It swallows you whole.

You beam at him. “It smells like you.”

He snorts. “Yeah. It’s mine.”

Then he disappears for all of two minutes.

Returns with a glass of cold water, a wrapped protein bar (definitely Jisung's, but he won't notice) and a microwaved rice bowl from the staff fridge.

“Five-star dining,” he says, setting it on the coffee table. “Don’t say I never spoil you.”

You laugh, curled up in his hoodie, eyes gleaming. “This is better than any reservation.”

He slides in next to you and pulls you into his lap, tucking your legs over his, spoon-feeding you the rice because, in his words, “Your hands are for cuddling now, not labour.”

He lifts another spoonful of warm rice to your mouth with exaggerated focus, like this is a gourmet tasting menu and not a semi-stolen leftover from the NO SAINT INK fridge. You open obediently—chewing with a thoughtful hum, cheeks puffed out, still pink from earlier and now somehow glowing even brighter from being doted on.

Felix grins. “You like it?”

“It’s definitely not mine,” you say around a mouthful. “But it’s warm and salty and I feel like I’m being bottle-fed, so yes. Five stars.”

“Perfect,” he replies, proud, like he made it himself.

You point at him with the half-peeled protein bar. “We’re still going to dinner later, right?”

He cocks a brow. “Babe. You came four times. You can’t walk.”

You glare. “I’ll crawl to the restaurant.”

Felix breaks—choking out a laugh, hand braced on your thigh. “You’ll crawl??”

“I earned tempura.”

“You just devoured this rice and Jisung's protein bar like a menace.”

You look down, horrified. “Wait… that was his bar?”

He snickers. “Yup.”

“Oh my god, he’s going to notice.”

“No he won’t,” Felix shrugs. “He has like five stashed behind the paper towels. I’ll replace it and gaslight him.”

You smile at him, gooey and gross. “You’d gaslight for me?”

He leans in, brushes his nose against yours. “Baby, I’d commit minor fraud for you.”

You sit in his lap like that for a while longer, warm and fed and wrapped up in his stupid hoodie that now smells like ink and sex and rice, your legs draped over his thighs and your heart absolutely wrecked with affection.

“Okay, but like…” you mumble, eyelids drooping. “Reservation?”

Felix kisses the top of your head. “Still have two hours.”

“Oh good.”

“You’ll need at least one of them to recover.”

“You’re so smug.”

He grins against your temple. “Only because I earned it.”

And you sigh into his neck, smiling. Yeah. You’re still getting your tempura. But first? You’re gonna melt into him for just a little longer.

It turns out things with Felix don’t just stay hot and messy—they get deeper. Softer. Somehow stupider too.

Because this man? He’s sunshine in human form. A disaster wrapped in dimples. A filthy, talented menace who will rail you in the studio at 3AM and buy you Hello Kitty band-aids for your healed nipple piercings because you’re “his cute little canvas.”

You never officially moved in—but your toothbrush lives at his place, and so do half your clothes, and so does your stupid pink mug that says I SURVIVED MY NIPPLE PIERCINGS in Comic Sans. (He custom-ordered it. With glitter print.)

Felix still tattoos you. He still calls you baby girl when you’re squirming under the needle, all flushed and squirmy and trying not to let it show how much you like it. And yeah. He still fucks you in the back of the studio sometimes.

(Okay, often.)

(Okay, every time someone forgets to lock up.)

You’re curled up on his couch now, post-round-three and wearing nothing but one of his band tees, scrolling through old selfies from the night he first took you out to that izakaya. Felix is half-asleep beside you, an arm slung across your belly, mouthing lazy kisses to your ribs like he needs to be touching you to breathe right.

And then—your phone buzzes.

MINHO [9:26PM]: glad you two are still together or whatever but also next time you rawdog in the studio maybe don’t SCREAM MY FUCKING NAME BY ACCIDENT

You blink.

Then snort—so loud it wakes Felix. “What?” he mumbles, blinking up at you with tousled hair and one sleepy dimple.

You show him the message. He stares. Then absolutely cackles. Rolls onto his back, wheezing, “I DID NOT—WHY WOULD I—”

You’re dying. “You did, Felix. When I came the second time. You said ‘Minho’s gonna kill me’ and then moaned his actual name.”

He groans, covering his face. “Noooooo. My life is over. I can never look him in the eye again.”

You curl into him, still laughing. “You’ll survive. Barely.”

“Should I buy him earplugs? A fruit basket? Flowers?”

“Just stop fucking me so loud next time.”

He peeks at you through his fingers. “That implies there’s a next time in the studio.”

You grin. “There’s always a next time.”

And Felix? He kisses your smile like a man grateful every single day that you walked into his booth and said: “So, um… I want you to pierce my ears.”

Because now? You’ve marked each other forever.

And you’re still not done.

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

[cherryoatchai]

BANG CHAN — dominATE Toronto (250629)

[cherryoatchai]

CHANSUNG @ SKZ-TALKER GO! — SAN FRANCISCO

[cherryoatchai]

There's a reason I don't normally act cute. If I do?? The whole country shakes.

[cherryoatchai]

handsome little jeonger...