jupitermarss

[jupitermarss]

EXCUSE ME MR. HWANG HYUNJIN!??

[jupitermarss]

unexpected company

shy alien!chan x human!reader warnings: blowjob, corruption kink kinda, aliens, monsterfuck(?), alternative anatomy, sub!chan listen this has no coherent lore or artistic purpose, it’s pure self indulgent filth aka shy alien channie gets a blowjob for the first time ever for the vibes think the avatar’s navi meets stitch meets bang chan. 

moving slightly off grid to finally escape the noise of the city and live out your little house in the woods dream seemed peaceful. uneventful even, because the most that would happen was a hare visiting once in a few moons. that was until a little almond shaped spacecraft crashlanded meters away from your cabin, turning life upside down because not only did it scare the daylights out of you, there was also a pilot inside the ship.

his skin was tinted blue, eye scleras fully black, which, surprisingly... only made him less intimidating, somehow. the visitor was humanoid, slightly lankier than your average male, with a smooth, almost animal-like grace, somewhat primal yet contrasting with his outstanding intelligence and skill in both language and engineering.

when you’d first locked eyes with each other, it wasn’t fear or dread that struck you. on some intuitive and body language reading level, just by one look at your newfound alien company, you figured he was probably even more distressed and frightened than you were. so your initial response was laced with confusion and compassion instead. maybe, a sparkle of curiosity and suspicion, too. 

you gave him water, tried to keep your own body language neutral and non-threatening, showing you were only trying to help and meant no harm. 

this is how it started. 

to answer the question of how it’s going, there’s definitely nuance. 

first of all, he’s now living with you because he needs time to patch up his spacecraft. with limited tech resources available here on earth, it’s taking longer than it could have. 

second of all, he started speaking. he introduced his name to you first, but it sounded like a combination of sounds your mind couldn’t even grasp to then repeat. it was long, tongue twisting and unclear, so you settled on a simpler alternative that phonetically resembled the original name — chan. 

chan picked up basic english in a matter of days and was clearly of some further evolved species than humans. 

he enjoyed pineapple juice and noodle soups, and refused to consume anything else that wasn’t those two options. 

he also had little antennae on the top of his head, that you soon figured were extremely sensitive and almost sacred of a body part, because when you reached to touch them once, he hissed for a warning and sneered as his body tensed up in a reflex response. 

channie wasn’t hostile at all, though. he respected you and your space, keeping his head down and not making much sound, only asking for things when he absolutely needed them. it seemed like where he came from — was an organized and neat, highly developed society that honored manners, respect, knowledge and… modesty? you weren’t sure if it was the right way to describe this certain feeling you were getting. maybe, channie was just… shy. which, if you were being honest with yourself, stirred something inside of you that only fueled the desire to get to know him better. closer. 

“screwdriver, where?” chan asks, popping his head into the living room where you’re now resting with a book in your hands. 

“ahh, not sure? maybe look in the garage, or the kitchen drawers?” you respond and briefly glance at the clock to then realize that he’s been up since 6 in the morning and still haven’t had a breather. 

“chan, aren’t you tired? maybe have a little break?” you add a second before he disappears again, and he stops, perking up his antennae and giving you an almost confused glance. 

“need repair ship. get home!” chan waves his hands as he speaks with a thick adorable accent. 

“i know. but you need rest, too. it’s okay to take a break for an hour.”

“and do what?” 

“rest.” you repeat gently, putting away a long forgotten book and patting the sofa, as if inviting him to sit and join you.

he hesitates but listens, probably out of politeness since you’re the host and he’s the guest, and it would be rude to just walk away from you. as he’s sitting on the sofa, it’s evident that he’s waiting for some sort of instruction or explanation from you, unsure what resting really means. 

“i can help you relax if you let me,” you propose carefully, leaning closer and putting your hand on his thigh, gently caressing him with soothing repetitive motions. 

chan blinks, naive and clueless, but he can admit the touch feels nice, so his body loosens up a little as he sinks further into the pillows. 

there’s a certain level of trust between you already, and you know he isn’t scared or concerned around you, which pushes you further to test out the waters. you slide your palm a little higher to his crotch, and he immediately turns his head to you. 

“why touch?” chan asks with sincere confusion. 

“because it feels good?” 

now it's your turn to be confused. has he never had sex before? is sex even a thing where he’s from? 

“feel good? dunno, chan never touch there,” he replies, shrugging his shoulders and then looking down at his own groin. 

oh.

you swallow and try to keep your cool, even though a strange and probably inappropriate wave of excitement jolts through your body at the news. 

“i can show you. it can feel very good and relaxing. you don’t have to worry, it’s not… painful or anything. it’s nice. can i show you?” you explain and try to sound as reassuring as you can, reading his facial expressions at the same time. 

while you’re studying him so closely, you can’t help but notice how ungodly, unearthly pretty he actually is. his grown out black locks and his sharp eyebrows give him an almost disheveled look yet he still looks so put together, so deeply intelligent. your gaze trails lower and stops at his lips. they’re a darker tint of blue, plush and perfectly shaped. you can tell they’re soft and tender just by looking at them. 

his nailbeds are the same dark blue as his lips, and it gives an impression of matching lipstick and nail polish, kind of rebellious and cute, except it’s just his natural body colors. refreshing.

he’s well built, too. like he can easily climb a tree if he needs to. like he will confidently pilot a heavy aircraft with stiff gears and controls. 

“you can show,” his voice takes you out of your haze, and you refocus on his eyes and scoot a little closer, so that now your noses are almost touching. 

“you can trust me. i won’t hurt you,” you reassure him one last time before planting a gentle kiss on his lips. you hear his breath hitch. gosh.

your movements are slow, patient and soft. the last thing you’d want is to scare him. 

as you undo his pants (the ones he was originally wearing. you washed them after the crash. the fabric is weird and the clasp is some smart unusual shape you’d never seen before), he shifts in place and jerks his hips nervously. this is the first time you see him blush, and it’s an even prettier look than his regular state because the tips of his pointy ears and his cheeks change to a deep violet color. 

chan’s hot to the touch too, and if you didn’t know it’s his natural body temperature, you’d think he's running a fever incompatible with life. his skin is literally burning up which, in contrast with its cold color, makes your brain shortcircuit and buffer every time you feel him.

he’s not wearing any underwear, just his strangely tailored pants, and when you cover his cock with your palm, you gasp out of surprise at what it feels like. 

it’s different. it’s definitely different. 

the shape is closer to a tentacle than a regular cylinder length. it’s twitchy and almost.. alive. flexible and extremely responsive to every brush of your hand.

under a little dark blue tip it’s slightly ribbed and bumpy, hardened but still feels like flesh. 

the antennae on his head begin to tremble, and chan’s breath quickens in a matter of seconds. you both glance at each other confused but with a distinct spark of interest. it’s new to both of you but something nudges you two to keep going. 

you slowly slide onto the floor and get on your knees in front of him, pushing his legs apart and situating yourself comfortably while his cock is out, on full display. sensitive and starting to leak some sort of thick and sticky slick from its slit. 

“a-aah—what-” chan stumbles over his own words, clearly too heated and disoriented to be speaking a language he’d only just learned. 

“sh-h, it’s okay. i’ll touch, and you’ll feel good” you whisper as you lightly squeeze the base of his length, trying to pump him up and down and coat him with his own precum. 

at this point, you’re done fighting your curiosity, so you lick at the head of his cock to taste it, and it takes you aback. it’s… not salty. in fact, it’s the opposite, and reminds you of something close to burnt sugar. kind of sweet, but rich, deep, heavy and with a pinch of something you can’t quite name. 

you take the entire tip into your mouth and suck on it, creating a little vacuum pull with your cheeks, to which chan jolts and almost coughs on his own suppressed moan. 

"do you want me to continue or do you want me to stop?" you ask to make sure.

"no—not stop... continue. please?" he shakes his head and furrows his eyebrows, still flushed with purple hued blush. 

he doesn’t need to ask twice. it’s all the confirmation you need, so you begin to suck again, bobbing your head and trying to take him in deeper each time. he fills your mouth nice and full, hot like gentle lava and textured like a dream come true.

you can only wonder how good and stimulating it must feel against your cunt, if it feels this good against the insides of your cheeks. 

chan’s cock twitches and pulsates for you, its tip pressing against the back of your throat and the roof of your mouth as if it’s also exploring you. as if chan wants to feel up your mouth, map it out with his sensitive part and push into you some more, mutually test how far he can go. 

at some point, you’re not even sure who’s fucking who. because as you grow more confident and properly sink down on him with your mouth, chan’s playing with you back, whether he's even aware he's doing it or not—you can't really tell. his heavy length presses on your tongue which makes more saliva drip down your chin. he rubs against the velvety insides of your cheeks and pushes at them with his curious tip.  one thrust he forces himself in too far, and you gag on it with a lewd sound that makes your own cunt clench.

the little bumps on his cock feel even more prominent now, almost massaging your lower lip with each push inside your mouth, with each slide down your tongue into your throat. somehow, even though you were the one starting it, you no longer feel much in control, now relaxing your jaw and mindlessly allowing chan to use and study you.

chan fully melts into the couch and lets himself get vocal, still tugs at the fabric of the sofa with his fingers as his antennae go limp and frizzy from new overwhelming sensations. 

a release catches both of you off guard as his cock shoots a fat warm load right down your throat. you barely manage to swallow it in time, and it feels similar to drinking hot honey milk in one gulp, only slightly thicker and silkier. 

his tentacle-y length falls onto his exposed stomach with an obscene wet slap, and chan tries to look down at you, his eyes unfocused and drunk-like. 

“did it feel good?” you whisper, hoarse and raspy, licking your lips and swallowing once again. 

“yes—feel good... good,” he replies with a nod, visibly spent and still out of it. 

the image makes you chuckle and smile proudly. 

“do again?” chan asks with a tint of hope. 

“what, right now?!” 

“no, no. no now. do again later?”

you snort and tilt your head to the side, eyeing him and, once again, thinking about how cute he is in his blissful unawareness and inexperience. 

“sure.” 

[jupitermarss]

250619 dominATE New York D2 

© chngbnluvbot

[jupitermarss]

BANG CHAN ♡ CHK CHK BOOM (JAPANESE VER.) THE FIRST TAKE

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wanna cuddle him so bad .ᐟ.ᐟ

[jupitermarss]

BANG CHAN ♡ HOLLOW SPECIAL RELEASE PROGRAM

[jupitermarss]

🐺

[jupitermarss]

you asked for it 😭😂

I would let him ruin me in every way he wants and that's not even the delusions speaking. it's too early for delusions to kick in

listen you’re being pretty tame i must say!!

i 100% agree but i need specifics. let’s go wild. positions, places, the dirty words.

we’re loving his white shirt and rolled up sleeves, aren’t we? for daddy reasons. he’s very daddy rn

i’m also thinking some spanking and lots of teasing and fingering so you cry and whine and beg for a good dick sesh

[jupitermarss]

your tags beneath chans fan chant guide set. don't say that. you're awakening things that I'm trying to bury deep down 😔

no friend LETS AWAKEN THEM

i’m inviting you to. let’s thirst together. spill your thoughts please i’ll hold them 🤲🏻

[jupitermarss]

us: crying in the club meanwhile chan: vibing ▬ hollow fanchant guide

[jupitermarss]

F I R S T R U I N

Vampire!Lee Minho x Reader | thigh-biting blood high, dumb on his cock, ruined slow then cleaned softer

🔞synopsis: A nurse with a sharp tongue. A vampire with silk gloves and fangs made for worship. One locked door. Three bites. Too much cum. Not enough mercy. You didn’t mean to fall for him—didn’t mean to offer your vein, your body, your fucking soul. But Lee Minho is cold-handed precision and velvet-tongued sin, and when he says “mine,” your knees forget how to say no. Welcome to your first ruin. There is no second. Only his name, carved into your pulse.

💌a/n: I HAVE PLANS FOR VAMPIRE!SKZ OKAY. This is just the beginning. My goal is to write one solo smut fic for each of the boys first. and then I’ll start alternating between full OT8 blood-fueled chaos and more solo entries. Also yes—this one was long as hell, but you already KNOW me. I can’t drop you into the filth without a little plot first. I want you to ache for the sex. I want the bite to land. You get character. You get dynamic. And then? THEN YOU GET RUINED. This is Lee Know’s world and we’re all just kneeling in it 🥀. p.s. if this had you lightheaded, wet, and twitching—reblog it. don’t just lurk. reblogs = forehead kiss by minho 💋 p.p.s. this fic is brought to you by one brain cell and a gallon of unholy thirst p.p.p.s. honestly? i think we all need to go lie down in a cool, dark cave. bring fruit. and holy water p.p.p.p.s. click to listen to the song or don't... or pls do~ 👀

⚠️ warnings: 18+ / MINORS DO NOT INTERACT | Bloodplay, vampirism, biting/feeding during sex | Overstimulation | Oral (f receiving), unprotected sex | Possessive dom!Minho | Breeding kink language, cocky filthy talk, praise & degradation | Orgasm control, light choking (hand on neck) | Marking, light blood loss, lightheaded reader | Lap aftercare, worship-adjacent behaviour | Minho being pussy drunk & dangerous about it | Blood-drunk reader | Dark romantic obsession themes | Fang kink | Ruined sheets, ruined reader, ruined life (you’re his now) | Soft dom aftercare

📌 Please read responsibly. Hydrate. Bleed pretty. Stretch.

🎧 » Lace and Chains — VX « 0:58 ─〇───── 2:52 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

You didn’t come to Luxe Health to be anyone’s pet.

You were hired on skill—clinical excellence, trauma specialization, and a disposition cool enough to treat feral-blooded vampires without flinching. You were sharp, steady, and frighteningly efficient. The kind of nurse who could stitch flesh while quoting surgical texts and still have enough clarity left to write up a six-page incident report with zero typos.

You didn’t smile often. You didn’t gossip. You didn’t freeze, even when a patient went bloodlusted and tried to lunge through a restraint field. You just tapped the tranquilizer dose higher. Watched his eyes roll back. Logged the vitals. Moved on.

You were quiet. Obsessively neat. And Minho noticed you immediately.

It started on your second month—night shift.

You were managing a containment patient who’d snapped his bond under duress. His mate had died on the operating table. Rage-state induced. Full-fanged. Venom glands wide open.

Most staff cleared the corridor when he arrived. But you stayed behind the seal line, prepping medical-grade hemo-gauze and a bite inhibitor in case he came loose.

And that’s when he appeared. Minho.

At the time, you didn’t know who he was. Just that he wore black gloves. Didn’t blink. Didn’t announce himself. Just stood there—still and elegant, watching you through the glass.

Your pulse stayed steady.

He tilted his head when he noticed that. He smiled—just once, barely. And then he disappeared.

You figured it was a fluke.

Maybe he just happened to be in the corridor that night. Maybe he had business with the rage-state unit. Maybe you were just a warm body in a cold room, nothing more than background static.

You told yourself that four times. Even as the elevators kept stopping on your floor. Even when you spotted him standing in radiology at 3:06AM, leaning against the wall like he belonged there, watching you roll a supply cart into ICU-3 without blinking.

You ignored it. Like a professional. Like someone who had bills.

Because in your mind, vampires—especially ones in silk and sin—were strictly not part of your survival plan.

You didn’t care that his cheekbones could slice air. You didn’t care that his voice could unmake a fever. You didn’t care that he moved like the concept of threat, dressed like elegance incarnate, and tracked you with the hungry precision of someone who never once heard the word no and believed it.

You had a job. You had shift notes. You had a patient who vomited blood down your front not ten minutes ago. You did not have time for whatever this vampire thought he was doing.

What you didn't know...was that the entire empire noticed.

“Did you see Minho?”

“Which time?”

“The way he was hovering outside Ward D.”

“Bro was waiting like a cat outside a bathroom door.”

Jisung, resident panic-button genius and accidental vampire, nearly chokes on his imported coconut milk as he reenacts the stare. “He does this thing with his head, y’know? The Tilt. The ‘I want to dissect you like an emotion’ tilt.”

Across the table, Felix just sips his tea with a knowing look. “He’s doing it again today,” he says softly.

“How do you know?”

“Because I dreamed it. And the dream smelled like disinfectant and longing.”

“Gross,” Jisung mutters, still slurping.

“Sexy,” Hyunjin corrects with a flick of his brush, painting onto the corner of a trauma-suppression mural.

“Illegal,” Seungmin deadpans from a nearby bench, flipping through a blood-law violation report without looking up.

“Classic Minho,” Changbin grunts with a shrug.

“He’s gonna snap eventually,” Jeongin adds with a laugh. “Just walk in mid-shift and bite her in front of everyone.”

“He won’t,” Seungmin says without emotion. “He’s too controlled for that.”

“He wants to,” Felix hums.

“Yeah,” Jisung agrees. “Like… you know that cartoon wolf whose heart punches out his chest?”

“That’s Minho.”

Meanwhile: You, at Scrub Station 3B, completely unaware of whatever chaos is happening around you. But, you also aren't stupid.

You’d noticed the strange tension in the staff lounge lately.

The glances. The weird silences. The way people stopped talking when you walked in and then started whispering louder the moment you left. The way the vending machine suddenly stopped accepting your ID code, only to be mysteriously fixed every time someone from Security walked by.

You assumed it was vampire politics. Some weird internal chain-of-command shit. Nothing to do with you.

You weren’t stupid. You’d heard the whispers.

“That’s Minho’s nurse.” “The one he keeps watching?” “The one who doesn’t react?” “He likes that.” “Of course he does. She’s got no fear in her scent signature.”

Which, frankly, was bullshit. You did have fear. You just filed it. Indexed it. Labelled it under to be dealt with later, and moved on.

And that was the difference.

Most humans trembled around vampires. Especially Abnormals. Especially ones like Minho, who came from a bloodline so ancient it dripped with ritual and violence.

But you?

You wore triple-layer gloves. Carried three pens. Could recite every anti-glamour clause in the hospital contract by section. You called in extra restrainers before anyone else did. You wore your surgical mask even when no one was around.

You didn’t resist vampires. You ignored them.

And Minho found that… unforgivable.

4AM, ICU Corridor, Luxe Health

"Nurse."

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t even turn around. Still holding the IV bag one-handed, you pressed the auto-temp check with your elbow and answered flatly: “If you’re here to loiter, you need a visitor badge.”

Behind you, a soft inhale. Expensive. The kind of breath you learn to identify after three months of pretending you don’t have an ancient Abnormal vampire tailing your every night shift like a very pretty, very persistent ghost.

“I’m here to supervise containment compliance.”

“Of course you are,” you muttered, adjusting the hemo tubing. “Just like last Thursday. And the one before that. And the day you appeared in the stairwell holding a blood sample you weren’t authorized to have.”

He didn’t respond. Just stepped closer—barely an inch into your personal space—and leaned in until you could feel the glamour heat tickling the back of your neck.

“You smelled like regret that day,” Minho said conversationally.

“That’s funny,” you replied. “I smelled like bleach and burnt coffee.”

“Same thing, in my experience.”

You turned.

Finally.

His face was unfair. Always had been. The kind of bone structure that made people suspicious of mirrors. Jaw locked in its usual lazy precision. And that infuriating glint in his eye—like he was permanently two seconds away from saying something profoundly inappropriate in the most polite tone imaginable.

“You’re blocking the supply cabinet,” you said.

“You’re blocking my peace of mind,” he replied without missing a beat.

“Tragic. Move.”

Minho didn’t.

He reached past you instead, plucking a gauze packet off the shelf like this was his ICU, his routine, and you were just lucky to be breathing in his curated aesthetic.

“You know,” he added casually, “I’ve handled rogue bond-breakers with less edge than you.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It wasn’t one.”

You took the gauze from his hand. Your fingers touched—briefly—and you definitely didn’t imagine the jolt that followed.

He tilted his head. Studied you. Like you were a patient. A riddle. A puzzle with too many locked doors and no polite way to pick them. “What do you want, Lee?” you asked. “Genuinely. Because if it’s blood, I’m sure the cafeteria’s serving warmed AB right now with a side of desperate interns.”

“I don’t feed at work,” he said. Then, after a pause: “Usually.”

You blinked once. “You think you’re charming.”

“I know I’m charming. You’re just unnaturally resistant.”

“You know what’s charming? Finishing your compliance report. On time. Without watching me file inventory like it’s a strip show.”

That earned you a soft laugh. Low and dangerous. The kind of sound that curled in your stomach like heat and refused to leave.

“One day,” he murmured, leaning back with all the smug grace of a man who’d never once been told no in a meaningful tone, “you’re going to ask me to bite you.”

You looked at him—deadpan.

“One day, I’m going to replace your blood suppressant with saline and see how smug you are mid-withdrawal.”

He blinked. Paused. And then—grinned.

“Marry me.”

“File your fucking report.”

6AM, CEO Office, Luxe Health HQ

“You’re not listening to me.”

Chan didn’t even look up from his tablet. “Correct.”

Minho narrowed his eyes. Pacing now. Elegant. Dangerous. Agitated.

“She threatened to saline-patch my suppressant dose.”

“That’s... honestly kind of funny.”

“That’s medical warfare.”

Chan blinked. “She’s a nurse, Minho. That’s literally her job.”

“It was flirtation.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m not sure of anything anymore.”

That got Chan’s attention. He sighed. Set the tablet down. Folded his hands. Fixed Minho with that stare. The one that made most bloodlines fall to their knees and apologize.

“Minho.”

“What.”

“You’ve led covert missions into rogue blood auction rings.”

“Correct.”

“You interrogated a traitor using a smile and three syllables.”

“She cried blood. It was poetic.”

“And yet you are losing your mind because a trauma nurse won’t flirt back?”

“She does flirt back!”

“Minho.”

“She does it with medical threats and latex gloves. It’s delicious.”

Chan pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Have you fed from her?”

“No.”

“Touched her?”

“Only by accident. Once. I handed her gauze. Our fingers brushed. I almost blacked out.”

“Okay, you need therapy.”

“I need her,” Minho said with a straight face.

Chan's eye twitched as he stared at Minho's deadpan straight face. You are a grown immortal man. You are on payroll. You cannot keep stalking the human nurse who organizes IVs like she’s angry at gravity, he thought while staring at the other vampire.

“She’s not like anyone else,” Minho muttered, now half-draped over Chan’s glass desk like an ancient drama queen. “She never flinches. Never looks impressed. I called her beautiful and she said I needed better lighting.”

“You do.”

“I told her I dreamed about her last night.”

“Minho.”

“She said, and I quote: ‘Sounds like a skill issue.’”

Chan paused. He blinked slowly. Then—smirked. “Okay, I kind of love her.”

Minho just scowled. “She told me to file a report. A report! After I pulled three rogue fangs from a rage-state hybrid!”

“Were you supposed to file a report?”

“…Yes.”

Chan sipped his blood-coffee substitute. Calm. God-tier composed.

“You’re obsessed.”

“No.”

“You’re hovering.”

“Incorrect.”

“You’re one bad shift away from dragging her into a storage room and—”

“—glamouring her against the wall and biting her inner thigh until she screams my name?”

“…Wow.”

“That was hypothetical.”

“That was a cry for help.”

You were running out of places to put the damn flowers.

The first bouquet arrived in silence—no card, no warning—just there, waiting at your station between vitals reports and an empty coffee cup.

You threw them out.

The next bouquet came two nights later. Bigger. Lilies and peonies, dipped in glamour to keep them fresh past death. You gave those to a patient. He cried. Called you an angel. You told him to lower his morphine dose.

By week three, it was becoming a problem.

The entire nurse’s station looked like a cursed wedding prep site. Vases tucked between blood pressure monitors. Hydrangeas in the staff fridge. Roses blooming next to the printer. Even the vampire patients were impressed. One growled, “Marry him,” as you passed.

You tried ignoring it. You tried passive-aggressive post-it notes. You even tried filing a complaint to HR, which mysteriously got “lost” after reaching Seungmin’s desk. (You knew it was him. You saw the post-it note on his computer: "Let her suffer. It's romantic.")

Then came the coffee.

Minho learned your order. Not from you. You never told him. But somehow, every shift, it appeared. Hot. Correct. Exactly the temperature you liked, even on the days you changed it.

“Witchcraft,” you muttered once, taking a sip.

A deep voice behind you: “No. Attention to detail.” You almost threw the cup at him. He looked delighted.

There was even a turning point! I know, shocker. The reports? He started submitting them. On time. Flawless. With footnotes. Proper headers. Spell-checked. PDF format. You were horrified.

“You’re mocking me,” you said, scrolling through one of them in the breakroom. “I’m impressing you,” Minho corrected smoothly. “By finally doing your job?” “By doing it in Helvetica Neue and proper pagination.”

You hated how smug he looked. You hated how your stomach twisted when he lingered in the hallway a moment too long. You hated that you were starting to like the flowers.

You really hated the night he didn’t show up—because you noticed.

And then came the first date. You didn’t mean to say yes. It had been a long shift. You were tired. He looked less smug than usual, like he was waiting for something he didn’t want to admit he wanted. He didn’t flirt. He just said:

“Dinner. No blood. No pressure. Just me. You. One night where you don’t have to wipe down an exam table.”

And… for some godforsaken reason…

You said yes.

What followed next wasn't normal.

You expected seduction. Or feeding. Or some slow-burn game that ended with his mouth on your thigh and your name erased from memory.

Instead? He took you to a rooftop garden. No blood in sight. Let you pick the food. Let you eat first. Talked. Really talked. About life. About dreams. About you.

He didn’t touch you. He didn’t bite you. He held your hand.

That was it.

And from that date? More came after. Walks at night, warded alleys where no one interrupted. Quiet dinners in places that didn’t exist on Yelp. Enchanted rooms with ceilings full of stars. Reading medical journals together in eerie silence and arguing about footnote formatting like it was foreplay.

Still—not a single drop of blood. Not one kiss. Not even a single press of fangs to skin.

You asked him once, bluntly: “Do you want me? Or do you want to feed?”

He’d gone still. Then:

“Both. Eventually. But I’m not going to take either until you ask.”

You stared at him.

He just smiled. Leaned back in the booth. And said: “Besides. You’re more fun when you’re confused.”

Two Months Later

You. Still working. Still unbitten. Still unsure if you’re dating the vampire or the delusion of dating him.

The gifts have escalated. You’re no longer getting flowers—you’re getting enchanted orchids that bloom based on your circadian rhythm. The coffee? Comes in porcelain mugs from centuries-old European houses. You started Googling the logos. One of them sells for more than your monthly salary. There’s a cashmere-lined stethoscope case on your desk with your initials embroidered. You didn’t ask for it.

And Minho? Still hasn’t kissed you. Still hasn’t bitten you. Still calls you “mine” like it’s a joke—except it’s really, really not.

Tonight, you are once again on a date, at a rooftop garden. With Him. You have lost count. You have lost track.

You’re dressed in black. Simple. Clean. Your makeup’s a little heavier than usual. Just enough to look like you didn’t try but very clearly did.

He notices. Of course he does. He notices everything.

He brings nothing this time. No box. No coffee. No flowers.

Just a folder. Black. Embossed. Marked with the Luxe Health seal and one single word:

“CONTRACT.”

You raise a brow. “Romantic.”

“This is romantic,” he says, deadly calm. “I’m being respectful.”

“This is paperwork.”

“This is possession.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

He slides it toward you. You don’t touch it yet. He waits. He always waits. But tonight, his restraint is fraying.

“You know what this is.”

“A blood doll contract.”

“Your blood doll contract.”

“Wow. That’s forward.”

“It’s overdue.”

You hesitate, eyes scanning over the cover of the folder. “I thought we were… taking our time.”

“I gave you flowers. I gave you space. I gave you silence.”

“And?”

“And you’re still not mine.” He leans forward. Voice lowering. “You wear my gifts. You drink my coffee. You let me walk you home like you’re already mine.”

“But I’m not.”

“That’s the problem.”

You sigh and finally open the folder. The paper wasn’t paper. It shimmered—some enchanted blend of vellum and soul-signed parchment, threaded with runic script and Luxe Health clearance glyphs. It smelled faintly of rosewood, blood-sugar, and vampire venom—like it had been scented specifically to disarm you.

The first page read:

LUXE HEALTH EXCLUSIVE BLOOD BOND CONTRACT (Private Tier 7A) Client: Lee Minho, Executive Director of Containment & High-Risk Retrieval Proposed Bond: [REDACTED — WAITING FOR BLOOD SIGIL INPUT] Terms: Eternal unless dissolved by death, betrayal, or mutual trauma unbinding.

You flipped the page, reading over each clause carefully.

Clause 1 – Exclusivity: The bonded human shall agree to become the sole blood source and feeding recipient of Director Lee Minho. No other vampire may feed, bond, glamour, or scent-imprint the bonded party. Attempts will result in instant retaliation. Clause 3 – Feeding Access: Director Lee may initiate feeding only with verbal consent or spontaneous offering. Emergency feeds require biometric confirmation of bond stability. No bedside biting without prior scheduling unless medically justified. Clause 5 – Physical Proximity & Personal Belonging Rights: You will wear his hoodie at least once. No, this is not legally required, but emotionally, it’s essential. (Note: This clause is in Jisung’s handwriting. You recognize the chaos.) Clause 6 – Bed Sharing Addendum: Should the bonded choose to cohabitate, Minho will relinquish 60% of bed space. He will not snore. He reserves the right to spoon. Denial of spooning must be justified in writing. (Also Jisung.) Clause 7 – Feeding Response Clause: Feeding may commence only upon verbal consent or spontaneous offering. Ritual biting optional. Orgasm not required—but statistically probable. (Jisung has circled “statistically probable” in gold ink and drawn a smiley face.)

You stared at the pages for a long time. Then up at him. He looked almost calm. But you knew better.

His fingers were clenched too tightly around the stem of his wine glass. His pupils were too wide, even for vampire night vision. His throat bobbed once, and you swore—for the first time since you met him—Minho looked nervous.

“Did you… write this yourself?” you asked carefully.

“I dictated it,” he said. “Jisung formatted it.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“He added the spooning clause. I told him it was unnecessary.”

“…It’s not.”

“You say that now,” he muttered, “but just wait.”

You were quiet for a while. Reading. Rereading. Trying to breathe evenly, even though your pulse was definitely spiking—because this wasn’t a tease. This wasn’t a joke. This wasn’t a seductive detour.

This was real.

“And if I don’t sign it?” you asked quietly.

Minho met your gaze—serious. Grounded. “Then I’ll keep dating you.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes.”

“You won’t feed?”

“Not unless you ask.”

“You won’t claim me?”

“Not unless you beg.”

You swallowed. “So you’re going to… wait?”

“I’m going to hope,” he said softly. “That’s worse.”

You looked down at your hands. They were shaking.

You hadn’t been kissed. You hadn’t been bitten. You hadn’t been touched below the waist. And still—you had never felt more utterly, completely owned in your entire fucking life.

Not by force. Not by glamour. Just… by choice. By his. And now—by yours.

“If I sign this,” you said, voice low. “It changes everything.”

Minho’s eyes glinted. “No,” he said. “It confirms everything.”

You look back down at the contract, narrowing your eyes. Finally, you grab the pen tucked inside the folder—heavy, gold-tipped, and faintly warm from being enchanted—and bring it to the line marked BLOOD SIGIL SIGNATURE.

“Do I have to…?”

“Just a pinprick,” he says. “No pain.”

You prick the pad of your thumb with the pen’s hidden fang. It beads. Red. Bright. Glimmering like garnet under the moonlight. The paper absorbs it greedily, drinking your drop like it’s starving.

Your name blooms in glowing script across the page—signed in blood. Bound by will.

Minho exhales. Like he hasn’t breathed in weeks.

“It’s done,” you whisper.

He closes the folder gently, reverently, fingers grazing yours and you sit there for a moment, staring at the sealed folder between you like it might start glowing again. Your thumb still tingles. Your chest does too.

Minho doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. He’s just… looking at you. Like he’s memorizing every line of your face now that you’re his. Like he’s been holding back for months—and now the lock finally clicked open.

You open your mouth—maybe to speak, maybe to tease—but then: “Your entrees,” the waiter announces, stepping into the charged silence like he doesn’t feel the psychic possession radiating from your table.

He sets down two crystal plates with some absurdly tiny, artfully stacked thing in the center. There’s foam. There’s edible gold leaf. There’s a single black truffle shaving doing absolutely nothing.

You blink down at the plate. Then at him.

“Is that... caviar on a flower petal?”

“Imported,” Minho says, without looking. “It only blooms under moonlight and silence.”

You raise an eyebrow. “So it’s just like you then.”

That gets him. He finally smiles, a real smile. "May or may not have had it imported for you, talked to the restaurant, the chef."

Your eye twitches.

"Minho!"

"What?"

You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose, but, a laugh escapes you. "Okay, fine. I'll try it. If it's bad, I am blaming you."

"I'll take the blame, but it won't disappoint." Minho grinned confident.

And honestly? As tiny as it was, with it's edible gold leaf, and stupid foam. That shit was actually tasty. Did you admit it? No. Did you two bicker about food for the next 20 minutes? Definitely.

But, it wouldn't be a date between you two without a little bit of bickering.

Luxe Health, 11PM

You’re exhausted.

The kind of exhausted that sits between your shoulder blades and tightens behind your eyes. Three emergency transfusions. One patient in soulbond withdrawal. A shattered glass IV, a glamour malfunction, and a trauma intern who spilled blood on his own shoes and nearly passed out.

You’ve been on your feet for fourteen hours, your bun is slipping, and your gloves have already gone through three layers.

The elevator doors open. You expect an empty hallway.

Instead: Minho.

Leaning against the far wall, dressed in black like he’s auditioning for a secret society that meets only under eclipses. No coat. Just silk and shadow and the same look he’s been giving you since the night you signed the contract.

Possession. Soft. Absolute. Undeniable.

He holds a takeout bag in one hand. A coffee in the other. “You’re late,” he says.

“I almost murdered an intern.”

“Ah. Romantic.”

You walk past him, snag the coffee from his hand.

“Is this from that little place near the river?”

“Only the best for my favorite nurse.”

“You say that like you have others.”

“I don’t. You signed the contract. You’re the only one I’m allowed to ruin.”

You roll your eyes.

“What’s in the bag?”

“Your favorite—cold soba, pickled radish, and that weird dessert you pretend not to like.”

“Mochi?”

“You love mochi.”

“I never said that.”

“You never have to.”

He leads to his car, where he is driving you both to his place. The ride is quiet, comfortable, familiar in a way that makes your chest ache. You’ve been to his place before—so many times now it smells like you. Your shampoo in the bathroom. Your hoodie on the back of the couch.

But tonight feels different. There’s something thicker in the air. Not tension. Not fear.

Readiness.

He opens the door, lets you step in first. Always. And then follows right after you and off to the kitchen, plating the food like some domestic vampire fantasy. You toe off your shoes, drop your bag by the armchair and follow into the kitchen. Standing there and watching him.

“You don’t have to feed me,” you murmur.

“I want to.”

“You don’t have to wait either.”

“I still want to.”

You stare at him and he is watching you again. Not hungrily. Not like prey. Like a man who built his entire patience around you. Like someone who chooses to wait—because when he finally takes, he wants you begging.

The two of you eat together. Relax. Laugh. Talk about how your shift went and he listens like your every word is sacred. He brushes your wrist when he hands you a drink and your skin sparks. He smiles when you groan over the mochi, satisfied, and tells you you’re cute with your mouth full.

You almost choke.

And with dinner gone, now completely full and satisfied, you don't get up. You stay curled in his lap on the couch, head against his chest, his arms loose but locked around you.

His fingers skim slow patterns along your spine. One hand settles low on your hip—possessive. Barely moving. Right over the place he’ll someday bite.

“Minho.”

“Mmm?”

“You still haven’t fed.”

“I know.”

“It’s been days.”

“It’s been perfect.”

You pull back, just enough to look at him. “Are you… trying to drive me insane?”

“No,” he whispers. “I’m trying to make sure when I finally touch you like that—you don’t want me to stop.”

Your breath hitches. Minho always has a way with words and yet every time, he manages to catch you off-guard. Every. Single. Time. Without missing a beat.

He studies you for a long moment. His eyes glow a shade darker than before. His glamour hums under his skin. Not fully active—but close. Feral held in silk. You reach for him. Not to kiss. Not to provoke. Just… to touch.

You cup his face. Slide your thumb across his bottom lip. Whisper: “I’m ready.”

He closes his eyes. Breathes in. The muscles in his jaw shift.

“No,” he says, voice low. Wrecked. “Not yet.”

“Why?”

“Because when I do it—I’m going to take my time. And I want you rested. Fed. Touched. I want your thighs shaking before I even put my mouth on you.”

You go still.

He leans in, presses his lips to your temple. Light. Reverent. “Go shower,” he murmurs. “I’ll make tea.”

“You’re evil.”

“I’m in love.”

You towel off in the bathroom. Steam still curls along the mirror edges. Your skin is flushed, glowing. Damp hair clings to the slope of your neck, and water trails down your thighs like the final straw in a slow-burning war.

You think about asking him where he put your change of clothes.

You step out barefoot, towel wrapped around you—and he’s in the kitchen, back turned, pouring tea like this is just another night.

But then—

He sees you.

And he stops moving. Like the air went static. Like the glamour around him cracked.

You don’t say anything. Just… exist. Wet hair. Bare skin. Towel slipping slightly.

He’s across the room in seconds.

Minho doesn’t speak. Doesn’t blink. Just stands there, every line of his body taut—controlled, but barely. That glimmer in his eyes isn’t patience anymore.

It’s possession.

His voice drops low. “You’re testing me.”

You raise an eyebrow. “I showered. You said tea.”

“I lied.”

“Oh?”

“I’ve wanted to kiss you since the minute you got off your shift.”

You smile. Tilt your head. Let the towel slip a fraction lower. “So kiss me.”

And oh baby, those words? That simple, so kiss me? It unravels him. His hands move to your waist, gripping and pulling you in. Hard. Not reckless, but firm—like he needs you right now or he might detonate.

The next thing is his lips. They crash into yours—hot, deep, starving.

Just teeth and tongue and a low growl vibrating in his chest as your hands fist in his shirt and you press against him like you’ve been waiting for this exact fire.

“Fuck,” he breathes into your mouth.

“That bad?”

“That perfect.”

His hands slide down your back, over the curve of your ass, fingers digging in like he’s memorizing the shape. The towel loosens—he catches it with one hand, pulling it tighter, just to keep you on edge.

You gasp against his mouth as he presses you back against the hallway wall, hips pinning you.

You can feel him. Hard. Huge. Throbbing. And still—he doesn’t rush. His lips trail down your jaw. Your neck. The skin over your collarbone.

“I want to taste you,” he whispers, teeth brushing the place he’ll bite eventually.

“You can.”

“Not like that. Not yet.”

“Then what do you want?”

“Everything else.”

He kisses your shoulder. Then the hollow of your throat. Towel snatched off of you, leaving you bare for his eyes only. His mouth is everywhere—hungry, reverent, wet. You gasp when he bites—not the bite, but a sharp nibble on the inside of your thigh when he drops to his knees.

“Minho—”

“You don’t know how good you smell,” he growls.

“Then bite me.” you almost start begging for it, pleading for him to bite you.

“Not yet.”

He kisses your hip.

Looks up.

Eyes blown. Lips parted, fangs peeking. A line of your arousal slides down your leg and he watches it like it’s blood.

Then smirks. “But I’m going to eat you now.”

The hallway light glows gold behind his silhouette, but all you can see is the dark fire in his eyes as he stares at your cunt like it’s something holy. No—worse. Like it’s his.

One sharp inhale through his nose and dives in, mouth to your wet cunt instantly, placing an open-mouthed kiss. “Fuck,” he moans, tongue flattening against your folds.

Your knees buckle—you gasp, grabbing his hair, and he just groans like that turned him on more.

“Minho—”

“Hold still.”

He slides one hand up to brace your thigh over his shoulder—you’re open, exposed, wet—and he fucking devours you. Not polite. Not careful. Messy, slow, deep.

Purposeful.

His tongue runs flat and slow from your entrance to your clit—then circles, then sucks, then presses in again like he’s mapping your body in real time.

You’re gasping. Arching. Shaking.

He doesn’t stop.

Minho's fully gone. Pussy-drunk. You can feel it. From the way he is licking you. Like your taste is his fucking drug and he’s addicted with no rehab in sight. “You taste like a fucking spell,” he pants, tongue lapping, lips slick.

“You're drooling,” you gasp.

“You’re dripping.”

He licks it all up like you’re wasting it. Your fingers dig into his hair. Your head hits the wall. You're moaning—half-begging, half-cursing—and he’s obsessed with it. Obsessed with you.

He moans into your pussy. Louder. Vibrating.

“Say my name.”

“Minho—”

“Again.”

“Minho, fuck, I—”

“That’s it.”

His tongue flicks your clit mercilessly now, fast, deliberate, perfectly timed with how he rocks you against his face.

But then, fuck. You feel it. The slow, slick push of one finger—just one—but so thick, so deep, curling like it’s written in his fucking nature. A single knuckle, testing. Then further. Then all the way in.

“Oh my god—”

“You can take it,” he rasps against your cunt. “You were made to take it.”

He fucks you with his finger, slow at first—press, curl, retreat. All while his tongue keeps flicking your clit in brutal, precise circles.

Obscene. Filthy. Perfect.

You’re moaning—loudly now. You don’t care if the neighbours hear. You don’t care about anything except the stretch of his finger, the swirl of his tongue, the rhythmic suck that sends you lurching into the wall.

“Fucking—Minho—”

“Look at me.”

You look. You shouldn’t have looked.

His eyes are blown wide. Hair a mess. Mouth glistening. His lips shine with your slick. He’s looking up at you like you’re holy—like he’ll ruin you just to worship you better.

He then pushes another finger in. Stretching you wider. He groans when your walls clench down. “So tight,” he breathes. “You gonna cum for me like this?”

“I—fuck—I can’t—”

“You will.”

He speeds up—fingers curling inside you, tongue relentless on your clit.

Your knees are gone. Your moans are wrecked. Your hands are gripping his hair so hard he growls—and then moans again like he likes it.

You're drenched. You’re drooling. You're going to cum.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he whispers, voice soaked in sin. “Cum for me. Let me taste it all.”

And you do. You fall apart. Walls pulsing. Toes curling. Breath shattered. He stays on you the whole time—lapping up every drop of your juices like they're his final fucking meal. He rides you through the orgasm, through the high with soft licks and soft thrusts of his fingers before slowly easing them out of your wet cunt.

Minho pulls back and stands, hands moving to the back of your thighs and picking you up almost instantly. Lips on your own, kissing you hungrily with his soaked mouth, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

“You’re mine now,” he says against your lips, soft and wrecked and dark.

“Already were.”

Minho doesn’t speak after that. He just breathes—heavy, dark, hungry. His eyes never leave yours as he carries you to the bedroom, steps slow, like he’s walking you to your fate.

And maybe he is.

He sets you down like you’re made of silk and sin, but the look on his face? Anything but soft. His jaw clenches. His eyes burn. He takes a moment to take you in. Devours you without touching. Like he’s trying to memorize every inch before he ruins it.

Then—finally—he moves.

He pulls off his shirt. Slow. Controlled. You see every shift of muscle, every flex of restraint. Then his pants. Then he’s standing in just his briefs.

And he’s hard. So fucking hard it hurts to look at. His cock strains against the fabric, thick, leaking, twitching.

He's onto you in less than a second.

Crawling over you on the bed, pressing kisses along your thighs. One, then two, then higher—then your inner thigh—and his breath shakes.

“Let me,” he whispers.

And you nod. Because fuck, you’d let him do anything.

He traces his fangs across your inner thigh. And you feel it. See it. That tiny shift in him—like a predator finally letting instinct take the reins.

“You’re sure?”

“Minho, bite me.”

His hand grips your thigh. He moans—moans—from the sound of that. And finally, sinks his fangs in. Teeth in flesh.

It’s sharp, yes—but it’s also ecstasy. Blood spills, warm and hot, down your thigh as he drinks, sucking, groaning, grinding against the bed like your taste alone is enough to make him come.

“Fuck—fuck—you taste—” he can’t even finish the sentence. He’s lost.

He’s pussy-drunk and blood-drunk now. Gone feral. Gone beautiful.

Your back arches. Your moans blend with his groans. It’s messy. Bloody. His mouth is stained, his chin dripping, and he looks so fucking good like this. Eyes glowing. Lips parted. Still licking, still lapping—like you’re a feast he never wants to end.

He pulls back slowly, tongue dragging over the wound.

“Mine,” he says again. Lower now. Possessive. Reverent.

“Yours,” you pant. “I’m yours.”

Minho crawls back up and crashes his lips on your own. Kissing you deeply. Lustfully.

Blood on both your lips. Lust in both your mouths. His hips grind into yours—still clothed, still desperate.

Your body is still trembling from the bite—thighs slick, nerves sparking, lips swollen from the way he kissed you after drinking your blood like wine. But he hasn’t fucked you yet. Hasn’t even taken off his briefs. And yet—he already owns you.

He’s above you, braced on his hands. Eyes dark. Lust layered over hunger, layered over obsession.

You reach for him. He catches your wrist. Kisses your pulse. Smirks when your breath stutters.

“You don’t even know how long I’ve waited to ruin you.”

And then those last threads of restraint snap.

His briefs come off, cock springing free—thick, hard, leaking, the head flushed dark and furious. You moan at the sight of it. He just raises a brow.

“Use your words.”

You swallow, lips parting. “Please.”

His hand moves to your jaw, tilting your face up, fingers firm. His thumb presses against your lower lip, slipping inside when you gasp.

“Open wider.”

You do. He slides his thumb deeper.

“That’s it. My perfect little kitten. So obedient now.”

But you roll your eyes. Wrong move. His smirk turns sharp. “There she is.” And then you’re flipped. Face down. Ass up. A hand on the back of your neck, one gripping your hips like handles.

His palm cracks across your ass—once. Twice. Again. The sting is addicting. The growl in his throat even more so. “You roll those eyes again and I’ll fuck you with my fingers until you cry and beg like a good girl.”

You whimper. You’re soaked.

His fingers find your soaked cunt, and he groans again, louder this time. Soaked. Dripping before retreating his fingers and replacing with his cock, sliding it along your slit—just once. Just enough to make you cry out. And then?

He stops.

“Beg.”

You arch. You squirm. You groan. “Please—fuck, please, Minho, I need it, I want it—”

“Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours.”

“Say it like you mean it.”

“I’m fucking yours.”

And then he thrusts in—deep. Hard. Endless. You moan loudly. Your back arches. His hand wraps around your throat from behind, pulling you up against his chest, his fangs grazing your neck—not biting, not yet, just letting you feel the threat.

“You feel that baby?” he snarls into your ear. “That’s mine now. Your pussy. Your blood. Your fucking soul.”

He slams in again.

Your moans are wrecked. Your body’s trembling.

"You're not gonna cum baby. No no, you're going to cry for it, beg for it, am I clear?"

You only manage to whimper, a quick nod.

Minho grins, a soft chuckle escaping him. "That's right." His hips roll once—just once—and your eyes flutter shut. Too deep. Too good. Too perfect. “Look at you,” he growls, dragging his cock out slowly, making you feel every inch. “Fucking melting already and I’ve barely started.”

You whimper. His hand tightens on your throat, firm. “Stay right there, pretty thing,” he murmurs into your hair. “Back arched. Thighs wide. Let me ruin what’s already mine.”

And then he slams in—again. And again. And again. Rhythm unrelenting, brutal, delicious.

Your mouth falls open but no sound comes out. Just wrecked gasps, breathless sobs of pleasure as he fucks into you like his life depends on it. Like your cunt was carved out just for his cock. Because it is. It was. It always will be.

“So warm,” he groans. “So fucking tight."

His hands roam—possessive, greedy—fingers dragging over your waist, gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. Then lower. To your thighs.

Then? He leans down. And bites. Right into the slope of your shoulder.

You scream.

Blood spills. And he moans. “Fuck—yes—baby, you taste like a fucking prayer.”

Your body trembles violently, caught in the overwhelming rush of pain and pleasure. His cock still pistons into you while his fangs stay buried in your shoulder—drinking, devouring, claiming.

You go limp. Floaty. Brain white-noise dizzy from the high of it. But Minho? He doesn’t stop. If anything, it makes him wilder.

“Mine,” he growls into your skin, pulling back just enough to let blood drip down your shoulder and onto the sheets. “All fucking mine.”

His hips snap harder. Your slick squelches. His cock slides in perfectly, perfectly, perfectly—

You’re dripping. Slick and blood and spit and ruin.

And he’s drunk on it.

“My nurse,” he pants. “My good girl. My blood doll. My fucking kitten.”

You nod, voice gone. Mouth parted. Completely wrecked.

He grins.

“You wanna cum now, sweetheart?”

You sob. “Yes. Please. Please, Minho—”

“Then say it.”

“I’m yours. I’m your good girl. I’m your fucking good girl, please—”

“Good,” he whispers. “Then fucking cum on my cock, pretty. Make it messy.”

And you do. You fall apart—ripped open, raw, shaking. Your pussy clamps down so hard he groans, hips stuttering.

“That’s it, that’s my girl, give it to me, give it all—fuck, fuck—”

He chases his own high with a savage growl, cock twitching, pulsing as he cums deep inside you, heat flooding your soaked cunt. But he doesn’t stop. His hips keep grinding, slow now, as if milking every drop of your orgasm—of his own.

And then? His lips are on your neck again. Not gentle this time. Not teasing.

Feral.

“Still mine,” he pants. “Still hungry.”

You barely have time to gasp before he bites. Hard. Deep. Again. Your scream chokes into a moan, your body spasming around his cock still buried inside you.

“M-Minho—fuck—!”

Your hands claw at the sheets. You’re trembling, eyes fluttering, body jerking as your orgasm is prolonged by the blood loss, by the dizzying pull of him sucking at your vein like it’s salvation.

It’s the third time he’s fed from you tonight. And you feel it. The way the world tilts. The heat behind your eyes. The ache in your neck. But fuck—it feels so good.

“You’re not stopping,” you gasp, voice raw. “You’re still feeding—”

“You taste better when you’re fucked out,” he murmurs against your neck, voice wrecked. “Better when you’re mine.”

His thrusts are much slower now, but deeper, grinding and rubbing every oversensitive nerve in your swollen, soaked pussy. “You gonna pass out, kitten?” he hums, licking at your neck now. “You gonna fall asleep with my cum dripping out of you and my marks on your skin?”

You nod. Or maybe you try to. The room spins, but your body won’t stop clenching around him, pulsing with overstimulation and ecstasy and heat.

Minho finally slows. Still inside you. Still wrapped around you. His breath hitches. His fangs retreat from your neck and kisses the spot so softly, so gently. Licks the wound.

“You did so well, baby,” he murmurs, voice softer now. “So fucking perfect for me.”

You hum sleepily, completely spent.

Minho slowly pulls out of you with a hiss—his cock wet and still hard but twitching with the aftershocks of overstimulation. Your soft whimper at the loss has him pausing, thumb grazing your thigh where he bit you earlier, eyes dragging over the blood smears like a collector admiring his masterpiece.

“Shh,” he murmurs. “Easy. I’ve got you.”

You’re boneless beneath him. Shaky. Light-headed. Completely wrecked.

He eases you onto your back with surgical care, brushing damp strands from your face, trailing kisses along your jaw and collarbone to soothe the tremble in your limbs.

Minho stands up, grabs his briefs and puts them on before disappearing for only a few seconds. By the time you blink, he's back. Hands carrying a basin of warm water, fresh cloths, and that damn precision he always keeps tucked behind his smile.

He doesn’t speak.

Just starts with your thighs. Careful. Gentle. Attentive.

The cloth drags through the mess he made—his cum, your slick, blood from the bite. You flinch once, and he hushes you immediately. “Hush. I know it’s sore. Just breathe.” He wipes you down in slow strokes, cleaning between your thighs like he’s winding you down after open-heart surgery. There’s no rush. No sound but the soft splashes of water and your shallow breaths.

Once clean, he moves to your neck—licking again where he bit, sealing the puncture gently. There’s a cloth on your chest. A warm one on your belly. You think you might be floating.

And then he dresses you.

His oversized shirt. Sliding it over your head, smoothing it down your arms, fingers brushing your wrists like you’re made of glass. Tucks the hem under your thighs. Fixes the collar.

When he’s sure you’re safe—covered—he lifts you and onto his lap. Minho grabs the blanket and places it around your shoulders. One arm around your waist, the other in your hair, brushing it back from your forehead with all the care in the world.

“Look at you now,” he whispers. “Fucked dumb. Blood-drunk. My perfect little nurse.”

He holds you like that for a long while. Letting your heartbeat slow. Letting the fog clear from your mind. You think you hear him hum something low under his breath—familiar, maybe a lullaby.

And when he feels you melt entirely? He whispers, “Drink this,” and presses a glass of water to your lips. “Small sips.”

Your lips part automatically, letting him tilt the glass for you—his fingers cradling your jaw with reverence, like you’re the holy thing here. You sip slow. Let it trickle down your throat. You don’t even taste it, not really. Just feel the temperature. Feel him.

“Mm,” you rasp, lips curling lazily. “You always this bossy after turning me into roadkill?”

Minho snorts—actually snorts—and it’s so rare you blink up at him like it’s a miracle. He sets the glass down, eyes crinkling faintly, brushing his thumb across your cheekbone.

“Roadkill still moaning like a bitch in heat?”

You gasp, scandalized and amused, trying to swat at him, but you barely land a tap. Your limbs are noodles. Useless.

“You’re such a menace.”

“You’re the one who let a vampire fuck you raw and bleed you dry in the same hour,” he murmurs, smiling faintly as he adjusts you in his arms. “You knew what I was.”

“Didn’t know you were gonna ruin me.”

He leans in, lips brushing your ear. “That—” his voice is low, feral, tender, “—was the point.”

He settles you both onto the bed, moving with precision and silence. You don’t even notice how efficiently he tucks you in until you’re under soft sheets and two blankets—his hoodie still on you, his body heat curling around you like a second layer of bedding.

He presses behind you. One arm snakes around your waist. His leg hooks over yours.

His nose nestles into your hair, voice barely audible now.

“You let me bite you three times tonight,” he murmurs. “Let me fuck you stupid. Let me drink until you went all soft in my arms like a little doll. Your first ruin. Let me ruin you."

You hum sleepily. “Told you… I’m your nurse…”

He chuckles, lips at your temple. “Not just my nurse.”

"No?"

"My everything." he whispers.

And between those soft spoken words, you drift somewhere between dream and delirium, his heartbeat (stolen or not) pulsing steady behind your spine.

His breath stays even against your nape. And for a moment—just a moment—you wonder if this is what peace feels like.

Until—

“Minho…” you mumble, half-asleep. “If you bite me a fourth time tonight I swear to God I’m suing.”

He hums innocently. “Mmm. Thought you liked being lightheaded and full of me.”

“I like having a functioning central nervous system.”

“Don’t worry,” he mutters. “You don’t need a brain to be mine.”

You whimper and smack his thigh. Weakly. He just laughs, low and smug, and nuzzles deeper into your hair.

The next morning? You wake up drooling on his pillow with vampire hickeys in three different anatomical regions, but at least there's a glass of water waiting on the nightstand.

There’s also a sticky note.

In Minho’s criminally neat handwriting:

Don’t move. I’m making breakfast. Don’t pass out in the shower or I will sedate you. Also: stop moaning my name in your sleep, the neighbours are starting to ask questions. — Yours, eternally. 🖤

And that’s how life goes for you now. Fucked to ruin; Bitten thrice a week (minimum); Kept hydrated by the world's most sadistic vampire boyfriend; In love; Definitely doomed.

But hey.

You’re still breathing. Still bruised. Still his. Still fucked. Still spoiled. Still taken care of and loved.

And you wouldn’t change a fucking thing.

[jupitermarss]

F I R S T   B I T E

Vampire!Bang Chan x Reader | blood ritual, silk sheets, first time he finally takes you

🔞synopsis: You weren’t looking for luxury. You were looking for survival. But then he chose you—Bang Chan. Now you sleep in silk, eat like royalty, and bleed for him on schedule. He’s fed from you before. Gentle. Controlled. Ritualistic. But he’s never fucked you. Not once. Tonight, that changes. Because his hunger is showing. His eyes are black. And you’re in that dress he bought you. And when he finally takes his bite—he doesn’t stop there.

💌a/n: OK SO LISTEN 🩸 Yes. I know I answered an ask ages ago about how Chan is so rich. but for this series? i said fuck it. switched it up. because he deserves it. you deserve it. silk sheets and bite marks forever. also no, i’m not making profiles for every member. that’s boring and I’m busy making them FEED AND FUCK INSTEAD 😌 priorities. if you’re not bleeding and shaking by the end, did you even read it? 🔪💋✨ p.s. reblog if it ruined you. reblog if you whimpered. reblog if you said “oh.” out loud. p.p.s. more members coming next Wreck Me Wednesday! p.p.p.s. blood tastes better when it’s yours. ok bye 🖤

⚠️ warnings: 18+ / MINORS DO NOT INTERACT | biting kink | marking kink | blood drinking as foreplay (and during) | fingering + grinding | overstimulation | breeding kink language (explicit) | “mine” possessiveness dialled to 1000 | choking (light, erotic) | mirror of praise + filth | power imbalance | luxury kink | ritualistic aftercare | cum, blood, and luxury bath oils

📌 Please read responsibly. Hydrate. Bleed pretty. Stretch.

🎧 » Criminal — Taemin « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:31 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

The idea of becoming a Blood Doll didn’t start as a fantasy. It started as a last resort.

You weren’t desperate. Just… cornered. By bills. By bruises you didn’t ask for. By nights too long and mornings that arrived with nothing but guilt and cold toast. Seoul was a city of glass towers and low shadows. You had lived in both.

You weren’t supposed to know about the Veil. About vampires. About what they offered behind silk-curtained doors. But you did. One overheard conversation in a blood clinic waiting room was all it took. A name passed like a secret. A dare:

“LUXE Health. If you’re lucky, someone will choose you.”

So you cleaned yourself up. Not for them. For you. You memorized their rules. Got the bloodwork done. Sold everything else. And when you finally arrived—dressed in borrowed black with lips bitten pink—you didn’t flinch.

Because somewhere beneath the hunger and the silence, you had a single thought: “If I’m going to belong to someone… make it him.”

You saw him before he saw you. Or maybe that’s just what you tell yourself now.

Bang Christopher Chan. The vampire who owns medicine. The one whose name is spoken in hushed reverence at trauma wards and whispered in moans between silk sheets.

Abnormal. Born, not turned. The kind of vampire the Veil fears because they cannot predict him.

He didn’t need to feed from you that night. He didn’t even touch you. Just read your file, looked into your eyes, and said—

“You’ll do.”

Not cruel. Not kind. Just… certain. And that certainty rewired you.

That was three months ago.

Now, you live on the top floor of a private Luxe facility in Gangnam. You don’t work. You don’t pay. You just exist—dripping in silk, gliding past glass, touched only by magic and occasionally by him.

You eat better than royalty. Your scent is monitored for health. Your sheets are laundered daily in blood-neutral detergent. Every book you ever mentioned liking? It's in your room. Your bath oils are imported. Your wardrobe is measured by hand.

But he hasn’t fucked you. Not once. Not yet. He’s fed. God, has he fed.

The first time, you thought you’d die from how soft he made it. The second time, you wanted him to bite deeper. The third time? You whimpered his name. He smiled, lips wet, but didn’t take you. Not then.

And yet—he gives.

A diamond choker with a spell-lock that hums when you're near danger. A dress you only wore once, now preserved in a glass case because he liked how you looked in it. Shoes hand-delivered from a Paris atelier, dyed to match the undertone of your skin. Perfumes keyed to his scent.

He gives like a man who has everything—except you.

Tonight, you had been his date. A Veil-chartered event in an underground gallery beneath Itaewon. Not that you paid much mind, except the fact that you stood by him looking all pretty, dressed by him.

And now? Now you’re back in the penthouse.

Your heels click across imported stone. You’ve just slipped off your earrings when you feel it—the hum in the walls. The signal. Feeding hour.

He’s never missed one.

You turn, heart already pounding.

He’s in the doorway. Loosened collar. No tie. Silver watch still on his wrist. And his eyes…

Black.

“Sit,” he says, voice silk-dark.

And you do, because God, you always obey.

He crosses the room like a secret unfolding—measured, lethal, beautiful. His gaze never leaves yours. Not even as he loosens the first button of his shirt. Not even as he sheds his jacket and drapes it over the back of a chair. The air shifts around him—cooler, heavier. The scent of cedar and clove curled in hunger.

You sit where he wants you. On the edge of the fainting couch, legs pressed together beneath silk that still smells like his cologne. Your lipstick is still intact. Your throat bare. The pulse at your neck, traitorous.

He kneels in front of you.

Not like a man worshipping. Like a vampire calculating.

His fingers brush your ankle, sliding upward in a touch so light it’s almost imagined—up the line of your shin, over your knee, until he’s nudging the hem of your gown higher, just enough to settle between your legs, kneeling. Commanding.

He doesn't speak right away. Just watches you.

Eventually, he reaches for your wrist. Not to feed.

Just to hold. “You're warm.”

You nod, breath shallow. "I always am. After we go out."

Something flickers across his face. Amusement? Possession?

He leans forward. Mouth hovering over your neck. Not touching. Just breathing. "Do you want the bite here?"

"Yes."

He doesn’t kiss you. He doesn’t ask again. He bites.

You gasp. His fangs are surgical. Smooth. Deep. You feel it in your blood, in your thighs, in the way your dress shifts against your hips as your whole body arches toward him.

It’s not pain. It’s pressure.

One of his hands at your waist, the other on your thigh, grounding you as he drinks your sweet blood in slow. His tongue flicks once. Just once. Over the wound.

And that’s what makes you whimper.

His groan is almost inaudible. Almost. He drinks a little deeper.

You clutch the shoulder of his shirt and try to stay still—but you can’t. You shift. You rub your knees together. You tilt your head further back like it’ll coax more of him out, like it’ll make him—

He stops. Pulls back. Blood on his lips. Collarbone flushed. Hands tighter now.

You’re panting.

"You should rest."

But he doesn’t mean it. Because his eyes are still black. And his cock is hard under his trousers. And you’re still in that dress he picked—silk, slit high, neckline low enough for his teeth to dip beneath.

“You’re still hungry,” you whisper.

He says nothing. But his hand slides higher up your thigh. Just barely. Just enough.

“Feed again,” you murmur.

He exhales. Shaky. Like he’s fighting something ancient. “If I feed again,” he says, voice wrecked, “I won’t stop.”

Your reply is immediate. “I don't want you to stop.”

His hand grips your thigh harder.

A beat. Two. And then—he snaps. His mouth crashes to yours like it’s the only law he’s ever obeyed.

Hot. Wet. Starving.

There’s no finesse. No restraint. Just tongue and breath and blood—your blood—smearing between your lips as he kisses you like he’s waited centuries. You taste iron and cedar and the slick salt of him groaning into your mouth.

His palm slides up your spine, yanks you forward. You gasp. He swallows it. You moan. He deepens it. Your fingers claw at his shirt, dragging it open, buttons scattering somewhere onto the marble.

“Chan—”

“Shut up,” he growls, biting your bottom lip, licking where it splits. “I told you. I won’t stop now.”

You don’t want him to.

Because you can’t think. Can’t breathe. Can’t survive if he doesn’t keep kissing you like that—like he’s drowning in you and wants to take you under with him.

He stands, dragging you up with him, your body flush to his. His hands on your ass, gripping through silk. You feel him—hard and heavy—pressed against your stomach. You grind against him. Shameless. He groans into your mouth like you just handed him your soul.

“On the bed,” he rasps, voice ruined.

You don’t walk. You stumble. He follows, eyes black, jaw clenched, pupils blown so wide you swear they swallow the moonlight.

Three steps from the bed, you spin and grab him by the open collar of his shirt—what’s left of it—and pull.

Hard.

He stumbles with you, low grunt in his throat, and you fall back onto the sheets like gravity’s been waiting for this moment.

Silk against your spine. Chan above you, braced on trembling arms. His shirt ripped wide open from your fingers, chest heaving. Eyes on your lips before leaning in again. Lips on your own. Tongue hot and deep, one hand gripping your jaw like he wants to brand his name there.

His knee shoves between your thighs and you start grinding against it. Moan into his mouth like a sinner under oath.

Your dress slips off one shoulder and of course he notices and his mouth leaves yours—trailing fire down your throat, tongue flicking the half-healed bite on your neck. You arch like a live wire. He sucks. You cry out. And then he speaks against your skin.

“You don’t understand what you’ve just done,” he rasps, voice shaking. “Letting me kiss you. Letting me taste it from your lips…”

He presses his forehead to your collarbone. His breath shudders. So does your body. “I’ve waited,” he says. “I’ve waited—every night. Let you heal. Let you rest. I was good.”

He lifts his head. Stares down at you. “But now you’ve ruined that.”

His hand slides under the slit of your dress. Fingers ghost over your inner thigh. He groans. "Fuck, you're so wet baby."

You whimper.

He leans down again, nose brushing your jaw, lips grazing your ear—

“One more bite,” he whispers. “Then I fuck you. And I don’t stop until your blood knows who it belongs to.”

"Please." You say. Desperate for it.

Chan's lips press against your shoulder, just below the dip of silk where your dress has fallen. He's slow, gentle, taking his time. Before finally, he bites and you gasp, sharp and wrecked.

His fangs in slowly this time. Not like earlier. No urgency. This bite is...savouring.

You clutch the sheets, back arching as he feeds again—mouth latched to your skin, tongue lapping slowly between pulses. Every draw pulls heat to your core. Every sound he makes against your skin echoes between your thighs.

And then you finally feel his hand parting your legs more, fingers brushing over your already soaked panties. You twitch and he groans into the wound.

"Dropping," he murmurs, mouth still on your flesh. "From being bit."

His fingers slip beneath the fabric. Contact. He traces the seam of your folds with two fingers before running them up again, pressing into your just enough to make your hips holt.

You moan out. That moan ripped straight from the center of you.

He chuckles darkly. Fangs still buried. Your blood on his tongue. Your cunt in his palm.

"So sweet," he growls. "Every part of you."

His thumb starts to circle that bundle of nerves. Not fast. Not hard. Just deep, tight pressure—rhythmic, possessive, hypnotic.

You’re panting now. Writhing. Your blood still feeding him as he works you from below.

His free hand grabs your thigh, pinning it open. “This pussy’s been waiting for me,” he hisses, licking over the bite again. “Wet and so so perfect for me.”

Two fingers thrust inside and your head snaps back. A choke moan spills out. You feel everything.

“Say it,” he demands, pulling back from your shoulder, licking the wound clean. “Say who owns you.”

“Y-You—fuck—Chan, it’s you—”

“Say it properly.”

His fingers curl just right.

“You own me,” you cry. “You own all of me—*fuck—*please don’t stop—”

“I told you,” he pants, mouth against your lips again, hand fucking you slow and deep, “I’m not stopping tonight.”

Chan finally pulled back, slowly. Fangs retracting from your skin. Mouth now painted with your blood again. He looks wrecked. Hair falling into his eyes. Chest rising like a storm's behind it. But his fingers? They've started fucking into you, a slow pace.

He sits back on his heels between your thighs, one hand fucking deep, slow, curling into that spot that makes your breath catch and your thighs twitch. The other hand trails up your waist until it cups your breast through the fabric. His thumb brushes over your nipple.

“Aw, look at you,” he coos, voice soaked in dark heat. “Dripping for me. Can feel it, baby girl.” His fingers move faster now—tight little thrusts that make your cunt clench, soak, squeal.

“You gonna cum?”

“Yes—yes, I—”

“I can feel it,” he growls. “All that sweetness pulling around my fingers. Fuck—so tight. So fucking good for me.”

He leans over, tongue lapping at the blood smeared down your clavicle while he finger fucks you harder. “That’s it. Let go. Be good. Cum on my hand.”

You cry out—knees jerking, hands clawing at the sheets, your entire body arching as heat snaps. Your orgasm crashes through you. But Chan doesn’t stop. Not until you’re trembling under him, cunt pulsing around his fingers, thighs soaked and twitching.

“Good girl,” he whispers. “You give so fucking much. You always do.”

He pulls his fingers out slow, watching the mess string between you.

Then—finally—his hands go to your dress. He peels it off of you, revealing every inch of your body to his hungry eyes. "Now," he murmurs, eyes dark again. "Now I take what's mine."

You barely catch your breath before you hear it—

The sound of his belt unbuckling.

Fast. Sharp. Desperate. He’s done waiting. His slacks fall in seconds. Boxers shoved low. His cock now in full view. Heavy, thick, veins pulsing. He is already flushed, the tip angry red and dripping.

Your mouth parts in awe. Your cunt clenches in instinct. “Look at you,” he breathes, crawling back over you, cock resting hot against your thigh. “Already shaking… and I haven’t even put it in yet.”

He grabs himself—gives one slow stroke, tip dragging along your folds as he lines up. You feel the heat of it.

“You want it?” he rasps.

“Yes. Please—”

“Then take it.”

And he pushes in. Slowly, gently, wanting to savour the feeling of your walls around his cock. You arch with a cry—eyes wide, fingers scrambling to hold onto something. But it’s no use. You’re being split. He’s so thick, and the stretch is perfect—too perfect. Your pussy tightens around him like velvet glove, and he groans low, forehead dropping to yours.

“Fuck, baby girl—so fucking tight—so good for me—”

He bottoms out.

One perfect grind of his hips. You feel everything. But he doesn't move yet, his hips flushed with yours.

"You take me so well," he whispers. "This pussy was made for me. You were made for me."

You whimper, breathless.

"Please—move—”

"I can. Remind me, who do you belong to baby?"

"You—you, Chan—fuck, I’m yours—”

"Good girl." he whispers. Pulling back and then slamming back in. Hard. Deep. Merciless. His thrusts picking up pace. Harder into you. Your body jerks up over the bed. He grabs your waist, pulls you back onto him.

Over and over.

The sound is obscene—skin on skin, soaked and slick. Your name is gone. All that exists is his name—Chan, Chan, Chan—echoing from your mouth, screamed into sheets, licked from your lips by the man breaking you open.

“You feel that?” he grits, fucking you deep, jaw clenched. “That’s mine. This body. This blood. This fucking cunt—”

He slaps your thigh. You moan.

“Say it again.”

“I’m yours—yours, yours, yours—”

He groans—fucks you harder. At least for a few more thrusts until he moves again. Shifts. Flips you over. Fast. Rough. Hands firm under your hips. One sharp drag and your body turns beneath him—your chest to the sheets, ass up, knees wide on instinct.

You gasp, caught off guard by the dominance of it. And he just laughs—low, filthy, feral.

“That’s better,” he growls behind you. “Now I can really fucking feel you.”

His hand spanks your ass and you jolt.

Chan drags his cock through your slick folds again. Lining himself up. "Stay still," he commands. "Take it.£

And he thrusts back in. Hard. Deep. Full.

You scream. Into the pillow.

He fills you so completely from this angle, cock hitting new spots you didn’t know existed. And when he grinds in deep—stays there—you feel your whole body shudder.

Chan's hand moves into your hair. Fisting it and yanking your head back just enough that you arch for him. And the other hand? It wraps around your throat.

"You look so pretty like this," he hisses into your ear. "Open. Dripping. Mine."

He starts moving again—fucking you slow and rough, every stroke long and deep and perfectly angled. You’re choking on moans now—your own breath caught in your throat where his hand rests, light but threatening. Possessive.

“You gonna cum again?” he pants, hips slamming into you. “Gonna soak me like a good little blood doll?”

You nod—whimper—beg.

“Say it,” he growls.

“I—I’m gonna cum—fuck, Chan, please—”

“That’s right,” he snarls. “Do it. Let go.”

He pulls your hair harder. His cock slams deeper. And you shatter. Second orgasm—harder than the first—slams through you like lightning. Your whole body convulses, cunt pulsing around him so tight he groans, slams in deeper, loses rhythm—

“Fuck.”

He lets go of your throat. Pushes you flat to the bed, still buried inside you.

And then? He pulls out—panting, ruined—and flips you again.

“We’re not done,” he breathes. “Not until I fill you.”

You’re breathless. Sprawled on the sheets on your back again after being flipped. Skin flushed, throat kissed red, thighs sticky and trembling.

But he’s not done.

Chan climbs over you again—eyes black, cock still hard, soaked with your slick and heat and ownership. He grabs your legs, lifts them, pushes them up high over his shoulders.

You whimper. He growls.

“One more,” he rasps. “You’re gonna take one more.”

And then he thrusts back in. His thrusts never easing up, except this time instead of being fast, they're harder, deeper. Hitting deep inside your pretty dripping cunt.

Your legs tremble where they rest on his shoulders, your hips arching up instinctively to meet his every thrust. He’s so deep now—your cunt swallowing every inch, fluttering around him like it already misses him when he pulls back.

“So tight,” he pants, sweat dripping from his jaw as he fucks into you. “So full. You feel that?”

He leans down—body folding over yours, pressing you into the bed. You gasp at the intensity—your knees practically touching your ears, your body caged beneath him. And before you know it, his mouth finds your throat again. Not the old bite. No.

This time it's lower. Right over your pulse. A new mark. A new claim.

He sinks his fangs in—again. But this time? He cums. At the same fucking moment.

You feel it—his cock twitching deep inside you, spilling into you with a primal, guttural growl against your skin. His hips still grind as he pumps you full, fucking it deeper, deeper, until your stomach coils from the pressure and the heat and the ache.

“That’s it,” he pants against your skin. “Take it. All of it. I’m gonna fill you—mark you—fuck it so deep into you it'll leak all night.”

He’s still feeding, slow now—tongue lapping, lips suckling, like your blood is the final part of the ritual.

And you? You’re crying his name.

“Chan—Chan—fuck—yes—yours—”

He lifts his head, face painted with blood and victory and crashes his lips onto yours.

Wet. Possessive. Full of cum and blood and everything he is.

“Good girl,” he whispers, against your swollen lips. “My good little blood doll.”

He pulls out—slow. Your thighs twitch. His cum leaks from between them. He watches it, chest heaving, and smirks before his eyes move on to you. Eyes no longer black, but softer now, sparklier. You’re wrecked beneath him, trembling and flushed, marked in blood and sweat and cum.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, fingers ghosting up your thigh. “You took me so well.”

You try to speak. Can’t. All you can do is breathe—shaky, grateful, undone. He leans down. Presses one kiss to your cheek. Another to your temple. Then the curve of your throat where your blood still lingers.

“You’re okay,” he whispers, so gentle it nearly makes you cry. “You’re mine now. And I take care of what’s mine.”

He moves with eerie speed after that, but never rushes you. One moment he’s gone, and the next—he’s back.

A warm cloth in his hand. Something for your bite marks. A glass of cold water. A square of dark chocolate—your favourite.

“Small sugars after feeding,” he says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Prevents dizziness. Helps the body remember pleasure.”

You nibble it, fingers weak. He watches every movement like it’s precious.

Then he scoops you into his arms. You’re already drifting—high on oxytocin, on safety, on the way he smells like expensive oud and dark cherry blood.

“Where are we going…?” you murmur.

“Bath,” he says, already striding down the marble hallway. “You’re not sleeping with my cum leaking down your thighs onto silk sheets."

You huff a laugh into his chest. "Didn't you say you wanted me to leak all night?"

"I don't remember that. I never said that." But Chan is smiling, dimple smile and his ears are red.

In the bathroom, he takes the time to set you down on the edge of the tub gently while he takes care of filling it up with warm water, adding in jasmine oils. Whilst the tub fills up, Chan steps back to undress fully now, taking off that ripped shirt off.

By the time the tub is filled up, Chan makes sure to ease you in the tub, hands firm yet gentle before sliding in behind you and pulling your back to his chest, arms wrapping around your waist.

"You did so well tonight," he says softly, mouth brushing your shoulder. "I told you id' take care of you."

You nod. Too relaxed to speak.

His fingers draw idle shapes over your stomach, over the curve of your breast, over the softest parts of you that no one else touches.

“Sleep here, if you want,” he whispers. “Stay here. Forever.”

You simply relax, your head against his shoulder, eyes fluttered closed, breathing steady. "Mmm...forever." you murmur.

And Chan leans down to press a kiss to the side of your head.

“Forever,” he echoes. “Mine.”

🏷️ taglist: @cybergracie , @jupitermarss , @basicginn , @dhvnigvil , @emkvlixsx , @collin-thegreat , @somuchpanicverylittledisco , @yourfavoriteakutagawakinnie

[jupitermarss]

© 𝙭𝙞𝙖𝙤𝙮𝙪𝙊𝙪𝙊 | do not edit and/or crop logo

[jupitermarss]

the vibe i bring to the function

[jupitermarss]

© Shuyichnyia | preview

[jupitermarss]

i really do think we moved on from railway!chan AND escape!chan way too fast

[jupitermarss]

• warning! threesome, fingering, vaginal sex, clit slapping, overstimulation, oral fixation(finger sucking), dirty talk, slight choking, cum play / cum tasting • 1,2k • m.list

being with hyunjin and chan looks so fun and nice on the outside. who doesn't like the attention coming from two gentle and sweet men? chan's sweet words...hyunjin's soft touches...that's how your day goes!

most of the time.

"last time doll. come on, we know you can do it." you didn't know how many times you'd heard it, 3? 5? yet somehow they found a way to put their hands on you. hyunjin expertly fucked you with three fingers between your legs, as your back was pressed against chan's chest, torturing your clit with his fingers. "It’s… too much…" you barely managed to whisper, voice trembling as a loud moan tore from your lips. hyunjin’s fingers curled perfectly against that devastating spot inside you, making your entire body tremble—not just your legs, but every nerve lit up from the intensity. the pleasure was relentless, drowning you with each slow, deliberate motion.

"stay still." chan's voice was rough, commanding—sending a shiver straight down your spine. his free hand pressed firmly against your stomach, pinning you back against his chest, holding you in place as if your body wasn’t already trembling beyond control. the constant assault on your g-spot had your legs tightening involuntarily, your lungs forgetting how to breathe. hyunjin let out a low, throaty moan when he felt you clenching, knowing you were right on the edge. "fuuuck yeah… that’s it, baby. I wanna see you fall apart." chan’s fingers are still on your clit, rubbing tight circles over the most sensitive part of you—deliberate and devastating. your moans only made his cock throb harder, his breath hot and ragged right beside your ear. "you’re gonna make me lose my mind." your thoughts blurred into static—nothing existed but them, the pleasure, and the way your body pulsed under their touch. It didn’t take long before you shattered around hyunjin’s fingers, a cry escaping you as your head fell back onto chan’s shoulder, your body going limp from the release.

but chan didn’t stop—his fingers kept circling your clit, relentless and precise. when you instinctively tried to clamp your legs shut, hyunjin’s hands shot out to stop you, keeping you wide open for more. then chan shifted tactics. he began lightly slapping your clit with the tips of his fingers, fast and cruel, sending sharp jolts through your already trembling body. you whimpered—broken and tearful, the sensation too much to bear, yet impossible to escape. "no-"

"shh"

he kept going for a few more torturous seconds before finally easing off and guiding you to lie back on the bed. chan settled between your legs without a word, eyes locked on your soaked core, while hyunjin moved to the head of the bed. he gently grabbed your chin, tilting it up as his thumb traced your trembling bottom lip. "open your mouth, baby." you obeyed, lips parting softly—and he didn’t wait. his thumb slipped past your lips, pressing down on your tongue as he made you suck it slow and gentle. the sight of you like that, eyes dazed and lips wrapped around him, had hyunjin smirking in delight. the soft whimper you let out around his thumb made his eyes darken, his thumb pressing deeper just to feel your reaction again.

chan spread your legs with ease, his gaze dark as he used two fingers to part your soaked folds. a low, satisfied sigh escaped him at the sight of your glistening arousal. once he’d had his fill of looking, he pulled his hand away and lined up his cock at your entrance, dragging the thick tip through your wetness. you felt the pressure building—his size pressing right where you were already so sensitive—and tried to speak, to tell him you couldn’t take any more. but hyunjin’s thumb was still in your mouth, muffling every desperate sound. "hm? were you trying to say something?" hyunjin teased, voice smooth as silk. he slowly pulled his finger out—but just as your lips parted to form words, chan buried himself inside you in one sharp, devastating thrust. a strangled moan escaped instead, your back arching as your walls clenched tightly around him. the way you responded—how your body trembled and clung to his cock—made hyunjin grin as he trailed his fingers down your chest, grazing over every trembling inch of you. "oh fuck—you're hugging me so good baby… you're so good" chan groaned, hips pulsing forward as he sank even deeper.

he didn’t even give you a moment to adjust. he immediately started to move, thrusting into you with steady, unforgiving strokes—burying himself to the hilt every single time. each thrust was deep, precise, dragging moans from his throat as the sound of skin slapping against skin echoed loudly through the room. he grabbed your legs and lifted them, folding you slightly as he leaned over—forcing your bodies impossibly close. that position made everything more intense, and chan knew it. a teasing smile tugged at the corner of his lips when he noticed the glossy tears pooling in your eyes. "aw… is it too much, baby? can’t take it, huh?" he murmured mockingly. meanwhile, hyunjin was still at your side, eyes locked on your face as he gently pinched and played with your hardened nipple. he wiped away a stray tear with his thumb before leaning in, his lips brushing your cheek in mock affection. "too bad," he whispered into your ear, voice low and laced with mischief. "we haven’t even gotten what we wanted yet…"

chan’s breath was growing more erratic, short gasps leaving his lips with every deep thrust as he filled you over and over again. the helpless whimpers and tearful cries slipping from you—because you were just too sensitive, too overstimulated—only spurred him on. a low growl rumbled in his throat as he tossed his head back, eyes fluttering shut in sheer bliss. “It won’t take long… I’m so close,” he muttered under his breath, voice laced with desperation. his pace grew rougher, hips slamming into you with reckless hunger. “fuck—gonna fill that tight little pussy of yours,” he gritted out, his chest rising and falling rapidly from the effort. you could barely process his words—your own orgasm was building fast, but your body was too worn out, too overwhelmed. you didn’t even have the strength to speak; your mouth hung open in silent moans, eyes hazy, every nerve ending on fire.

hyunjin’s hands were roaming all over your trembling body, fingertips ghosting down your sides and up to your head—tracing every inch of skin he could reach. when your moans began to rise in pitch, signaling just how close you were, he leaned down and captured your lips without warning. his tongue slid into your mouth, slow and intentional, curling around yours with a needy kind of affection that made your stomach flutter. one of his hands found its way to your throat, applying just enough pressure to make your breath hitch. he groaned softly into the kiss, your noises muffled against his mouth, the vibration of your shared moans heating up the air between you. "cum with me, baby… yeah?" chan’s voice cut through the haze, breathless and commanding. "make a mess for us. you can do it." you could barely breathe, the weight of hyunjin’s kiss and the relentless rhythm of chan’s thrusts pushing you right to the edge. hyunjin finally pulled back, his lips dragging against yours as he bit down hard on your bottom lip—right as you were about to fall apart completely.

“cumming, cumming—fuck—” chan’s cock twitched deep inside you as you exhaled a long, shuddering breath, his body pulling back slowly, savoring every last drop he’d given you. chan smiled, breathless and satisfied, watching the slick fluid glisten and drip from your slick folds. hyunjin leaned down, fingers tracing through the wetness between your legs, then teasingly slipped two fingers inside your still-sensitive hole. he brought them to his lips, tasting you slowly, eyes locked on yours, that faintly salty flavor drawing a low, pleased hum from him. “mm..should I eat you again?” you shook your head quickly, making both chan and hyunjin chuckle softly at your reaction.

chan reached out on one side, hyunjin on the other, pulling you into a warm, tangled embrace. you rested your head between their bare, heated bodies, a gentle smile spreading across your face as your eyes fluttered closed. the last thing you remembered before drifting off were their sweet whispers and soft kisses, wrapping you in a cocoon of warmth and love.

If you enjoyed it, I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments and see a reblog! thank you so much for your support!

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