lovslixx

[lovslixx]

K e e p y o u r e y e o n t h e b a l l — n o , n o t m e .

Kim Seungmin x Reader | summer tension, casual bullying, accidental kiss, no one talks about it

⚾Synopsis: You’ve been best friends with Kim Seungmin long enough to survive his dry sarcasm, brutal honesty, and aggressively passionate love for the Giants. But when a summer afternoon spirals into an impromptu baseball lesson, things start to feel... different. You can’t swing to save your life. He can’t seem to stop smiling at you. Between missed pitches, bad jokes, and one very accidental kiss, something shifts. Neither of you says anything about it. But maybe it’s time to stop pretending you’re just playing around.

💌a/n: THIS WAS REQUESTED BY 🐈 ANON. i really hope you like itttttt !!!!! 😭😭 this was supposed to be light fluff and then it became “he catches you mid-fall and almost confesses with his eyes” and honestly?? worth it. summer baseball bestie chaos supremacy. thank you for reading ily <3 p.s. reblogs feed my delulu and your support keeps this bat-swinging loser going p.p.s. if you want a part 2 where someone finally cracks and kisses for real, you know what to do 👀

📍credits: @cafekitsune for the dividers

🎧 » Love me or Leave Me — DAY6 « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:43 ⇄ ◃��� ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

You and Seungmin have been best friends since the first year of university—bonded over a shared love of sarcastic comebacks, matching dark academia pens, and the mutual hatred of your professor's existence.

Somewhere between project deadlines and late-night ramen runs, the friendship just... stuck. He became the person who knew your order before you said it, who memorized your fake laugh vs your real one. You became the person who knew when he needed space and when he needed someone to sit in that space, quietly, next to him.

And yes, you’ve had fights. He still won’t forgive you for liking the wrong baseball team.

“Wrong” being... anyone but the Giants.

You wore a cap from their rival team once to school—on purpose—and he refused to look at you the entire day. Wouldn’t even speak to you in third period.

Now, it’s summer. Classes and exams are over. You’re sprawled across the sunlit steps of a neighbourhood café, sipping iced coffee when you say it.

“Okay, don’t laugh, but... I’ve never actually played baseball.”

You meant it casually. Offhand. But his head turns so fast you wonder if he gave himself whiplash.

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

“Not even in PE? Not even wiffle ball?”

“Not even tee-ball,” you say, grinning. “Are you judging me right now?”

“Absolutely.”

A pause. Then, almost too quickly to seem normal, he says, “Wanna learn?”

You blink at him. “Right now?”

He shrugs. “I’ve got a glove and a bat at home. The field’s, like, two blocks from here. Unless you’re scared.”

“Oh, please. I’m gonna smoke you.”

That gets a scoff. “You don’t even know how to hold a bat.”

“Teach me, then, Coach Kim.”

His mouth quirks. You pretend not to see the way he fights a smile. You always pretend.

Twenty minutes later, the sun’s hanging just low enough to stretch gold across the field. The grass is uneven in places, broken up by dirt patches and lazy summer bugs. A warm breeze skims your skin.

Seungmin stands by the first base line, glove slung over one shoulder, bat in the other. He’s in a sleeveless tee, hair swept up by the wind, and when you walk up wearing his least favourite team’s logo across your chest, he stops mid-step.

“You did not.”

You grin. “What? I figured I’d dress for war.”

“That’s not war,” he mutters. “That’s betrayal.”

“Bold of you to assume I was ever on your side.”

“Oh, you’ll be begging to switch sides once you see how bad you are.”

He tosses you the glove. You catch it with a bit too much flair, which only makes his eyes narrow. “Don’t embarrass me out here, rookie.”

“Who said I’m here for you, Giants boy?”

He rolls his eyes, spins the bat once in his palm, and says it without thinking: “You’re lucky I like you.”

You freeze. He does, too. But then he’s already walking away, toward the pitcher’s mound, calling over his shoulder: “Let’s go, traitor.”

“You really weren’t kidding,” Seungmin says, watching you hold the bat like it personally offended you.

You blink at him. “I am holding it right.”

“No, you’re holding it like it’s a lightsaber.”

“Oh come on, like you wouldn’t join the rebellion.”

He groans. “Okay. That’s it. Give me your hands.”

You expect him to just point. Maybe mimic the movement. What you don’t expect is for him to step in behind you, one arm reaching around your waist, the other curling gently over your hand on the bat.

He’s right there. Not just close—there. You can feel the heat of his chest at your back, the steady rhythm of his breath brushing your temple. One of his hands lightly adjusts your fingers, the other—hesitating for just a second—guides your shoulder into place.

“This is… okay,” he mutters, voice lower now. “Hands stacked. Elbows up. And, um, feet—hold on—”

He shifts one of your feet with his, nudging the side of your sneaker. Your brain has officially stopped functioning. So has his. Because the second he realizes how small your hand is in his, how soft your skin is, how your hair smells like you, he’s absolutely panicking. On the inside. Outside, he’s keeping it together with a perfectly blank expression, but inside?

💥🔥🚨 INTERNAL MELTDOWN 🚨🔥💥

“Okay…” he murmurs, swallowing. “Now just… swing smooth. Like—wait, I’ll show you.”

He moves with you, hips ghosting behind yours, arms guiding your follow-through. His breath stutters just slightly when your back presses against his chest.

You say nothing, just glance over your shoulder—right into his face.

He’s already looking at you. Eyes soft. A little wide.

You’re both suddenly, violently aware of how close your mouths are. You shift a little. So does he.

“Seungmin,” you whisper.

He blinks, like snapping out of a spell. Steps back so fast he nearly stumbles. “You’ve—uh. Got the form now. You’re good.” He clears his throat. “Like. Fine. Whatever.”

You lower the bat, heart thudding. “Did I pass basic training?”

He won’t look at you. “Barely.”

But you catch the flush on his ears and narrow your eyes watching him as you twirl the bat lazily in your hands, pretending not to feel the way your pulse is still echoing in your throat.

Seungmin, meanwhile, looks like he’s trying to reformat his brain in real-time. His voice is flat when he says, “Alright. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

You square up again, wiggling your fingers dramatically. “I’m ready. Let’s go.”

He snorts. “You look like you’re about to summon a Pokémon.”

“Don’t mock me, Coach Kim.”

“Then stop acting like I dragged you here against your will. You volunteered for this.”

“I volunteered to learn,” you shoot back. “Not to be emotionally violated in the form of public athletic humiliation.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Big words for someone who’s about to miss five pitches in a row.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

He jogs to the mound and lines up. You catch him biting the inside of his cheek as he stares you down like he’s trying really hard not to smile. Or combust.

He throws an underhand toss. You swing.

Miss.

“Okay, that one was a practice round—”

“Sure it was.”

“Again!”

Second toss. Swing.

Air.

He blinks. “You might be the worst person I’ve ever seen hold a bat.”

“Say that again and I’ll throw it at you.”

“You’d miss.”

You glare. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

The words fly out before you can stop them. His entire face glitches. “Sorry—what?” he calls, hand cupped to his ear, pure evil in his grin. “Didn’t hear that.”

“I said you’re rude!”

“Not what it sounded like—”

“Just pitch, Giants boy!!”

He throws another. You hit the ball this time, barely. It rolls weakly toward the pitcher’s mound. Seungmin watches it. Then looks back at you, utterly unimpressed. “That was so sad I think the bat cried.”

“Shut up—”

You charge him. You don’t mean to. But the embarrassment burns so bad, you sprint forward to hit him with the glove—just once—just enough to wipe the smug look off his stupid beautiful face.

He dodges. Barely. Grabs your wrist before you can swing again. And you both freeze. Your chest heaves. His fingers are around your wrist light but firm. You’re closer than you thought you’d get.

Again.

“You’re kind of a menace,” he murmurs.

You raise an eyebrow. “You like it.”

He doesn’t let go. “Maybe I do.”

And suddenly it’s not a joke anymore. It’s that moment again. Too close. Too quiet. Too something. But this time, you’re the one who pulls back first. “Still hate the Giants,” you say, tossing your glove up and catching it again, acting cool. “And your pitch sucks.”

He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “You’re gonna regret saying that.”

“Oh, I already do.”

“Alright, traitor. Bat up. Let’s go again.”

You plant your feet. Raise the bat. Narrow your eyes like you’re staring down a final boss.

Seungmin is unimpressed. “You look like a gremlin trying to lift Thor’s hammer.”

You flip him off with one hand. “Shut it.”

“Not even in the ballpark of intimidating.”

“That’s funny, coming from someone who looks like he skipped leg day for the past four years.”

“Excuse me?” he gasps, hand to chest like you mortally wounded him. “You take that back.”

“Make me.”

He blinks. Then smirks. “Okay.”

He pitches. You swing. You spin in a full 360 and almost fall over.

“OH MY GOD,” Seungmin shouts from the mound, cackling. “YOU SPUN LIKE A BEYBLADE—”

“I slipped!!”

“You whiffed the air like it owed you money!!”

You glare at him as you steady yourself. “You’re such an asshole.”

“Correction: I’m the only reason you haven’t knocked yourself unconscious with that bat.”

“I could knock you unconscious.”

He shrugs. “Try it. I’ll add it to your record of great achievements in failure.”

You make a face. “Wow. You really flirt like this, huh?”

That shuts him up. Only for a second.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he deadpans, walking toward you with a smirk he absolutely did not earn. “This is how I treat all my hopeless causes.”

“Excuse me!?”

“I mean—at this point, we’re not even training. We’re surviving.”

You toss the bat at him. He catches it one-handed, casually. “Unbelievable,” he mutters. “You’ve got the coordination of a baby deer.”

“Do not bring Bambi into this.”

He points the bat at you. “Bambi could out-swing you.”

“Seungmin.”

“I’m just saying—”

You run at him. He yelps, full squeaky scream, and takes off around the bases. You chase him halfway to third before giving up, winded, doubled over from laughing too hard.

He walks back, smug and victorious. “That’s the most cardio you’ve done all year.”

“Shut up, I’m gonna puke.”

“Should I write that on your jersey?”

You flip him off again. He just grins. And—god help you—so do you. But then, even as you are panting, you reach over and snatch the bat out of his hands, staring him down. “I wanna try again.”

Seungmin raises an eyebrow. “You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Even after what just happened?”

You glare. “That doesn’t count.”

He walks a slow circle around you, chin in hand like a judgmental game show host. “Mm. I don’t know. Pretty sure we all witnessed it.”

You point the bat at him. “Seungmin.”

He smirks. “Fine. Try again. For the fans.”

You scowl. “I hate you.”

“You love me,” he sings.

You roll your eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t launch into orbit. He lobs the ball underhand. You swing. Miss. Again.

You turn to him slowly. “Okay. That was—warm up.”

He looks absolutely pained. “I thought you had your warm up.”

You stomp your foot. “Let me go again!!”

Another toss. Another miss.

“You’re… honestly…” he squints, lips twitching, “...kind of iconic for how bad this is.”

You drop the bat to your side, shoulders slumping. “I swear I’m trying,” you say dramatically, pouting. “This is humiliating. I feel like a clown.”

“You’re not a clown,” he says gently.

You blink.

“You’re the whole circus.”

“SEUNGMIN!”

He laughs, hands on his knees, nearly doubled over. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry—I just—your face!!”

You try to tackle him again but your limbs are too weak from giggling, and he easily sidesteps you.

“You’re evil,” you mutter.

“I’m honest.”

“You’re the worst.”

“I’m your best friend.”

And that, somehow, is the worst part. Because it’s true. Because he is. And you’re still standing there, clutching the bat like it might protect you from how warm he makes you feel.

He steps closer.

You raise your chin. “Fine. One more try. And if I miss again, I’m going home.”

He squints. “Swear?”

You nod solemnly. “Swear.”

He holds out a pinky. You stare. “Dead serious,” he says. “Baseball oath.”

You roll your eyes but loop your pinky around his anyway. “Baseball oath.”

He lets go of your pinky slowly, like it’s something delicate before speaking again. “Alright,” Seungmin says, backing up to the mound. “One more.”

You take a breath. Square your shoulders. Raise the bat.

He watches you with this half-soft, half-smug look on his face—like he’s proud and exasperated at the same time. “Don’t close your eyes this time,” he calls.

“I didn’t—”

“You did, like, two swings ago. Fully flinched like I threw a grenade.”

You grip the bat tighter. “Swear to god, if I hit this, I’m aiming for your face.”

He grins. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone’s tried.”

He throws the ball. You swing.

CRACK.

The ball flies. Not far, not pretty—but far enough to count.

You gasp. “OH MY GOD—”

Your body spins with the motion—off-balance, dizzy with adrenaline—and suddenly your foot catches on the dirt. You're stumbling. Tilting sideways. Falling. But Seungmin’s already running. He catches you around the waist just before you hit the ground, arms wrapped tight, pulling you up into him with a soft thud.

Chest to chest. Breathless. Too close.

You blink up at him. He’s already looking at you. His hands still on your waist. Yours braced against his chest. You can feel his heart hammering.

“I—” you start, but the words get tangled in the heat between you.

His gaze drops to your lips. Yours do the same. And without thinking—without meaning to—you lean in. Just a little. Just enough. And so does he. Your lips brush. Barely. A whisper of a kiss. A blink, a breath—then gone.

You both freeze. Wide-eyed. Neither of you moves. The sun dips a little lower. The air goes still.

You open your mouth. He lets go like he’s been burned. “Uh—y-you… you hit the ball,” he says, stumbling a step back. His voice cracks. “That was—good. I mean—you almost died, but still.”

Your cheeks burn. “Thanks, I think?”

He’s staring anywhere but at you. The bleachers, the sky, the base behind you.

You rub the back of your neck, trying not to combust. “So. Um. Did that count as first base, or—?”

Seungmin chokes on nothing. “WHAT—”

You burst into laughter, face hot, adrenaline still buzzing.

He glares. “You’re so annoying.”

“Let’s—uh,” Seungmin suddenly says, way too quickly, clearing his throat like he’s resetting his entire internal system. “One more round. For the road.”

You blink. “Training’s not over?”

“Oh, it should be,” he mutters, turning toward the mound again. “But you’ve still got the hand-eye coordination of a brick.”

“Excuse me—”

He doesn’t respond. Just throws you the ball. You catch it with a little too much force. “You better run,” you warn, winding up.

“I dare you.”

You throw it high and off-center—he still catches it, of course, just to rub it in.

You play for a few more minutes, not really focused on skill anymore. Just tossing the ball, swinging half-heartedly, talking smack. But every time your hands brush as he passes the bat back to you… you both feel it.

The static. The shift.

At one point, you lean forward to scoop a ball from the grass, and when you stand up, he’s right behind you. Not close-close, but… enough. You glance at him. He looks at you.

And nothing happens. And everything does.

Eventually, he claps his hands. “Alright. That’s enough public humiliation for you.”

You sigh dramatically. “Thank god. My dignity was hanging by a thread.”

He hums. “You had dignity?”

You throw the glove at him. He catches it one-handed again like he’s showing off on purpose. You both walk over to the bleachers. The air is cooler now, the sky smeared in amber and pink. You sit a step above him, knees drawn up, chin resting on them.

He tosses you a water bottle without looking.

You catch it. “Thanks.”

A beat of silence.

Then he says, voice low, “You hit the ball. That counts as a win.”

You glance at him. He’s not facing you, just staring out at the field, tapping his knuckles lightly on the step between his knees.

You smile. “Even if I almost ate dirt?”

He huffs. “Especially then.”

Another beat.

You sip your water. He rakes a hand through his hair. The silence is comfortable, almost. Almost. Your leg bumps against his lightly. He doesn’t move.

“I still hate the Giants,” you murmur.

“Good,” he says, glancing sideways at you. “I need something to insult you for.”

You smirk. “Oh, just say you love me and go.”

He looks at you for real this time. And for a second, just a second it almost sounds like he will. But instead he says, “Nah. I’m keeping it in my back pocket for when you strike out in front of actual people.”

You shove his shoulder. He shoves back.

A breeze drifts by, lifting the edge of your shirt sleeve, brushing your forearms. The kind of breeze that says summer’s not over yet, but something else might be starting.

You lean back on your hands, stretch your legs out. “So what now?” you ask, half-lazy, half-curious.

Seungmin shrugs. “Dinner?”

“Are you buying?”

He scoffs. “You’re the one who demanded private lessons and then delivered the most tragic baseball performance in recorded history.”

You shoot him a look. “I hit the ball.”

“Barely. I’m not even sure it moved.”

You kick his shoe lightly. He kicks back, just enough to make you wobble a little on the bench. You nudge his knee with yours again—this time slower, intentional. It lingers. He doesn’t move away. Instead, he glances at you sideways. His tone is easy, almost amused when he says, “If we do dinner, you’re not wearing that cursed team shirt.”

You grin. “Make me.”

A small silence before Seungmin blinks once, then tilts his head. “Alright.”

And finally, he stands. Just like that. Casual. Unbothered. You stay seated, watching him dust dirt from his palms.

“You coming, rookie?” he calls over his shoulder. He’s already walking, the sun catching the edge of his hair, painting him in amber. “Or do I have to carry you?”

You roll your eyes, gather your things, and jog to catch up. You don’t bring it up—the near-kiss, the way he caught you, the way his fingers stayed a little too long. He doesn’t either. But when you fall into step beside him and your hands brush again and he doesn't pull away?

You know. He knows.

It’s not nothing anymore. It just isn’t everything yet. Not yet. But maybe soon.

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

[lovslixx]

🩸 ANNOUNCEMENT // A LINE IN BLOOD

Let’s talk. Not as creator to audience—but as person to person.

I love angst. I love intensity. I love stories that rip you apart, kiss your scars, and leave you asking if it was ever love or just hunger in disguise. That’s the kind of work I do. That’s the kind of pain I play with. I write dark fantasy—yes. I write supernatural seduction, primal devotion, obsession, madness, lust.

But even in fiction, there is a line. And that line is abuse.

Let me be crystal fucking clear: There is a difference between dark fantasy and romanticising harm.

I’ve been getting more asks lately that walk too close to the edge. Some cross it completely. Whether it’s intentional or not—

“They didn’t mean to” is not a love language. “He only realised after you flinched” is not heartbreak—it’s trauma.

You cannot slap a supernatural excuse on something and call it okay.

Just because they’re a vampire doesn’t mean they get to hurt you. Just because they’re your “mate” doesn’t mean you owe them your safety. Just because it’s fiction doesn’t mean it’s harmless.

Because here’s the reality—and it is real: Some of you have lived this. Some of you are living this. Some of you flinch in real life. Some of you still carry it in your bones.

And I will never write something that could make even one of you think,

“Maybe I deserved it.” “Maybe love means pain.”

NO.

You are not here to be broken and blamed. You are not here to suffer and call it devotion. And listen—because this is where it gets personal, I want to protect you. I WILL protect you. Even if I have to be the one to shake your shoulders and say: Wake up. This isn’t romance. This is a reality check.

If your partner yells at you, shames you, belittles you—leave. If they make you afraid, if you flinch when they raise a hand or a voice—leave. If they touch you in anger and say they didn’t mean to—run. And if you can’t run, if it’s hard or complicated or dangerous—Then let someone help you. Let me be someone who says: You deserve better. You deserve safe.

This space, this blog, this bloodlit universe? It’s built on lust and longing, sure. But it’s also built on love—the kind that doesn’t make you doubt if you’re worthy. I won’t romanticize what hurts you. I won’t dress up trauma and call it a fantasy. I won’t write what makes you forget your worth.

I’m not here to trigger you. I’m here to protect you.

Even if that means drawing the line in blood.

Angst is welcome. Abuse is not. Not in this empire. Not for clicks. Not in the name of “drama.” Not for reblogs, or comments. So if you’re here to be consumed in fiction—beautiful. But never confused.

You are not someone’s chew toy. You are not someone’s fantasy to brutalize. You are not built to flinch and call it fate.

I love you. All of you. I mean that. So let this post stand as both sword and shield. I see you. I got you. And I will protect you. And if I have to light the whole trope on fire to keep you safe, then pass me the match.

— Daku 💋🦇

p.s. tattoo artist!AU coming in later, it's in the works. FOOD FIRST! hydrate, eat, rest

[lovslixx]

📁 ASK D U M P 𓆩🩸𓆪 20 JUNE 2025

💉 TODAY'S ASK DUMP IS IN SESSION.

You sent offerings. I licked the envelope. Now your secrets live in my bloodstream.

Today’s spread is a banquet of biting, brat taming, creative meltdowns, psychic blood girls, cult curiosities, and vamps who do not play when you get grazed by another. Some of you want fluff. Some of you want fangs. Some of you want to be rearranged like furniture.

Either way, you’re getting fed. So kneel. Let’s begin.

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

🌹💚 ANONS LOGGED: “does your vampire universe come with bonus ghosts or should we bring our own?”

To 💚anon and 🌹anon (because you asked similarly the same question so i decided to answer in one ask)—welcome, welcome, you’ve come to the right place. Let’s open the floorboards, sharpen the ritual knives, and talk about the supernatural landscape of the vampire!SKZ universe.

⸺⟡⸺

🕯️DO OTHER BEINGS EXIST IN THIS UNIVERSE?

YES. YES. GOD, YES. The vampire world is just the beginning. This universe is bigger, older, and infinitely stranger than anyone knows. You’ve got:

Witches (of course): not wand-waving Disney types—real, bone-deep witches who specialize in blood contracts, dream walking, resurrection spells, scent-binding, and veilcraft. Some are born, some are made. Most keep to hidden covens or disguise themselves in plain sight.

Shifters: Wolves, crows, serpents, and others bound to ancient pacts. Most are wildborn, tethered to territory and nature. Some work alongside vampire houses. Some are hunted.

Fae: Rare. Terrifying. Beautiful in that you’ll-never-leave-the-woods-again kind of way. Vampires don’t trust them. Fae magic doesn’t follow vampire laws—it rewrites them.

Oracles: Human-born, often unstable, marked by prophecy and plagued by visions. Vampires call them “Thread-Touched.” Their blood is dangerous—sometimes fatal, sometimes divine.

Demons: Not horns and hellfire—think contracts, echoes, bargains. Most live between realms. Some possess. Some inhabit. They know the old vampire families by name.

Ghosts, revenants, and dream-stalkers: The veil between life and death? Thin. And the vampire world is constantly poking it.

👁️WHAT IF THE BLOOD DOLL IS "IN TUNE"?

Oh baby. If the blood doll is an empath… or worse, a sleeper oracle? Someone who dreams of shadows that aren’t glamour-induced, sees things no one else sees, draws sigils and faces from another plane??

The boys lose their goddamn minds.

🩸HOW VAMPIRE!SKZ REACT:

Bang Chan He knows you're not normal. He saw it in your scent the first time. When you whisper a warning that turns out to be true—when you draw a sigil you’ve never learned—he gets quiet. He locks your blood samples in a vault. Has the coven run tests. Has Nocte Labs flag your name in red. And when you say “something’s coming”? He believes you. He prepares for war.

Minho He watches. Doesn't speak on it. But every time you start muttering about shadows at 3am, he sets salt around the bed. One night you wake up sobbing from a dream and find a knife under your pillow. He won’t explain it. He just says:

“Next time, stab first.”

Changbin Immediately starts cataloguing your symptoms like a case study—until he realizes your “delusions” are predictions. He starts dreaming when he drinks from you. Nightmares. You see them too. He won’t say it, but he’s scared. And in awe. And so, so protective now.

Hyunjin You're haunted. He knows. So is he. He draws the things you mutter in your sleep. Sketches them into whole murals. Sometimes your hands move at the same time. Sometimes your eyes go blank and he whispers, “tell me what you see.”

Jisung He jokes at first. “My baby’s got a ghost friend.” But when the glamours stop working on you he goes silent. He builds you a dreamcatcher from obsidian and bone. You hang it. The dreams get louder.

Felix Felix has seen these beings before. The shadows in your dreams? He met them. He ran from them. When you speak their names in your sleep, he clutches your wrist and says, “Don’t say it again. Even here.”

Seungmin He reads every book on empathic blood types, oracular trauma, and veil disturbances. He logs your episodes. He treats you like a rare artefact… but never lets you feel like a freak.

“If something’s coming, I’d rather face it next to you than blind.”

Jeongin You scare him at first. Not because he thinks you’re evil—because you feel like a mirror. You whisper things he’s never told anyone. You write things he hasn’t lived yet. And he tells you, gently: “I think we’re the same kind of wrong.”

⸺⟡⸺

💚🌹Anons—you opened the gates. Will I do a deep dive into these mythical beings? Who knows. Not any time soon that's for sure.

Thank you for the ask lovelies. stay hydrated in this heat 💋🦇

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

🌀 COLLIN-THEGREAT LOGGED: “what if I topped a vampire but he was actually just letting me think I topped a vampire?”

OKAY COLLIN-THEGREAT—first of all?? You had me at “unstable human who loves a little mind fuck” because THAT IS THE ENERGY WE RUN ON HERE. 🩸💦🧠 Second of all?? YOU WANT DOMMIE BLOOD DOLL Y/N??? You want to flip the script on the apex predators??? You want to tug a vampire’s leash and see who moans first???

LET’S GO.

⚠️ warnings: 18+ MINOR DNI, smut, dom/sub dynamics, mild bondage, primal themes, blood kink (vampire lore), possessiveness. all consensual. all feral.

⸺⟡⸺

💋WHAT HAPPENS WHEN Y/N TRIES TO TAKE CONTROL DURING SEX (vampire!SKZ edition)

🩸 Bang Chan

You straddle him. You lean in close. You whisper, “Tonight, I’m calling the shots.”

He smiles. Slow. Lazy. Deadly. “Okay, sweetheart. Let’s see how long you last.”

Let you think you’re in control for five minutes flat. He’s watching. Studying. You tie his wrists? He’ll stay still—until you slip. He’ll grind up into you just once, and suddenly your rhythm’s his, your orgasm’s right there, and his voice is in your ear saying: “Control isn’t about who’s on top. It’s about who breaks first. Wanna try again?”

Subby? Never. Let you pretend? Oh, absolutely. Secretly obsessed with your dominance streak? Completely. Will use it to destroy you later? 100%.

🩸 Lee Minho

You pull him by the collar of his shirt. You try to pin his wrists. You want to see the predator submit.

He laughs.

“Darling. You want to top a vampire built to break bones?”

But when you command him? When you look him dead in the eyes and say, “On your knees”—he goes still. He kneels. Slowly. But not because he’s yours.

Because he wants to see what kind of god you think you are. And then he'll worship you. Worship you wrong.

“I’ll obey. But don’t beg for mercy when you forget who you’re riding.”

🩸 Seo Changbin

You tell him you’re setting the pace tonight.

He leans back. Smirks. Spreads his thighs. “Go on then. Do your worst.”

He lives for it. You being greedy? Desperate? Riding his cock? Grinding over his abs with your hands on his chest?? YES.

He won’t stop you. But he will tease you relentlessly.

“This what you wanted, baby? You look so cute when you’re trying to be in charge.” “You wanna use me? Go ahead. Just remember who’s gonna flip you over when you’re done.”

A+ for enthusiastic consent and ruinous comebacks.

🩸 Hwang Hyunjin

You tie him down. Tell him not to move. Not to bite. Not to speak.

He moans.

He wants to be wrecked. He wants to be worshipped. He wants to look up at you, flushed and trembling, saying “Is this what you wanted?” But make no mistake—if you falter even once, he’ll snap the restraints with his teeth and flip you so fast your lungs forget how to work.

“You wanted a pet, didn’t you?… But pets bite, darling.”

🩸 Han Jisung

He’s SO INTO IT. He’ll let you sit on his face. He’ll moan under you. He’ll beg to taste you. To fuck you.

But the second you think you’re fully in control? He flips you with a laugh and pins you to the mattress like a fucking wrestler.

“You were doing so good, baby. But now it’s my turn.”

🩸 Lee Felix

You straddle him. Tell him to lie still. Keep his hands off. You trail your fingers over his chest and whisper, “You're mine tonight.”

And he just smiles. Bright. Sweet. Like he’s never done anything wrong in his life.

“Okay, baby. Tell me what to do.”

But something in his voice clicks. Something in his eyes says, this is a trap. He lets you use him—grind on him, ride him, take what you need—and he moans like he’s thankful for it.

But when you come undone? When your pace falters, when your thighs shake, when your breath catches? His hands suddenly grip your hips. Hard. And he whispers against your throat: “My turn.”

🩸 Kim Seungmin

He lets you think you’ve won. You’re grinding on him. Whimpering in his lap. Telling him to shut up and be good.

He’s quiet. Watching. And then he says, low and deadly: “You think I’m obedient just because I don’t speak?”

He’ll give you exactly what you want—until it’s no longer what you need. Then it’s over. He’ll flip the script, flip you, and you’ll be begging him to finish what you started.

Seungmin is dangerous when provoked. Loves the illusion of surrender.

🩸 Yang Jeongin

At first, he blushes when you take control. He lets you pin him. Lets you ride. Lets you whisper filth in his ear.

But the second he catches the scent of your slick and your heartbeat stutters—Something in him breaks open. His eyes go sharp. His smile goes slow. Too slow. You see the fangs—just barely peeking. And then he tilts his head and says: “You wanna be in charge?… Then take it, baby. Before I do.”

It is at that moment, you realize you’ve awakened something, and it’s not stopping. He doesn’t flip you. He lets you stay on top—lets you think it’s still yours—while he drags moans from your chest and wrecks you from underneath with lethal sweetness.

“Told you I could be good... But it’s so much more fun when I’m not.”

⸺⟡⸺

YOU’RE WELCOME. STAY HORNY. STAY DELIRIOUS. AND NEVER TRUST A SUBMISSIVE VAMPIRE. 🥀

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

🍓 ANON LOGGED: “currently one intrusive thought away from sobbing… can Chan hug me and tsundere Lino call me annoying in a loving way?”

AWW ANON 😭💖 come here. First of all: YOU’RE SO LOVED. Second: I am absolutely giving you both soft Chan and tsundere Minho. You deserve fluff so powerful it wraps around your anxiety like a blanket fresh out the dryer.

⸺⟡⸺

Bang Chan

You’re overwhelmed. Your chest feels too tight. The world’s too loud. Everything’s shaking—maybe even your hands.

And then he finds you. Doesn’t say anything at first. Just drops to his knees in front of you. Takes your hands in his, thumbs brushing the inside of your wrists, grounding you.

“Hey, hey… I got you. You’re okay. Just breathe, alright?”

He pulls you into his lap. Wraps his arms around your back. Rocks you—slow and steady, like you’re the only rhythm he knows. His hoodie smells like vanilla and something warm, and his heartbeat is so steady it calms your own.

“It's okay. I am here. I'm staying. Let me hold you, take it all out. I'll listen.”

When you finally look up, there are no questions in his eyes. Just that soft, half-smile—the one he saves for when he’s proud of you. And he presses a kiss to your forehead like he’s sealing you back together.

Lee Minho

You try to hide how bad it is. Of course you do. Minho notices immediately.

“Why are you making that face?”

“I’m fine.”

“That’s what people say when they’re definitely not.”

You try to laugh it off. He glares at you. Mutters something under his breath. Storms out of the room.

You think you scared him off.

Then he comes back.

With your favourite snack. Your cosiest blanket. A little heat pack that smells faintly of lavender. And he throws it all down next to you on the bed like he’s annoyed with it—then sighs and sits beside you, cross-legged and arms folded.

“I’m not good at this, okay?”

“But you don’t have to act happy around me. Just be you. Even if you’re sad. I’ll deal with it.”

His hand finds yours and he squeezes gently. You lean on his shoulder. He doesn't move. Doesn’t flinch. Just sits there quietly, letting you cry if you need to, while the show in the background on the tv plays and the soft glow of the screen washes over both of you.

⸺⟡⸺

🥹 I hope this helps even a little bit. 💌 Sending you soft hoodie hugs and forehead kisses

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

🐈 ANON LOGGED: “what if someone even thinks about touching her—do they die fast or slow?”

OH 🐈ANON. YOU WANT TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENS WHEN SOME mortal fool lays even a finger on the blood doll that belongs to the most dangerous vampire syndicate alive? You want to know what happens when someone thinks they can just graze her wrist or breathe too close like she isn’t marked, claimed, and watched from every shadow?

OH, BABY. Let me show you what unholy wrath looks like.

⸺⟡⸺

🩸 WHAT VAMPIRE!SKZ DO WHEN SOMEONE CROSSES THE LINE WITH HER (even a little)

Bang Chan The second it happens—before you even flinch—Chan has already seen it. He doesn't raise his voice. Doesn't even move fast. He just walks over calmly and says: “You touched what’s mine.”

And then it’s over.

The offender doesn’t even scream—Chan has them on the ground, one hand around their throat, other hand drenched in blood. When he looks up at you after?

“You okay, sweetheart?” “...No one touches you but me. Ever.”

He’ll carry you home. Soothe your nerves. And the next morning, that person’s name is wiped off every database like they never existed.

Lee Minho He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t speak. He simply walks over—slow, graceful, terrifying.

And with a soft, elegant voice: “Did you mean to do that? Or should I remove your hands just in case?”

You blink. And suddenly the person’s arm is dislocated, shattered from the inside. He brushes your shoulder off with his fingers like the touch contaminated you.

Then he leans in close to you and whispers: “I’d never let anyone defile you. You’re sacred to me.”

Seo Changbin He’s already halfway to feral. The second someone touches you? He’s between you and them with a low growl in his chest.

“Move. Move right now before I tear you open and we find out how long it takes your organs to shut down.”

He grabs your hand, checks your pulse, kisses your wrist gently to soothe the adrenaline and then turns back around with murder in his eyes.

“You ever even look at her again, you won't live to see the next sunrise.”

Hwang Hyunjin At first, he looks heartbroken. Shocked. Eyes wide. Staring at your arm like it’s bruised even though it’s not.

Then?

He loses it. He’s laughing while dragging the offender to their knees. His voice is shaking—from rage, not fear.

“You touched a masterpiece with dirty hands. How do you plan to pay for that, huh?”

He makes them apologize. Not to him—to you. And only after you nod does he finally let go. Still twitching. Still high on fury.

Then turns to you like nothing happened and whispers: “You’re okay now, angel. I’ve got you.”

Han Jisung No one even sees him move. One second he’s joking by the bar, the next he’s got a blade to someone’s gut, smiling like a lunatic.

“Oh my godddd, you actually touched her? Do you want your fingers back, or should I gift wrap them?”

He’s laughing. You’re shaking. He shoves the offender back and wipes your skin clean with a silk handkerchief, mumbling: “So fucking lucky I don’t blackmail your entire bloodline.”

Later, when you’re curled up next to him, he still can’t let it go. “You smell like them. Hate it. Let me fix it.” And he does. With his mouth. With his hands. With vengeance.

Lee Felix Oh. Oh, no. See, Felix doesn’t rage. He darkens. He gets quiet. Still. Voice low enough to make your spine shiver.

“She’s not for touching.”

And then? He grabs the offender by the face—gently—and drives them into the wall. He doesn't even bite them until after the screaming starts.

When he turns back, he’s smiling like he didn’t just crack someone’s skull or bleed them dry.

“You okay, love? Want me to carry you out of here?”

His hands shake later. Not from fear—from how close he was to going too far. He presses his forehead to yours and whispers: “They won’t ever try again.”

Kim Seungmin He doesn’t get violent—he gets lethal. He walks up to the offender, smiles politely, and says: “You have five seconds to apologize. And then you’re going to walk out that door. If you don’t?… Well. Let’s just say I’ve already texted someone who’d enjoy what happens next.”

He’s not bluffing. You feel his hand on your lower back, guiding you gently behind him. His whole body is taut with controlled rage.

Later, he looks at you and murmurs: “You don’t need to be scared. Not when I’m here.”

And you believe him. Yang Jeongin He didn’t mean to go feral. He didn’t even know it would happen. But when someone brushed your wrist—just once—his vision went red. Suddenly the offender’s pinned against a wall, and Jeongin is growling like something ancient took over. “You don’t touch her. You don’t even look at her.” He doesn’t hear you calling his name until you touch his shoulder. He blinks. Comes back to himself. Sees you. “...Did they hurt you?” “No?” “Good. Because I was about to make them disappear.”

⸺⟡⸺

🐈 anon — thank you for this DELICIOUS ask. You always come crawling out of the shadows with exactly the kind of feral brainrot I crave. Never stop. Inbox is always open for you 🦇💋

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

© ANON LOGGED: “reader in their hoodie vs. reader taking a hit for them—who do you think makes them go more feral?”

LET’S GO, © ANON!! You're asking for maximum emotional damage and soft vampire chaos in one ask??? BRILLIANT. ✨🩸

⸺⟡⸺

🩸 HOW VAMPIRE!SKZ REACT TO:

YOU TAKING A HIT FOR THEM

&

YOU WEARING THEIR FAVORITE HOODIE

Bang Chan

You take a hit for him: He snaps. Instant blood rage. You go down and the world tilts. He doesn’t stop until every threat is ash and silver. When he finally turns to you, hands shaking, voice raw—

“Why the hell would you do that?” “You’re not supposed to bleed for me. That’s my job.”

Carries you home. Cleans your wounds himself. Sleeps on the floor by your bed just in case.

You wear his hoodie: GONE. It’s over for him. You’re walking around the house in his faded hoodie, sleeves too long, scent clinging to you?

“You’re trying to kill me, huh?” “You’re lucky I like the view.”

Pulls you into his lap and buries his nose in your neck like it’s his last inhale.

Lee Minho

You take a hit for him: He doesn’t react at first. Too stunned. Then? The silence breaks.

“You idiot.” “You absolute reckless, infuriating—beautiful idiot.”

He presses a kiss to your temple while stitching you up, jaw clenched so hard it aches. The next person who even thinks of hurting you will never be found.

You wear his hoodie: He pretends not to care. “Tch. Looks better on me.” But when you curl up next to him in it and fall asleep? He tugs the hood up over your head gently and whispers, “You can keep it.” You hear the softest “mine” as he wraps an arm around your waist.

Seo Changbin

You take a hit for him: Immediate panic. His whole world narrows to you. He’s already applying pressure to the wound while growling through fangs.

“No no no—don’t you ever do that again. You hear me?” “I’d burn the world for you, don’t you dare take that from me.”

He won’t stop checking on you every five minutes for a week.

You wear his hoodie: He just STARES. Brain static. Bloodlust and heart-eyes. “You wearing that to tease me, or am I supposed to believe you just happened to pick that hoodie?” Traps you against the wall in it. Kisses you like it’s a thank-you and a threat.

Hwang Hyunjin

You take a hit for him: He screams. Not because you’re bleeding—but because he knows that was meant for him. Falls to his knees beside you, whispering your name like a prayer, like a curse.

“I’d rather die than watch you hurt for me.”

Later, he paints your hand wrapped in gauze. Keeps the image framed in his studio. Never forgets it.

You wear his hoodie: He stares. Eyes wide. Breath caught. “You… you look like a dream.” Walks up slowly. Runs a hand through your hair. Then kisses you like he’s been waiting centuries just to see you that soft.

Han Jisung

You take a hit for him: Breaks on the spot. Like actual tears. Tries to laugh it off—“That was dramatic of you, babe…”—but he’s shaking.

“Don’t ever do that again. Promise me. Please. I’d never recover.”

Sleeps curled around you for nights after. Doesn't say anything—just listens to your heartbeat like it's proof you're still here.

You wear his hoodie: He melts. Literally collapses on the floor like you just shot him. “You have ten seconds to take that off or I’m going to do things to you. Violently. Affectionately.” Takes a thousand photos of you in it. His lockscreen? Yeah, it's you in the hoodie, biting your lip and laughing.

Lee Felix

You take a hit for him: He goes silent. Dead silent. Eyes pitch black. Expression unreadable. And then he absolutely destroys whoever laid a hand on you. Later? He curls around you on the couch, cheek against your thigh, whispering—

“You’re everything to me. You don’t get to risk that.”

You find out later he tore through half the underground that night. Silently. Efficiently. For you.

You wear his hoodie: He just stares. Whispers, “You’re so fucking cute… I can’t take it.” Wraps his arms around you from behind and tugs the hood over your head. Sinks his fangs into your neck slowly, like he’s claiming the whole moment.

Kim Seungmin

You take a hit for him: He gets dangerously quiet. Blood on your skin = red in his vision. Doesn't even stop to threaten anyone—just eliminates the threat and rushes to you.

“You stupid, reckless angel. You didn’t need to do that.”

He patches you up. Kisses your hand. Spends hours researching how to prevent it from ever happening again.

You wear his hoodie: He lifts an eyebrow. “Is that my limited edition hoodie you just stole?” You shrug. He sighs—then presses a kiss to your forehead and lets it go. Until the next morning, when he’s wrapped you in three more hoodies because: “You get cold. Don’t argue.”

Yang Jeongin

You take a hit for him: SNAPS. He didn’t know he could go that feral that fast. The scream you let out? The sound of your pain? It broke something inside him. “No one touches you. Not even for me.” Afterwards, he holds you for hours. Refuses to let go. Cries into your shoulder.

You wear his hoodie: His heart literally stops. “You’re wearing that in front of me? With those eyes? On purpose???” He pulls the hood up himself. Tugs you into his lap. Whispers against your neck, “You’re mine. Hoodie and all.”

⸺⟡⸺

✨ © Anon, you asked for feelings and vampires and you got a whole damn emotional buffet. Thank you for feeding the inbox and always bringing great brainrot 🦇💋

⚠️ warnings: 18+ MINOR DNI, explicit sexual content, dom/sub dynamics, brat-taming, bloodplay, vampire rituals, rough sex, threesome (Minho x reader x Jisung), fangs, possessiveness, overstimulation, and mind-melting praise/degradation. viewer discretion is deliciously advised.

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

🐹 ANON LOGGED: “my freak brain said ‘minsung threesome with a brat’ and i haven’t known peace since.” 🐹 ANON LOGGED (pt. 2): “what if i scratched him too hard and he liked it. what if i drew blood. what if i…”

YES YES YESSSSS 🐹 ANON IS OFFICIALLY LOCKED IN. Welcome to the rodent of desire cult—may your freak brain never be silenced and your aftercare always include my filth 💋💉

Let’s break this into your two glorious asks:

⸺⟡⸺

1. 🐹 MINSUNG THREESOME WITH A BRAT!READER??

Minho – Your Boyfriend, Your Soft-Ruiner

He’s been thinking about it. Not because he isn’t satisfied—but because you’re such a mouthy little brat and he knows exactly who could help him shut you up.

He brings it up casually: “What would you do if I invited Jisung over next time you act out?”

And you laugh. Roll your eyes. Tease him. But he sees the flicker in your expression. You want it.

Jisung is thrilled when Minho finally asks. Grinning like a devil in a hoodie.

“You sure? You can handle both of us?” “Ohhh, brat’s gonna cry, huh? Can't wait.”

🔥 The Dynamic:

Minho = Precision. Cold control. The leash-holder.

Jisung = Whiplash chaos. Praise and degradation in the same breath.

You sass them once? Jisung’s laughing as he bends you over, Minho’s hand wrapped around your throat from behind.

You moan too loud? Minho leans in and says: “What did we say about being greedy?”

You bite Jisung? He just groans and says: “She’s in that mood again, hyung. You gonna let her get away with that?”

They coordinate. One holds. One fucks. One teases. One praises. They switch. They ruin. You are overstimulated, overstimulated, overstimulated.

The brat in you? Humbled. But also a little smug when you wake up wrecked and they’re both passed out next to you like they’ve been drained dry.

“So… when’s round two?”

2. 🩸 Vampire!SKZ: You Draw Blood on Them

(injesting blood was answered here but let's expand on the you draw blood on them! 💅)

Bang Chan

You scratch him across the chest during sex—not deep, but enough for blood to bead.

He stills immediately. Looks down. Then at you. “Do you know what that means?”

Not angry. Not scared. Focused.

To draw blood from him is to challenge him. Claim him. Cross the line between prey and partner. He lets it happen—but next time, he holds your hands down. Kisses your pulse and murmurs, “If you draw from me again, sweetheart… you better be ready to bleed too.”

Lee Minho

You drag your nails down his back. He hisses through his teeth, but doesn’t stop. After? He looks in the mirror. Sees it. Smiles, slow and dangerous.

“You marked me... So I’m marking you next.”

You wake up with a bite above your heart and a sigil drawn on your thigh in dark red ink—his blood mixed with something older.

“Equal exchange. That’s how blood works. Next time? Ask first.”

Seo Changbin

You scratch his shoulder during sex—barely a break in the skin, but it glistens red.

He goes dead silent. Stares at it. Then at you.

“Do you know how rare it is for someone to make me bleed?”

You expect him to get mad. Instead, he grabs your hand, kisses your knuckles, then grinds into you harder than before.

“Guess I’ll let it slide... But only because it’s you.”

Hwang Hyunjin

Your bite catches the underside of his jaw—sharp, messy, and intentional.

He gasps. Not from pain. From delight. His hand cradles your neck like he’s holding a masterpiece. Blood trickles down his collarbone and he lets it stain the sheets.

After, he kisses your pretty lips. “Do it again next time. Leave your teeth. Leave your passion.”

You’re his favourite kind of chaos now.

Han Jisung

You scratch his side during a particularly bratty moment. He yelps. For show. Then looks down, sees the blood, and his eyes go wide.

“You made me BLEED? Babe. Babe. You wounded me.”

He milks it. Clutches his chest. Calls you a violent little kitten. But you see the glint in his eye.

“You’re so lucky that was hot.”

He absolutely retaliates. Gives you matching claw marks on your thighs the next time.

Lee Felix

You claw at his chest while you're on top. It’s instinct. Raw. Thoughtless. You see blood. You freeze. He tilts his head, looks down, then up at you—expression unreadable.

“Careful, love. My blood’s not like yours.”

He doesn’t punish you. But he changes after that. Slower. Darker. Makes you look at the mark. Makes you understand the weight of what you’ve done.

“Next time you draw blood… make sure you’re ready to carry it.”

Kim Seungmin

You're riding him. Being a little bold. A little bratty. So you dig your nails into his chest—hard enough to draw blood.

At first? He doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t warn you. Just looks up at you—expression flat. Controlled. Dangerous.

“Did you just break skin?”

You slow. Try to gauge him. Then he exhales slowly, voice calm like ice sliding into a vein.

“You wanted attention? You’ve got it now.”

He grips your hips—tight. Bruising. Thrusts up once—deep—until you gasp. Until the control is completely his again.

“My blood isn’t yours to take. Not without permission. You don’t get to mark me unless I say so.”

He doesn’t stop fucking you. But when he’s done, the blood’s still drying on his chest—and you’re limp, wrecked, unable to look away.

“Next time you want to be bold, sweetheart… use your words. Not your claws.”

Yang Jeongin

You’re on top, whining, grinding, moaning like you own him. You claw at his chest—nails scraping, a flash of red blooming beneath your fingers.

He flinches. Not from pain. From something worse. Still beneath you, still letting you move—But his pupils blow wide. He is smiling, fangs in full view.

“You really just made me bleed?”

He grabs your wrists. Rolls you under him like it’s nothing. Like you weigh less than thought. “You wanna play rough? You want the part of me that’s not safe?”

His hips grind into you slow. Blood slick on your fingertips. His hands shaking with restraint.

“Okay, baby. Let’s see how long you last when the monster gets to play too.”

He doesn’t let go. Not until he’s sure you understand that drawing blood from him means you don’t get the sweet version anymore.

⸺⟡⸺

🐹 I hope this is what your bloodlusty little rodent brain needed. Thank you for the brainrot. Thank you for the asks. Keep sinning. I’m always here to catch it 🦇💋

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

🧃 ANON LOGGED: “do they ever lose control? like… mid-bite oopsie-daisy blood frenzy??”

YES YESSS nougatjade!! First of all — thank you SO much for reading and sending this delicious question 💌 Second — your English is perfectly clear and beautiful, please never apologize 💕

Now, to answer your question

⸺⟡⸺

🩸 DO VAMPIRE!SKZ EVER LOSE CONTROL WHILE BITING?

Short answer: No. Because if they do… you die.

🧬 Rule #1: Feeding is Sacred, Regulated, and Extremely Dangerous.

Vampire bites aren't just fangs and fun — they involve:

A neurochemical toxin that paralyzes and pleasures the human

Precise blood extraction, regulated by the vampire's own internal clock

A bonding effect that starts forming at first contact

For most vampires — especially Abnormals — biting is like holding a loaded gun to your throat while trying to make you come.

🧠 Losing control = fatal consequences.

If a vampire drinks too much:

Blood pressure crashes

Organ shutdown begins

Neural shock hits (pleasure receptors get fried)

You faint or fall into a coma-like trance

And worst case? Siring begins by accident (Which means: your body dies, your brain melts, and unless the full ritual is completed, you rot from the inside).

They can’t afford to lose control. Ever.

🔥 That said… they get close.

They bite too deep.

Their hunger spikes.

You moan a certain way and they almost forget themselves.

But they always catch it in time. They were trained. Conditioned. Obsessed with control (Especially Chan, Minho, and Seungmin — they would rather die than harm you).

🩸 Example: You faint mid-bite.

They panic.

Immediately stop.

Wrap you in blankets, pace the room, whisper apologies over and over.

“I took too much. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. You trusted me.”

You wake up in their arms. Shivering. And they treat you like you’re made of porcelain for days.

✨ In Summary:

Do they lose control? No. Do they skirt the edge of it while fucking you mid-bite, trembling from the effort not to drain you dry? Absolutely.

That’s what makes it hot.

⸺⟡⸺

nougatjade — thank you SO much for this bloody delicious ask 🩸💕 . Your English was perfect, your curiosity was hotter, and you're always welcome in my inbox anytime. Come back soon. I’ll have the fangs ready 💋🦇

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

🫦 sheerfreesia007 LOGGED: “help i’m blocked and horny and want Seungmin to rail the motivation back into me.”

OH YES SHEERFREESIA007!!! You have summoned the “blocked & needy” writing demon support group, and SKZ is READY TO HELP.

⚠️ warnings: 18+ MINOR DNI, explicit sexual content, dom/sub dynamics, overstimulation, orgasm denial, oral fixation, power play, degradation/praise, soft doms & brat-taming, possessiveness, mental health (creative burnout), and motivational railing.

⸺⟡⸺

🧠 SKZ SPICY COMFORT WHEN YOU'RE CREATIVELY BLOCKED (aka how they rail you back into writer mode)

Kim Seungmin

You’re pacing, grumbling, deleting whole paragraphs, near tears. He walks in, glances at your screen, tilts his head.

“Still blocked? Hm.”

You don’t even have time to sass him—he’s already grabbing your jaw and kissing you slow, calculated, like he’s studying your syntax through your tongue.

And then?

He bends you over the desk.

“Words failing you? That’s okay. You won’t need them while I’m fucking the tension out of you.”

When he’s done—messy, breathless, satisfied—he kisses the back of your neck, tucks a blanket around you, and mutters: “Now. Write. Or I’ll make you earn your next orgasm.”

You write 2k words in one sitting.

Lee Minho

He sees you staring at your WIP like it personally offended you.

“That bad, huh?”

You glare. He smirks.

“Fine. Let’s reset your brain.”

He drags you to bed. Makes you beg for it. Denies you three times. Then fucks you slow—controlled, like each thrust is correcting your pacing problems.

“There. That’s what good rhythm feels like.”

After? He cuddles you, kisses your temple, and whispers: “Now sit down and make that scene bleed.”

Han Jisung

You’re whining. Keyboard untouched. Brain offline.

He crawls into your lap. “Wanna write, baby? Need help?”

Drags to bed and makes you ride him while he's whispering scene ideas in your ear. Gasps out metaphors between moans.

“What if… the villain’s betrayal is actually… mmfuck… emotional projection?”

By the end, you're overstimulated and somehow have a full outline voice-recorded on his phone.

“Look at you—so smart, so talented. I’m gonna cry.”

Seo Changbin

You’re spiraling. So he pulls you off the chair, onto his lap. “You’ve been pushing too hard. Let me handle you for a bit.”

One hand on your throat. One arm locking you in place. He fucks you deep while whispering: “You’re brilliant. Every line you write drips power. You just forgot for a second.”

After, he runs you a bath, makes you tea, sits beside you until you open your laptop again.

And when you do?

“There’s my girl.”

Lee Felix

You’re stressed. Slumped. Sighing into your keyboard. He walks in wearing nothing but grey sweats and a soft smirk.

“I could let you write… Or I could make you forget your name first.”

He goes down on you like he’s praying. Smiles into your thighs. Whispers praise between every kiss.

“You’re the most creative person I know. Let me remind you what it feels like to flow.”

You black out. Wake up to 3k words and a very smug Felix spooning you.

Bang Chan

You’re stuck. Blocked. Frustrated.

He pulls you into his lap and says: “I’ll give you ten minutes. Write something. Anything. If you don’t—I’m putting you on your knees.”

You fail.

And he makes good on the threat. On the floor. Hands in your hair. Filthy words in your ear.

Then? He lifts you, lays you out, and fucks you slow with his forehead pressed to yours.

“You’re not blocked, baby. You’re scared. So let me remind you who the fuck you are.”

Hwang Hyunjin

You say you’re blocked. He doesn’t answer. Just kisses you soft. Then hard. Then on your knees.

He fucks you on the balcony. Says it’s so the night air can “clear your head.”

And when you collapse in a dazed mess, thighs shaking? He whispers: “Write about this. Start with the part where you begged.”

Yang Jeongin

You sigh. Say you’ll never finish anything again. He closes your laptop. Walks you to the bedroom. Doesn’t say a word. Until you’re naked, whining, pinned beneath him—and he murmurs: “Say it again. Say you’re not capable. I want to hear it while you’re shaking.”

You can’t. Because his fingers are inside you, and your mind is gone.

Later? He sets your laptop on your lap and says: “Now write. Or I’ll drag you back in and start over.”

⸺⟡⸺

To my precious SheerFreesia007 — First of all: thank you for the ask, the trust, and the chaos. Second: I see you, blocked but brimming with ideas, frustrated but still showing up. That matters. That counts. And I promise, the words will come back. Whether it’s through plot mapping, porn, or pure delulu—you’ve got this. Now go get ruined & write like you mean it 😌💌✒️

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

🥟 ANON LOGGED: “so what if i accidentally joined a vampire cult because curiosity and now i belong to him forever. asking for a friend.”

👀 oh… oh this is scrumptious. too curious for their own good? reader poking their nose into their territory like “what’s this weird vampire cult??” everyone else: don’t look them in the eyes. don’t say his name. don’t walk past the blood-gate at twilight. reader: “what’s the blood-gate? 😇”

and Hyunjin??? as the one they warned you about??? the aesthetic alone is spine-tingling: veiled altars, crimson veined marble, art hanging crooked in gold frames, ink-stained hands lifting your chin like: “Curiosity is the first step to surrender. And you… were born for devotion.”

YES. I love this. I’m taking it. I’m eating it.

⸺⟡⸺

MINI SNIPPET

They said it in whispers. Behind closed doors. Scribbled in the back of grimoires and scrawled over flyers that kept reappearing no matter how often the town burned them.

You looked anyway.

And now you’re here. Knees bruised on velvet-stained stone. The air thick with incense and something older. Older than history. Older than sin. The cultists don’t speak—don’t need to. Their eyes glow like dying embers in the candlelight. Watching.

But you only see him.

Hyunjin.

Cloaked in black silk robes, hair tied back with a blood-red ribbon, the edges of his mouth stained dark with something that might be wine. Or might be you.

He moves like mist—like temptation incarnate—until he’s standing above you, gaze low, fingers hooked under your chin.

"Curiosity," he murmurs, voice like a velvet knife. "That’s what brought you here? You followed the whispers like thread. Like a moth."

He tilts your chin higher. "Then burn, little moth."

You should run. You want to run. But your knees won't move. You're not sure if it's fear or want. Or if he's already taken that choice from you.

The other cultists are chanting now. Something in a tongue your body understands but your brain doesn’t. Your skin feels hot. Your mouth dry.

“You wanted answers,” Hyunjin breathes, kneeling in front of you. “But I don’t offer truth. Only transformation. Let me ruin you beautifully.”

⸺⟡⸺

To 🥟 anon — thank you for crawling out of the crypt with this juicy offering. You were so right to ask. Don’t be a stranger. Come back soon. The cult remembers you 💋🦇

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

🦭 ANON LOGGED: “I got flustered reading Han's /)(\ and now I live here I guess”

OF COURSE YOU CAN BE 🦭 ANON!!! welcome to the vampire crypt and tattoo shop hellhole, population: us <3 🖤

your message made me kick my lil feet for real—thank you sm for reading, for enjoying the lore and the horny chaos, and for dropping by with this sweetness.

more tattoo boys, more vampire rituals, and more feral thirst posts are always brewing. so get comfy, grab a bite (or let them take one), and keep that inbox energy strong. ILY 🫀🩸

you’re amazing. yes, you. can’t wait to see what reactions you have to what’s coming next… 🦇💋

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

If you made it to the end of this unholy archive of brat blood, cult confessions, vamp violence, and Seungmin dick-down therapy—

🩸 congrats. you're no longer human. 🩸 your soul? barcoded. 🩸 your cravings? irreversible. 🩸 your fate? sealed in fangmarks.

🦷 This is not fiction. This is infection. Thank you for bleeding with me. Come back twitching 💋🦇

[lovslixx]

MAYBE, BABY

Tattoo Artist!Yang Jeongin x Reader | Clean lines. Dirty talk. No strings. Lies.

🔞synopsis: Tattoo Artist AU. What started as a no-strings-attached hookup with your tattoo artist turns into something much messier—and much more intoxicating. You only wanted a rib tattoo. He only wanted a night. But from the moment Jeongin drags his fingers across your skin like he’s signing his name, the lines start to blur. And you let him. Again and again. Until something shifts. What was supposed to be a fuck-only situationship turns into something terrifyingly close to love.

💌a/n: I have no fucking idea how long this thing is. I blacked out while I was writing and organising the Ask Dump. I present to you a full-course meal with a side of feelings and a kiss on the forehead?? If you made it to the end, congratulations. You now have an Innie-sized corruption kink and a severe attachment issue. You’re welcome. Enjoy??? IDK??? I’m too far gone to process anything except the words “say my name again.” p.s. reblog if this fic ruined you. I wanna know who survived and who ascended. p.p.s. added my Spotify + Apple Music links on my pinned, just saying 😗 p.p.p.s. no strings, my ass. You’re mine now.

⚠️ warnings: NSFW / 18+ ONLY — DEADASS | MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. GO TO BED | Unprotected sex (wrap it irl) | Oral sex (m & f receiving) | Fingering, spit play | Face sitting, thigh riding | Degradation kink (light) | Praise kink (heavy) | Possessiveness / “mine” kink | Bratty teasing, power play | Multiple orgasms, overstimulation | Breathless, sweaty, studio sex | Aftercare (eventually… Jeongin learns) | Lowkey romantic shift under the filth | Explicit language | “No strings” turning into: oops, we’re emotionally attached now | ✨ Tattoo shop + apartment sex ✨

📌 Please read responsibly. Hydrate. Stretch. Ice your thighs.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » Stay Tonight — CHUNG HA « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:37 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

Jeongin was the youngest artist at NO SAINT INK.

When Chan opened the studio—an industrial-meets-artsy little corner spot on the edge of Itaewon—Jeongin was still a baby, barely legal, and fresh out of a back-alley apprenticeship that nearly made him quit the industry altogether. His lines were good back then. His hands were steady. But it wasn’t until Chan saw the sketchbook he kept buried in the bottom of his bag—spine cracked, filled with anatomy studies, linework so fine it looked like thread—that he offered him a space.

Not a job. A future.

“You’ve got hands like a ghost and an eye like a scalpel,” Chan had said, flipping through the pages with the kind of quiet approval Jeongin would chase for years after. “Let’s make you sharp.”

So he stayed.

Became Chan’s apprentice first—studied under him like a monk, learned symmetry, balance, the rules before he broke them. But Chan was a generalist, and Jeongin was greedy. He wanted more than just solid lines. So he floated—between Felix, who taught him piercings and dotwork with the same flirty chaos he used to charm every client in a five-block radius; Seungmin, who drilled design philosophy and made him redo stencils six times until the curves were perfect; Minho who didn’t teach. Not in words at least. Minho was instinct. He only took blackwork clients. His designs were architectural. Cold. Brutally beautiful. Jeongin watched him once sketch a full spine piece upside down without lifting the pencil. And Minho didn’t explain it—just nodded toward the chair and said, “Try it.” ; Hyunjin, who was chaos of a different breed. Rarity. Flash. Pure art. He lit up the room. He painted with colour, emotion, movement. He made skin weep and bloom. So Jeongin learned to feel. Not with his mouth. Not with his words. But through ink. Through hands; And finally—Jisung. The wildcard. He made Jeongin rewrite every script piece by hand—no fonts, no tracing, no stabilizers. Taught him how to letter like a poet on a deadline. Drilled gradient theory into his skull until he could shade a full moon from memory. He also got him drunk exactly once.

But, Jeongin absorbed all of that information. He rarely spoke unless it mattered. Didn’t flirt, didn’t joke. Just worked. Clean ink, smooth lines, deceptively delicate work that always left clients breathless by the time he wiped them down.

And that made him dangerous.

Clients came in expecting the sweet-faced boy in black gloves to be safe. But he wasn’t. He didn’t smile. He didn’t talk. But he saw. He looked through you with those fox-sharp eyes and touched you like he already knew what would make you shiver.

He wasn’t even your artist.

But you asked for him anyway. Over and over again.

And honestly? You didn’t expect to find anyone like Jeongin in a place like NO SAINT INK. You were a digital artist—head designer at a massive marketing firm in Seoul, the kind of job that paid well but chewed through your soul one brand guide at a time. Long hours. Clean lines. Corporate clients who wanted “authentic grunge” and then asked you to make it “less aggressive.”

You came to the shop for the first time six months ago. It was raining. You still remember the way the neon buzzed through the window, warped by the fog. You’d booked the session weeks ago, and if you bailed now, you’d never go through with it.

The piece was for your sister.

Delicate—inked across the side of your ribs. A fine line moth with wings shaped like her initials, its body drawn from her favorite pressed flower. You designed it yourself. Could’ve gone to anyone to ink it. But Felix—who you’d met at a gallery party once—told you to book with the youngest.

“Jeongin’s got the hands for it,” he said. “Real gentle. Real quiet. Real clean.”

And he was.

He barely said five words the whole session. Just pressed the stencil into place, gloved up, and looked at you once—soft and serious—before asking, “Can I touch here?”

That was all.

But when the needle buzzed to life and his hand steadied on your ribs, something cracked open in your chest.

He didn’t talk. He didn’t flirt. But his touch was so steady. So precise. You tipped your head back. Exhaled. And something in you settled. You didn’t think of him again until a month later—when your hand brushed the moth in the mirror, and you remembered how warm his palm had been against your skin. You booked again. And again.

You weren’t looking for anyone. Least of all him. But something… clicked.

Maybe it was the way he watched you when he thought you weren’t looking. Or the way his gloves lingered a little too long during placement. Or the fact that he remembered your preferred ink tone without asking.

You didn’t flirt. Not at first. But that changed the night you showed up just before closing—allegedly to “ask about a touch-up,” but really, you were just bored and restless and wanted to see him.

The tension snapped before either of you said much.

He was the last one cleaning up. You were the last one out the door. The shop lights were already half-dimmed when he finally looked at you across the counter and said: “You’ve been staring at my hands all week. Just ask.”

You didn’t ask. You just kissed him.

That was the first time. The second time, he pulled your panties off with his teeth. The third time, you were already naked by the time he locked the door.

Your current dynamic? No rules. No titles.

Just fucked-up timing and bad habits and “this doesn’t mean anything” muttered between gasps. You swore it wasn’t serious. You weren’t stupid. Jeongin was a fuckboy—quiet, calculating, the kind who didn’t do commitment but did make you scream into his sheets like it was your religion.

“Friends with benefits,” you called it once.

He snorted. “We’re not friends.”

That stung a little. But you let it go.

You told him once, arms still trembling from orgasm, voice flat:

“You’re just easy to fuck.”

He didn’t miss a beat. Just wiped his hand on the sheets and replied: “You’re easy to keep fucking.”

Fair enough.

But then he started looking at you differently. Staying longer. Not reaching for his phone. Brushing hair from your eyes like it mattered. And you? You haven’t slept with anyone else in weeks. Not since the last time he kissed your throat after, then said—barely audible—

“You smell like ink.”

Like it was a compliment. Like it meant something. Like you meant something.

Seoul, South Korea. Tuesday, 2:41 AM.

It started with a text.

Technically, it started with a drunk sketch at 2:41 a.m. on a Tuesday and a half-eaten tub of mint chocolate ice cream balancing precariously on your thigh. But the text came after—blurry photo, minimal explanation.

[YOU]: [image attached] [YOU]: thinking of putting this behind my ear. or on my hip. thoughts?

You didn’t expect him to reply right away. He never did. Jeongin had a habit of leaving you on read, sometimes for hours, sometimes until you forgot what you’d even sent. He only ever texted back when it mattered.

But this time, he answered in six minutes.

[JEONGIN]: Hip. [JEONGIN]: Bring the original sketch. I’ll clean it up. [JEONGIN]: You free Friday night?

You stared at the screen. Blinked. Then typed:

[YOU]: Yeah. I can come.

He didn’t respond after that. Of course he didn’t. Classic Jeongin. Always just enough. Always just under your skin.

The design was something you’d drawn weeks ago without realizing what it was for—a feather, sharp and broken at the tip, its spine twisting into barbed wire that coiled once before vanishing into smoke. It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t meant to be.

You’d doodled it while zoning out during a strategy meeting about a toothpaste rebrand. But when you looked at it later—really looked—you realized what it was: grief, rebellion, exhaustion. A tattoo for survival. A promise inked in blade and burn.

You hadn’t told anyone else about it. Not even your coworkers. Not even your therapist.

But you sent it to Jeongin. Because you knew—knew—he’d get it. Not just the aesthetic. The weight.

You didn’t need him to ask what it meant. You needed him to take one look and say where. You needed him to act like it already belonged on you.

And he did.

Friday, 9:00 PM.

You’re standing outside NO SAINT INK, hood up, hands stuffed in your jacket pockets, trying not to fidget. The shop’s sign glows dull red in the rain—flickering slightly like always—and the front is dark, already closed to the public.

But Jeongin’s still inside.

You know, because he buzzed you in five minutes ago with a single-word reply:

[JEONGIN]: Door’s open.

Not hey. Not come in. Just… open.

That’s how he is.

You push through the door. The familiar scent hits you first—clean metal, warm ink, faded cologne. The space is dim, soft playlist humming low through the speakers.

Jeongin’s still working. Alone.

He’s at his corner desk, black hoodie sleeves pushed up, sketchpad in front of him, pen tapping silently against his lip. Jaw set. The light above him halos his head like something cinematic—sharp shadows, gleaming ink bottle.

He doesn’t look up when you walk in.

Doesn’t say anything either.

Just flicks a glance your way as you approach, then turns the sketchbook toward you.

It’s your design. Redrawn. Sharper. Cleaner. But still yours.

He’s added fine line smoke along the base, twisted the barbed wire tighter, bled the feather edge into a fragmented wing. It’s heartbreak. It’s rebellion. It’s right.

“You didn’t say where on your hip,” he murmurs finally. “Show me.”

Just that. No hello. No how’ve you been. Just show me.

With a quiet exhale, you step out of your sneakers, slide your thumbs into the waistband of your jeans, and peel them down slow. The denim sticks slightly from the rain, catching at your thighs before finally falling to the floor. You kick them aside. You’re left in a long tee and a pair of black panties, the thin lace riding high on your hipbone.

Jeongin doesn’t comment.

He never does.

But his gaze drops.

Not in a gross way. Not even obviously. Just… that half-second sweep he always does—eyes dipping to skin, breath slowing, jaw flexing once like he’s cataloguing the exact shape of you for later.

You swallow. Your voice comes out quieter than you expect.

“Here,” you say, brushing your fingers along the curve where your waist narrows into your hip. “I want the feather to sit right above the bone. Barbed wire trailing low.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just stands, gloves already on, stencil in one hand. He moves like he’s done this a thousand times. Like you’re just another canvas.

But when he steps into your space and kneels to your level—face suddenly inches from your bare hip—your lungs forget how to work.

“Don’t move,” he says, and his voice is low. Focused. The same tone he uses when he’s mid-linework. When he’s inside you.

You still.

His hands are warm even through the gloves. He smooths the skin once—just once—with a barely-there touch, and then carefully presses the stencil into place. It’s cool against your skin. Wet with transfer gel. His fingers trail after it, holding it down, checking placement.

You feel his breath before you hear it.

He’s close. So fucking close. One exhale and his mouth could be on your thigh.

“You sure about this?” he asks, voice quiet now, more smoke than sound. “Once it’s on you, it’s permanent.”

You know he’s not talking about the ink.

You don’t answer.

Instead, you glance down—and Jeongin is still crouched in front of you, one hand on your hip, the other brushing the edge of your thigh like he’s testing the gravity between you.

He looks up.

You meet his eyes.

And that’s when it snaps.

Because the silence between you has never been empty. It’s always been a loaded gun. And now, standing half-naked in the soft hum of NO SAINT INK, it finally fires.

Jeongin rises without warning—slow, fluid, eyes never leaving yours.

“You’ve been thinking about it,” he says, voice low and even. “This exact moment.”

You blink. “What moment?”

He tilts his head, steps closer, so close you feel the heat off his chest.

“The one where I press you against this chair and make you forget what you came in for.”

You breathe in. Sharp. Shaky.

He smirks, just barely. “But you came in for the tattoo. Right?”

You nod.

“Then sit.”

He turns—walks back to his tray like you didn’t just melt a little under his stare. Like he didn’t just say that shit and leave your brain scattered like ash.

He pulls the stool over, checks the stencil one last time, preps the needle—buzzing low now, hungry in the quiet.

“Underwear stays,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. “But pull the side up for me. High.”

You do as he says.

The chair’s cold. Your thighs are bare. Your panties cut high over your hip now, nearly indecent. But Jeongin doesn’t touch you yet. He just kneels again—level with the stencil—and studies it. His hand smooths along the edge, careful.

Then his voice, soft and dark: “Try not to shake too much.”

And then the needle kisses your skin.

“Fuck,” you hiss through your teeth, hands gripping the chair’s armrests like it might help. It doesn’t.

Jeongin doesn’t look up. “Too much?” he asks mildly, like you’re inconveniencing him by reacting to literal pain.

You glare down at him. “It’s a needle in my hip, Jeongin.”

He hums—an amused little sound low in his throat. “You’ve taken worse.”

Your breath catches. “Excuse me?”

He finally glances up. Eyes dark. Unbothered. That faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth like he knows exactly what he's doing to you.

“You heard me.”

You grit your teeth, refusing to squirm—even though the sensation is starting to blur now, sharp heat ebbing into something deeper. The rhythm of the machine. The drag of his gloved fingers. The low thrum of tension that has nothing to do with pain.

“You’re an asshole,” you mutter.

“Mm. But I make pretty things,” he says, gaze dipping back to your skin. “Stay still. You twitch and I’ll have to fix it.”

You mutter something under your breath.

He glances up again. “What was that?”

“I said—” You inhale through the sting. “You’re lucky your dick game is unreal.”

Jeongin’s laugh is barely audible, just a huff of air through his nose. But the way his hand slows for a beat at your words? You feel that.

“Oh?” he murmurs, adjusting the angle, fingers spreading slightly against your hip to stretch the skin. His touch is professional. Barely. “Is that why you keep coming back?”

You scoff. “Please. I keep coming back for your artistry.”

“Right,” he deadpans. “Not because you came all over my tongue in this chair two weeks ago.”

Your stomach flips.

“You’re disgusting,” you whisper.

He leans in—just enough to make you feel his breath again, warm across your skin.

“You’re the one who begged.”

“Jeongin—”

“Begged,” he repeats, eyes flicking up, daring you to deny it. “With your thighs around my head.”

You do squirm now, fingers gripping the chair harder, breath shaky.

He smiles. Just a little.

“Thought so.”

Another line starts, slower this time—agonizing in the way it presses in deep, steady, confident. You hate that it’s turning you on. He’s too close. The buzz of the needle is too low. His voice, when he speaks again, curls up your spine like smoke.

“What’s it say about you,” he murmurs, “that you’d let a fuckboy mark you this many times?”

You narrow your eyes, forcing a breath. “What’s it say about you,” you whisper, “that you keep memorizing every place you’ve touched me?”

He doesn’t answer.

But you see it. That flicker in his eyes. That shift behind the usual quiet. He does remember.

And then he says—calm, quiet, almost cruel: “Stay still, baby.”

And fuck—you do. You have to. Because if you move now, you’ll either ruin the line—

—or climb into his lap.

And you’re not sure which would be worse.

He works in silence after that. Not the kind that feels cold or distant—but sharp. Loaded. The kind that listens. Every brush of his glove against your skin is surgical. Every pause is precise. Every inhale from your side? Noted.

You swear he’s dragging the needle slower on purpose.

“I can feel you smirking,” you mutter.

“Am not.”

“You’re such a dick when you tattoo.”

Jeongin’s mouth twitches—just slightly, just enough to confirm what you already know. He is smirking.

But all he says is, “You’re squirming.”

“Because you’re being annoying.”

“Because you’re wet.”

Your mouth drops open.

“Fuck you—”

He tilts his head innocently, like he didn’t just say that with the same tone someone might comment on the weather.

“You get like this every time I ink your hips.”

“That is not—”

“Every time.”

He lifts the needle for a moment, wiping gently—grazing your skin with a motion so tender it makes you shiver.

“Remember that piece on your inner thigh?” he asks, like he’s recalling the weather again. “Took longer than it should’ve because you wouldn’t stop clenching.”

You bite down a moan. “That’s because you breathed on me, Jeongin.”

“And you begged for a break halfway through.”

“I needed water—”

“You needed a dick.”

Your hand flies out and slaps his arm.

He doesn’t even flinch. Just laughs under his breath—wicked, warm, devastating. Still not looking at you. Still focused on the curve he’s finishing.

“You’re evil,” you whisper.

He hums. “Maybe.”

Another pause. Another wipe.

You think the worst is over—until he speaks again.

“Why’d you ask for me this time?” he says suddenly, soft. “Not your usual spot. Not your usual style.”

Your throat tightens. “Yeah,” you say.

He doesn’t ask why. Just keeps going—needle buzzing like a wasp in the quiet. But then—because maybe he does want to know, just not directly—he asks, “You never said what this one’s about.”

You hesitate.

He wipes gently. Adjusts his grip.

And this time, when you speak, your voice is quieter. Flat. “Drew it by accident.”

He pauses. Looks up. Not fully. Just enough that you catch the flick of his eyes.

You go on. “During a rebrand pitch. I was half-listening, just doodling. Didn’t even realize what it was until later.”

He stills the machine and wipes

again—more slowly this time. Then leans back just enough to glance at the stencil he’d reworked from your sketch. Your pain. His hands. It looks exactly like what you were afraid to say out loud.

“You added the rest.” you murmur.

He nods.

“It’s better.”

“It’s honest,” he says. “Didn’t want to pretty it up.”

“Thank you.”

A beat.

Then he leans in again, steadier this time. “Ready?”

You nod.

He starts again and goes silent. But not for long as he then parts his lips to talk again. “What does it mean to you?”

You swallow. Then: “Grief. Rage. The part of me that stayed after everything else gave up.”

He exhales slowly. Not surprised. Just—understanding. “You draw like someone trying to survive,” he murmurs.

You huff a laugh. “You tattoo like someone who already died.”

Jeongin chuckles—just once. Quiet. Dark. “Maybe I did,” he says.

Silence again. But not cold. Just… full. And then—without lifting the machine, still tracing ink into your skin—he adds: “I redrew it three times before it felt right. I didn’t want to fuck it up.”

You turn your head. “You never fuck it up.”

“I could.”

“You won’t.”

He doesn’t answer. But you see the flicker in his expression—something unspoken and sharp and vulnerable. The kind of thing you both ignore because naming it would make it real.

The needle hums again. His other hand steadies you with the barest pressure.

“Stay still,” he murmurs. “Almost done.”

Before you know it, he's done and for a second, there’s only silence. Then the soft rattle of his tray—tools settling, gloves flexing, the gentle hush of something opening. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t say done or look at that or any of the things other artists might say.

He just sets the machine down with care and shifts back on his stool, gaze flicking over your skin with a craftsman’s intensity.

Then—quieter than before: “Go look.”

You blink. “What?”

“The mirror.” He gestures with a tilt of his chin toward the full-length mirror across the room. “Go see it.”

You hesitate—your thigh prickling with heat, the skin raw and new—but then slowly rise from the chair.

He doesn’t watch you walk. Not exactly. But he feels you go.

You stand in front of the mirror, eyes tracing over the tattoo. Your idea. His craft. You stare at it—at you—for longer than you mean to. Behind you, Jeongin moves again. You hear the snap of fresh gloves, the squirt of antiseptic, the fold of paper towels. Then—

“You like it?”

You nod. Still watching your own reflection.

He walks over slowly, crouches behind you again—this time not kneeling to tattoo, but to clean. The disinfectant is cold. His touch is not. You flinch anyway.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “Stings a little.”

You exhale. “It’s fine.”

He works quietly—wiping carefully, checking for any sign of irritation, scanning the lines with a gaze that misses nothing. Then he grabs the wrap and tape from the tray and starts dressing the tattoo, pressing the edges down gently.

“You’ll need to keep it clean,” he says. “No tight pants. No soaking. I’ll send you the aftercare again.”

You glance at him in the mirror. “You think I’ve forgotten?”

He lifts a brow. “You think I trust you?”

You smirk. “Fair.”

The tape seals into place with a soft press. His palm lingers on your thigh a beat too long.

Then—

“There,” he murmurs.

You look down. The tattoo is covered, secure, safe.

But the tension is not. Neither of you move. His hand is still on your skin. And in the mirror—you catch it: His eyes, locked on you. Not the tattoo. Not the wrap.

You.

That same look he gave you the first time you fucked against the wall of this shop. The look he had when you said you didn’t want anything serious. When he nodded like it didn’t matter—and then kissed you like it did.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move.

Just stares at you like he’s trying to decide if now is the moment—if this is the time he finally stops pretending that you’re just another client, another warm body, another convenient fuck.

Your breath tightens.

And then he speaks low and even: “Say it.”

You swallow. “Say what?”

He tilts his head, fingers flexing just slightly against your skin. “Whatever excuse you’re about to make to leave.”

You flinch. Not visibly, but enough that he feels it—because his hand slides higher. Not inappropriate. Not quite. Just enough to remind you of every time before. His fingers warm against the edge of your hip. Just under the hem of your crooked panties.

You meet his gaze in the mirror. And whisper, “I wasn’t gonna leave.”

A pause.

Then: “Good.”

His hand flattens, slow, spreading possessive heat across your thigh. His voice stays soft—never louder than the buzz of your heart in your ears.

“‘Cause you came here for more than a tattoo.”

You don’t argue. You can’t. Because he’s right. And he knows it—because his mouth brushes just behind your knee, a featherlight kiss that shouldn’t be as devastating as it is. Then another. Higher.

“You always come back,” he murmurs, lips grazing up the inside of your thigh. “Even when you say you won’t.”

Your eyes flutter closed. “Jeongin—”

“I waited,” he says, almost to himself now. “Thought maybe this time you’d ask for someone else. Felix. Seungmin. Minho.”

You shiver. “I didn’t.”

“I know.”

He stands. Rises slowly—like a shadow overtaking light— and moves behind, close enough that his chest is against your back, and his breath fans against your ear. His hand stays where it is, gripping the meat of your thigh. But his other hand—oh, it trails up. Over your ribs. Your waist. Until his thumb drags under your bra strap.

His lips hover at your neck. “And I told myself this was the last time.”

You can’t breathe.

“But you walked in wearing that little smirk,” he says, voice darker now, rougher, “and sat in my chair like you knew I’d ruin you again.”

You glance at his reflection. His pupils are blown wide. His jaw tight.

“You think I did this on purpose?” you whisper.

His smile is sharp. “Didn’t you?”

You don’t get a chance to answer. Because his mouth is on your neck in the next second—hot, open, biting just enough to make your knees weaken.

“You said no strings,” he mutters against your skin. “But you let me draw on you like I’m signing my name.”

You gasp.

And then—his hand slides up, past your tattoo, past the tape, until his palm cradles your lower belly.

His fingers splay. Possessive. Intentional.

Like he’s reminding you where else he’s touched. Where else he plans to.

“Still no strings, baby?” he whispers. “Even now?”

You don’t answer. Instead, your turn around to face him, lips crashing onto his. Hungry. Needy. He groans into your mouth—low and wrecked—like he’s been starving for this, for you. Like he’s been holding himself back since the second you walked in, cocky little smirk and all, asking for him again. Like every time you said “no strings,” it sliced just a little deeper.

His hands are on you instantly—one gripping your waist, the other fisting into your hair as he drags you closer, mouth devouring yours like he’s reclaiming territory he never really lost.

Your fingers claw at his shirt, dragging it up, desperate to feel skin. He helps—yanking it over his head in one sharp motion and tossing it somewhere behind him. You don’t even get a second to admire the view before he’s on you again, teeth grazing your bottom lip, hips pinning you against the counter.

“Tell me to stop,” he mutters, breath hot against your cheek.

You don’t.

You grab his jaw instead, kiss him harder—tongue, teeth, everything.

And that’s all he needs.

He lifts you onto the edge of the sink like you weigh nothing. The mirror rattles behind you, your thighs parting as he steps in close, his fingers already dragging your panties aside.

But he pauses—because of course he does. Jeongin, for all his unhinged quiet-boy energy, never forgets to check. His thumb presses gently against your inner thigh. His mouth brushes yours.

“May I?” he whispers.

You nod—shaking, desperate, soaked.

But he waits.

“Words,” he breathes. “Give me words, baby.”

“Yes,” you gasp. “God, yes, Jeongin—please—”

He growls, low and filthy, and drops to his knees like a man worshipping something he’s already ruined. Because that’s what you are now. Ruined.

Jeongin's hand grips your thigh—tight, possessive—spreading you wider as his mouth descends like a death sentence. The first lick is slow, deliberate, a warning shot. Just the flat of his tongue dragging through your folds, gathering every ounce of heat you’ve been soaking in since the stencil hit your skin.

Then—he moans.

Like it tastes as good as he remembered. Like he missed it. Like he fucking needs it.

You choke on a gasp, hips jolting—only to be slammed back down by the firm pressure of his palm.

“Stay still,” he mutters, mouth grazing you as he speaks. “Wanna do this right.”

And then he devours you. Not sweet. Not gentle. Just—Jeongin. Filthy, focused, starved.

His tongue works you open with slow circles, sharp flicks, then a sudden seal of lips around your clit that makes your vision flash white. He’s quiet, but his mouth is chaos—sucking like he’s trying to pull your soul through your cunt, fingers digging into your thighs like he can feel the pulse from the inside.

You tangle your hands in his hair, back arching off the mirror behind you. “Jeongin—fuck—please—”

His grip tightens.

He hums, tongue stroking deeper, and the vibration nearly undoes you.

“You always beg so pretty,” he murmurs, voice muffled against you. “No strings, right? So let me ruin you.”

And ruin you, he does.

His pace shifts—knows the pattern that makes you shake, that makes your knees weak and your breath break in your throat. He works you like a song he’s played a thousand times. Like your body was made for his mouth.

And when he slips a finger in—then a second, slow and curling—you nearly sob. His fingers curl again—precise, relentless, stroking right where you need it. His mouth stays locked around your clit, tongue flicking in sync with every pump of his hand. Like he’s in your head. Like he knows exactly when you're about to fall over the edge and drags you back just to watch you tremble.

“Jeongin—” you gasp, voice breaking. Your thighs twitch around his shoulders, muscles drawn so tight you’re shaking. “Fuck, I’m—”

“Cum for me,” he breathes, lifting his mouth just long enough to say it—wet and ruined against your skin. “Come on, baby. Let me have it.”

And you do.

The tension snaps like wire—hot, vicious, absolute. It hits like a wave crashing through your core, stealing the breath from your lungs as you cry out. Your hands clutch at his hair, your back arches against the mirror, and your hips buck once—twice—before he locks you down again, tongue lapping through your orgasm like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted.

Your moans taper into a long whimper as he slows, soft licks now, gentle—comforting. His fingers slip free with a final curl that makes your whole body flinch. You sag against the glass behind you, boneless and wrecked, breath catching in your throat.

Jeongin rises slowly.

Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes heavy, lips swollen.

And smirking.

He cages you in with a hand on either side of the mirror—still fully dressed, still composed, like he didn’t just make you fall apart on a bathroom sink with the kind of head that ruins lives.

“You came so hard you almost forgot your name,” he says softly. “Want me to remind you?”

And you—your hand already at his belt—just grin. Weak. Wrecked. “Only if you use your mouth again.”

His mouth twitches at that—half smirk, half growl—and his hands drop to yours, guiding them as you undo his belt. The metal clinks through the quiet, obscene in how deliberate it sounds. You’re still trembling, your thighs sticky with the aftershock of what he just did—and he hasn’t even fucked you yet.

But you can feel how hard he is. Pressed against the fabric. Heat radiating between you. Dangerous.

“You sure?” he murmurs, breath hot against your cheek. “Because if I fuck you now, it’s not gonna be soft.”

You nod. “I don’t want soft.”

He laughs—dark and low—and kisses you again.

One hand fists in your hair while the other drags your panties down your legs. They drop to your ankle and stay there—forgotten, tangled.

He pulls his cock out—thick, flushed, already leaking—and runs it once through your folds. Slow. Teasing. He watches your face as he does it, watches your eyelids flutter and your lips part.

“You’re still shaking,” he murmurs.

“You’re still stalling,” you shoot back, voice ragged.

That earns you a sharp snap of his hips—just the tip breaching, making you gasp.

“Say it again,” he rasps.

“Fuck me, Jeongin.”

And that’s all it takes.

Jeongin thrusts in—deep, perfect, filthy. The stretch has you gasping, clawing at his back, your head tipping back against the mirror with a soft thud. He groans low in his throat like he’s the one unraveling—like you are the ruin he can’t stop coming back to.

You’re wet. Still fluttering from the orgasm he gave you. And he doesn’t give you a second to adjust. Just starts moving—deep and rough, hands gripping your hips like they’re his handles. Like he owns this moment.

“Still no strings?” he pants, voice cracking as he fucks into you.

You can’t answer. Only moan.

“Still just a fuckboy?” he grits out, dragging your hips forward, fucking deeper. “Even now?”

Your nails dig into his shoulder. You’re close again, already—tension building fast. Too fast. His thrusts get sharper. His forehead presses to yours, and when he speaks, it’s quiet. Desperate.

“Say my name when you cum,” he breathes. “I need to hear it. And you will cum. All over my cock.”

His words detonate something inside you.

You clench around him—so tight he groans, forehead falling to your shoulder for a split second before he snaps back up, hand fisting in your hair to keep you exactly where he wants you.

“Louder,” he pants. “Let them hear you. Let the whole fucking street hear how good I fuck you.”

And fuck, you do. You're moaning, gasping, whining his name like a prayer dragged through broken glass. Your hips grind to meet each thrust—sharp, fast, brutal—and the mirror shudders behind you, rattling with each slick impact.

He’s everywhere. His mouth is on your neck, biting, dragging bruises like signatures down your skin. He sucks just below your jaw—hard enough to make you whimper—and bites again. Possessive. Proud. Like he wants every inch of you marked.

“You’re mine right now,” he growls, breath hot against your pulse. “Every time you fuck someone else, you’re gonna feel this. Right here.”

He drives in, deep, angling his hips until your legs twitch around him.

“Feel that? That’s me. That’s how you’ll remember.”

Your mouth opens—maybe to sob, maybe to curse—and he doesn’t give you the chance. His thumb presses into your bottom lip, demanding, and your body obeys before your brain catches up—sucking it in, lips closing around the digit as your eyes flutter shut.

“Just like that,” he whispers. “So pretty like this. Fuck—don’t stop.”

His cock grinds deeper. Filthy. Perfect.

And then his hand moves—thumb slipping free, wet and shining, before he curls it beneath your jaw.

“Open,” he orders, voice hoarse.

You do.

He spits—hot and slow—straight into your mouth, watching with half-lidded eyes as it lands on your tongue.

Then he crashes his mouth into yours. Kisses you like he’s drowning. Like your mouth is the only thing keeping him alive. Tongue fucking, teeth clashing, breath shared like oxygen isn’t real unless it passes between you first.

The thrusts don’t stop. He fucks you through the kiss—fast, messy, ruthless.

You feel it building again. Pressure winding tighter. Ready to snap.

“Come on, baby,” he whispers against your lips. “Cum for me. Say my name.”

And this time, you scream it.

“Jeongin—fuck, Jeongin—”

Your body breaks. Wrung out on his cock, his mouth, his name. Everything shatters. Every nerve lights up. You cum so hard your vision blacks out, breath gone, hands shaking. You collapse forward, forehead pressed to his shoulder, chest heaving, body limp and twitching from the aftershocks.

But Jeongin doesn’t stop. Truly insatiable.

“Mm-mm,” Jeongin hums, low and cruelly sweet. His pace slows just enough to feel—deep, dragging thrusts that have you sobbing into his skin. “What, you thought that was it?”

His cock pulses inside you, thick and hot, still painfully hard.

“You’re shaking,” he coos, like he likes it. Like he’s proud of it. One hand smooths up your spine, mock-gentle, before he fists your hair again and tugs—just enough to tilt your head back.

“Look at me.”

You try. Barely. Your lashes flutter, lips parted and glazed with spit, wrecked in every sense of the word.

He groans—deep and hungry—at the sight.

“Fuck. You are pretty like this.”

Then his grip tightens, and he pulls out slow—just the head still inside—before snapping his hips forward again, hard enough to make your voice catch on a moan.

“I’m close,” he pants. “But you’re not gonna take it here.”

You blink. Confused. Barely able to string two thoughts together.

“Wha—”

He grins, eyes dark.

And then—he pulls out, dragging slick down your thigh as you whimper, empty and raw.

“On your knees,” he orders, already stroking himself, cock flushed and angry in his fist. “Mouth open.”

You slide down, dazed, trembling, ruined—but obedient. And Jeongin watches you drop like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted.

Eyes locked on yours. Jaw clenched. Chest heaving.

You kneel, wrecked and flushed, thighs still shaking—and he’s towering over you, fist tight around his cock, breath hissing through his teeth.

“Open,” he growls.

You do. Lips parted, tongue out. Wanton. Waiting. “Fuck—” he chokes, stroking faster now, his other hand gripping your jaw, thumb pressed just under your chin to keep you steady. “You look so good like this, baby. All mine."

He laughs, breathless—half-mocking, half-obsessed. And then he spits again. Right into your mouth.

“Swallow,” he commands, voice wrecked.

You do. Without blinking. Without shame.

He groans, low and rough. “Good fucking girl.”

And then he breaks.

A guttural sound rips from his chest—he jerks once, twice—then he’s spilling across your tongue, hot and filthy, painting your mouth like a claim he’ll never admit to out loud.

You swallow again. Eyes locked. He’s panting. Still holding your face like you’re fragile. Like you’re holy. Like you’re his, even if he’ll never say it.

And then—after a long beat of silence—

“You’ll come back,” Jeongin murmurs, voice soft and certain, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth.

“Maybe,” you whisper, licking your lips.

But you both know the truth. You already did.

The air is now thick with sweat, sex, and something else neither of you dare name. You’re still kneeling, flushed and dazed, your breath coming in short waves as you finally—slowly—rise to your feet.

And Jeongin catches you.

No hesitation. No smart-ass remark. Just catches you—hands steady at your waist like instinct. His grip is gentler now, his gaze darker but softened. He brushes a strand of hair from your cheek, his thumb dragging lightly along your jaw, and then he tilts your face up.

“You good?” he murmurs.

You nod, but he’s already moving—already kissing your temple like he didn’t just fuck the sanity out of you. Like it’s reflex now. Like it’s routine.

Because it is.

Pulling up his jeans again, Jeongin reaches for a clean towel from the cabinet—one of the soft ones, the kind he used to never bother with when this all started—and runs warm water over it, checking the temperature against his wrist like you’re breakable. Like you matter.

“I’ll clean you up,” he says quietly. “Don’t move.”

He kneels again. Not like before. Not like worship.

This time it’s care.

You feel the difference when he wipes between your thighs with slow, deliberate strokes. Not rushed. Not clinical. He even murmurs a low, “Sorry,” when you twitch at the sensitivity.

“You didn’t used to do this,” you whisper, voice dry with post-orgasm rasp.

His hand stills for a second. Then resumes.

“Didn’t used to care if you got home safe, either,” he says, not looking up. “But I do.”

You swallow. Something hot curls low in your chest.

When he finishes, he tosses the towel in the laundry bin and returns to you—pressing a water bottle into your hand, then grabbing your discarded jeans and helping you step into them. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t smirk.

He just tugs them gently up your legs, careful not to touch the fresh wrap on your thigh.

“Tell me if it starts to hurt later,” he says. “Text me if anything feels off. I’ll fix it.”

“Jeongin…” you murmur.

“I know,” he says, voice softer now. “No strings.”

But still—he presses his forehead to yours. Just for a moment.

Something shifted.

You felt it first the next morning—not in your body (though, yes, your thighs ache and your tattoo’s tender), but in your phone.

[JEONGIN]: how’s my favourite canvas? [JEONGIN]: tattoo feelin okay? [JEONGIN]: or do i need to come kiss it better

You laugh—because of course he’s still a menace—but you also… pause. Because he’s never texted you first. Not like this. Not with check-ins, not with half-flirty, half-soft words that make your stomach twist in a dangerously not-just-horny way.

You reply. You always do. But this time, the thread doesn’t end at “come over.”

Instead, it leads to—

[JEONGIN]: wanna get boba or some shit later [JEONGIN]: bring your sketchbook. i wanna see more of what’s in your head

So you do. And he does.

He makes dumb faces behind his cup lid when the pearls hit your teeth wrong. He teases your handwriting. He compliments your line work in the same breath he makes fun of your playlist. He asks about your job—not just the annoying clients but what you actually like doing. When you mention the burnout creeping in, he hums thoughtfully and says: “You should quit and be my studio wife.”

“That’s not a job.”

“Then I’ll make it one. Full benefits. All the orgasms you can handle.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Your idiot,” he says with a smirk. Then coughs. “I mean—not officially. But, you know.”

And then he blushes. Fucking blushes.

In the weeks that follow, the change isn’t loud.

It’s subtle. Warm.

He starts saving you a seat at the shop when you visit. Starts texting you good luck before meetings. Starts calling you after just to hear your voice when you sound tired. Starts drawing more—leaves his sketchbooks open, just in case you feel brave enough to peek.

He still fucks you like a goddamn fever dream, of course. Still ruins you in every corner of the studio when the door’s locked and the music’s loud enough.

But after?

He doesn’t vanish.

He lets you stay. Brushes your hair back while you’re curled up on his chest. Taps your ankle with his foot until you laugh again. Offers you a hoodie, then scowls when you steal it for real.

Sometimes—when he thinks you’re asleep—he traces your tattoo with his finger. Like it anchors him. Like he knows something changed, too.

And sometimes, you open your eyes just enough to see him looking at you like this—like he feels everything you won’t say yet.

No strings? Yeah. You’re both tangled as fuck.

Your sheets are already half-off the bed, twisted beneath your back, damp from sweat and friction and his mouth.

Jeongin has been between your legs for what feels like forever. Not rushing. Not teasing. Just—feasting.

Tongue deep and slow, then fast and flicking. Then back to slow, like he’s savoring something no one else is allowed to taste.

Your thighs keep trembling. One’s thrown over his shoulder; the other keeps spasming, jerking whenever he sucks that one fucking spot. He’s holding you open like you’re an offering, like you owe him this.

“Fuck—Jeongin, please—”

He hums against your clit. The vibration makes your hips stutter, back arching off the sheets.

“Sound pretty when you beg,” he murmurs. His voice is wrecked. Drenched in filth. “Could make you do it all night.”

You whimper—high and helpless—and try to push his head down, needing more. Needing everything.

He laughs, dark and low, then gives you exactly what you want.

Sucks your clit hard, tongue circling, then sliding down to fuck you deeper. His nose nudges the swollen bud just right, and you choke on a sob.

You’re gone.

You can’t hold back. Not with the way he’s devouring you. Not with the way he knows your body better than anyone. You feel it—your climax crashing through like a violent wave, all heat and light and wreckage. You scream his name—loud, broken—hips jerking as your orgasm hits like a car crash.

But Jeongin doesn’t stop.

He growls into your cunt and doubles down. Licks you through it—messy, wet, relentless. His mouth is soaked, chin dripping, and you swear he smiles against you when your thighs start to close in.

Jeongin finally pulls back—face glistening, lips swollen, breath ragged—and climbs up your body like he owns every inch of it.

He crashes into you with a kiss that’s all tongue and teeth and desperation. No finesse, no restraint—just need. His hands roam everywhere, gripping your hips, your waist, your face like he can’t touch you fast enough, close enough, deep enough.

“Mine,” he pants between kisses. “Mine—mine—mine—”

You’re still trembling. Still trying to come back to earth. But you manage a breathless laugh against his mouth. “Innie?”

He freezes. Just a little. Eyes flicking up to yours, wide and dark and soft.

“Mmm?” he hums, like he didn’t just break you open and eat your soul.

You smile, wicked and sweet. Drag your nails gently down his back. “Remember when I said no strings attached?”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t answer.

You lean in, press your lips to the shell of his ear, and whisper: “And you said—maybe, baby.”

He exhales—shaky. Vulnerable.

You pull back, meet his gaze, and smile softer this time. No teasing. Just truth. “Well,” you murmur, threading your fingers through his hair, “I think that maybe was about more than you let on.”

You smile, smaller this time. “Because I want the strings now. All of them.” Your thumb then brushes his cheek. “You’re mine. And I’m yours.”

Jeongin stares at you.

Still. Silent. Like the earth just tilted on its axis.

Then—finally—he exhales. A soft, stunned sound. His eyes flutter shut for half a second, and when they open again, they’re wide and warm and wrecked.

“You’re really gonna say that to me while I’m still hard?” he mutters, voice hoarse, mouth twitching like he’s trying not to smile.

You giggle. Actually giggle.

And Jeongin melts.

His hands slide down to your hips, squeeze once—possessive, reverent—and then he’s rolling, flipping the two of you in one smooth, easy motion until you’re straddling him, flushed and still catching your breath, hair wild around your face.

He looks up at you like you’re the only thing left that makes sense.

“Let me fuck you properly, baby,” he says, voice low, hungry—but laced with something new now. Something real.

You smile—wide, wicked, his. You lean down, kiss the corner of his mouth. “Then shut up and show me, Innie.”

He groans—low and fucked-out—and lets his head fall back against the pillow. “Jesus, baby—gonna be the death of me.”

You roll your hips once, just to be a menace. “Thought you said you wanted to fuck me properly.”

His hands fly back to your waist like instinct, like gravity. “I do,” he pants. “But if you keep doing that, I’m gonna wife you instead.”

You freeze—then burst out laughing. “What?”

He grins up at you, smug and wrecked. “You heard me.”

You blink. Stare down at him. “You’re such a little shit.”

“And you’re on my dick,” he shoots back. “So maybe we’re both exactly where we belong.”

You groan, drop your head to his shoulder. “God, I hate you.”

“Liar.”

“Maybe.”

He pulls you down, chest to chest and kisses your temple, wraps his arms around you like he’s never letting go. And then—just to make sure you know? He grinds against your already soaked folds.

You gasp. “Fuck—Jeongin—”

He smiles.

“Say my name again. Say I'm yours.”

“You're mine.”

[lovslixx]

i’ll love you until my last breath {part 1}

➸ general content: gojo satoru x geto suguru, doctor!suguru, cellist!satoru, love at first sight, fusion crossover fanfic, angst (but this is only the start) ➸ author's note: AGHH I LOVE THEM SO MUCHH-

this fanfic is based off of the storyline of move to heaven episode 5! i'll be uploading more parts later on if y'all want more..<3

➸ wordcount: a little over 1k

The nurses’ chatter filled up the hospital’s quiet hallways, bickering on who would win the 10,000 yen.

Heavy snow was pattering on the windows, joining the two girls’ voices throughout the hallways. Suguru’s light footsteps approached the front desk as the nurses turned their heads in time to catch Dr.Getou putting his stethoscope around his neck.

“Aw shoot,” One nurse said under her breath. The other reached and snatched the 10,000 yen with a smirk from over the desk as Suguru watched them in confusion. 

“Told you so!” She exclaimed while folding the money into her pocket. 

 He raised an eyebrow and eyed the two girls. “What’s going on?”

“We made a bet on whether you’d be on duty again this Christmas,” one said, voice sullen with defeat. 

He let out a small chuckle as she complained how predictable he was and how everyone at work could see right through him. The phone rang loudly, disrupting the quiet environment. 

“Apologies for being an open book,” he joked as the other nurse picked up the phone. 

She whipped her head around. “Incoming patients from a traffic accident,” she said quickly as the loud siren from an ambulance approached the hospital. 

The three rushed out to where the patients were being brought in.  

“What do we have here?” Suguru asked urgently, rushing to one of the patients on a gurney. 

“Traffic accident. He’s unconscious,” the paramedic rushed, rolling the gurney away

“Get his vitals checked and prepare for intubation,” Suguru said to the doctor who was beside the paramedic. 

The doctor rushed the gurney to a room and Suguru walked swiftly to the patient who was making a big commotion, yelling and pointing. Assuming it to be from the pain, Suguru looked at the paramedic to inquire about the damage. 

“His leg is bleeding excessively,” she said as the other paramedic tried to calm the white haired patient down. 

“Ok, let me take it from here,” Suguru said. The paramedics nodded and rushed off. 

“Hey- HEY!!” The white haired boy yelled and tried to sit up as he watched the paramedic who he was trying to talk with run off. 

“Calm down, please,” Suguru said, irritated. 

“How am I supposed to calm down?!” he yelled “You don’t even know what that instrument means to me-”

He was cut off by excruciating pain in his leg and he winced as he fell back onto the gurney. Suguru turned his head in the direction the boy was facing; in the ambulance sat a cello against one of the seats, obviously forgotten by the doctors due to his wounds being the first priority. 

“You have to calm down,” Suguru said with a deep, firm voice. “First things first, before you get your cello, okay?” 

“No! My cello first!!” He sat up again and yelled at Suguru who was examining his leg. “I SAID MY CELLO FIRST!!!” 

“BE QUIET!” Suguru raised his voice, locking his eyes with the white haired boy, noticing his stunning blue eyes. “I’m going to treat you first. Your health comes first before your cello. And I assume there are people who are expecting you to play tomorrow, right?”

The white haired boy is panting from all the effort he put into yelling for his precious, precious cello. His eyes slowly fell down in defeat and he shut his eyes with sass, “Damn it.” 

He fell back onto the gurney and sucked his teeth due to the pain on his leg that worsened from his aggressiveness. Quickly, he was rushed elsewhere to be treated

...

All incoming patients were situated into rooms and tended. Suguru finished up his rounds and was heading towards his office. As he walked past a room, he was captivated by a graceful melody. What was it? It was truly just heaven to his ears. He peered in, seeing the same white haired boy from earlier. “Ah. The cellist.” He thought to himself. He walked towards  the room like a moth attracted to light as the cellist continued to elegantly drag the bow across the cello, leaning against the door frame.

“Are you..” The black haired doctor almost winced when interrupting, then paused as the cellist looked up. “..okay?”

“Not too bad..” The cellist replied, looking back down on his cello.

“The instrument you valued over your life seems to be fine too,” Suguru noted, walking towards the patient.

The cellist locked his beautiful blue eyes on Suguru’s once again, making the doctor’s heart feel faster and giddy. His eyes were like an unpolluted ocean- no- they were more akin to sharply cut gems. “Thanks to a scary doctor,” the cellist said with a warm smile that held a striking contrast to his piercing eyes

Suguru couldn’t help but smile back. “Gosh what is this??” Suguru thought to himself again, surprised at his unusual response to a patient, a stark contradiction to his normally stern demeanor at work. He quickly cleared his throat and looked away, in an attempt to recollect himself and form words. 

“U-um, your name?”

“Satoru. Satoru Gojo,” he said with a smirk. “Hey, when I get discharged you better remember me.” He winked. 

Suguru let out a small laugh “Alright Satoru.. Could you play me something?” Suguru asked, crossing his arms.

Satoru considered this request, pondering with a soft hum.

“Why not?” He said smiling again. “It’s Christmas.”

“It’s that damn smile again. Could he not??” Suguru kept thinking to himself, feeling his stomach flutter as his heartbeat began to speed up. He hadn’t felt like this in a long time, he realized, but he welcomed it.

Satoru adjusted himself with his cello and positioned his bow and began playing “We Wish You a Merry Christmas”, perfect for the occasion. 

He played with a skill that demonstrated years of practice, attracting other doctors and nurses nearby and drawing them to his room. The beauty of it set something aflame. Well at least for Suguru. He couldn’t tell if these bubbling feelings were from the music or just Satoru. Too many emotions of affection were flowing about, in his mind and body. Then he realized what it was. He loved his soft, shiny white hair. He loved his blue eyes and the glimmer and shine they had in it. He loved his lips. Oh and that smile. Damn it, he really loved the smile. 

Before Suguru even knew it, Satoru finished the song and the other doctors’ and nurses’ applause pulled him out of his thoughts. He jumped slightly and looked around, joining in the applause. 

On this day of Christmas, Getou Suguru had fallen in love.

[lovslixx]

[lovslixx]

sorry for noritaro posting so much ill get back on the joseph grind soon 😭🙏

[lovslixx]

sorry i just think theyre so in love

COMMISSIONS OPEN !!! check my pinned post for more details ⭐️

[lovslixx]

I AM OPENING COMMISSIONS ‼️‼️‼️

PAYMENT METHODS:

VENMO

username: jeonseoguu

PAYPAL

username: @warbidulgi

im not too sure if we set my account up correctly so let me know if you run into any problems

COMMUNICATION:

You can always message me on tumblr to discuss what you'd like to commission !!

However I am a lot more active to talk on discord, username is: NURP.40.TW.194

When we discuss, please try to be as specific as possible (it helps the both of us), but you can always send me a rough sketch of what you want if its hard to put into words 💪💪

AVAILABILITY:

Color guard and marching band is like consuming a lot of my school year so expect some delays and some stretches of time where I am too burnt out to work on anything

My status on taking/not taking commissions will always be presented on my bio, so please check that first !!

[lovslixx]

please… i need the duwangagang trio + the babysitter jojotaro

my dumbass realized AFTER i finished that i literally forgot koichi

[lovslixx]

fighting spirit

[lovslixx]

NORITARO SWING AU⁉️⁉️

couldnt find any au's of this so i had to do it myself..

bonus sketches under the cut ⭐️⭐️

[lovslixx]

they give me depression tbh

[lovslixx]

son of god???

[lovslixx]

ova jotaro has too much asian boy swag

[lovslixx]

“I just, don’t want to see anyone getting hurt again.”

[lovslixx]

it's always gonna end with "it was gojo"