minholuvr333

[minholuvr333]

UNTOUCH-UP

Tattoo Artist!Lee Minho x Reader | Exes. Ink. Unfinished business. And nowhere left to run.

🔞synopsis: Tattoo Artist AU. You go in for a touch-up. He’s the one holding the machine. Your ex. The one who fucked you like he loved you—and left like he didn’t. Now he’s working on your skin again. And you’re both trying not to fall back in. Too late. You never stopped wanting him. He never stopped being yours. This time, he’s not letting go.

💌a/n: bro. BRO. i am ✨deceased✨ this fic nearly ate me alive. i was so lazy writing it my brain was just like . . . O.O static noise the ENTIRE time. BUT I DID IT. I DID IT. SHE’S DONE. Minho's demon dick: delivered. Tattoo angst: served. You: ruined. also not me having a day™️ — my cat knocked over a potted flower like she pays rent in this house?? broke the damn pot. soil everywhere. ON. THE. CARPET. and guess who was sitting in the mess like a chaotic forest gremlin? her. the criminal. not even sorry. anyway enjoy the filth I bled for <3 p.s. reblog for minho's sake. he worked very hard. p.p.s. if you read this and didn’t moan once, you're lying. p.p.p.s. minho said “mine” and I folded like a lawn chair in a hurricane.

⚠️ warnings: 18+ ONLY | MINORS DNI | Exes to lovers with years of tension | Fingering (f. receiving), oral sex (f. receiving), face riding | Protected sex because Minho is a King | Overstimulation, squirting, rough sex | Hair pulling, light choking, possessive behavior | Filthy talk™ and degrading praise | Clit play so intense you might ascend | Reader is gone. dumb. dripping | Minho lives upstairs. You live upstairs now too. It’s canon.

📌 Please read with caution. Scream into a pillow. Mop your floor. Apologize to your downstairs neighbors.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » WANT — Taemin « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:29 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

BACKSTORY

You met Lee Minho back when he was still building himself. Not the man with a waitlist. Not the name clients whispered like prayer. Just a perfectionist with ink-stained fingers, a cigarette habit, and a sketchbook full of obsessions.

He only took blackwork clients. His designs were architectural. Cold. Brutally beautiful. Like cityscapes carved into skin. Like cathedrals swallowed by shadow. You used to tease him—“Do you ever draw anything soft?”

He never answered.

But he kissed you like his mouth was a vow.

You were chaos to his control. Bright to his brutalism. A fire escape on legs, always halfway out the window—but you stayed for him.

The first tattoo he gave you was on your ribcage. Fine lines. Intricate, dark, permanent. He said, “I’ve never done this for someone I care about before.”

You said, “Don’t make it perfect. Just make it ours.”

He made it perfect anyway.

But love wasn’t enough—not when his world narrowed to ink and reputation, and yours was spinning with needs he couldn’t name, let alone meet. He stopped coming home. You stopped trying to explain. The last fight was quiet. The kind of silence that ends things.

You left. He let you. Neither of you ever reached out again.

Seoul, South Korea. Wednesday, 4:03 PM

The bell over the door jingles.

It’s the same goddamn sound. That soft metallic chime, like a warning.

You step into NO SAINT INK and inhale the familiar scent—disinfectant, ink, citrus cleaner, and something darker beneath it. Nostalgia, maybe. Or just Minho’s ghost.

���Hi! Welcome to—”

Jisung’s voice cuts off the moment he looks up. Eyes widen. Blink. Blink. Jaw slightly drops. He’s behind the counter in a ripped vintage tee, one glove on, holding a paper cup of iced Americano like it’s mid-scene in a music video.

“...Holy shit.”

“Nice to see you too,” you deadpan, stepping up to the reception desk like it’s a confession booth.

From the back, Felix emerges, sliding in with a practiced spin on the rolling stool. His crop top says “NO SAINT, JUST HOT” and he’s chewing pink bubblegum like it’s personal.

He squints. “Wait. Waitwaitwait—no way.” He turns to Jisung. “That’s her, right?”

Jisung nods slowly, eyes still on you like you might disappear if he blinks. “Mm-hm. That’s her. The ribcage girl.”

You sigh, reaching for the clipboard. “Still the same greeting process, I see.”

Felix leans in over the counter, lashes weaponized. “So. What brings you back to the scene of the crime, gorgeous?”

“Tattoo,” you say simply, checking the box marked cover-up on the intake form.

Felix raises a brow. “Cover-up? On what?”

You give him a flat look. Then slowly, deliberately, tap your rib.

Jisung immediately chokes on his iced coffee. “Oh my god. You’re covering Minho’s piece?” he hisses.

“Don’t say it like that,” you mutter.

Felix gasps dramatically, grabbing your form. “Does he know? Does he know you’re here?”

“No.”

“Does he know you're gonna cover the sacred rib tattoo of doomed romance™?”

“Still no.”

Jisung is now whispering to himself in horror. “He’s gonna combust. He’s gonna short-circuit like a printer from 2003.”

Felix pats your hand. “You’re braver than the Marines.”

You slide the completed form back to them. “You gonna let me through, or you want me to relive the breakup right here?”

“Booth Three,” Jisung says instantly. “He’s in there right now. I’ll text him that a client is coming in.”

Felix grins like the devil. “We won’t say who. Surprise trauma!”

You exhale slowly as you make your way to Booth Three and pushing the door open.

Minho is inside, doesn't even look up. Of course he doesn't. He is seated at his workstation, black hoodie sleeves pushed up, long fingers flying over his iPad. The screen glows with precision: a mandala lattice interwoven with brutalist architecture, all angles and absence. It’s violently elegant. Just like him.

He’s got one AirPod in. The other rests on the desk, silent. His tattoo gun is prepped and sterilized beside it. Black gloves folded, still untouched.

You stay silent for a beat.

He’s changed, but not really. Hair darker now. Under-eye shadows deeper. Forearms inked in blackwork he used to say wasn’t “for him.” You recognize his neck tattoo—you designed that motif. He said he’d never use it. Guess he changed his mind.

You speak, voice even, soft.

“Hope you still remember how to do ribs.”

He freezes. Literally freezes mid-stroke, like someone hit pause on a film reel.

His eyes flick up.

And when they meet yours—his stylus drops.

“...No fucking way.”

You smile, tight-lipped. “Hi.”

Minho blinks. Once. Twice. Then leans back slowly in his chair, as if needing distance just to believe you're real. He doesn’t say anything at first. His eyes drag down you like a scan—lips, collarbones, arms. His gaze stops right where it used to rest: the dip beneath your ribs. “What the fuck are you doing here.” You shrug, like this isn’t a slow-burn emotional arson scene. “Cover-up.”

He exhales like he got sucker punched.

You don’t say it. You don’t have to. He knows which one. For a moment, neither of you move. The only sound is the quiet buzz of the fluorescent light, and your pulse hammering against silence.

Minho finally breaks it, voice lower now. Raspier. Rough around the edges.

“Sit.”

You walk forward. The vinyl of the chair squeaks as you lower yourself onto it.

Minho adjusts his stool with one foot, pulling closer—close enough that your knees nearly touch. He reaches for a fresh pair of gloves and pulls them on with a muted snap.

“You still flinch?” he asks, without looking up.

“Only when it matters.”

A breath leaves him like a short laugh, disbelieving and hollow. He nods at your ribs.

“Show me.”

You tug your top up slowly. The air is cool against your skin. But his gaze is colder.

The tattoo’s still there—his lines, his shape, the intimate architecture of a design he once called a cathedral just for you. You watch his eyes trace it like he’s reading a language he forgot he wrote.

He exhales through his nose, once. Then leans in. Not touching. But close.

“Still healed well,” he mutters. “Even after everything.”

He lets out a short sound—not quite a laugh. Not quite not.

Then turns to grab his iPad.

You watch him swipe past old sketches. Lines. Shapes. A few human figures, but mostly… structures. Always structures. Stained glass, brutal staircases, the shadows between pillars. And suddenly—one design with your face sketched into the edge of a crumbling spire flashes past.

You blink.

He quickly flips to a blank layer.

“What are you thinking?” he asks, stylus in hand.

You hesitate. Then: “Something clean. Cold. Geometric. No softness.”

He looks at you. Just looks. Then tilts his head. “So the opposite of what you used to want.”

You lift a brow. “People change.”

“Do they?” He doesn’t say it like a question.

Silence. Only the soft tick of the stylus moving. Drawing. Erasing. Redrawing.

You glance over.

The lines are sharp. Intricate. Interlocking shapes—architectural, yes, but still haunting. There’s depth beneath the harshness, shadows where light should be. He’s already building something brutal.

“You always sketch this fast for clients?” you ask.

He doesn’t look up. “Only the ones who know how to bleed for it.”

Your breath stutters. He notices.

After another beat, he holds the iPad out to you, jaw tense. “You want this? Final answer.”

You study it. And it’s beautiful. Devastatingly so. The kind of piece that erases history—not by covering it, but by burying it in monument.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “It’s perfect.”

He huffs softly. “It’s not.”

“Minho—”

“It’s not what I wanted to put here.”

The sentence hits like a quiet car crash. No screech, just impact. You say nothing. He turns away to print the stencil. You watch the lines appear on paper, black and cruel.

“This gonna take long?” you ask lightly, trying to breathe again.

“Yeah,” he says, voice low. “It’s big.”

“Good. I’ve got time.”

He turns. Looks at you—really looks. The gloves are still on. The stencil in hand. “You sure you can lie here for hours with me that close?”

“You sure you can touch me for that long and not fall apart?”

For one suspended moment, the room goes still.

Then Minho steps forward. “Let’s find out.”

He sets the stencil aside. Pulls out the prep tray. It’s methodical—his ritual. You remember it. He moves with that same detached precision: antiseptic wipe, alcohol spray, barrier film over his tray, black nitrile gloves pulled snug with that quiet snap that used to make your stomach twist.

The scent of alcohol hits first. Then the click of the spray bottle. Then his voice—low, close. “I’m cleaning the area.”

He waits. You nod.

And then his hand—gloved, cold—presses gently at your side, just under your ribs. The contact makes your breath hitch. He feels it. “Still ticklish,” he murmurs, but there’s no amusement in it. Just memory.

His fingers move across the old tattoo and you close your eyes as he presses the stencil on.

“Hold still,” he says softly. Too softly.

You feel the pressure of his palm, the warm slide of his knuckles against your waist, the careful tension as he positions the design.

Then he pulls back. Steps away. And you exhale.

“Mirror’s there,” he says, voice neutral.

You sit up, top still raised, and step to the full-length mirror near the booth’s edge.

The stencil is stark black. Clean. Brutal. It spans from just under your chest down to your hipbone—an interlocking spiral staircase, collapsing inward on itself, surrounded by broken geometry and cathedral archways. Inside the spiral, there’s a single vacant silhouette—like a missing piece in the shape of a person.

“It’s…” you begin. But you can’t find the word.

“Empty?” he offers.

“Yeah.”

Minho shrugs slightly, adjusting the height of the chair. “You wanted cold. Unsweet. Brutal.”

You nod. “I did.”

He doesn’t move until you return to the chair and settle in again. He leans down, pulls the stool closer—so close his knee brushes yours. “Ready?”

“No.”

A pause. Then: “Good. That’s honest.”

The machine buzzes to life. He dips the needle into the ink—pitch black—and presses the foot pedal. Then the first contact hits. The sting. The bite. The sound.

Your breath stutters. His hand is firm on your waist, grounding. “Still breathe like that,” he murmurs.

“Still touch like that.”

The buzz of the machine fills the booth like static between stations.

Minho works in silence. You breathe in silence. Time stretches. His gloved hand stays steady on your waist—anchoring, professional, unyielding. But every time his fingers shift to wipe the ink, every time his forearm brushes your side, you feel something buried rattle. Like bones under floorboards.

You focus on the ceiling tiles. Count them. Try not to flinch when he drags the line near your ribcage. He’s precise. Too precise. You feel every goddamn millimeter.

And still—he says nothing. It’s been maybe an hour. Then—quietly, like a thread being tugged:

“You finish school?”

Your eyes blink open. “Yeah. A while ago.”

“Thought so,” he murmurs. “You used to study here. In this chair.”

You huff. “I used to do a lot of things in this chair.”

He pauses. Then wipes your skin with slow, deliberate pressure. “Still mouthy.”

“Still quiet.”

“One of us had to be.”

The machine hums again. You both fall silent. But the air isn’t. It hums now—charged and heavy. After another few minutes, you speak, voice softer.

“You still living above the shop?”

Minho’s hand doesn’t pause, but you hear the answer in the way he exhales. “Yeah.”

“You ever fix the leak by the kitchen window?”

“Eventually. Felix slipped on the water and broke his assbone, so…”

“Justice.”

A faint smile ghosts across his lips. You catch it. Pretend not to. “What about you?” he asks. “Where are you now?”

You shrug. “Seoul. Still. I work freelance—mostly visual design, some concept art stuff. Clients suck. Pay’s decent.”

“Still draw?”

“Always.”

He nods, as if that explains something only he understands.

Another beat of quiet. Then: “You tattoo now too?”

That makes you pause. “A little. Not full-time.”

“Anyone ever ink your ribs like this again?”

You meet his eyes. “No one ever touched me here again.”

That silence? Not like before. This one cracks. Minho sets the machine down slowly. Wipes the needle. Re-inks. Doesn’t speak for a full thirty seconds.

Then: “Good.”

You shift, heart thudding. “Why?”

He glances up, and for once, doesn’t look away. “Because it’s not theirs to touch.” He says it like he didn’t just lay a claim. Like it’s fact. Like it’s law.

You don’t reply. You can’t. Your ribs ache—not from the needle, but from the breath you’ve been holding since he started this goddamn piece.

Minho presses the foot pedal again.

The machine whirs to life, slicing through the silence. The black ink spreads, sharp and deliberate, marking over what was once softness.

His hand settles against your waist again. Firmer now. Less technician—more… anchor. His fingers brush under the hem of your top again. Not on purpose.

But he doesn’t apologize.

“Gonna do the lower spiral now,” he murmurs. “I need to adjust your position.”

You nod. Try to keep your voice even. “Tell me what you want.”

His gaze flicks up. Something flashes in it—heat, recognition, regret. “Lift your arm. Stretch back.”

You obey. Your back arches slightly. The angle shifts. Your shirt slides up higher. And suddenly, his breath catches. Not visibly. Not loudly. But you feel it—in the tiny hesitation between glove and skin. He moves slower now. Drapes the barrier cloth gently over your chest. Focuses on the lower edge of the design.

His hand brushes the curve of your hip. “Still got the scar,” he mutters.

“From your old chair. That screw that stuck out.”

“I told you to stop climbing into my lap during sessions.”

“I told you to fix your fucking chair.”

Another small ghost of a smile. Another memory you didn’t mean to let through. The machine buzzes. The lines go deeper now. Bolder. You wince slightly—less from pain, more from the weight of his closeness. “Hurts?” he asks, quiet. “Not as much as losing you did.”

The machine goes silent. He sets it down. Slowly. His head tilts up, eyes dark, unreadable. “You think I didn’t lose you too?”

Before you can answer—knock knock knock.

The booth door creaks open an inch, and Jisung’s head pops in. “Hey, just checking—OH.” He blinks. Stares. Feels the temperature of the room. “Never mind.”

Another head appears behind him—Chan, black tee, clipboard in hand. Owner. OG. Quiet ringleader of this whole tattoo circus.

“Minho, did you review the—” He pauses mid-sentence. Eyes shift from Minho to you. To your lifted shirt. To the way Minho’s gloved hand is hovering just above your skin.

Chan arches a brow. “...So this is happening again.”

Minho doesn’t even flinch. “Out.”

Jisung salutes. “Godspeed, soldier.”

Chan just sighs. “Try not to punch holes in the wall this time.”

The door shuts. The lock clicks. Silence again.

You exhale. “They always this nosy?”

“You always this distracting?” His voice is low now. Tight.

You blink. “Minho—”

“Lie back.”

You obey. He pulls the stool closer. Closer than necessary. Then, gloved hands on your hip, he says—quiet, slow: “I’m finishing this. Every goddamn line.”

You nod. And the machine starts again.

You lose track of time somewhere around the fifth wipe.

The sky outside is darker now. The booth hums with that post-tattoo stillness—low light, blood buzz, the deep ache under your skin like something blooming and bruised.

Minho’s working slower now. Not out of fatigue. No—he’s dragging it out. You can feel it in the way he traces your skin. The pauses. The glances.

It’s 7:23 PM.

You know this because your phone buzzes uselessly on the counter and Minho glares at it like it’s an intruder. Then again—he hasn’t looked away from you much at all.

“You’re almost done?” you ask quietly, voice hoarse from the hours of not speaking.

“Final shading,” he says, shifting. “Then bandage.”

You nod, letting your head fall back against the chair. You close your eyes.

Until—click. The door opens again.

“You better not be tattooing her feelings back on,” Jisung says, peeking in once more.

“It’s after seven,” Chan adds, stepping in behind him. “We’re leaving. You can lock up.”

Minho doesn’t even glance at them. “Bye.”

“Damn,” Jisung mutters. “I missed when you were nice.”

Chan folds his arms. “He was never nice.”

Minho wipes your side again. “Do you two need something, or are you just doing walk-in commentary now?”

“We’re giving you the key,” Chan says patiently, tossing it toward the counter. It lands with a clatter. “And also warning you: no sex on the chair.”

“Especially not that chair,” Jisung adds. “That’s the holy one. Client blood and heartbreak juice only.”

You blink up at them. “You do know I can hear you, right?”

“Sweetheart, you’re like three moans away from a confessional,” Jisung grins.

Minho’s hand tenses on your hip.

Chan gives Jisung a sharp look. “Okay, that’s enough. Let the man finish tattooing his ex.”

Minho’s voice cuts in—low, flat, and dry: “I’m raising the booth rent if you two don’t leave.”

Jisung gasps. “You can’t evict my vibe.”

“Watch me.”

With one final laugh, Chan tips an invisible hat at you. “Pleasure seeing you again. Don’t break our boy, yeah?”

You don’t respond. You just hold Minho’s gaze.

The door closes. The lock clicks again. Alone. Again.

He exhales. “They never change.”

You hum. “Neither do you.”

“Not with you.”

His hand brushes your skin again, wiping the last bit of ink away. He doesn’t move it. Just leaves it there. Warm and steady.

“I’m done.”

You nod. Slow. Dazed. “Yeah,” you whisper. “Me too.”

But neither of you move.

The machine is off. The gloves are still on. His hand is still resting on your bare waist.

You watch his throat move as he swallows.

“I need to bandage it.”

You nod.

Minho finally pulls back. Peels off the gloves, slow. Tosses them into the bin with a soft crack. His hands are bare now—warmer, familiar, devastating. He reaches for the tattoo film. The kind that clings like a second skin.

“This part’ll be cold,” he murmurs.

“So were you.”

His hands pause.

Then, with infinite care, he presses the bandage to your ribs. The plastic clings, sealing the ink beneath. His fingertips ghost over your side. Flattening. Smoothing.

Too gentle.

His hand lingers a second too long on your hipbone. Then again on the edge of your waist, just under your breast. You don’t move. You don’t breathe.

Neither does he.

“You’re still warm here,” he murmurs. “Still soft.”

“I never stopped being yours here,” you whisper. “Even after you let me go.”

His hand freezes.

And then—

Minho exhales. Slow. Controlled. Devastated. “Fuck,” he says. “Don’t say shit like that unless you mean it.”

“I do mean it.”

He looks up at you, finally. Face unreadable. But his eyes? Wrecked.

“I didn’t stop wanting you,” you say, soft. “I just stopped begging.”

And that’s when something inside him cracks. Minho drops the rest of the bandage. One hand cups your jaw. The other pulls you forward by the waist. His lips crash into yours—not neat, not planned, not patient. Just real. Messy. Hot. Familiar. Like all the years you lost were just smoke.

He tastes the same. Regret and hunger.

You kiss him back. Desperate. Needy. Home.

When he pulls away, he’s breathless. “The shop’s closed,” he says hoarsely.

“I know.”

“You’re not leaving yet.”

“I know.”

But he can't stop kissing you and his kisses leave you gasping, lips parted, your ribs burning with fresh ink and something even hotter under your skin.

But Minho doesn’t move for your mouth again.

He just looks at you. And presses the last edge of the bandage into place. Palms flat on either side of your ribs, holding it there. Holding you there.

“You need to keep this clean,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “Saniderm on for at least a day. No sweat. No friction. No heat.”

You smirk. “So I shouldn’t fuck my tattoo artist, huh?”

He closes his eyes like that physically hurts. Then opens them again, and they’re darker. Gone. “Fuck,” he mutters. “Come here.”

He grabs your face and kisses you again—harder this time. His mouth is warm, demanding. He tastes like ink and restraint and the last piece of something you thought you’d never get again.

You whimper into it, fingers fisting into his hoodie, tugging him closer. He moves fast now, pulling you upright, spinning you around so your back hits the wall behind the chair.

Your top rides up, exposing your waist. His hands drag along the un-tattooed side of your ribs, his touch finally hungry.

“Minho—”

“You still talk too much.”

His hand finds your thigh, fingers digging in as he lifts you onto the edge of the chair.

“Don’t you dare come undone on this chair unless you want your name carved into it,” he growls.

“Do it,” you whisper, breath hot. “Like old times.”

He groans. Hands gripping your hips, pulling you forward against the bulge in his jeans. But even now—he's careful. His fingers skirt around the bandage. His mouth trails everywhere but the fresh ink.

“I can’t touch there,” he pants. “But everywhere else? Mine.”

He leans in—bites at your neck. Licks under your jaw. You shudder. “Mine.”

You nod, breathless. “Yours.”

“Say it again.”

“Yours.”

He groans into your skin. One hand slips under your waistband—slow, deliberate, filthy. “Keep still. You move too much, I’ll stop.”

“Minho—”

He kisses your collarbone. Soft now. “I never should’ve stopped touching you.” His voice is low, almost broken against your skin. And then his hand dips further—sliding past the waistband of your pants, then beneath your underwear. You flinch at the first brush of his fingers against your bare heat.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “Already soaked?”

You moan, soft and unfiltered. “You did this.”

“Damn right I did.”

He doesn’t dive in right away.

Minho’s fingers ghost along your folds, barely there—just the suggestion of touch. Teasing, cruel, worshipful. Like he wants to remember this. Every slick, desperate twitch.

“Still so fucking warm,” he murmurs. “Still react to me like this.”

“Because I never stopped needing you.”

That does something to him. His jaw tightens. His free hand grips your thigh harder.

His fingers stroke your clit now—slow and purposeful. He still hasn’t pushed in. Just teasing, rubbing, feeling every tremble in your core.

“You’re shaking,” he whispers. “All this time and I still ruin you like this.”

You whimper, hips bucking up—but he presses you down against the chair again.

“What did I say?” he growls. “Keep. Fucking. Still.”

You nod, gasping. “I’m trying—fuck—Minho, please—”

He slips one finger inside. Just one. It glides in so easily, so wet, he groans low into your neck.

“Still tight,” he pants. “Still perfect.”

You clench around him and he curses, fingers curling just slightly as he begins to move.

“Say it again,” he whispers, lips dragging over your ear.

“Say you’re mine.”

“I’m—fuck—Minho, I’m yours—”

His second finger joins the first. Scissoring. Filling. So slow it’s maddening. His thumb circles your clit in rhythm, expertly cruel. You’re grinding against him now, trying not to cry out.

But it’s no use.

“That’s it,” he growls. “Let me hear you. You think I forgot what you sound like?”

You moan—loud this time—and he smiles against your skin.

“There she is.”

His fingers curl again—deep, deliberate, cruel. You cry out, thighs trembling, body completely unhinged on his tattoo chair.

“Fuck, you’re clenching so hard,” he groans, dragging his fingers out almost entirely before plunging back in with a wet sound that makes you whimper. “You missed this, didn’t you?”

“Y-Yes,” you gasp.

“How much?”

You can barely breathe. “So much—Minho—fuck—”

“That’s not good enough.”

He pumps harder. Faster. His fingers scissor deep inside you, stretching you wide while his thumb circles your clit with just enough pressure to keep you right on the edge. His forehead presses to yours, breath ragged, jaw clenched like he's holding back a growl.

“Feel how fucking hard I am for you,” he grits, grabbing your free hand and dragging it down between you both.

Your fingers brush the bulge in his jeans and—fuck. He’s thick. Hard in a way that hurts even through the denim.

“All that from just your voice,” he rasps. “From your pussy sucking my fingers in like it still belongs to me.”

You whimper, hand tightening instinctively over his cock. He twitches under your grip.

“You’re gonna make me cum just from your fist at this rate,” he breathes, panting into your mouth. “And I haven’t even fucked you yet.”

Your hips roll against his hand, the wet slap of your cunt obscene now, the squelch of each pump making your eyes roll back.

“M-Minho—can’t—too much—”

He leans in, lips brushing your ear. “Take it. You used to take it so well.”

You cry out, grinding shamelessly against his hand, your wrist still caught against the outline of his cock. His fingers are relentless now—deep, punishing strokes that angle just right, hitting the spot that makes your back arch.

“That’s it, baby,” he whispers, voice hot and filthy. “You gonna cum for me?”

“Please—need to—”

“You think I’m letting you go home with anyone else’s cum in you again?” His hand grips tighter. “Nah. You’ll cum on my fingers. Then my tongue. Then my cock. One by one. Until you remember who you belong to.”

You sob into his shoulder, body locking up.

“Then cum,” he growls. “Let me feel you fucking fall apart.”

And you do. You shatter. Right there in his chair, cunt clenching around his fingers so hard he curses, hips bucking involuntarily, thighs shaking. The orgasm crashes through you like a wave that never breaks.

You’re still gasping, barely coming down, when he kisses you again—rough and breathless.

Then he pulls his hand out and brings his digits to his lips, licking his fingers clean with a sinful groan. “Still the sweetest fucking thing I’ve ever tasted.”

Minho leans in—presses a soft kiss just beneath your jaw. Then another. Then pulls back, his lips swollen and wet with you.

“Stay,” he says simply.

“Yes.”

“Upstairs.”

You nod again, dazed. He grabs a clean towel, wipes his fingers off, then flicks off the booth lights.

You stumble to your feet. He steadies you with a hand on your lower back—protective, but firm. The other hand? Already sliding down to cup the curve of your ass.

“Don’t test me,” he murmurs, voice rough. “Or I’ll take you right here. Front door be damned.”

You laugh breathlessly. “You always talk this much now?”

“Only when I’m starving.”

He steps out first. Walks to the front.

The shop’s dark now—just the glow of the neon sign outside, and the sound of him flipping the lock with a click. Pulling the blinds. Turning the CLOSED sign.

The only other sound is your breath. And the creak of stairs.

Minho turns back to you. Extends his hand. “Come home.”

And you do. You follow him up the stairs—your fingers tangled in his, your heart in your throat. He pulls you behind him, not once looking back.

The upstairs apartment is dim, clean, and familiar in a way that makes your chest ache.

His hoodie hits the floor first. Your shirt follows. Your bra is gone with one snap of his practiced fingers.

“Fuck,” he breathes, stepping in closer. “I’ve dreamed about this. Exactly this.”

“Then stop dreaming.”

“I’m not stopping anything tonight.”

He kisses you hard, mouths crashing, tongues tangled. His hands roam over every inch of skin he missed—the good side of your ribs, your back, your thighs. He lifts you. You wrap your legs around his waist.

Your back hits the hallway wall.

Your pants are yanked down, barely a memory. His belt clinks open, jeans shoved past his hips. You’re both gasping, biting, pulling, years of silence poured into filthy, reckless touch.

“I missed your body,” he mutters into your mouth. “Missed how you sound. How you taste. How you fucking feel.”

“Then take me.”

“You think I won’t?”

He kicks the bedroom door open with one foot, lays you down onto his bed, and finally—finally—he crawls over you like you’re something holy. You are.

Minho kisses you again, slower now, lips dragging down the column of your throat. Over your collarbone. Across the top of your chest. He palms your breast—squeezes, just enough to make you gasp—and then closes his mouth over your nipple.

You arch.

“Still so responsive,” he murmurs, flicking his tongue over the peak before sucking hard, slow. “Still so good for me.”

Your hands knot in his hair.

He kisses across to the other one—giving it the same attention, tongue lazy, mouth open and hot. Every sound you make fuels him.

Then lower.

His mouth trails down the center of your stomach—soft kisses, open-mouthed and hot, then bites just sharp enough to leave blooming heat behind. He kneels between your legs, hands parting your thighs.

You’re soaked again. Dripping. Panties long gone.

He growls low, eyes locked to your pussy like it’s fucking divine.

“You knew this was next,” he says, voice low, hands sliding under your thighs to lift your hips. “I told you.”

“Then shut up and—”

He doesn’t let you finish.

Minho licks one long stripe up your slit—slow and filthy—from the bottom of your entrance to your clit. And moans. Loud.

“Still taste like a fucking fever dream.”

Your hands shoot into his hair again. “Minho—fuck—”

He flattens his tongue against your clit, then circles it. Slow, heavy pressure. Just enough to make your thighs jerk around his head. “Keep them open,” he mutters, pulling back only to kiss your inner thigh, your hipbone, your mound. “Let me see all of you.”

And then he devours.

Tongue pressed deep. Lapping. Sucking. Flicking. He eats like he missed meals for years and this is how he survives now. Your moans go from soft to broken, gasps ragged, legs shaking around his head.

“Oh my—fuck—Minho—”

He groans into you, the vibration making your hips buck. His arms wrap tighter around your thighs, holding you down, keeping you right there as his tongue circles your clit in tight, ruthless rhythm.

He sucks your clit—harder now. Lips wrapped around your clit, tongue swirling in circles so precise it feels like he mapped this out. Every flick is a promise. Every kiss, a punishment.

“Minho—fuckfuck—please—”

Your thighs tremble against his shoulders, toes curling, head thrown back into his sheets. But he’s relentless. Focused. Cruel in the way only someone who knows your body this well can be.

Then—suddenly—his tongue dips lower again.

He licks into you—deep—pressing into your entrance, slow and wet and hot.

Minho—”

He moans into your cunt, arms flexing around your thighs, nose pressed into your mound like he never wants to come up for air. He tongue-fucks you harder, the slick sounds obscene now, spit and arousal dripping down his chin.

He pulls back just enough to suck your clit again, messy and loud—then goes back down, tongue fucking you like it’s a competition. Like it’s penance. Like he’s going to draw the second orgasm out of you with his mouth alone.

“You’re close again,” he pants. “I feel it. You gonna cum for me, baby? Gonna soak my face?”

“Yes—yes, please—don’t stop—”

He doesn’t. In fact, he doubles down—tongue driving in and out while he rubs tight, fast circles on your clit with his thumb. Your thighs snap around his head. You try to pull away, too sensitive, too much—

But Minho just growls, deep and possessive.

“Fucking take it.”

Fuck you do. You fucking do take it. How can you not. And you finally break apart on his face, legs locking, body spasming as that second orgasm rips through you harder, wetter, longer. He holds you through it, licking and sucking until your voice is nothing but choked whimpers and your body can’t stop twitching.

When he finally pulls away, his mouth is glossy, chin soaked.

He smirks—wild, satisfied, dark before kneeling up, grabbing a condom from the drawer, tearing it open with his teeth.

“Now I’m gonna ruin this pussy properly.”

You’re barely conscious of the way he tears the condom wrapper open—just the sound of it, sharp and needed in the haze of your wrecked body. He rolls it on quick, jaw clenched, hand pumping his cock once, twice, eyes locked on you like you’re prey he’s finally allowed to devour.

“Get on all fours.”

You try to move, limbs shaking, but he grabs your hips and flips you himself—effortless, firm, like muscle memory. You barely get your arms under you before he’s behind you, one hand gripping your ass, the other dragging along your spine.

“You remember how loud you used to get?” he mutters, voice thick. “Gonna make you scream into my fucking sheets again.”

He guides his cock to your entrance—rubbing the tip through your soaked folds, slow and teasing, soaking himself in your mess.

“Fuck—you’re dripping,” he groans. “You came so hard for my mouth, and you’re still ready for my cock?”

“Please—Minho—need it—need you—”

He sinks in. Deep. One smooth, devastating thrust that punches the air from your lungs.

“Oh my fuck—”

“That’s it,” he growls, bottoming out. “Tight as ever. Like your pussy never forgot me.”

You choke on a moan as he pulls out slow—just to slam back in, harder this time. Your arms buckle, face falling into the mattress as his hips snap against your ass with punishing rhythm.

“Minho—fuck—you’re so—deep—”

“Yeah? You missed this cock?” His voice is ragged, filthy. “Tell me. Tell me who fucks you like this.”

“Only you—fuck—only you, Minho—”

“Damn right.”

He grips your hair, pulling you up by the back of your neck, arching your body so your back curves into him. His mouth is by your ear now, panting, biting.

“No one touches you here,” he growls, fucking into you harder, deeper. “Not your mouth. Not your thighs. Not your pussy. All mine. Say it.”

“I’m yours—Minho—I’m fucking yours—”

“Louder.”

“I’m yours!”

He snarls into your neck and slams into you so deep you see stars. One of his hands slides down to your clit, rubbing fast, relentless circles while his cock drags against your g-spot.

“You gonna cum again?” he pants. “On my cock this time?”

“Yes—yes, please—don’t stop—”

“Let go for me, baby.”

You don’t even need to try.

His thumb circles your clit with such devastating precision, and his cock hits so deep, so right, you come apart again—body locking up, mouth falling open in a moan that barely sounds like your own.

Your orgasm slams into you like a wave, sharp and overwhelming, your pussy fluttering around him, gripping him, milking him like your body knows he’s supposed to stay there.

“Fuuuuck—Minho—!”

“That’s it,” he growls. “Cum on my cock like a good girl. So fucking wet—so tight—I can feel you pulsing, fuck—”

Your vision blurs. But he doesn’t stop. He keeps thrusting through it, relentless, dragging it out with brutal pace, your pussy so sensitive now you can barely breathe. His hand’s still on your clit, rubbing slow now—just enough to make you whimper.

“Minho—please—I can’t—”

“Yes you can.”

He leans over your back again, teeth dragging along your shoulder, breath hot and harsh. “You gonna take it, baby,” he pants. “You’re gonna be good and take it. All of it. Until I cum too.”

You cry out when he fucks you harder, cock slamming in deep, hips slapping skin, the sound so obscene it makes your whole body flush. You feel your own slick running down your thighs, pooling under you—and still he keeps going.

“You said you were mine,” he groans. “So act like it. Let me fuck you how you need.”

“Minho—f-fuck—it’s too—too much—”

“It’s never too much,” he hisses. “Not for my good girl.”

His fingers leave your clit, only to grip your throat—lightly, possessively, pulling you up so your back is flush to his chest. His cock drives into you deeper from this angle, the stretch unbearable, perfect.

“You feel this?” he whispers into your ear. “You feel how hard I still am inside you? I’m not even close, baby.”

“Oh my god—”

“You’re gonna take every fucking second of it.”

You moan, broken and needy, as he slams into you again and again. His hips are ruthless now, fucking you straight through your oversensitivity, chasing his own high while demanding you keep up.

“Gonna ruin you,” he groans. “Gonna fill you up and fuck you until you can’t even stand—until all you know is my name in your throat.”

“Please—Minho—yes—yes, please—”

You feel another orgasm building and he knows it. His hand snakes down again, fingers finding your clit, rubbing quick tight circles just as he starts fucking you even deeper, fucking into your sweet spot with perfect, punishing rhythm.

“Cum again,” he growls. “Do it. Show me how good your pussy gets when it’s mine.”

Your legs are trembling now, slick and spent, but Minho doesn’t let up.

“C’mon,” he pants, voice wrecked. “Give it to me again. You know you can.”

His fingers never leave your clit—tight, ruthless circles in time with the brutal rhythm of his thrusts. He’s fucking into you so deep you swear he’s carved out space inside you. Your body’s a live wire, too sensitive, too soaked, too close.

And then—

You break.

A cry tears out of you as your body convulses, squirting hard around him, wetness gushing as your vision whites out. He curses low and vicious, gripping your hips to ride it out, holding you through the aftershocks.

“Fuck—just like that, baby. Look at this mess. All for me.”

You’re limp, gasping, gone—and he’s still fucking you, chasing the edge with a growl in his throat. His rhythm stutters, hips snapping faster, deeper, until he finally buries himself to the hilt with a sharp gasp.

“Mine,” he groans. “Taking all of me—fuck—mine.”

You feel the shudder of him spilling into the condom, body tight, muscles locked, every filthy, pent-up second poured into you.

And then—

Silence.

Only breath. Sweat. Your heartbeat in your ears. He doesn’t pull out right away. Just stays there, chest pressed to yours, mouth by your ear and pressing soft kisses.

Then finally—slowly—he pulls out. You both shiver from the loss.

Minho moves carefully now, the storm in him simmered down to something softer, raw-edged but human. He slides off the condom, ties it off, discards it in the bin by the bed. Then he vanishes for a beat—into the bathroom maybe—but returns just as fast with a warm cloth, water, tissues.

“Easy,” he murmurs as he wipes between your legs, his touch gentle, reverent. “Let me take care of you.”

You wince slightly when the cloth brushes too close to your clit, overstimulated and twitchy. He notices immediately.

“Sorry,” he says quietly. “You okay?”

You nod. Too gone to speak yet, but he sees it—your blinking gratitude, the softness returning to your breath. He kisses the inside of your knee before tossing the cloth aside.

And then he climbs back into bed, arms open. You crawl into them without hesitation. He pulls the blanket over both of you, tucks your head beneath his chin. One hand rubs slow circles into your back; the other is tangled in your hair.

For a long time, neither of you say anything. Just breath. The muted thud of his heartbeat under your ear. The faint creak of the studio pipes somewhere above.

Until you finally whisper, “Why’d we stop talking?”

His fingers still for a moment. Then resume. Slower. “I was angry,” he says. “And stupid.”

You hum. “Me too.”

He sighs. “I hated that you left without saying goodbye.”

“I hated that you let me.”

A pause.

“You came back,” he says quietly.

“I never stopped thinking about you.”

Another beat of silence, heavier now. “I never moved on,” he admits.

You look up at him, eyes glassy. “Neither did I.”

His jaw flexes. His thumb brushes your cheek. And this time, when he kisses you—it’s slow. Deep. No lust. Just longing. A kiss built on what-ifs. On might-have-beens. On maybe-again.

He whispers against your lips, “Stay the night.”

You nod, barely breathing. “Okay.”

It’s been three weeks since that night. Since Minho locked the studio door, fucked you senseless, and told you—without words—that he never stopped wanting you.

Now?

Now, your toothbrush is in his bathroom. Your sketchbook’s on his kitchen counter. Your bra’s been living on his bedpost for four days and counting.

You’re upstairs more than not—first it was overnight visits, then a drawer, then a closet, then one morning he just grunted, “Your stuff’s already here. Might as well stop pretending.”

So you stayed.

Mornings are quiet. Shared coffee in oversized mugs, his hand on your thigh while he skims client bookings. Nights are louder—sometimes it’s just TV and takeout, sometimes it’s moaning into his mouth while he fucks you over the arm of the couch, one hand tangled in your hair and the other keeping your legs spread.

Rebuilding hasn’t been linear. You argue. You remember old fights. You see old wounds still healing. But you talk now. And when you don’t have the words, he kisses the silence out of you, palms framing your face like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he blinks too long.

One afternoon, Jisung barges in to drop off a delivery and freezes at the top of the stairs. You’re half-naked in one of Minho’s shirts. He’s behind you, tattoo gun still buzzing.

“Are you seriously tattooing her naked again?”

Minho doesn’t even flinch. “My apartment. My rules.”

Jisung groans. “I’m gonna start charging rent for the trauma.”

Minho just smirks, wiping your skin clean and pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder. “Close the door on your way out.”

You laugh into the sleeve of your shirt. You’re glowing. A little inked, a lot in love.

And Minho? He’s not going anywhere this time.

[minholuvr333]

📁 ASK D U M P 𓆩🩸𓆪 23 JUNE 2025

🩸 THE ALTAR IS WARM. TODAY'S ASK DUMP BEGINS.

You whispered into the void. I answered with fangs bared and hands blood-wet from dissecting your desires.

Today’s indulgence features vampire sugar highs, love-drunk delusions, ink on skin and hunger in veins, academic breakdowns, brat worship, and the kind of devotion that ruins you sweet. You asked for chaos. You’re getting kissed and killed in the same breath.

Lay back. Offer your throat. You know how this goes.

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

🎀 ANON LOGGED: “I took a bullet for you, idiot, now say you love me before I die.”

🎀 anon, oh baby. You cooked, set the kitchen on fire, and then fed me the ashes—and i loved it. The vision is crystal clear, but you know what? We’re not doing the cheesy “throw-myself-in-front-of-you” trope like it’s a Hallmark adaptation with fangs. This is a vampire universe. We do angst with IQ. With blood. With consequences. So allow me to rewrite this chaos into something feral, logical, and absolutely unhinged.

⸺⟡⸺

𖤐 Setting:

A clandestine black-market gala hosted by a medical-tech magnate—one of the few humans powerful enough to hold negotiations with Chan’s empire (LUXE / NOCTE LABS / ASHSUNE HOLDINGS). The location is neutral ground, secured by anti-vampire wards and surveillance scramblers. You’re there as his "human consultant" (but really because he can't go anywhere without keeping you in sensory range—not that he admits it).

𖤐 Relationship:

You and Chan? Wired wrong for each other. You argue, fight, push buttons, and yet—your blood only responds to him. And his pulse? Only spikes when you're near. He once called you a glitch in the matrix. You called him a walking extinction event in a three-piece suit. It's working, somehow.

You're pissed at him tonight—again. You argued in the car. Didn’t want to attend this gala, didn’t want to be on his leash. But he needed you close.

So you’re watching from a distance as Chan speaks to the host. Smiling with that false grin you hate. You sip your drink and freeze.

Something’s off. A movement in the corner. A glint from a cuff that isn’t regulation. The way the host’s heart rate just spiked for no reason.

You don’t think. You move. But not like a cliché heroine leaping in front of a bullet. No. You're smarter than that. You shout his name—loud enough to draw attention, hard enough to make him flinch. You throw your glass toward the target, shattering against the wall just as the gun is lifted.

That split second? That's all it takes.

The bullet meant for his brain misses. But a second one doesn’t. Because when Chan lunges toward you—thinking you’re in danger—you get clipped through the side. A high-velocity skim. But you're already falling.

Chan smells your blood before he sees it and then he erupts.

No hesitation. No negotiation. He kills the shooter mid-step. The sound of it makes the other guests scream. The smell of your blood makes Chan flicker.

His reflection glitches in the chrome. The veins in his face light up like static lightning. He is not stable.

And yet—he doesn’t bite you. He doesn’t run. He gathers you into his arms and runs to get you out.

At the hospital, it's chaos. You’re on the table. Nurses scrambling. Alarms screaming.

Chan is snarling at the surgical staff, covered in your blood. The only reason he hasn't turned the room into bone is because Felix is holding him back and Jisung is whispering “She’ll live, hyung. You have to let them work.”

They force him out.

And as soon as the door shuts—your body starts seizing from the trauma.

When you wake up, you’re intubated. Hands restrained to keep from ripping the tube out. Eyes open. Panic. You choke.

The nurse screams for a crash team. You flatline for a breath.

Felix—still in the room—calls Chan with shaking fingers. All he says is: “Hyung. She’s going. She’s—”

No more words. The line goes dead.

In that moment, the doors slam open. Chan is there in under ninety seconds. Eyes black, fangs exposed. “I told you,” he breathes as he sinks to your bedside. “You don’t get to leave me. Not like this. Not ever.”

You’re conscious just long enough to grab his shirt, eyes bleary.

“I meant it,” you whisper. “Earlier. I said it and I meant it.”

He stills. “…Said what?”

You smile—blood on your lips. “I love you. You psychotic, overprotective, arrogant son of a—”

MONITORS FLATLINE.

And he breaks. Not by screaming. Not by snarling. But by kissing your dying mouth like a man already mourning, bleeding into your mouth, knowing what that would do.

Chan turns you and you survive. Of course you do. Because this isn’t the end. It’s the beginning of something worse: a bond that’s now unstable. Fused by trauma. Heightened by rage.

You're his now. Fully. Even if you hate him for it. But oh… the sex after that? It's gonna be violent. It's gonna be obsessive. And it will never be soft again.

⸺⟡⸺

🎀 anon? You gave me the bones. I gave you a massacre. Come back again 💋🦇

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

❓ ANON LOGGED: “So like… are soulmates deluxe edition blood dolls or?”

OH HELLO ANON 🩸🖤. you’ve walked straight into the vortex—no map, no guide, just vibes and vampires with control issues. bless you

⸺⟡⸺

❌ Q: Is there a big difference between a Blood Doll and a Soulmate?

🩸 A: NO. LMAOOO.

But also—yes, depending on who’s asking and who’s biting.

🔥 YOU CAN BE:

Just a Blood Doll → your blood is addictive, tailored, nourishing. You’re fed from. Maybe spoiled. Maybe used. Maybe loved. Maybe not.

Just a Soulmate → your soul is the perfect match, magnetic, fate-bound. Your presence stabilizes them. No blood necessary (but lmao it helps).

A Human Soulmate → rare. precious. soul-bonded without blood. But still... breakable. And you will be obsessed over.

A Blood Doll Soulmate → good luck. you are everything. you are their only meal. their only weakness. their ruin. You say jump? They say “will it save you?” You cry? They burn the city. You bleed? They bite like it’s the last supper.

⸺⟡⸺

thank you sm for the ask, anon 🖤 your brain is deliciously curious and i love to see it. keep the questions coming, keep it messy, keep it bloody 💋🦇

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

💕 LILLYMOCHILOVER LOGGED: “They see the bump and immediately start planning your entire future.”

OH LILLYMOCHILOVER 🩷 you absolute sweetheart—THANK YOU!! hearing you were giggling like an idiot? good. that was the goal 😌💅 because SKZ + pregnancy fluff is the serotonin shot we all need.

this is DEFINITELY becoming a SKZ x pregnancy mini series. Thank you for the love—and buckle in 💋🦇

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

🦈 ANON LOGGED: “Fuck you, only I get to insult my vampire.”

HELLO 🦈 ANON, CONGRATS ON BEING CLAIMED— you’re in the roster now. i see you. i love you. and you know what? YOU ATE with this ask.

⸺⟡⸺

🩸 VAMPIRE!SKZ x READER — “ONLY I GET TO TALK TO THEM LIKE THAT”

Prompt: You’re out in public. Someone starts mouthing off at your vampire—talking shit, throwing attitude, maybe even dropping old war rumors or calling them a monster to their face. They roll their eyes. They’re ready to leave. They’ve heard it all before. But you? Oh, you’re not having it.

Bang Chan

He’s the don’t engage, just eliminate type. Already turned his back, hand on your lower back, guiding you out. But the second you stop walking, he senses it. “You got something else to say?” you snap, turning back.

You don’t yell—but your words are like silver-tipped bullets.

Chan watches you drag the idiot through the verbal dirt, defending him like he’s some misunderstood king, not a centuries-old apex predator who’s eaten worse.

You spin back toward him, furious. “No one gets to talk to you like that. Except me.”

He blinks. Then smirks. Then kisses you so hard it almost draws blood. “God,” he murmurs. “Marry me again.”

Lee Minho

He’s eerily calm while someone insults him—just tilts his head, eyes black, calculating how long it would take to rip their spine out. You see it. You feel the silence crackling. “Let’s go,” he says.

But you step around him.

“Sorry, what was that? You don’t know him. You fear him. There’s a difference.”

Minho goes very still. Then smiles—something sharp and terrifying. When you’re done verbally gutting them, he drapes an arm around you.

“You really are mine, huh.”

(You don’t sleep that night. Too busy being rewarded.)

Seo Changbin

The insult hits mid-conversation—some asshole whispering loud enough to be heard. “Can’t believe they let him in. Disgusting.” Changbin’s jaw clenches. He shrugs it off. But his hand tightens around yours. He’s about to walk you out when you spin.

“Say it again. I dare you.”

Bystanders freeze.

You unload a verbal firestorm, praising Changbin’s strength, loyalty, control, and honour—and then finish with: “He could kill you in half a breath. But he doesn’t. That’s restraint. What do you have?”

Changbin stares at you the whole time like you hung the moon.

Later? He picks you up like you weigh nothing and whispers, “That was so hot.”

Hwang Hyunjin

Someone gets under his skin with elegant cruelty—subtle jabs about his past, his mother, the way he “seduces” people with fake charm. Hyunjin forces a smile. “I’ve heard worse.”

He starts to walk. But you don’t. You turn and go feral in iambic pentameter.

“You think he’s false because he’s beautiful? That his softness is a lie? You couldn’t survive a single day with his soul in your chest.”

Hyunjin just watches, mesmerized.

“You’re defending me,” he says later, voice raw.

“I always will.”

He kisses your wrist like it’s sacred.

Han Jisung

Someone mutters about “rats” and “turned trash” as you walk past. Jisung stiffens, shrugs it off. “Not worth it.” But you? You reverse like a car with a vengeance.

“Who the hell do you think you are? He’s a genius. You’re a fungus. Don’t open your mouth unless you’re asking for mercy.” You drag them for everything—their weak arguments, their ignorance, their fashion.

Jisung stares like you’ve just told him he’s the sun.

“I love you,” he says later, clutching his chest. “That was better than a blood high.”

Lee Felix

He’d normally respond with grace. With calm. But you see it—you feel it—when someone says he’s “too soft to be real.” They don’t know the monster under that sunshine. But when you defend him?

“No one gets to insult the light just because they’ve never seen it. He’s kind because he chooses to be. You wouldn’t last ten seconds if he wasn’t.”

Felix’s hand tightens in yours. His pupils flicker. “I didn’t know you got mad for me.”

“I’ll get mad for you every time.”

You don’t go home. He drags you into the car and shows you what it does to him.

Kim Seungmin

He’d rather annihilate them with sarcasm. But tonight? He lets you speak. You defend his mind, his strategies, his humanity.

“He’s ten steps ahead of you and still has the restraint to let you talk. That’s mercy.”

Seungmin, dry: “Why are you better at threats than me?”

You grin. “Practice.”

He doesn’t say thank you. He just holds your hand all night like it’s law.

Yang Jeongin

They call him “puppy.” They say he’s not real vamp material. He laughs it off, embarrassed. Until you step in.

“Laugh now. You’ll be dead before he even bares his fangs.”

Everyone goes silent.

You glare. “He’s got more fire in one look than you’ve got in your whole rotten soul.”

Jeongin blushes. Blinks. Then—“Holy shit… You’re kinda scary.”

You smirk. “And you’re mine.”

He smiles like he just won the world.

⸺⟡⸺

🦈 anon, THANK YOU for this absolutely unhinged, half-asleep stroke of brilliance. You might’ve lied about sleeping, but you did not lie about living, laughing, and loving it—because same. Your brain is officially on the VIP list. Keep screaming into the void. I’ll be here, sharpening my fangs and feeding off it 💋🦇

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

🐈‍⬛ ANON LOGGED: “Sure, he bought it for me… but I’m paying in bites and bruises later.”

OH 🐈‍⬛ ANON. You’ve triggered something primal. You think vampire!SKZ can say no to their blood doll?

BE SERIOUS. They’re ancient apex predators, yes. But when you look at them like that? When you’re soft, pouty, glowing, theirs?

They fold. They burn.

⸺⟡⸺

🩸 CAN VAMPIRE!SKZ SAY NO TO THEIR BLOOD DOLL?

Answer: No. Absolutely not. They don’t even try.

🛍️ If you’re out shopping…

You glance at a necklace? It's bought. You smile at a limited edition plushie? It’s in your arms within minutes. You sigh near a window display? He’s already on his phone arranging a private delivery and cleared stock.

“Oh? You like it?” he says casually, voice velvet. And then dead serious: “You’re getting it. All of it.”

Payment? “No need. You’re already mine.”

🕰️ If they’ve been working for 27 hours straight…

You pad in, sleepy and soft. “Can you take a break?”

They grunt. “Busy.”

So you climb into their lap. Wrap your arms around their neck. Nuzzle into their throat. “Please?”

You whisper against his skin, “I’ll be good…”

Cue chair pushed back, computer powered down. He carries you out without another word. “You win,” he mutters. “But you’re paying me back in kisses.”

He lies. He just wants to hold you while you nap.

🎬 You want a movie night?

You don’t even have to speak. You just blink up at them, tug their sleeve, and whisper, “Come relax with me.”

That’s it.

Ancient vampire warlord now horizontal on the couch, letting you play with his hair and shove popcorn in his mouth.

🥺 "But I want it..."

That line alone? Nuclear.

If you say it while tugging their sleeve or sitting in their lap? Done. Wallet open. Schedule cleared. Kingdoms burned.

🩸 TLDR:

Vampire!SKZ are lethal, ancient, dominant…

Until you ask for something.

Then they’re just: “Yes.” “Yes.” “Of course.” “What else?” “Do you want two?” “Take my credit card.” “I’ll kill for it.” “I already bought it.” “You can have my blood instead.” “You want the moon? I’ll fetch it.”

⸺⟡⸺

🐈‍⬛ anon, thank you for the gold. Keep asking things like this. I’ll keep collapsing like a Victorian woman with fangs 💋🦇

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

🫧 ANON LOGGED: “Asking for loving reassurance from SKZ”

🫧 anon, first off—thank you for trusting me with this. I see you. I hear you. And I want you to know this: Your body is not a flaw to be fixed. It is a story. A legacy. A home. And vampire!SKZ? Oh, they worship every inch of it like it’s carved into their afterlives.

I’ll go the vampire route (because you know I’m feral for them), and we’ll keep this a soft-sensual blend—comfort with a bite, you know?Generalized to any insecurity, but carrying the tenderness you deserve.

⸺⟡⸺

🩸 VAMPIRE!SKZ x INSECURE!READER — "SACRED SKIN"

🛑 TW: body insecurity, gentle reassurance, touch- and word-based comfort, soft smut implications (no explicit details)

Bang Chan — "You don't get to hide from me."

You tried to cover yourself in front of him once—shirt still clutched to your chest, head down, voice quiet.

And Chan?

He just walked over. Knelt in front of you like a knight bowing to royalty. “You don’t get to hide from me,” he whispered. “Not the person I crave. Not the body I worship. Not the skin that carries the scent I’d die for.”

He kissed your wrists. Your ribs. The small, trembling lines of yourself you thought weren’t enough. He didn’t fuck you that night. He just held you naked in candlelight and whispered, “Mine. Always.”

Lee Minho — "Tell me where it hurts."

He notices every shift—every tug at a sleeve, every way you tilt your body away from mirrors.

One night, he strips you slowly. Not to seduce, but to examine. Gently.

“Tell me where it hurts,” he murmurs.

You point. Softly.

So he kisses it. And again. And again. “Then I’ll love you there until it doesn’t.”

Minho doesn’t argue with your insecurity. He devours it until it becomes part of your beauty.

Seo Changbin — "How could you hate the body I love?"

It breaks him a little when you flinch at compliments. He pulls you into his lap and cups your face, stern and soft all at once.

“You don’t get to talk about yourself like that. Not when this body is my everything.” He traces your skin like a treasure map, lips brushing your neck. “You think I care what society wants? I’d burn society down for even thinking it could make you feel small.”

And then he fucks you with praise until you forget why you ever doubted.

Hwang Hyunjin — "Your body is art. Stop apologizing for it."

You sigh in the mirror one morning. Just a whisper of disappointment. But Hyunjin hears it like a scream.

He stands behind you. Wraps you in his arms. And starts painting. With fingers. With lips. With devotion.

“Do you think I’d sculpt a statue with anyone else’s shape?” He pulls you to the bed, lights dimmed low. “You are art. I will frame you in my memory. Again. And again. And again.”

Han Jisung — "Oh, baby. But I love you like this."

You try to brush it off. Laugh about it. Pretend it’s not real.

But Jisung knows better.

He kisses your shoulders. “You know what I see?” Your eyes fill. You don’t answer. “I see the person who makes me forget I’m a monster.”

He kisses every inch you once judged, whispering silly praise and soft promises, until your laugh is real again.

And then he tells you he’s never been harder in his life.

Lee Felix — "Your body brought me back to life."

You didn’t even say anything. Just looked at your reflection and winced. Felix saw it in your eyes. And felt it in your blood.

He cradled your face and said, “Do you know what your body does to me? It grounds me. It revives me.”

He lays you down like something sacred. Kisses your skin like scripture. And when you cry, he doesn’t flinch.

“I love you. Exactly like this. Especially like this.”

Kim Seungmin — "If you ever say that again, I’ll have to bite you out of punishment."

You joked once—half-heartedly—about not being “enough.” Seungmin didn’t laugh.

He pinned you to the wall and looked you dead in the eyes. “Don’t say that again. Not when I’m already trying to restrain myself because of how much I want you.”

He doesn’t coddle. He reclaims you. With mouth, hands, and voice. By the end, you can’t remember the insecurity. Just how he made you feel—like fire in a temple.

Yang Jeongin — "If I could be human again, I’d want to look like you."

It slips out one night. A soft confession. You tell him you don’t like your body.

He blinks. Quiet. Then says: “If I could trade immortality to look like you, I would. Because you’re perfect.”

You laugh. Think he’s teasing. He’s not.

He climbs into your lap and wraps himself around you like ivy. “I don’t love you despite your body. I love you because of it. Because it’s yours.”

⸺⟡⸺

🫧 anon, thank you for this gentle, necessary ask. You are beautiful, and I mean that. If you ever forget, I’ll write you another reminder—in blood and devotion 💋🦇

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

👻 ANON LOGGED: “You said no one would see? …Then why is your hand down my pants, babe?”

OHO 👻 ANON you saucy little spirit—you want to know which Stray Kids member is most likely to risk it all in public? Bathroom stalls? Back seats? Quiet corners? 👀

Alright. Ranking time. From “will fuck you behind a curtain” to “absolutely not unless we’re locked in a vault.” (No vampire powers. Just regular, horny SKZ.)

⸺⟡⸺

🔥 MOST LIKELY → LEAST LIKELY TO DO PUBLIC/SEMI-PUBLIC SEX:

Han Jisung — Zero shame. One goal: you.

“You’re looking at me like that in a public place and expect me to just sit here??”

His brain runs entirely on impulse and horny adrenaline. Back of a taxi? Movie theatre? Dressing room? He’s already hard and bargaining.

You whispered “I’m not wearing anything under this”—and he took it as a challenge.

Whispers in your ear, hand up your skirt, “No one’s looking. Be good for me.” Prays no one walks in. But also? Doesn’t care.

Ranking: Absolutely does not know what shame is. Public spot: Mall photo booth, café bathroom, stairwells. Danger kink level: 12/10 Favorite line: “Don’t be loud, or I’ll stop.”

Lee Minho — Calculated filth with zero remorse.

“It’s not risky if we don’t get caught.”

Minho won’t initiate it in public unless you start something. But the second you do? You’re done. He’ll drag you into a changing room with that sharp smirk and a hand around your throat.

Quiet dominance. Slow fucks in dangerous places.

He makes it feel forbidden and holy all at once. And if someone knocks? He covers your mouth and keeps going.

Ranking: Makes public sex a power move. Public spot: Museum alcove, private party balcony, dim stairwells. Danger kink level: 9/10 Favorite line: “You started this. Now take it.”

Yang Jeongin — Silent menace, hidden beast.

“Why are you blushing? I’m the one who just made you cum in public.”

Doesn’t need to announce it. Doesn’t need to ask permission. He’s the type to wait until you think you’re safe—then slip his hand between your thighs during a dinner party, whispering “Be still, or they’ll notice.”

He’s a menace because he looks innocent, sounds polite, but is not above bending you over a sink and covering your mouth with a kiss.

Not reckless—but not shy. He knows the game. He plays it quiet, calculated, lethal.

Ranking: Baby-faced criminal. No one suspects him—until you’re ruined. Public spot: Fancy restaurant bathrooms, elevator corners, car backseats with tinted windows. Danger kink level: 9/10 Favorite line: “They’re looking at you like they have a chance. Should I remind you who you belong to?”

Hwang Hyunjin — Poetic but deranged.

“I’d ruin you in this alley and write poetry about it.”

Gets off on the thrill of nearly getting caught. The secret. The sin. Wraps a scarf around your throat and walks you into a gallery hallway where no one’s watching.

Hands down your waistband while whispering how perfect you are. A mix of sensual praise and degrading filth. He loves knowing you’ll have to walk back out flushed and ruined.

Ranking: Feral artist energy. Doesn’t care if the floor’s cold. Public spot: Gallery back halls, rooftop bars, hotel elevators. Danger kink level: 10/10 Favorite line: “You moan like a masterpiece.”

Bang Chan — Conflicted leader, but weak for you.

“This is so irresponsible. Also… fuck, you’re driving me insane.”

He knows better. He tries to be respectful. But when you kiss his neck behind the venue curtain or crawl into his lap backstage?

He caves.

Pulls you into his dressing room. Locks the door. Bends you over the vanity. Can’t help but mutter, “Just a quick one—be quiet, baby.” Then loses control anyway.

Ranking: Fight between morals and lust. Lust usually wins. Public spot: Backstage rooms, locked studios, practice mirrors. Danger kink level: 7.5/10 Favorite line: “You’re gonna get me in trouble, sweetheart…”

Lee Felix — Sunshine with a sinful side.

“Out here? You’re naughty, huh?”

Felix is softly dangerous. The kind that’ll tease you with wandering hands in public, warm kisses behind your ear, low growls against your throat—

But will wait until you're somewhere just barely private.

A car with tinted windows. A backstage couch. A guest room at a party. He wants the risk, not the exposure.

Ranking: Flirty menace. Needs a door but not necessarily a lock. Public spot: Car rides, party hallways, music festivals. Danger kink level: 7/10 Favorite line: “I shouldn’t, but I really want to.”

Seo Changbin — Protective, but weak to whispered begging.

“Out here? Now?”

Instinct says no. He worries about you being caught, seen, embarrassed. But if you beg? And pout? And say “Please, Binnie, just for a second?”

…He’s caving.

One hand over your mouth, one hand down your pants. Will never fuck you fully in public—but you’ll definitely come on his fingers in a dark stairwell.

Ranking: Hesitant, but explodes under pressure. Public spot: Basement corridors, gym showers, venue parking lots. Danger kink level: 6.5/10 Favorite line: “Quick. Just once. Then we’re going home.”

Kim Seungmin — Morally offended but horny nonetheless.

“Absolutely not. …Okay, fine. But only if no one sees.”

Will fight you on it. “That’s reckless. That’s unsanitary. That’s—don’t look at me like that.”

You push him into a coat closet and kiss him breathless? Now he’s got your hands pinned above your head and you’re gasping quietly into his shoulder.

Pretends he hated it. Secretly replaying it in his head for weeks.

Ranking: Grumpily obsessed. Public spot: Empty rooms, coat closets, behind venue screens. Danger kink level: 5/10 Favorite line: “You’re insufferable… and I love you.”

⸺⟡⸺

👻 anon, thank you for this spicy request, come again please 🦇💋

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

🌙 ANON LOGGED: “He came in for protein and left feral for your blood.”

🌙 anon… you absolute romantic menace. your emoji has been officially claimed. First of all: thank you for the love—you’re feeding me more than any blood bag ever could 😌🖤 Second: you’re not boring, babe. You're blood-type-A-bait, daydream dangerous, Channie’s ruin wrapped in an apron. And third: you said pounce or stalk…

But oh no, darling. He’ll court. Because vampire!Chan? Especially Abnormal!Chan from the Luxe empire?

He’s not some feral brute. He’s controlled obsession. Surgical restraint. The monster who will tie a silk ribbon around his need and offer it to you like a gift.

Let’s cook.

⸺⟡⸺

🩸 VAMPIRE!CHAN x READER — “TYPE A”

You work the night shift at a half-dead farmstand that sells eggs, dusty candy, and weird cuts of meat. Most customers are regulars. Farmers. Truckers. People passing through.

Until he walks in.

Tall. Hood up. Movements precise. There’s something off about him, but not in a bad way—more like a smell you can't place or the feeling of being watched when you're not.

He grabs a pack of chicken breast and protein bars. Moves quietly. Says nothing. Until he steps up to your register.

And freezes.

He smells it.

You. Type A+. Exactly what he’s been craving. The rare blood that sings to him like a hymn. The kind that isn’t just nourishing—it’s euphoric.

His fangs press against his gums. His throat locks. He hasn’t fed in three weeks—not properly—and now?

You hand him a receipt and smile. “You need a bag for that?”

He doesn’t answer. Because he’s in hell. Or heaven. He’s not sure. All he knows is:

You smell like salvation wrapped in flesh, and he hasn’t felt this kind of hunger in a century.

But he doesn’t pounce. He retreats. Back to the parking lot. Gripping the steering wheel so hard it bends. Staring at the bag of raw meat like it’s plastic.

Because he wants you. Not it.

The next night, he returns. More items this time. Small talk. A smile. You don’t notice how he never blinks. Don’t catch the way he’s memorizing your voice, your pulse, the slope of your neck.

He leaves a tip. You write “thank you!” on the receipt. He tucks it into his coat like a prayer.

The third night, you joke: “You’re here a lot. Got a thing for chicken?”

He huffs a laugh. “You could say that.”

You giggle. He watches your throat move. Your vein throb. He doesn’t bite. He clenches his fists.

He starts showing up earlier. When the store’s empty. When the moon’s high. Not to scare you. To protect you from himself. He brings you tea. Says he had extra. He compliments your playlist. Asks your name. And you? You start to like him.

What you don’t know:

He’s memorized your blood rhythm. He’s taken your scent home in his lungs. He’s spent the last four nights locked in his room, fists buried in his sheets, fangs aching, refusing to touch a single drop of blood that isn’t yours.

He’ll starve before he cheats on the taste of you.

But then—

One night, you cut your finger on the register drawer. And that’s it. His eyes flash. His voice drops. “Let me help.”

He wraps your hand in his scarf. Fingers gentle. Movements too precise.

Your breath stutters. “You okay?”

And he looks up at you. Eyes dark. Voice thick. “No. Not really. But I will be—if you let me see you again. Somewhere that isn’t here.”

You blink. “Like a date?”

He smiles. “Like a blood pact. But yes. A date.”

⸺⟡⸺

🌙 anon… it wasn’t pouncing. It wasn’t stalking. It was starving romance with a silk tie and a pulse that belonged to you the second he smelled it. come again any time 🦇💋

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

🌹 ANON LOGGED: "College student by day, chaos gremlin by 3 a.m."

🌹 anon, greetings to you too, beloved martyr of caffeine and chaos.

I read this and immediately saw it: You, surrounded by textbooks and Red Bull, muttering osteological prayers at 3 a.m. Your soulmate vampire watching in horrified awe, wondering how a mere mortal is somehow more self-destructive than a blood-starved predator.

Let’s go.

⸺⟡⸺

🩸 VAMPIRE!SKZ x COLLEGE!READER — “DEATH BY FINALS, LOVE BY FANGS”

🧠 Existential Crises @ 3 a.m.

You: “What if none of this matters? What if I fail? What if I’m just a carbon-based joke hurtling through space?” Them: “…Baby, you’re literally my eternal soulmate.”

Bang Chan Sits beside you with juice boxes and noise-cancelling headphones. Stares at your spiralling form with pure devotion. “Even if the world ends,” he says, “I’ll still be here. Worshipping the way your brain glitches.”

Minho Throws a blanket over your head mid-spiral. “Shut up. Come cuddle before I bite your thigh out of spite.” Then does exactly that. It works. You're quiet now.

Changbin Tries to give you a pep talk but ends up crying with you while feeding you spoonfuls of peanut butter. “We’re BOTH gonna die, just at different speeds!”

Hyunjin Paints on your arm to calm you down. It starts as flowers. Ends up as “THE VOID IS A MYTH—YOU’RE EVERYTHING.” In cursive.

Jisung Hands you a coloring book and a Capri Sun like it’s a trauma response kit. “Okay, but also… what if we’re just NPCs in a vampire dating sim?”

Felix Lights candles. Puts on lo-fi. Gently rocks you in his lap like a weighted anxiety plushie. “Existence is chaos, but you’re the one constant I want.”

Seungmin Deadpan: “You’re spiraling. Take a breath or I’m calling the Vampire Board of Mental Health.” He’s already made you tea. The mug says "Unhinged But Loved."

Jeongin Silently sets a five-minute timer and holds your face in his hands while you scream into a pillow. “Okay. Time’s up. Now we rewatch cat videos.”

☕ Coffee as Religion

Them watching you chug your 5th cup in 2 hours: “That’s not blood. That’s… concerning.”

Chan buys you a $200 coffee maker and custom beans, but monitors your intake like a jealous barista.

Minho starts brewing it himself so he can lace it with nutrients. Also: “If you drink instant again I’m biting your kneecaps.”

Changbin tries to compete. Ends up jittering beside you whispering “I love you” 87 times in 3 minutes.

Hyunjin judges you—publicly—but will still take little sips from your cup and pout when you hide it.

Jisung starts using your coffee as vampire scent markers. You go to class smelling like espresso and him.

Felix drinks decaf and pretends it’s the same. It’s not. He cries.

Seungmin switches your mugs to say things like “stop.” or “this is the 6th one. i counted.”

Jeongin: “If you don't drink water I swear I’ll pin you to the floor and make you.” Pause. “...You want that, huh?”

📚 Textbooks as Gospel

You: “The ischial tuberosity is the part you sit on, babe—look, here’s the diagram.” Them: “…You talk anatomy to me one more time and I’m going to lose my mind.”

They love it. They’re obsessed with how your voice changes when you explain things. You study like it’s sacred. They want to be your study break. Or your subject.

Chan records you reciting notes and listens to them while feeding. “Your voice makes even pathophysiology sound hot.”

Minho starts quizzing you during sex. “What’s the cranial nerve responsible for taste?” “N-Number seven—fuck—Minho—"

Changbin tries to learn with you. Forgets. Brings snacks instead.

Hyunjin draws flashcards and leaves poetic messages on the back.

Jisung tries to study with you. Fails. Decides to eat you out while you study.

Felix highlights your books with affirmations. “You’re smart. You’re hot. You’re gonna pass.”

Seungmin tests you mid-kiss. You mess up. He smirks. “Try again with your hands tied.”

Jeongin memorizes your study schedule so he can interrupt it just enough to make you melt.

🍽 Horrible Eating/Sleep Habits

Them watching you fall asleep on cold rice with your laptop open to a Reddit thread called “Will I die if I drink expired milk.”

Chan carries you to bed mid-rant. Orders takeout. Force feeds you food between kisses.

Minho meal preps for the week. Slaps snacks into your hand like threats.

Changbin writes “eat” on post-its and sticks them to your forehead.

Hyunjin feeds you grapes from his lap like a decadent vampire consort.

Jisung shoves power bars into your backpack like smuggled gold.

Felix brings smoothies and says “drink this or I’ll cry.” You drink. He still cries.

Seungmin deadass bites your thigh if you skip a meal.

Jeongin shoves a spoon in your mouth and says, “Chew. Swallow. Good girl.”

⸺⟡⸺

🌹 anon, thank you for this blessed ask. Your dad wasn’t wrong—you’re speaking ancient spells. And I’ll happily keep sinning with you, fueled by Lana Del Rey and delusion.

Hydrate. Or Seungmin’s biting your thigh 🦇💋

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

🍒 ANON LOGGED: "Driving me crazy, touching me softly, ruining me slowly."

🍒 HELLO AGAIN MY BELOVED. You didn't just bring a meal, you dropped a five-course course corruption dinner and handed me the keys to the kitchen. And you know I’m pulling my hair back and rolling my sleeves up for this one.

Let’s dine. 🩸

⸺⟡⸺

🍤 APPETIZER: “DRIVING ME CRAZY BUT I LOVE TO RIDE”

Who touches you while driving? Steals glances? Handles you like a gear shift?

🛞 Bang Chan – “Hand on your thigh like it’s his second steering wheel.” Firm grip. Thumb rubbing slow circles. He’s focused—but your leg is his grounding point. Occasionally glances over and smirks when you squirm. Red light kisses? Filthy. Tongue and all. Also: “Put your seatbelt on or I’ll stop this car and spank you.”

🛞 Lee Minho – “Gear shift → your thigh → back again. Routine. Ritual.” The most casual about it. Like your skin is his personal clutch. If you wear a skirt? His fingers drift just under the hem—nonchalant, like he’s bored. You try to tease him back? He slaps your hand away with a smirk and locks the doors.

🛞 Seo Changbin – “Thigh rubbing turns into edging at 80mph.” Starts innocent. Then he’s palming between your legs and daring you to keep quiet. Red light kisses? He leans over and bites your bottom lip with one hand still on the wheel. He's saying "What? I’m multitasking." You’re saying "Sir, I can't walk into the restaurant like this."

🛞 Hwang Hyunjin – “Sunlight worship + unholy thigh grazes.” Literally loses focus staring at your profile. “God, you’re unreal.” Hand draped between your legs, barely there—but so intentional. He grips harder when someone cuts him off. That’s how you end up wet before dinner.

🛞 Han Jisung – “Hand on thigh + paranoid muttering = chaos kink.” Alternates between babbling about traffic and squeezing your leg. Every time you inch your hand up his thigh, he whines. “You’re evil. I’m driving. This is illegal. Keep going.” Starts speeding just to get home faster and punish you properly.

🛞 Lee Felix – “Gentle at first. Then suddenly feral.” Brushes his fingers up and down your leg while singing softly. Until you tease him back. Then the car swerves a little, his voice drops, and he says: “Do that again and I’m pulling over.” And he will.

🛞 Kim Seungmin – “Chokehold-level thigh grip masked as casual affection.” Acts calm, but his hand is slowly creeping toward your inner thigh. You try creeping up his leg and he side-eyes you hard: “Do that again and I’ll park on the shoulder and fuck the brat out of you.” You're like “bet.” He’s like “No, seriously. Bet.”

🛞 Yang Jeongin – “One hand on the wheel. One hand claiming your thigh like rent’s due.” Smooth. Confident. He’s the one saying “You cold, baby?” just to drape his jacket over you and slide his palm under your thighs again. When you touch him back? He doesn’t flinch. Just smirks. “You sure you want to play this game on the highway?”

🍲 DINNER: “TOUCH-STARVED BRAT WHO LIKES TO PLAY WITH FIRE”

You sneak into their hotel room mid-live wearing only their hoodie. What happens?

📱 Bang Chan – Professional until you climb into his lap. He sees you in the doorway. Slight pause. Smile shifts. He knows what's underneath. But he keeps talking. Calm, cool, calculating his exit. “Guys, I gotta go—manager's calling me.” He ends the live in 5 seconds flat and has you moaning in 10.

📱 Minho – Plays it TOO cool. Doesn’t even flinch. Looks you dead in the eye and smirks. Keeps talking to Stay. But his hand disappears under the hoodie out of camera view. You're trying not to whimper. He whispers in your ear off-mic: “Let’s see if you can keep quiet.”

📱 Changbin – Can’t focus. At all. He stutters. Glances off camera. Adjusts himself. “Uh—haha—so yeah—uh concert was great!” You walk behind the laptop. Pull the hoodie up. He SLAMS the laptop shut. “Technical difficulties—gotta go!!!” You don’t make it to the bed.

📱 Hyunjin – Pretends he doesn’t see you. He sees you. Keeps the live going. Stays smiling. But his eyes flick toward you constantly. And his cheeks get pink. At one point he just says: “You know what? I need to go paint something. Urgently.” He paints you. Naked. With his cum still dripping down your thighs.

📱 Jisung – Flips the camera IMMEDIATELY. “WHOOPS wrong button bye—" Gone. Tackles you onto the bed like you started a war. “You think you’re slick?” The hoodie’s off in seconds. You don’t even remember how.

📱 Felix – Eyes go wide. Then darker. He keeps talking sweetly to Stay, but his hand is clenched in the sheets. You see him swallow hard. When he ends the live, he doesn’t say a word. He just walks over and lifts you by the thighs. “I was trying to behave,” he murmurs. “You ruined that.”

📱 Seungmin – Murderous silence. Looks at you. Blinks. “Hold on.” Turns off the live without even saying goodbye. Stares at you. “You’re lucky I like you.” Then ruins you on the hotel floor with the hoodie still on.

📱 Jeongin – Laughs. It’s over. “Guys, I gotta go—emergency wardrobe malfunction.” They think it’s his. It’s yours. The camera’s off and you’re already on your knees. He mutters, “You better be ready to take responsibility for that.”

🍦 DESSERT: “SOMETIMES WE DRESS UP JUST TO STAY HOME”

Who ruins date night the fastest because you looked too good in the mirror? Ranking from least to most patient.

🥇 Most patient → 🥵 Least patient:

Felix – Will whine. Will touch. Will WAIT. Because he wants you to feel sexy, powerful, worshipped. Until dessert. Then? Ruin.

Seungmin – Pretends he’s fine. You know he’s not. He watches you like a predator and doesn’t say a thing—until he’s pounding into you on the bathroom counter whispering, “This is your fault.”

Chan – Meant to behave. Really. But you’re in front of the mirror, lip gloss on, batting your lashes? He’s already got your panties pushed aside whispering, “Dinner can wait.”

Jeongin – Doesn’t even try to leave the house. “Why would I take you out when I can make you cry on my fingers right here?”

Minho – Only lets you put on mascara so he can watch it smudge while he rails you from behind. The dinner reservation was never real.

Hyunjin – You bent over for one second and now your dress is around your waist, his hands are on your hips, and he’s saying “Stay still, angel. You look too pretty to not fuck right now.”

Jisung – You blinked. He was already pulling the dress up. “I’d rather eat you than pasta. Get on the sink, babe.”

Changbin – You applied perfume. That’s it. That’s all it took. You’re not making it out of the house. The neighbours will hear. He does not care.

⸺⟡⸺

🍒 THANK YOU FOR THIS BUFFET OF SIN. Every course was a blessing. You are always welcome at my unholy table 🦇💋

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

🍊 ANON LOGGED: "Can vampires get drunk or do we need to bring the absinthe?"

🍊 anon you juicy little delight, you just unlocked the vampire logic panel, so let’s spill.

⸺⟡⸺

🩸 DO VAMPIRES GET INTOXICATED?

Short answer: Yes, but not like humans. Long answer: Let’s break it down!

🍷 ALCOHOL

YES. THEY CAN GET DRUNK. But their tolerance is insane.

You down two shots and you're dancing on the bar.

They down two bottles and might blink slower.

Chan once drank an entire case of wine and just got... affectionate.

Changbin gets louder.

Minho? Even quieter. Dangerous.

Blood is their main sustenance, so alcohol hits like a dull ache behind the eyes—not a full blackout, but definitely a buzz if they drink enough.

And yes, drunk vampire sex is a thing. Messy. Growly. Desperate. Fangs scraping skin with no filter. You will get worshipped or ruined—or both.

🪄 WITCH CONCOCTIONS

NOPE. Not unless they’re custom-made.

Vampires are biologically different. Their blood and body chemistry reject most standard potions and tonics. BUT a trained witch (especially one who knows vampire anatomy) could craft something to work:

Love potion? Rejected. But a blood-bond enhancer? Maybe.

Sleep elixir? No chance.

Truth serum? Chan would laugh in your face.

You’d need dark spellcraft + tailored blood magic to even graze their senses.

💔 EMOTIONS

Pure emotions? Can’t intoxicate them. But they can destabilize a vampire—especially Abnormals, who are already on thin ice with their feral side.

Love doesn’t intoxicate them. But soulbond ache? Rejection? Bloodlust laced with longing? Yeah. That shit’ll ruin them.

Jealousy makes them rash. Abandonment makes them volatile. Your tears? Hallucinogenic.

🍗 FOOD + DRINK

Yes, they can eat regular food. No, it doesn’t satisfy anything but social custom or nostalgia.

Jeongin still eats ramen. Out of habit. He says it keeps him “in touch.”

Felix bakes because he loves the way it smells.

Hyunjin eats fruit off your stomach just to watch you shiver.

They don’t need it. But they’ll indulge—especially if it’s with you.

⸺⟡⸺

🍊 anon, you’re officially the citrusy crown jewel of vampire questions. Come back anytime with more 🍊curious bloodfruit thoughts 💋🦇

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

🪻 ANON LOGGED: "Seungmin is the villain, you are the sun — and he melts."

🪻 ANON… you gentle little chaos flower… you rolled in with sparkles, sunshine, and a smile that dismantled a cold-blooded vampire war tactician and you expect me to breathe normally?

LET’S GET INTO IT. Because you just gave me the ultimate polarity kink and I’m giggling and kicking MY legs now.

⸺⟡⸺

🩸 VAMPIRE!SEUNGMIN x BRIGHT!READER — “SUNSTRUCK”

Seungmin has a type. Mouthy little blood dolls. Sharp-tongued. Messy. Always pushing his buttons just to get bent over a desk and corrected.

He’s not sweet. He’s efficient. Icy. The vampire other vamps send in when a doll gets unruly. He doesn’t play—he disciplines. He doesn't ask—he commands. And he always wins.

Until you.

You with your oversized jumpers. Your giggles and messy buns. Your sparkle-trap eyes and that soft little snort you try to hide when you laugh too hard.

You don’t challenge him. You excite him. You walk into a room and Seungmin forgets what century it is.

You ask him if he wants to try the strawberry cookie you baked. He stares like you offered him eternity.

He tries. He really tries. He tells himself you're too bubbly. Too soft. Too clumsy with your joy. You trip in front of him once and say, “Hehe, sorry! My shoelace betrayed me.”

He blacks out for 0.7 seconds.

You make him insane. Not sexually at first—existentially. How are you real? Why is your blood so sweet? Why does he crave not your neck, but your approval?

The downfall is subtle.

You: shyly tugging at his sleeve, “Seungminnie, can you help me reach the box on the top shelf?”

Him: 🧍‍♂️🧍‍♂️🧍‍♂️

He glares. “You could’ve gotten someone else.”

You pout. “But I like it when you help me.”

He dies. Right there. In the aisle.

He starts bringing you things without being asked. Leaves notes on your lunch box. Glares at anyone who looks at you for more than 2 seconds.

You ask him to sit with you while you paint your nails. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just says, “Yeah. Of course. Obviously.”

BUT HERE’S THE KICKER: You’re not dumb. You know what he does to brats. You’ve heard the stories. He’s a legend in vampire circles.

So one night you sit in his lap, all soft and glowing, and say: “Do you wish I mouthed off to you more?”

He blinks. “No,” he says. Too fast. Then quieter: “…I’d ruin you. You’d cry. I don’t want to make you cry.”

You tilt your head. “What if I wanted to?”

He growls. Then shakes his head.

“You’re not for ruining,” he whispers. “You’re for keeping.”

⸺⟡⸺

🪻 anon, thank you for this bouquet of sunshine-fueled sin. You’re everything to me. Come back anytime 💋🦇

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

🐹 ANON LOGGED: "Fresh ink, sensitive skin, and one starving vampire boyfriend."

🐹 anon, I LOVE YOU. YOU JUST HANDED ME A TRAY OF BLOOD-SLICKED ANGST, OBSESSION, AND DENIAL-BASED FOREPLAY. And then you bowed and said, “Here, break them.”

So I did.

⸺⟡⸺

🩸 VAMPIRE!SKZ — “TATTOOED FOR YOU”

Bang Chan — "You’re playing with fire, love."

It’s on your collarbone, the perfect place for him to mark. He sees the fresh ink, still wrapped, and his jaw locks.

“You did this for me?”

“Mhm. It’s your handwriting, too.”

Chan has never known restraint like this. Every time he kisses your neck, he stops just before the tattoo. Every time you take off your shirt, he stares.

At night, when you’re asleep, he brushes his lips just above it and whispers, “When it heals, I’m going to bite you right here. And you’ll remember who you belong to.”

You already do.

Lee Minho — "Don’t test me."

You got it on your inner thigh. His favorite hunting ground.

When he sees it? Still red. Still raw. He backs up like he’s been slapped.

He can’t touch it. Can’t bite you there. Can’t kiss the spot he’s obsessed with. And you’re sitting there in nothing but a towel, whispering: “Do you like it?”

Minho growls. “No. I hate it. Because I can’t have it. Yet.”

You tease him. You stretch. You flaunt.

He pins you down without touching the tattoo and says, “When it heals, I’m fucking you so hard on your stomach you won’t remember getting it.”

You will. Every time you see it in the mirror.

Seo Changbin — "Baby, this is mean."

Your new tattoo is inked just under your breast, hidden until your shirt rides up.

He sees it by accident. Chokes.

“You got a heart? Under there? For me??”

You nod. “It’s… tender.”

He doesn't trust himself. You’re straddling his lap. No bra. Breathing like sin. He groans and leans his forehead against your chest. “I can’t touch you there. I can’t even—God, you’re cruel.”

That night, he wraps your entire body in his arms and whispers how good you were for him.

When it heals? His tongue won’t leave it for hours.

Hwang Hyunjin — "You did that for me?"

It’s behind your ear, delicate, hidden, perfect. He brushes your hair back and sees it.

A flower. His flower. His mark.

You say softly, “I wanted to bloom for you.”

He nearly cries. But he doesn’t touch. Doesn’t press his mouth there. Just hovers and whispers, “When it’s healed, I’m going to mark you there with my fangs. Then you’ll have my art and my blood.”

You whisper back, “Please.”

Han Jisung — "You’re so evil. I love you so much."

It’s on your ribs, right where he always grabs you when he fucks you from behind.

He peels up your hoodie and freezes.

“Is that—fuck. You inked it?”

“For you.”

Now he can’t grab you there. He has to be gentle. And you know how much he hates being gentle when you’re a brat for him.

He huffs, pouty and feral. “You’re gonna pay for this. I’m gonna wait so patiently. And then? I’m gonna pin you down and make you beg for every inch of what I couldn’t give you today.”

You beg anyway. He gives in—just a little. Just enough to remind you who owns that ink.

Lee Felix — "You didn’t—oh my god."

It’s small. It’s sweet. A little sun on your hip, the same one he always kisses first.

When he sees it, his voice cracks. “You really got that? For me?”

You nod. “I wanted you to feel loved. Even when you weren’t here.”

He can’t stop tearing up. He doesn’t touch it. Not once. But when it heals? He kisses it like a vow. Then bites above it. Just a little. Just to claim.

Kim Seungmin — "You're not getting away with this."

You got a tattoo on your lower back. Just above your ass. His favorite grip spot.

When you bend over and it peeks out of your jeans, he short-circuits.

“Did you—”

You smile.

He steps back like he’s about to commit a war crime. “You got it there, knowing I can’t touch it?”

You nod.

He breathes through his nose. Then mutters, “Okay. Fine. Heal up. Then you’re mine. For a whole week. I’ll mark the other side with bruises to match.”

Yang Jeongin — "Why would you do this to me."

You got a vampire bite tattoo on your neck. Right where his fangs hover.

He stares at it. Frozen. Reverent.

“You got this… for me?”

“Of course.”

You tug your collar down. Bare your neck. Tilt your head. He moans. Then grabs your wrists and pins them gently. “No. I can’t. Not yet.”

He looks at the ink like it’s a sacred seal. “When it’s ready… you’ll feel what a real bite there feels like. I’ll show you what you signed up for.”

You’re ready. Even if it means waiting.

⸺⟡⸺

🐹 anon, THANK YOU FOR THE CONCEPT. I’d follow you into hell for this. Or into a tattoo parlor. Or a vampire’s bed 💋🦇

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

🌘 ANON LOGGED: "Wait… can I have two soulmates or is this monogamous magic?"

Short answer: No. Not in this vampireverse, baby.

Long answer: Soulmate bonds in this universe are singular, absolute, and magically binding. There is one blood that sings to theirs. One scent that breaks them. One touch that unravels centuries of control.

You don’t get two flames. You get the flame — and if you lose it, it scorches everything behind it.

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

🦄 ANON LOGGED: "Unicorn anon reporting for vampire duty."

🦄 IS NOW TAKEN — welcome to the vampire cult, my beloved unicorn anon!! 🦷💜

Thank you so much for your kind words; your message made my undead heart do cartwheels. I'm so, so glad you're enjoying the lore — there’s so much more coming (fangs, blood, courtship, chaos, and cuddles).

You’re officially part of the eternal coven now. No backsies 💋🦇

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

🌙 ANON LOGGED: "Secret thoughts, starry eyes, and a shy heart full of sin."

AHHH 🌙 anon you are so, so welcome here — I’m beyond honoured you worked up the courage to send in your ask 🥹🖤 BUT, alas, our lovely moon has already been claimed by another child of the night…

HOWEVER, I’ve got a whole constellation of delicious alternatives for you to choose from! Here’s a lil list (but feel free to suggest your own too):

🐾 paw print

💌 love letter

🍓 strawberry

🦴 bone (rawr xD)

🔮 crystal ball

Once you pick, I’ll officially crown you and welcome you to the anon cult 🖤 Can’t wait to see what beautifully unhinged things you send next 💋🦇

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

🫶🏼 ANON LOGGED: "Hi, when is Vampire Changbin dropping? Asking nicely <3"

EHEHE THANK YOU BABY 🫶🏼🖤 I’m so glad you’re loving the series — it means the (undead) world to me!

And yes yes YES — Vampire!Changbin is rising from the shadows this Wreck Me Wednesday, June 25th. Get ready, he’s gonna bite, break, and build you back up.

Prepare your neck 💋🦇

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

If you made it to the end of this blackout banquet of fanged worship, tattoo fever dreams, vampire academia, brat-induced insanity, and thirsty psychic combustion—

🩶 congrats. your humanity’s been repossessed. 🩶 your mind? archived in crimson script. 🩶 your heartbeat? syncing to mine. 🩶 your browser history? deeply concerning.

⚡️“Phantom Flame” from the album VX is getting uploaded to YouTube as an official track coming this Sunday!! yay. ⚡️yes, I’m figuring out how the hell to bend TikTok to my will. until then, scream about me in group chats and playlists.

This is the gospel of thirst, ink, lore, and lunacy. Thank you for being terminal with me. Now go bite something 💋🦇

[minholuvr333]

📁 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 🦇💋

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© 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.

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🐹 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 🦇💋

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🧃 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 💋🦇

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🫦 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 😌💌✒️

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🥟 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 💋🦇

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🦭 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… 🦇💋

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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 💋🦇

[minholuvr333]

S h u t U p a n d S i t S t i l l

Tattoo Artist!Kim Seungmin x Reader | He tattoos like a surgeon and fucks like a sadist. You showed up for ink. He gave you obsession.

🔞synopsis: Tattoo Artist AU. you walked into NO SAINT INK for a rib tattoo—left with trembling thighs, his hoodie around your neck, and a cock you can't stop dreaming about. Seungmin is quiet, sharp-tongued, and mean in the best ways: he bends you over the bench, fucks you until you cry, then wipes you down and feeds you strawberries like you're his favourite masterpiece. It starts with your seventh tattoo. Ends with you moaning his name every night, in his bed, in his hoodie, with his fingers under your panties. This isn’t just art. It’s obsession. And now he’s your boyfriend too—lucky you.

💌a/n: i literally don’t remember who requested tattoo artist seungmin first. either way. you got it. the man who fucks you stupid then wipes you down like he’s cleaning his favourite mug. HE’S HERE. AND HE’S IN LOVE (but would rather die than admit it out loud) 🫶🍓🖤. also? 🔔 THE MINI SERIES ORDER HAS BEEN DECREED 🔔 next up: JEONGIN. after that: ⟡ MINHO ⟡ CHANGBIN ⟡ FELIX and then finally—drumroll, throat clear, studio lights flickering— BANG CHRISTOPHER FUCKING CHAN. the cherry on top. the tattoo daddy. the final boss of soft filth and filthy softness. pray for me. p.s. if you liked it, if you screamed, if your thighs clenched even ONCE—REBLOG IT. LIKE?? yes. COMMENT?? also yes. p.p.s. if i catch you in the notes saying “need him biblically,” “he wiped me down like a canvas,” or “not the strawberries 😭”—just know i love you. violently 💋 p.p.s. see u next Tethered Tuesday with Jeonginnie~

⚠️ warnings: 18+ | MINORS DNI | Bench sex / semi-public (studio after hours) | Mean dom!Seungmin | Praise kink, brat taming, overstimulation | Spit play, creampie, multiple orgasms | Oral (m receiving), fingering, unprotected sex | Aftercare king behaviour | Reader is shameless and mildly unhinged | Seungmin is quiet, dangerous, and obsessed

📌 Please read responsibly. Hydrate. Stretch. You are the CEO of your own coochie.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » Charmer — Stray Kids « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:09 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

Seoul, South Korea. Tuesday, 3:12 PM.

You push the door open with your hip, bells jingling overhead as warm incense curls toward the ceiling — sandalwood, patchouli, something citrusy beneath it all. It’s always like this at NO SAINT INK. Chill beats humming low, Felix probably somewhere in the back rearranging his piercing tools like he’s Marie Kondo with a needle fetish, and—

“Fuck,” a voice mutters from behind a half-drawn curtain. You grin. Found him.

Kim Seungmin.

The reason you have six tattoos—and the reason you keep coming back for more.

You strut past the front desk like you own the place, setting down your tray of iced americanos and pastries with the confidence of someone deeply annoying. Your seventh session. Four healed pieces, one still peeling, and the newest one inked just last month. And of all the artists here, you keep picking the same one. On purpose.

Seungmin doesn’t look up at first. He’s sketching something at his desk—lined in ruler-straight precision, every pen stroke exact, no wasted ink. Hair slightly tousled. Sleeves rolled. Black gloves already on like he’s been prepping to ruin someone’s day.

He finally lifts his eyes—and groans.

“Why are you here again?”

“Hi to you too, sunshine,” you chirp, sipping your iced coffee with maximum slurp.

“I told Felix to screen your bookings.”

“I bribed him with matcha cake. Also, he says hi.” You swing the drink tray toward him with flair. “Got you your usual. Thought you could use the energy. You looked a little pale last time.”

He stares. “You’re lucky I don’t stab clients.”

“You already do,” you smile sweetly, plopping into the client chair. “It’s called tattooing.”

You met him through Felix, of course—NO SAINT INK’s glittery menace and certified piercing god. You came in on a whim two years ago for a constellation of helix piercings and left with a phone background of Felix’s stupid peace sign and a mouth full of swear words after he showed you Seungmin’s tattoo portfolio. Clean lines. Razor-sharp contrast. Occasional anatomical sketches paired with poetry in tiny, deliberate script.

When you told Felix you wanted something specific for your first tattoo—a geometric wolf across your ribcage—he nodded once and said, “Seungmin’s your guy.”

You’ve hated him ever since.

He’s impossible. Quiet, dry, sarcastic in a way that feels like a dare. Doesn’t flirt. Doesn’t smile. He just tattoos like he’s building something permanent—measured, focused, untouchable. But when you’re the one under his needle? His fingers linger a little too long on your waist. His voice drops when he tells you to hold still. And you—being the insufferable brat you are—live to poke at the ice until it cracks.

Which is why you’re here today. For tattoo number seven.

From him. Again.

“Let me guess,” he says, sipping the coffee despite himself. “Some half-baked Pinterest inspo you expect me to redesign overnight?”

“I’m hurt,” you pout dramatically. “I actually brought a reference this time. Plus, I figured you missed me.”

“I miss peace and quiet.”

“Then why’d you pick a career where girls beg to get pinned under you?”

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move. Just says, “Get on the table before I change my mind.”

You smirk. There it is. That little twitch in his jaw. That flick of his tongue against the inside of his cheek when you say something just annoying enough to rattle the cage.

You pull out your sketch. “I want it here,” you say, lifting your shirt to gesture just below your sternum, to the space between your breasts and your ribs. “Delicate linework. Abstract. Your specialty.”

Seungmin stares. Then sighs. “You do realize I’ll have to touch you for placement.”

“Oh no,” you gasp, faux-innocent. “That would be terrible.”

He drops the clipboard with a snap.

“You’re unbearable.”

“You’re obsessed.”

Seungmin mutters something under his breath—probably a curse, probably in two languages—as he snatches your sketch and jerks his head toward the back hallway.

You follow with a smug little skip in your step.

The private rooms at NO SAINT INK are all artist-personalized. Seungmin's? It’s all dark wood, clean steel, framed minimalist pieces, and surgical-grade tidiness.

Cedar diffuses from a sleek black humidifier in the corner. The light is warm-toned and angled perfectly. His iPad sits on a tidy desk, stylus already beside it like it was placed there with a ruler. And on the windowsill—three succulents. Perfectly spaced. You teased him about it once and he deadpan replied, “One for every time you’ve wasted my time.”

He drops your paper sketch on his desk and sits, spinning the iPad toward him with a sigh. “You’ve got five minutes to explain what the hell this is.”

You plop down in the rolling stool beside him, leaning your chin on your hand. “It’s art. Use your imagination.”

He gives you a long, deeply unimpressed look.

“Fine,” you huff. “It’s… inspired by sacred geometry. Like a mandala, but cracked open. Fragmented. I want it to feel like breaking and healing at the same time. Like symmetry trying to reassemble itself.”

Seungmin blinks. Then blinks again.

“…You pulled that out of your ass just now.”

“I did not.”

“Did too.”

“Seungmin.”

He groans and starts sketching.

You watch, quiet now—because this is the part you actually love. The way his fingers move when he draws. Controlled, calculated. Not robotic. Not sterile. There’s warmth there, if you know where to look. And you do.

He sips the coffee you brought like it’s medicine. Then grabs a croissant and bites it with grim resolve, like chewing it too quickly might register as gratitude.

“I still think you bribed Felix with blackmail.”

“He was emotionally weak. I seized the moment.”

“You’re a menace.”

“And you’re drawing me the prettiest trauma-symbol I’ve ever seen, so who really wins here?”

He doesn’t answer. But his pen slows. His strokes get sharper. He’s in his element now. You recognize the shift—the way he leans in closer to the iPad, slightly squints, drags his stylus with deliberate precision.

The design blooms under his hand: a fractured mandala, circular symmetry interrupted by jagged arcs and broken segments. Clean dotwork in the center, a few splashes of abstract floral curls breaking out near the bottom edge. Like order blooming from chaos. Like something whole again.

“You’re disgusting,” you whisper, stunned. “That’s perfect.”

“I know.”

“Arrogant.”

“You begged me for it.”

“I said please once and you moaned like I kicked your dog.”

He flicks his eyes to you, slow. “Say please again.”

You blink.

Then smirk. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

But he’s already reaching for the print button.

“Let’s stencil this,” he says coolly, rising from his chair and heading towards the printer to print the design out. “I’d like to be rid of you before sundown.”

“Careful,” you say, trailing him out of the room. “One day you’ll miss me when I’m gone.”

“Promise?”

“Never.”

While he is busy with the printer, you kick your shoes off and climb onto the bed like it’s yours.

Technically, it’s a client bench. Adjustable, padded, wrapped in fresh black vinyl. But in your mind? It’s a throne. A stage. A perfect little altar for the games you play with Kim Seungmin.

You wiggle into place, tugging your top over your head in one smooth motion. You’re down to your bralette now—delicate black lace with scalloped trim, something clearly chosen on purpose. Not slutty. Not overt. But just enough to see Seungmin’s jaw tighten when he walks back in.

He’s still fiddling with the stencil printer—cutting the sheet, prepping it with solution. Focused. Professional. Cold, as ever.

You lounge, arms folded behind your head, watching him from the bed like you’re sunbathing and he’s just lucky to be in your light.

“You gonna stare the whole time?” he murmurs without looking up.

“Am I bothering you?”

“Always.”

You grin.

Just then—click—the door swings open, and Felix’s voice rings through the room.

“Hey, demon duo—just letting you know I’m locking up soon. Jisung dipped early, and Chan-hyung’s out all day, so it’s just you two in the studio for the rest of the afternoon.” He wiggles his brows. “Try not to kill each other. Or fuck. Or both.”

Seungmin doesn’t look up. “Go away, Felix.”

“Don’t be rude. I brought you into this world.”

“I was here first.”

“Emotionally? Never.” Felix flicks his brows toward you. “Good luck, baby girl. If he’s mean, just call me and I’ll stab his tires.”

You salute him. “Noted. Drive safe.”

With a wink, Felix is gone. The click of the studio door locking behind him feels final. Loud.

Seungmin exhales slowly. Then turns.

You’re still lying there on the bed, head propped, shirt discarded, body sprawled like a damn invitation.

His gaze flickers once. Down. Then away. Then back again, like it physically pains him to give you that much attention.

He lifts the stencil paper, holds it up to the light. “You know this placement is gonna be tricky.”

“Delicate linework on soft skin,” you echo sweetly. “Your specialty.”

He levels you with a look. Flat. Dangerous. Amused.

“…You’re going to be impossible today.”

“I’m always impossible.”

“No,” he says, slipping on gloves with a soft snap, “today it’s worse. Today you want something.”

You blink, feigning wide-eyed innocence. “Me? Never.”

He steps forward, slow and deliberate, stencil sheet in one hand, alcohol wipe in the other.

“Sit up,” he says, voice low. Commanding. “And lift your arms. I need a clean canvas.”

You obey—grinning like a menace—arms up, ribs exposed, breath catching slightly as the cold wipe grazes under the swell of your breast. He’s careful. Professional. Completely murderous about it.

The tension is a wire, pulled tight between you.

He smooths the stencil paper across your skin, presses down, then peels it back slowly, eyes trained on the imprint left behind.

It’s beautiful.

Nestled between your ribs, spanning just above your solar plexus: the fractured mandala blooms in fine linework, cracked yet radiant. His style. His hand. His art.

And now—it’s on you.

Seungmin looks at it for a beat too long.

Then: “Lie back.”

You do.

He adjusts the overhead lamp. Tilts your chin slightly. Brushes a single finger along your sternum, just below the stencil line.

You shiver.

He smirks.

“Try not to squirm this time,” he says. “You’ll fuck up the symmetry.”

Finally, Seungmin moves again. Gloves snap into place—tight, black latex stretched over knuckles and the fine lines of his fingers. You watch him through lowered lashes as he pours ink into the caps—his shade of black. You’ve learned that by now. Not too warm. Not too blue. Just sharp enough to slice through skin and stay.

The hum of the machine starts soft. Like a warning. Like a purr with teeth.

He looks at you once.

Just once.

And you know he’s not going to go easy.

“You good?” he asks, voice flat.

You nod, smug. “You always ask like you care.”

“I do care,” he mutters, tilting your chin again with a gloved hand. “Would be a shame if my art got fucked up because someone couldn’t keep still.”

Your eyes narrow. “Someone?”

He dips the needle, tests the line on a pad, and leans forward—right into your space. His breath ghosts over your lips.

“You.”

You roll your eyes and shift slightly, arms up, chest rising.

“God, you’re such a dick.”

His smirk could slice bone.

“And you’re still here. What does that say about you?”

You go to reply—but the first sting of the needle hits, and the breath punches from your lungs.

“F-fuck—!”

“Oh?” Seungmin says innocently, hand steady as he traces the mandala’s outer ring. “Is it too much already?”

You grit your teeth, exhale through your nose.

“No. Just... colder than I remembered.”

He hums like he doesn’t believe you. Like he knows what you’re really reacting to.

The first lines burn clean and sharp—stretching out beneath your skin, each pass as exact as a scalpel. Seungmin works in slow, confident strokes, one hand guiding your body where he needs it.

His fingers splay across your ribcage for tension. Firm. Possessive. Cruel.

He doesn’t speak at first. Just tattoos. Focused. Controlled.

But then—

“You know,” he murmurs, “most people don’t come back after their first rib piece.”

You hiss, fingers curling into the vinyl under you. “Most people don’t have your charming personality to keep them coming.”

He chuckles. Actually chuckles. Which should be illegal.

“You’re getting off on this, aren’t you?” he says.

The needle lifts for a second. He wipes gently with a cloth—soft at first, then firm, dragging over raw skin like he’s making a point.

You arch just slightly into his touch.

“I’m getting off on annoying you,” you counter, breath shaky.

His next line is faster. Harsher. He presses your side firmly, keeping you in place.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, low against your neck. “Then try really hard not to flinch right here.”

You flinch.

He clicks his tongue. “You’re so fucking bad at taking orders.”

“And you’re so—”

The machine stops.

He raises a brow. Wipes again. Slow this time.

“I’m so what?”

You glance down. Past his gloved hand on your ribs. Past the half-finished mandala. Past the slight smear of ink on your sternum.

You swallow.

“…focused.”

He smirks. Dangerous. “Damn right.”

And then he leans in—his next line beginning right where your breath catches worst. Right under your breast. Right on the spot where your heartbeat flutters like it’s begging him to notice.

You think he does.

Because his voice dips—deeper, smugger.

“Still think I missed you?”

You bite your lip.

Lying here. Under his hands. Wrapped in tension and black ink and the sharp, brutal pressure of a boy who tattoos like he’s angry at your skin for hiding itself from him—

You can’t lie.

Not to Seungmin.

“…yeah,” you say quietly.

His eyes flick up when you say it.

Yeah.

One syllable, quiet as breath, but loaded—the way confession always is. He doesn’t reply, not out loud. But the corner of his mouth lifts. Not a smirk. Something more dangerous. Something knowing.

He tilts your body slightly to one side, guiding you into the perfect angle, and you let him. Of course you let him.

“Still breathing okay?” he murmurs, even though he knows damn well what your breathing sounds like right now—shallow, choked, tight.

“Mhm,” you manage.

He presses back down with the needle. His strokes are smoother now, filling in the fractured petals of the mandala. He works just beneath the undercurve of your breast, just along the swell of sensitive skin—close enough to tease, close enough to make you ache.

You twitch. Barely. But enough.

He doesn’t say anything.

Doesn’t have to.

Because when he lifts the needle to switch angles, he uses his other hand to press firmly along your waist, holding you in place. His fingers curl just slightly into your side. Possessive. Grounding. A little cruel.

You shudder.

“Still can’t take orders,” he mutters.

You glare. “Still a fucking sadist.”

He hums. “Takes one to keep coming back.”

That earns him a punch to the shoulder—gentle, a flick of your knuckles—but he’s already grinning as he dips the needle again.

Your skin burns.

And still—still—you want him closer.

The ink trails down now, toward the bottom of the design. He’s practically tattooing over your stomach, your diaphragm pulsing with every breath. He’s leaning in lower too—head bent, nose just inches from your sternum. If he angled left, he’d be mouth-to-skin. If you arched just slightly, you’d be brushing right into him.

The tension hums in the air—hot, oppressive, close.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low again. This time it’s not mocking. It’s… loaded.

You nod once. “Are you?”

He glances up.

“Been better,” he mutters. Then, deliberate: “You squirm too much.”

You lift your eyes to his—taunting, daring. “You tattoo too slow.”

That gets you a sharp tap against your side.

“Careful.”

“Make me.”

The machine goes quiet.

You blink.

Seungmin sits back, gaze steady. Gloved fingers still resting against your stomach.

“You always this mouthy when someone’s on top of you?” he asks, like he doesn’t already know.

Your heart stutters.

You open your mouth—then close it.

He watches you for a second longer—until you shift just slightly under his stare. And only then does he lean back in, restart the machine, and murmur:

“Thought so.”

The final line burns sweeter than the rest.

Your breath hitches again—not from the pain, not really. You’ve gotten used to the sting. You chase it now. Crave it. Especially when it’s from him.

Seungmin finishes with a few last passes, the machine humming low and steady, until finally—he stops.

The silence after feels too quiet.

You blink up at the ceiling. It’s over. And suddenly your whole body is aware of how tense it’s been—your spine bowed slightly, your legs tight, your hands fisted in the sheets beneath you like you’ve been trying not to moan the whole time.

(You kind of have.)

He switches the machine off. The room exhales.

You stay lying down for a beat too long.

Then you hear the snap of his gloves being pulled off. The rustle of the rolling stool as he pushes back. The low clink of metal—his tools being set aside, wiped, lined up again with military precision. He always cleans up like he’s scrubbing evidence.

You sit up slowly, your ribs feel warm, raw—but not in a bad way.

He’s already tossed the gloves into the bin and is reaching for the mirror. You swing your legs over the side of the bed, biting your lip as you peek down.

The mandala gleams—inky black and flawless, nestled beneath the swell of your breasts like it belongs there.

Your breath catches.

“…fuck,” you whisper.

Seungmin glances over.

“Yeah,” he says. “I know.”

You shoot him a look. “Cocky much?”

He shrugs, reaching for his disinfectant spray like it’s nothing. “Not my fault I’m better than everyone else.”

You laugh—quiet, low, still slightly winded. “I should stop feeding your ego.”

“You should stop showing up half-naked and asking me to touch you for two hours.”

You freeze.

He doesn’t even blink.

You’re perched on the edge of the bed now, ribcage still bare. And he’s standing barely a foot away, still wiping his tools, still calm—but his jaw is tight again. His fingers grip the disinfectant bottle like he’s trying to decide whether to clean your table or ruin your day.

The air shifts.

Slowly, you stand—stepping forward. His eyes flick downward. Just once. Then he meets your gaze.

“…Seungmin.”

He raises a brow.

You step closer. Bold. A little breathless. “You never said thank you.”

He tilts his head. “For what?”

“The coffee. The pastries. My continued emotional support and aesthetic contribution to your client portfolio.”

He snorts. “Oh, right. How could I forget.”

“You could show some gratitude,” you say, smile growing. “Like, I dunno…”

A beat.

You lean in.

“…a kiss, maybe?”

He stares at you—flat, unreadable.

Then, finally, finally—his hands stop moving. The rag drops from his fingers. His jaw twitches once.

And he says, voice low: “Lay back down first.”

Your breath stops. “W-What—”

“For the aftercare,” he says—completely serious. But his eyes are glinting, the ghost of a smirk tugging at the corners. “Unless you want it to get infected.”

You huff, but you obey—because of course you do.

You lie back down, ribs lifting with every inhale, the crisp air of the studio brushing across your skin. Seungmin moves slowly—methodical, precise. He reaches for the healing balm and the bandage roll with the same focus he uses when prepping a tattoo needle.

And then—

Then he steps into your space again.

You feel his gaze before his hands. That lingering look, dragging from the ink across your sternum to the fine lace of your bra. To the soft dip between your breasts. You’re not stupid—you know how you look. You know how he’s looking.

But he doesn’t say anything.

Just kneels beside you on the tattoo bed, bracing one arm by your head, and starts applying the balm.

It’s… soft. Softer than it should be.

His gloved fingers glide gently across your skin, cool gel easing the sting of the fresh lines, but what you feel isn’t clinical. It’s heat. A low, blooming throb of something far more dangerous. Especially when his thumb grazes the edge of your bra. Not on purpose, not exactly—but he doesn’t move it away either.

You exhale. Carefully. Slowly.

His voice comes quieter this time, rough around the edges.

“You really wore this just to fuck with me, didn’t you?”

You blink up at him. “Excuse me?”

“This,” he murmurs, brushing the bandage wrapper open, eyes never leaving yours. “The lace. The black. The fact that it’s barely covering anything while I have to touch you like a fucking monk.”

You smirk. “What, don’t like being teased?”

His eyes narrow. “You’re not teasing.”

“No?”

“You’re begging.”

Your stomach flips.

He leans down slightly. Applies the bandage. His fingers skim the top edge of your sternum, then press lightly under your breast to make it stick. You jolt a little—not enough to be a flinch, but just enough for him to notice.

His lips twitch. “Thought so.”

You swallow.

“You could’ve said something,” you murmur.

“I did,” he says. “When I told you to stop showing up half-naked and flirty like I wouldn’t do anything about it.”

“And yet—” you gesture around, breathless, “—you haven’t.”

He finishes pressing the bandage into place. Carefully. Slowly. But his eyes—his eyes are anything but.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he says softly.

And then he leans in. Close. Close enough that his breath grazes your cheek, close enough that the heat of his body curls over yours like smoke.

“I’m just not done punishing you yet.”

You barely have time to gasp.

Because his hands are suddenly on your waist, fingers splayed wide, warm. He leans over you, lips brushing your ear as he speaks, voice like smoke curling from a lit match.

“You really think I’d let you keep pushing me forever?” he murmurs, his tone dark velvet, laced with something wicked. “Waltzing in here every time with that mouth—wearing shit like this—knowing damn well I’d eventually snap.”

You can’t speak.

Not with the way his hand is sliding up—up—fingertips skating the edge of your ribcage, the outline of your bra, the warm silk of your skin. Every inch he touches makes your back arch, breath stutter, pulse thunder.

“I—I didn’t—” you start.

“You did.” He cuts you off with a growl of a whisper, lips ghosting just beneath your jaw. “You knew exactly what you were doing. And you knew exactly who you were doing it to.”

His hand finds the clasp of your bra—flicks it once, expertly. Loose. Deliberate.

Lace falls.

You whimper.

He exhales sharply through his nose—his palm sliding up to cup you fully, thumb brushing across a nipple already sensitive from all that adrenaline and ink and restraint. The tension coils tighter—like it’s been waiting weeks to snap.

“You’ve been needing this,” he mutters against your skin. “Coming in again and again—acting like a brat. Begging for attention. Flashing me those looks like I wouldn’t fuck you into the goddamn wall the second I got the chance.”

A pause.

“Is this what you wanted?” he asks, mouthing down your throat, sucking once—hard. “You wanna be my canvas off-hours too?”

You nod. Frantic. Breathless. Your fingers clutch at the hem of his shirt, tugging, anchoring, pleading.

“Say it.”

“I wanted you,” you pant. “I want you. I’ve always—fuck—Seungmin—”

He snarls.

And that’s it.

His mouth finds your breast with zero pretense, tongue hot and teeth grazing—biting, not cruel, but enough to leave a mark. His other hand slides down, past your waistband, finding the thin lace of your underwear—

Already soaked.

You feel him smirk against your skin.

“Such a fucking mess,” he growls. “You come from the needle or from me?”

You writhe.

“Seungmin—”

“Yeah?” His fingers slip beneath the lace. “Lie to me again. See what happens.”

And then—

Then he presses in. Two fingers, all at once, knowing exactly where and how to touch you. Because he’s studied you. Memorized you. Sketched you in his mind over six tattoos and hours of tension, and now he finally gets to wreck you.

His fingers curl.

You break.

Your head falls back. Your thighs tremble. He’s still got one arm braced next to your head, and the other is fucking you open while his mouth maps every inch of your chest like it’s sacred.

“You’re mine now,” he mutters into your skin. “You wanted this? You earned this. So take it.”

You moan—high, wrecked, nearly slurred. His fingers don’t relent. Curling deep. Unforgiving. He’s fucking you with them like he’s trying to carve his name inside you, and maybe he is.

But just when it starts to crest—when you feel it, the rush, the crash, the electric burn starting in your spine—

He stops.

You jolt. “No—!”

He pulls out slow. Cruel. Slick fingers dragging free. You clench around nothing, hips chasing him, tears prickling your lashes.

He tsks.

“Thought you were smarter than that.”

You blink, dazed. “Wh-What—?”

“You think you get to cum already?” He leans down, lips brushing your ear again. “After walking in here like that? After tormenting me for months?”

His hand finds your throat—light pressure, just enough to pin you back against the vinyl bed. Your mouth falls open. Instinct.

“I spent hours sketching that design,” he whispers. “Tattooed it on your fucking ribs. You came in here dripping and smug and bratty. And you think you get to finish first?”

You whimper.

He lets go.

“Get on your knees.”

You blink. “W-What?”

“You heard me.”

He stands, undoing his belt in one smooth motion—his eyes never leaving yours. You follow his gaze down, down, as he pushes his jeans low and his boxers lower, cock flushed and leaking and so fucking hard.

You drop to your knees, onto the soft rug in his private studio, beneath the overhead lamp and the echo of the bed creaking behind you.

“Open,” he says tapping the tip of his cock against your pretty lips.

You blink up at him, lips parted, brain still catching up to the command. Seungmin doesn’t flinch, doesn’t repeat himself—he just stares down, eyes half-lidded, cock heavy in his hand, tapping the head once more—twice—against your bottom lip like a test.

You obey.

Mouth open. Knees aching. Head swimming.

"Good," he murmurs, voice like low thunder.

One hand tangles in your hair—possessive—guiding, not forcing. His hips roll forward, slow and controlled, and the first brush of him on your tongue makes you whimper. Your thighs press together instinctively.

Because he tastes like every fantasy you’ve denied yourself. And he’s watching you the whole time—jaw tight, chest rising, his gaze flicking between your mouth and your eyes like he's trying to brand the moment into memory.

“You always run your mouth,” he mutters, stroking your cheek with his thumb as you take him deeper, “but you’re so fucking quiet now, huh?”

You hum around him, tongue flattening, jaw straining, eyes locked on his like it’s the only anchor you have. He groans—quiet, raw, like it slips out before he can stop it.

Your hands steady on his thighs, you suck deeper. Hollow your cheeks. Let him feel everything.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “You really—shit—you’re good at this, huh?”

You moan, just to be a brat. The vibration makes him jerk.

His fingers twitch in your hair. The other hand finds the back of your neck, thumb pressed right where your pulse jumps.

“Greedy,” he mutters, breath stuttering as you pull back slow—spit-slick, lips flushed—then take his cock again, deeper this time, choking a little and loving it. “You want all of it, don’t you?”

You blink up at him, teary-eyed and burning, and nod.

And that’s all it takes.

His grip tightens. His hips roll. Controlled at first, almost gentle—but the moment you relax your throat and let him in further, something cracks.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

The next thrust punches straight down your throat.

You choke—once, loud and messy—but you don’t pull away.

You don’t dare.

Not when Seungmin’s hand tightens in your hair like a leash. Not when his cock sinks deep, hot and throbbing and slick with your spit. Not when his groan scrapes straight from his chest, raw and filthy, as he watches your throat swallow around him.

“Fuck—” he snarls, voice strained. “You were made for this. Look at you.”

You try—your eyes flicking up through the blur of tears, spit dripping from your lips, mascara smudged beneath your lashes. You can barely see, but you feel everything—his fingers curled at the base of your skull, his cock throbbing on your tongue, the harsh stretch of your jaw.

“You’re a fucking mess,” he pants. “Spit everywhere—shit—drooling on me.”

You are—slick and soaked, saliva trailing from the corners of your mouth to your chin, coating his cock in glistening sheen. You gag again when he presses deeper, but he doesn’t let up.

“Take it,” he mutters, more to himself than you. “Take it. You fucking wanted this.”

He rolls his hips again—harder this time. Meaner. The tip of his cock bruises the back of your throat, and you sob around it, spit bubbling at the seams.

Seungmin hisses. “Yeah. That’s it.”

His hand tilts your head—just slightly—enough for him to watch you from above. “Look at you. Fucking crying for it.”

You blink up, lashes clumped and wet, mouth stretched open and obscene.

“Don’t stop,” he growls. “Wanna see you ruined.”

He fucks into your mouth like it’s a punishment. Like every gag, every wet choke is a penance you owe for teasing him for months. For bratty texts. For lace bralettes and stolen glances. For every look that said take me without saying a word.

Your throat tightens—and he moans.

“God—your throat—shit, I can feel it. Fucking clenching like your pussy would.”

You twitch.

He laughs—low and cruel. “What, you liked that? Want me to fuck both ends until you can’t walk or talk?”

You whimper around him. Loud.

Precum spills onto your tongue—hot and bitter—and he curses. Your hands claw at his hips, digging for purchase as he starts to lose it—thrusts jerking harder, messier. Your throat is raw, face soaked, and still—still—you stay open for him.

His voice shatters through your haze, ragged and mean.

“You look fucking perfect like this. Broken. Beautiful. Mine.”

One more thrust. Deep. Sharp.

You gag—again. Loud.

And Seungmin snaps. He jerks back suddenly—his cock pulling free with a slick pop, strings of spit connecting you still. You gasp—cough—spit dripping from your tongue.

“Open wider,” Seungmin rasps.

You do. Tongue out. Strings of drool glistening in the studio light. He grabs his cock—slick, flushed, twitching—and strokes once, twice—then spits. Right into your mouth. Then again. Then again.

You moan. Loud. Shameless.

“Filthy little thing,” he pants. “Look at you. Covered in spit and tears and fucking loving it.”

You nod. Once. Hard.

He leans down, cupping your jaw—thumb swiping through the mess on your chin, dragging it across your lips like warpaint. Seungmin's eyes watch you for a beat longer until he finally helps you up onto your feet.

You gasp, legs wobbling, mouth still slick and open as he turns you around and places a hand between your shoulder blades, coaxing you down on the bench.

“Hands flat,” he orders.

You obey.

He kicks your legs apart with his knee—rough. You gasp. Then moan, throat raw and spit-slick, head swimming from the sudden repositioning. His hands working quick, pulling down your pants and panties in one go. Seungmin hums in satisfaction at the sight of your wet cunt dripping. Fucking dripping.

“Better,” he mutters. “Stay like that.”

You squirm—but not far. Not really. Just enough to test him.

He growls.

And then—CRACK.

His hand lands sharp across your ass, a loud sting that echoes through the studio like an accusation.

You cry out.

“Still a brat,” he mutters. “Still fucking pushing me.”

His hands drag down—gripping your hips, pulling your ass back against him like he’s lining up a weapon.

“You think I won’t fuck you right here? Bent over the same bench I tattooed you on?” he says low, cruel. “You think I won’t use you just like this—all messy, full of spit, dripping down your thighs like a fucking reward?”

You whimper. “Then do it.”

A beat.

And then—he does.

He thrusts in all at once—deep, unforgiving, stretching you full in a single brutal push that knocks the air clean from your lungs. The bench creaks. Your nails scrape against the vinyl. You’re already soaked, still fluttering from his fingers.

Now you’re split open around him.

“Fuck—” he hisses. “Tight little thing—gripping me like you were made for this.”

You were. You want to scream it. But all that comes out is a cracked moan, spine arching as he pulls back—

Then slams in again.

Hard.

Rhythmic.

Cruel.

The bench jerks with every thrust. His hips slap into your ass, cock punching deep and devastating with every motion. The angle hits something brutal—low, mean, a spot that makes your vision spark.

“Louder,” he growls. “Wanna hear you.”

You whine—broken, gasping, drooling against the bench.

He leans over you now—chest to your back, breath in your ear, one hand fisted in your hair while the other snakes under your stomach to lift your hips just right.

His cock drags so deep, your thighs shake from the pressure, and the stretch is perfect—like he’s carving himself into you on purpose.

“This pussy’s been waiting for me,” he mutters, voice guttural. “So fucking wet—so ready to be used.”

You cry out as he pounds harder—faster—gripping your hips with both hands now, dragging you back onto his cock with every brutal snap of his waist.

“You hear that?” he pants.

Slap slap slap. Wet. Filthy. Perfect.

“That’s you,” he growls. “Fucking dripping down my cock—making a mess all over my bench like a desperate little toy.”

You moan—loud. The vinyl squeaks beneath you. Your toes curl, your back arches—and you know it’s close. That heat low in your stomach coiling tight.

“Wanna cum?” he grunts, snapping his hips even harder. “Gonna let me make you cum on my cock this time?”

You nod frantically. “Please—please, Seungmin—”

“Beg properly.”

“I need it—I need you—I’m gonna—fuck—please—!”

He slams in one final time—

And you break.

You cum hard—clenching around him, gasping his name like a prayer, back bowed and thighs trembling, your body nothing but nerve endings and his. It hits like lightning—violent, hot, devastating.

Seungmin moans through his teeth.

“God—fuck—you feel so good when you cum—” he grits, voice cracking with restraint. “So tight, so—shit—don’t stop. Don’t fucking stop squeezing me like that—”

He doesn’t slow. Not even a little. Seungmin just keeps going—thrusts deeper, harder, dragging your spent cunt right through the sensitivity like he wants to fuck you into a second orgasm.

You whine. Loud. High-pitched. Borderline sobbing.

“Too much—” you gasp, but your body says otherwise—clenching, fluttering, soaking him.

He groans, hips snapping into you again.

“I know,” he pants, voice wrecked. “I know it’s too much—but you’re taking it anyway, aren’t you?”

You nod. Shaking. Barely holding yourself upright over the bench as his cock slams into your soaked pussy again, again, again.

“You look so fucking wrecked,” he snarls. “Bent over this bench, fucked-out and dripping—mine.”

“Yours,” you echo—half-breath, half-moan. “Yours, Seungmin, fuck—!”

And that—

That does it.

He growls, deep in his chest, and thrusts one final time, burying himself to the fucking hilt—and you feel it.

His cock jerks once. Twice. Then—heat. Hot, thick, flooding you.

Seungmin’s cum spills inside you in brutal waves, pulse after pulse, spilling past your already-fucked entrance, dripping down your thighs with every twitch of his hips.

He groans—loud, broken—grinding in deeper as his release coats your insides.

You both stay like that for a beat.

Panting. Shaking. Silent except for the slow drip of your combined mess hitting the studio floor. His hands are still on your hips, fingers bruising, cock still buried deep inside you like he can’t bear to pull out just yet.

Finally—

“…fuck,” he mutters. “Look what you do to me.”

You whimper. “You started it.”

He smirks. Breathless. Still inside you.

“You came first,” he says, voice hoarse. “That makes it your fault.”

You roll your eyes. Weakly. Legs trembling.

But when he finally pulls out—slow, careful—you both groan at the mess. His cum leaks from you instantly, hot and obscene, slicking down your thighs in thick globs.

Seungmin watches. Just watches. Then hums.

“Pretty,” he says quietly. “All ruined. Just like I wanted.”

You’re bent over the ink bench, gasping. Barely conscious of your own limbs. There’s cum dripping down your thighs, breath fogging the vinyl, your body throbbing in time with your pulse.

And behind you—

Seungmin exhales. Low. Spent. Quiet.

Then: zip.

The sound of his jeans being pulled back up, the belt loosely fastened with one hand as the other brushes through his hair. You hear it—the shift. The snap back to reality. To composure. To Seungmin-afterglow, where all that bite turns to balm.

You expect him to vanish, to go grab wipes or complain about the mess—

Instead, you feel his hands. Gentle. Soft on your waist. Carefully guiding.

He straightens you. Not rough. Not impatient. Just… careful. Like you’re something fragile now.

You blink as he eases you to sit on the edge of the bench again, his hands steady on your hips until your legs stop shaking.

“Still with me?” he murmurs.

You nod. Slowly. “Barely.”

He huffs a breath of a laugh—tired, wrecked, softer than before.

Then he brushes sweaty strands of hair from your forehead and mutters, “Good girl.”

You melt. Right there. Ruined part two.

He disappears for a moment—only to return with a full box of wipes, a towel, and a silver water bottle you know is his personal one.

“Open,” he says gently, uncapping it and holding it to your lips.

You sip.

He waits. Watches to make sure you don’t choke. Then: another sip. A wipe to your neck. Another for your thighs.

He doesn’t comment on the mess—doesn’t smirk, doesn’t tease. Just… cleans you.

Tender. Focused. A little too quiet.

He wipes the insides of your thighs slowly, scooping up the slick and cum and sweat and ink-tainted heat with barely-there touches. When you flinch, he pauses. When you shiver, he murmurs something under his breath you don’t quite catch—but you feel it. Like a balm.

“You’re doing fine,” he says eventually. “I’m almost done.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

That shuts you up.

Once he’s cleaned every inch of you he marked, he helps dress you up again, pants and panties up but then he grabs his spare hoodie—crumpled on the back of his chair—and slips it over your head with no warning.

It’s oversized. Smells like cedar and ink and him.

He tugs the hood over your messy hair, then pauses to kiss the top of your head.

And that’s what finally ruins you.

Your eyes sting. But you blink fast. No way you’re crying in this hoodie.

“…Seungmin?”

He hums.

“You okay?”

His gaze lifts to yours. Tired. Sweet. Still a little dazed. Another soft hum in response. And then he's back in motion. Efficient again. Packing up the mess, tossing used wipes, wiping down the vinyl. He moves like he needs something to do with his hands or he’ll grab you again.

Once the bench is clean, he turns to you—really turns.

And in a voice way too soft for someone who just fucked the breath out of you against workplace furniture: “Wanna come back to mine?”

You laugh—hoarse, soft, still ruined. “Like this?”

He smirks. “I have more hoodies.”

You blink up at him.

“…And strawberries?”

He smiles.

"And strawberries."

You end up at his place that night. Still wearing his hoodie. Still barely walking.

He gives you a fresh towel and the softest pair of sweatpants he owns, sets you in the bathtub like you’re made of porcelain, and kneels beside it the whole time—washing your hair with slow fingers and kissing your shoulder between rinses.

You eat strawberries straight from the bowl while wrapped in his towel. He lets you finish the last bite before tugging you onto his lap and kissing you breathless all over again.

No sex that night. Not because he doesn’t want to—But because he already has you.

And maybe, he just wants to hold what he’s wrecked.

He lets you fall asleep on his chest. Hoodie, thigh over his lap, lips parted against his collarbone. He doesn’t sleep. Just watches. Fingers curled around your wrist like a habit he never wants to break.

And the next morning? He wakes you up with coffee. And a second round (Messier than before.).

And ever since that day? You just… kept coming back. Not for tattoos, though that’s still a bonus. No—now you show up for him. Your boyfriend. Your soft-spoken menace. Your chaos control. Your personal ink-stained sadist.

You still strut into NO SAINT INK like you own it—drink tray in hand, smug little smirk on your face, eyes locked on the back room like a predator in love.

You still flirt just to watch him clench his jaw. Still wear lace under oversized hoodies and whisper “miss me?” every time you lean against his worktable.

He still rolls his eyes and mutters “unbearable” without looking up.

But when the clock hits closing time?

And everyone is gone. The lights dim. The blinds are drawn. The door locks with a click.

Seungmin doesn’t pretend.

He pulls you into the back with one hand around your neck and the other already working at your zipper. He lays you across the vinyl like it’s a fucking altar. And he fucks you like he’s trying to tattoo his name inside your soul.

You moan like you were made for it.

And when it’s over—when you’re sore and sticky and boneless all over again—

He picks you up. Wipes you down. And kisses your forehead like you hung the moon. A ritual really. Because from annoying menace client, you are now his favourite annoying menace girlfriend.

Who still pisses him off about random designs and bullies him into doing them. And he still ends up doing them for you, except they are ten times better and equipped with all the loving bullying just for you.

Just for his favourite menace girlfriend.

[minholuvr333]

hi another update for anyone who cares/is waiting on a request:

i was hit with the ao3 writers curse and have had the worst week of my life :)

i had a major tooth infection and had to get a root canal but my insurance wouldn’t pay for it so i had to take out a loan of $3000, i had a major crash out at work, my grandma is back in the hospital for her lung cancer and they just found out she has congestive heart failure + pneumonia, i started my period and bled through my jeans, my birthday present/nail glue packages got stolen, and my check bounced- all within the span of four days. so i am #healing and #recovering and trying to write when i feel like the universe isn’t cursing me anymore </3

good news: i see skz next week in chicago and 82major shortly after!! im working on posting, please be gentle with me i am very fragile <3

[minholuvr333]

ARE WE STILL FRIENDS?

Paring:Han jisung,Lee Minho × Reader

Genre: slow-burn ,smut, angst,(one second of fluff)

a/n: bare with me people, this is my first time actually writing smut so don’t expect too much. Also English isn't my first language so I apologize for any incorrect grammar

Warnings: Degrading & praise kink ,Dom/sub dynamic ,Sir kink , Threesome (m/m/f) ,Anal ,Double penetration ,Smoking ,Emotional manipulation ,Voyeurism ,Rough sex ,Power imbalance ,Obsession themes, Toxic relationship elements

Summary: You were just group partners. Just friends. Just fucking.

But Minho doesn’t do “just.” And Jisung doesn’t know when to stop loving people who hurt him.

Now you’re caught between a boy who wants to own you and a boy who wants to be owned—

—and neither of them plans on letting go.

Part 1 > part 2 > part 3 > part 4

Y/N could feel the air change when Professor Shin said the word “groups.”

The seminar room was warm with sun, bodies slouched in chairs, papers strewn like afterthoughts. “Art & Emotion: Cross-Disciplinary Expression” was supposed to be a laid-back elective, an escape from syllabi and exams. But now her name was being read aloud—slowly—attached to two others.

“Y/N… Lee Minho… Han Jisung. Group three.”

The room stirred. A low whistle from the back. Someone laughed softly.

Jisung turned around first. Two rows up, he was already smiling—messy hair, a hoodie two sizes too big, legs sprawled like he owned the floor. He gave her a lazy little wave and mouthed, “Lucky you.”

Y/N blinked.

And then, a second later, the figure at his right turned his head.

Minho didn’t smile.

He didn’t even blink.

His eyes found hers like they were tracing a target. Then he looked away. Back to the page. As if nothing had happened.

Professor Shin clapped his hands once.

“Your assignment is to collaboratively interpret an emotional state—movement, sound, language. It can be performance, installation, whatever you want. But it must be felt. Not explained.”

That word again: felt.

Y/N’s pen sat motionless on her page.

⸻

After class, the hallway was alive with the shuffle of people eager to escape. But not her. Her bag strap was caught on her chair leg, and by the time she wrestled free, most of the class had cleared out.

Except for two.

Jisung was perched on the desk like a cat, phone out, tapping something rhythmically with a pencil. “You’re Y/N, right?” he said. “Language major?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool. I’m music. Minho’s…” He glanced over his shoulder.

Minho stood by the window, smoking even though the hallway sign said not to. “Dance,” he said without turning.

Y/N felt her throat tighten. His voice was low. Sharp.

Jisung grinned like he didn’t notice the tension—or maybe he lived in it. “Anyway, we should trade numbers. I’ll make a group chat.”

She handed him her phone.

He typed quickly, then flipped it to show her: Minho 🍷, Jisung 🎧, Y/N 📚.

She stared at the wine glass emoji.

“Why that?”

“Minho’s a little…intense,” he said, lowering his voice theatrically. “Red wine and judgment.”

Minho flicked his cigarette ash into a bottle cap without looking up

They stepped into the late afternoon together, golden light brushing against the stone walls. The wind lifted Y/N’s coat. She didn’t speak, too aware of the silence behind her—too aware of how Minho walked. Quiet. Too quiet for someone so solid.

“So,” Jisung said brightly. “Wanna meet this weekend? Studio’s open. We can brainstorm.”

Y/N nodded. “Sure. Saturday?”

“Perfect. You’ll love it. I make terrible coffee and excellent beats.”

Minho finally spoke.

“Don’t be late.”

Y/N turned toward him. His eyes were darker in daylight. Narrower. Still unreadable.

She opened her mouth to say something—anything—but he’d already turned, cutting through the crowd like water.

Jisung laughed softly. “Yeah…told you.”

“Told me what?”

“Wine and judgment.”

He winked.

——-

The studio smelled like cheap coffee, synthetic leather, and dust-covered speakers—lived in, not decorated. There was an ashtray balanced on a windowsill that didn’t open, and notebooks stacked in aggressive piles near a keyboard covered in stickers that said things like SAD BOY ENERGY and EAT THE RICH.

Y/N lingered by the door. “This is where you make magic?”

Jisung looked up from the couch, legs up, one earbud still dangling. “It’s where I make noise and call it art,” he said, grinning. “Come in. Seriously. It only looks like a crime scene.”

She stepped over a hoodie on the floor and dropped her bag. “You live here?”

“Minho would murder me. Nah, this is just mine. I use it when I don’t want to deal with…people.” His voice dropped slightly.

She raised a brow. “Minho’s not a people?”

Jisung chuckled and ran a hand through his hair. “Minho’s a…category. You’ll figure it out.

He played her a beat—low, throbbing, layered with fragments of strings and something muffled like a heartbeat. It was imperfect. Messy. But intimate.

“I want something that sounds like wanting,” he said.

“Like you almost get what you want. Then it slips.”

“That’s what longing is, right?”

Y/N sat on the floor. Legs crossed. Thinking. “It sounds like you’re trying to breathe through someone else’s mouth.”

Jisung froze. Then smiled. “That’s disgusting and brilliant.”

He dropped down next to her, too close. But not unwelcome.

They spent hours playing with ideas. She wrote a few lines, then crossed them out. He freestyled dumb lyrics about loneliness and hot ramen. They laughed too much.

Somewhere around midnight, she noticed how close they were. How his knee brushed hers. How his voice had dropped, no longer teasing but curious.

“Why language?” he asked.

“Because I like how words break when they matter most.”

He stared at her, lips parted like he wanted to ask more. Then he just blurted:

“I think I’m gonna kiss you now.”

Y/N didn’t answer.

So he did.

It was fast. Greedy. The kiss wasn’t clean—it was desperate. Hands in hair, fingers slipping under her sweater. She pushed back once, gently. His eyes darkened.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered.

“I won’t,” she breathed.

And in the blink of an eye she was up on the mixing table before she realized it, legs spread, his hands tugging at her jeans like he’d done it a thousand times before. The room felt too small. His mouth was everywhere—neck, collarbone, between her thighs. His voice was a soft, hoarse growl.

“So fucking wet for me already?”

“You want to be good for me, don’t you?”

She moaned something close to yes, and that was all it took.

When he slid inside her, it wasn’t gentle—but it wasn’t cruel. It was needy.

He kept whispering praise—dirty, soft, relentless:

“Look at you.”

“Good girl.”

“Just like that.”

“Taking it so well.”

“You’re perfect—fuck—you’re fucking perfect for me.”

Y/N came fast, fingers tangled in his hoodie, mouth open against his neck.

Jisung followed, teeth clenched, body shuddering, holding her like he was afraid she’d vanish the second he let go.

They lay there, breathless. Her hair stuck to her cheek. His hands didn’t stop moving.

Finally, he said, “Just this once?”

She nodded.

“Just this once.”

⸻

Outside, across the street, a cigarette ember flared in the dark.

Minho watched her leave.

———

The rehearsal room echoed.

Hardwood floors, mirrored walls, and silence so thick it pressed in on Y/N’s ears. Minho stood in the center, barefoot, one earbud in, eyes closed. Every muscle was coiled. Like the stillness before a strike.

Jisung leaned against the wall, arms folded. “He does this every time. Five minutes of complete freeze-frame panic before he moves.”

Y/N didn’t reply. She was too busy watching.

Then the music began — low percussion, faint vocals, no lyrics. And Minho moved.

Not gracefully. Not gently. Sharply. Deliberately. Like he was cutting the air with every limb.

Y/N forgot to breathe.

Jisung nudged her. “You’re staring.”

“I’m watching.”

“Same thing,” he said, but his smile didn’t reach his eyes.

Minho stopped. The silence returned like a slap.

He turned to them slowly, chest rising and falling.

“The beat’s too slow,” he said to Jisung. “Start again.”

“No please?”

Minho raised an eyebrow.

Jisung sighed and moved to the speaker, muttering, “Sir, yes, sir.”

The song restarted, slightly faster. Minho walked toward them this time, eyes focused entirely on Y/N.

“Get up.”

She did.

“Move with me.”

The next few minutes blurred. She tried to follow his steps, mirror his angles, but she was too stiff, too hesitant. He moved like heat; she moved like hesitation.

He stepped behind her, hand on her waist. “Don’t think,” he said. “Feel.”

His palm slid higher, across her ribcage — not sexual, not quite. But controlling. Definite.

“Loosen your hips. You’re locking up.”

“I’m trying—”

“Stop trying. Do it.”

She swallowed, cheeks flushing. His breath was close. She felt it on her neck. Jisung was watching them from the mirror, arms still crossed, jaw tight.

Minho’s hand dropped. He circled her, slow, eyes scanning like she was a blueprint. Then he stopped in front of her.

“You bite your lip when you’re frustrated.”

Y/N blinked.

“You’ve been doing it since I started dancing. You’re not subtle.”

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

Minho stepped back, brushing past her shoulder. “Class is over,” he said.

“But—” Jisung started.

“Next time,” Minho interrupted, “don’t be late.”

Y/N stood frozen in the silence he left behind.

Jisung came over, gave her a crooked smile. “So… how are you enjoying the Minho experience?”

“I don’t think I know what it is yet.”

Jisung slung an arm over her shoulder. “No one does. That’s the trap.”

——

Jisung’s room always felt too hot.

Not warm—hot. The kind of heat that clung to your skin and made it impossible to think. Clothes came off faster here. Words lost meaning.

Y/N wasn’t sure how they ended up horizontal again. One second, she was dropping by to “go over the group concept.” The next, she was beneath him, breath stuttering against his shoulder, moaning as he buried his mouth between her legs.

“Always this wet for me?” he asked, voice rough.

“You missed me, didn’t you?”

“Say it. Say you fucking missed me.”

“I—fuck, I—yes—”

He chuckled into her thigh. “Good girl.”

She didn’t mean to enjoy it this much. But Jisung was good at praise—too good. And when he pushed inside her, hand tight on her throat, teeth dragging over her lip, she forgot to care about anything but how he felt.

The headboard tapped the wall. Her legs trembled around his waist.

“So fucking tight.”

“You like being fucked like this, don’t you?”

“All pretty and obedient for me.”

Her nails dug into his back. His rhythm sped up. It was fast, hungry. Like he needed to fuck her just to prove he still could.

And then—

The door opened.

At first, she thought she imagined it.

Then: the soft click of it swinging shut. Footsteps. Slow.

Jisung froze.

Over her shoulder, across the room—Minho.

He didn’t look surprised.

He didn’t look away.

Y/N’s breath caught. She scrambled to pull a blanket over her chest, but Jisung didn’t move. Not at first.

Minho’s voice was calm. Cold.

“I came for my charger.”

He walked to the desk, unplugged it, and turned.

His eyes met hers.

No expression. No hint of what he thought. Just that flat, knowing stare.

Then he was gone.

Jisung sat back on his heels. “Fucking hell.”

Y/N clutched the blanket tighter. “He didn’t even knock.”

“Minho doesn’t knock,” Jisung muttered. “He knows what’s his.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Jisung ran a hand through his hair. Looked at her like he wanted to say something else. Instead, he kissed her shoulder and pulled her closer.

“It’s fine. Seriously. He doesn’t care.”

But his voice was too quiet.

And she wasn’t sure she believed it.

⸻

Later that night, her phone buzzed.

Minho 🍷:

Do you always let him finish first?

[minholuvr333]

Stray Kids Favorite Sex Positions ❦

Genre: smut MDNI

Pairings: Ot8 (individually) x fem!reader

Warnings: just multiple sex positions, some dirty talk, and very explicit wording

Cosmos Note: hiii guys so here's a stray kids version of the "ateez fav positions" (also here you go @hyunjincanraptoo as promised)

my library!

Bang Chan — Missionary with Ankles to Ears (because he's romantic... but unhinged underneath)

At first, Chan kisses you like you’re his entire universe — slow, patient, stroking your cheek. But the second your legs are over his shoulders and he sinks in balls deep, everything changes.

He folds you in half, hips grinding against your ass, pushing so deep you swear he’s in your stomach. He’s groaning in your ear, chest pressed to yours, saying, “You feel that, baby? That’s how deep I wanna be… right in your fucking soul.” Then he starts snapping his hips forward, fast and punishing, each stroke deeper than the last. The kind of rhythm that makes the bed frame slam the wall.

Your legs are trembling, your moans are shameless, and he’s thrusting so hard the sheets are soaked. “You gonna cum for me just like this? Yeah? Show me how good this pussy cums when I fuck you right.”

He doesn't stop until you're shaking, ruined, crying. And even then, he kisses your tears and keeps going. Because he needs it just as much as you do.

Lee Know — Flatiron (because he’s sadistic, cocky, and loves ruining you slowly)

Minho’s favorite thing? Control. So he lays you flat on your stomach, grabs your wrists and pins them above your head, then lines up behind you, drags his cock through your folds, and slides in deep as hell without warning.

This man takes his time. His strokes are slow, controlled, cruel — just to feel you squirm. “So quiet all of a sudden,” he mutters, lips at your ear, “You wanted my cock so bad, now you can’t even take it?” He presses your back down, fucks in deeper, grinds so slow you’re crying into the sheets.

But then? He grabs a fistful of your hair, spits on your ass, and pounds into you like he’s trying to break the bed. His thrusts are brutal, his dirty talk is feral. “Fucking slut for it, huh? All dripping and dumb for me.”

He won’t stop until your thighs are soaked, your voice is gone, and you’re clenching around him like a lifeline. He’ll cum with a snarl and keep fucking it into you until it’s dripping down your thighs. Cold-blooded. Savage. God-tier stroke game.

Changbin — Piledriver (because he wants depth, dominance, and destruction)

This man is built. And he wants to use every muscle. He folds you completely, ass up, legs pinned by your head while he’s above you, driving his cock in at a violent angle. His abs flexing, veins bulging, sweat dripping down his chest while you’re gasping for air.

“You like it like this?” he pants, slapping your pussy mid-thrust, “Fuck, you’re so fucking tight… taking all of me like a little toy.” The sound is obscene — squelching, slapping, moaning, him growling in frustration because he can’t get deep enough (even though he’s already splitting you open).

He grabs your thighs, pushes your legs harder, and starts fucking down into you with pure brute force. You’re crying, babbling, twitching — and he’s grinning, proud, chasing his orgasm while you fall apart under him.

And when he finishes? He doesn’t pull out. Just pants, presses deeper, and says “Keep it in. Let it leak out later, pretty girl.”

Hyunjin — Reverse Lotus (because he needs intimacy and to own you at once)

Hyunjin wants to look in your eyes while he wrecks you. So he sits cross-legged, pulls you onto his lap facing away, and holds you to his chest while he fucks up into you from below.

You’re moaning, head tilted back on his shoulder, while his hands run over your chest, grip your throat, and guide your hips. “I want you to feel everything, baby,” he whispers, “Feel how deep I am? I’m inside every part of you.”

He kisses your neck while he rocks into you, slow but deliberate. And when you clench around him? His rhythm breaks. He loses himself, thrusting hard, gripping your thighs, panting in your ear, “Take it. Take all of me. Let me ruin you.”

The moment you cum? He’s groaning like a beast, burying himself as deep as he can, cumming so hard his legs shake. Then he just holds you, bodies still tangled, letting his cum drip out onto his thighs while he whispers, “You’re everything to me.”

Han Jisung — Doggy with Wrist Control (because he’s needy, nasty, and lowkey a freak)

Doggy is Han’s heaven. But not just any doggy. He needs your wrists pinned behind your back, held in one hand, while he pounds into you from behind like a man possessed.

His thrusts? Rough. Fast. Filthy. He’s groaning, panting, moaning every dirty word in the book. “You’re mine. Fuck—mine. So fucking good, I can’t stop—shit.” He watches your ass bounce with every thrust, spits on your back, and uses it like lube as he drives in harder.

And if you cry a little? Even better. “That’s it, baby. Cry on my cock. That’s what I like. You’re so fucking pretty when I break you.” He’ll choke you from behind, lean in close, growling “Don’t run. Take it. Take all of it.”

He finishes inside you with a ragged whimper, hips jerking while he fills you up and still doesn’t pull out. You’re shaking, gasping, limp — and he just kisses your shoulder and goes, “Round two in five minutes. Water break.”

That man has issues. You’re the solution.

Felix — Face-Sitting (because he’s your soft-voiced menace who lives for worship)

Sweet little Lixie? Lies. He begs you to sit on his face. Straight up grabs your thighs, looks up at you with those glowing doe eyes, and says, “Please, baby… let me taste you. I’ll be good.” And the second you’re on top? He’s feral.

He starts slow, kitten-licks to your cl!t, hands gripping your thighs like handles while he moans into your pussy like it’s his favorite song. Then he sucks — messy, wet, shaking his head side to side with your clit in his mouth while you’re screaming, “Lix, I’m gonna—!” and he’s like, “Do it. Make a mess on me, sunshine.”

When you try to lift off, he pulls you back down, groaning into your core, “Uh uh, sit, baby. Don’t run from me. Be a good girl and ride it.”

And when you do? You squ!rt. You soak him. You sob. And this man? Smiles. Licks his lips and goes, “Told you I’d take care of you. Wanna go again?”

Your throne is his home. Always.

Seungmin — Over-the-Edge-of-the-Bed Doggy (because he’s calculated, ruthless, and lives to make you cry)

Seungmin’s whole thing? Torture, but make it controlled. You’re bent over the edge of the bed, ass out, face buried in the sheets. He lines up behind you, spits on his cock, slides in with one smooth, brutal thrust — and doesn’t move.

“Feel that?” he murmurs, hands gripping your hips like a vice, “You’re stretched out so good already. So fucking ready for me.” Then he starts pounding into you, slamming your hips into the mattress, barely holding back a growl.

And the filth he whispers while he ruins you? “This what you wanted? All whiny for my cock, now you’re just a hole to fuck, huh? Pathetic.” And he doesn’t just thrust — he aims. Tilts his hips just right to hit that one spot over and over until you’re choking on your own breath.

Your mascara’s running, your thighs are shaking, and Seungmin’s just smirking, biting his lip, dripping sweat onto your back. He’ll cum with a grunt and slap your ass as it leaks out, saying, “Clean it up. Tongue or fingers, you pick.”

Ice-cold. Vicious. Addictive.

Jeongin — Cowgirl (with full control + dirty degradation)

You think Jeongin’s shy? Cute? Baby boy material? Wrong. Sit on his lap and let him be still — just let you ride him. Then look down at his face. That smug little smirk? You’re done.

He sits back, one hand on your waist, the other gripping your throat, eyes half-lidded while he watches you bounce on his cock. “Look at you,” he purrs, voice low and raspy, “So desperate. You that needy for it, baby?” And when you moan? He laughs. “You think you’re in control? You’re just using my cock to get off. So fucking needy for it you can’t even think straight.”

When you get too close to cumming? He grips your hips and slams up into you, hard and fast, hips snapping while he moans, “Cum for me. Now. Make that mess on my cock like the dumb little thing you are.”

You collapse onto his chest, shaking, overstimulated. And he just brushes your hair back and whispers in your ear, “Good girl. Now do it again.”

Don’t let the baby face fool you. He’s a menace in disguise.

Taglist: @vampzity @sooniedoongiedori25 @mhluvie @yaorzu-blog @lze325 @felixleftchickennugget @m-325 @lezleeferguson-120 @psychicyouthfox @pixie-felix @angel-writes-here @galaxy4489 @minniesverse @gncbnahc @ari-hwanggg @alondra6011 @sk1ndx0

(I'M STILL ADDING PEOPLE TO TAG! comment on any post, send an ask or a message if you want added!)

[minholuvr333]

༺♡༻ little update ༺♡༻

erm guys i prommy im actively working on a post like every day i just also have poor time management >.<

i haven’t said much about myself on this account but i am a full time employee in the mental health field + i have four kids (that’s a lie- i have three cats and a ghost mantis) + my bday is this weekend!!! im also hardcore planning a trip at the end of this month (seeing skz in chicago!!) so im just a little scatterbrained :3

once i get this one post finished, ill be back to writing more!! i’ve just been stuck on this request bc i made a long ass post and it’s gorgeous and beautiful and show-stopping but i still have to write seungmin/jeongin… saurrr it’ll be out soon

anyway, i will be steadily working through requests after this post drops and requests are still open!! feel free to drop in and say hi :p

-sum!! <3

[minholuvr333]

AHHHH I SAW YOU DID MY REQUEST THANK YOUUU I LOVED IT IT WAS SO CUTE I couldn’t message you when I saw bc I was in the middle of finals (sorryy 😖) but I really loved it thank uu 😍. Anyway I have another request unfortunately #desperate. I was thinking of like bff Jisung who’s like in love w reader and is babysitting their dog and finds a special toy while looking for clothes to wear and becomes all whiney and stuttery n stuff while using it 😛. thank you for listening 🙂‍↕️

Caught, puppy

wc: 3k

bff!han jisung x fem!reader

cw: bff to lovers - use of vibrator - reader catches him on the act - perv jisung - overstimulation - whiny and desperate han - creampie - crying (han) - softdom!reader

note: i love you chezzeballs300

You hadn’t meant to leave him alone. Not really. But your dog had taken to Jisung like he was a goddamn chew toy with a pulse, and your last-minute appointment couldn’t be rescheduled. You’d barely shoved your shoes on when Jisung waved you out the door with that lazy grin of his, already on the floor being licked to death.

“I got him, don’t worry!” he called through the laughter, voice slightly muffled under the weight of sixty pounds of overexcited canine. “Go! Save the world or whatever!”

You’d thanked him, blown him a kiss out of habit. He’d caught it and pressed it to his cheek with a dopey smile you didn’t see.

So now here he was—alone in your apartment. Hair fluffed from your couch pillows. Hoodie slightly damp from dog drool. Slippers too small and squishing his toes.

And he was comfortable. Really. You were his best friend. This was fine.

He flopped onto your bed after taking the dog for a quick walk, scrolling through his phone and letting the soft afternoon light warm his face. The windows were cracked open just enough to let in the summer breeze. Somewhere down the hall, your laundry machine hummed a rhythm he didn’t recognize.

Your scent was everywhere.

That shampoo you always used, the hint of vanilla you swore wasn’t perfume. The gentle, feminine quiet of your space that wrapped around him like a blanket. Jisung buried his face in your pillow before he could stop himself.

And then—

Drool.

“Aw, come on,” he groaned, scrubbing at the wet patch on his hoodie. “Dude, you’re worse than me.”

The dog blinked innocently from the floor, tail wagging in slow thumps.

Jisung sighed, tugging the hoodie off over his head and padding toward your dresser. You’d told him he could borrow anything while he was here—something about the drawer on the left and not the right—

He opened the right.

And that’s when it hit him.

A drawer he’d never seen you touch in front of him. One that definitely didn’t contain any normal clothes.

And nestled between a rolled-up sleep mask and a bottle of lube so old the cap was crusted—

Was a vibrator.

Not some cheap little bullet either. This thing was sleek. Curved. Used.

His mouth went dry.

For a moment he just stared, heartbeat drumming in his ears, vision tunneling until the only thing in focus was that.

It looked too pretty to be real.

Then his brain kicked in—and immediately short-circuited.

That’s hers. That’s been inside her. She’s used that—she’s used that and—fuck—she’s moaned—

He slammed the drawer shut so fast the dog startled.

“Shit,” he hissed, running a hand through his hair. “Shitshitshit.”

What the fuck was he doing snooping?

You trusted him. He was supposed to be watching your dog, not—

Not imagining how you’d look riding that thing with your thighs shaking and your pretty mouth falling open.

Jisung squeezed his eyes shut and sat down hard on the edge of your bed. He could feel it already: the way his dick was pressing uncomfortably against the inside of his sweats, half-hard and pulsing with a guilt-soaked need he knew he shouldn’t indulge.

You were his best friend.

He loved you.

Like loved you. Not just the kind of love you joked about in texts or danced around during movie nights. Real love. The kind that made his stomach flip when you curled up next to him. The kind that made him remember everything you ever said about your turn-ons, your exes, your toys.

The kind that made him ache when you looked at him like he was just your friend.

And now he was sitting in your room, with the image of your vibrator burned into his brain and your scent all over him.

He licked his lips. Swallowed.

Then stood up.

Slowly, quietly, he opened the drawer again.

His hands shook.

The toy was heavier than he expected. Warm, almost. Like you’d just used it. Like it still held some phantom trace of you—your heat, your slick, your sounds.

His breath hitched.

“Just look,” he muttered to himself, like a mantra. “Just… look.”

But his other hand was already drifting south. Already palming himself through his pants. Already trembling with the beginnings of need.

He should put it back.

He should leave.

But instead, Jisung lay back on your bed, clutching your pillow like a lifeline, your vibrator held to his chest like a stolen secret.

And with his other hand, he pushed his sweats down just enough to free his cock

It sprang up flushed and leaking, angry and desperate, twitching at the thought of you. The idea of you using this—of you putting it inside yourself, moaning, writhing, calling out his name—

Wait.

No. Not his name.

Not unless you thought of him when you used it.

The idea nearly made him choke.

“F-fuck,” he whispered, pressing the tip of the toy to his lips. “I’m so fucked.”

And he was.

Because the second the base buzzed to life in his hand, Jisung knew there was no going back.

The first time the vibrator touched his cock, Jisung gasped—sharp and choked, like his lungs couldn’t decide if he should breathe or beg.

The buzz was low, steady. Gentle at first. But the moment it kissed his flushed, aching tip, he jerked so hard his knees buckled. His back arched off your bed and he let out the softest, most pathetic little whine, one hand immediately flying to his mouth to muffle the sound.

It still slipped out around his fingers.

“F-fuck… oh—god…”

He was already too sensitive.

Already leaking—already so fucking hard from just thinking about you, about the drawer, about what it must’ve looked like when you used this on yourself.

Did you lay back?

Did you ride it?

Did you touch your tits at the same time?

Did you moan his name, even once?

The thought of you squirming under your own fingers, lips parted and brows furrowed in concentration, made his hips twitch up against the toy, chasing the sensation greedily. He was already losing it. Already dizzy.

And then his traitor mouth slipped—

“Yn…”

His voice was so needy, so soft—like a prayer he didn’t realize he was saying out loud.

And worse: your dog was still asleep in the corner of the room, completely unaware that his babysitter was currently rutting against your vibrator like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

He should stop.

He needed to stop.

But the moment he teased the base of the toy under his shaft—pressed it there, just right, right along that strip of oversensitive nerve—his hips jerked again. His cock throbbed hard enough to make his stomach clench, and then—wetness.

Spit.

He’d drooled onto your pillow.

“Oh my god,” he whimpered, biting his knuckle hard, cheeks burning. “What the fuck is wrong with me—”

But the buzzing didn’t stop.

The vibrations crawled up the length of him, buzzing along the ridge of his cock, teasing the base, the tip, circling back down again like a cruel whisper of the real thing.

He kept fucking into it. Barely-there thrusts. His thighs trembled, abs flexing with every clench, every desperate grind, every little shiver.

He squeezed his eyes shut tight. He had to. If he opened them, he’d see your room. Your bed. Your pillow soaked in his spit. The vibrator you’d actually used between his legs. And maybe—maybe the worst part—

He liked it.

No—he loved it. The guilt. The heat. The pathetic need in his gut. The idea that you could come home right now and find him like this—half-naked and panting, so far gone he couldn’t even stop grinding against something that still smelled like you.

He let out a broken, high-pitched sound, somewhere between a sob and a gasp, chest heaving as he humped the toy again and again and again. It wasn’t even in him. Just pressed to his cock. Just buzzing there while he fucked into it like a dog in heat.

“Please—” he whispered, not even sure what he was begging for. “Please—pleaseplease—oh fuck, I-I need—”

He didn’t finish the sentence. Couldn’t.

Because the thought was you.

He needed you.

You, in that tiny crop top you wore when you cleaned the kitchen. You, in the gym shorts that always hugged your thighs. You, teasing him when you bent over to pick up your keys, laughing when he turned red and looked away.

You, right now—coming home, walking in, catching him like this—

Your voice: “Jisung?”

Your eyes: wide. Confused. Hot.

Your mouth: “What are you doing with that?”

Fuck.

His cock pulsed.

“Ah—!” he gasped, pressing the toy harder against himself. “I’m sorry, I—I didn’t— I just— I wanted to feel— I-I didn’t mean to—!”

He was panting now, full-body shaking, one hand still holding the toy, the other clutching your pillow like it might keep him anchored.

His hips moved faster.

He was getting close.

Too close.

And the guilt felt so good—the idea of being caught, of being used, of you looking down at him and punishing him for being so filthy, so desperate, so in love—

“Fuckfuckfuckfuck I’m gonna—!”

He came with a shudder, a soft, helpless cry muffled against your sheets.

Hot, sticky ropes spurted over his belly, thighs, the toy. His toes curled. His breath caught.

But the vibrator didn’t stop.

The buzz kept going. Unrelenting.

And so did he.

His hips bucked again.

His thighs trembled.

A second orgasm started building before he could even recover.

“No—fuck—can’t—! I c-can’t again, I just—hngh—”

His stomach muscles spasmed, his eyes screwed shut, his whole body thrumming with overstimulation.

But it felt so good.

So filthy.

So right.

And the worst part?

He still imagined you walking in.

Because if you saw him like this—sweaty, flushed, cock twitching helplessly against the vibrator—

Maybe you’d finally understand just how badly he wanted you.

You opened the door with your keys already between your fingers and your tote bag half-falling off your shoulder.

You were only supposed to be gone for a couple of hours—just a quick run to your sister’s place to drop off some things. But now it was past 7, the sun was setting warm and low through your living room windows, and your dog hadn’t come running to greet you.

Odd.

You slipped off your shoes. The leash was still hanging where you left it. Food untouched. Water bowl full.

And the bedroom door… cracked.

Soft, breathy noise filtered through the silence.

Whimpering?

You frowned.

“Jisung?” you called. “Everything okay?”

No answer.

So you stepped forward—quietly, slowly, like you were afraid of what you might find—and when you pushed the door open just an inch more, the scene made your brain stop working.

Because there he was.

In your bed.

Sweaty. Blushing. Panting.

Naked except for the hem of one of your oversized shirts pushed up to his chest. His thighs were trembling, knees half-bent, his whole body twitching and shuddering with aftershocks. And between his legs…

Your vibrator.

Still buzzing.

Still wet.

Still smeared with his cum.

“Jisung?” you breathed, mouth falling open.

His head whipped around so fast it looked like it hurt. Wide brown eyes locked on yours—pure terror for a second, followed by guilt, embarrassment, and something else you couldn’t quite name.

“W-wait, I—I can explain—!” he choked, scrambling to toss the toy aside and cover himself, but his legs wouldn’t cooperate. His hips bucked helplessly, his thighs shook, and he made this desperate little whine like the shame was eating him alive.

“I—fuck, I didn’t mean to—I was just—! I just wanted to wear something comfy, and I saw it in the drawer, and I—I didn’t know I was gonna—fuck, please don’t hate me—”

He looked like he was about to cry.

You just stood there, heart thudding in your chest, mouth dry.

You should’ve yelled.

Should’ve kicked him out.

Should’ve said anything.

But instead, the only thing that came out of your mouth was—

“…Did you come thinking about me?”

Silence.

Thick. Stretched. Breathless.

His eyes went even wider—doe-like and shocked, his mouth open but speechless.

And then—softly, brokenly, like admitting it would shatter him—

“…yes.”

You stepped closer.

He blinked up at you.

You reached for the vibrator—sticky, still buzzing, abandoned on the sheets—and clicked it off.

Then you tossed it onto the floor.

And climbed on top of him.

“W-wait—! What are you—? You’re not mad?” he asked, voice cracking, hands hovering like he didn’t know where to touch. His dick was still twitching, still hard, shiny with cum, flushed to the tip.

And you—your thighs were already straddling his hips.

“No,” you said, voice low. “I’m not mad.”

His breath hitched.

“…Are you gonna punish me?”

You smirked.

“No,” you said again. Then, softer—“I’m gonna ride you.”

Jisung whimpered.

The second your fingers wrapped around his cock, he twitched like he’d been electrocuted.

He was still sensitive—overstimulated and leaking, head thrown back, thighs shaking under your touch—but he wanted it. Every inch of him screamed for it.

“You’re such a mess,” you whispered, dragging your folds along his length. “Were you humping my toy like a little pervert?”

“I—nngh—yes,” he gasped. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I couldn’t stop—”

“You came on my sheets,” you said, rubbing the tip against your entrance. “Came all over yourself. Thinking about me.”

He nodded frantically, lips parted, cheeks flushed red.

“I’m disgusting,” he choked, voice wrecked. “I-I didn’t mean to, I just— I love you, and—”

You froze.

Your eyes snapped to his.

“…You love me?”

His breath caught.

Shit.

But it was too late to lie.

“I—I do,” he whispered. “I’ve been in love with you forever. I didn’t know what to do anymore, and when I saw that thing in your drawer I just— I lost it. I’m sorry—please don’t make me leave—”

You leaned down and kissed him.

Messy. Hot. Tongue first. Your teeth scraped his bottom lip, and he moaned into your mouth like he’d been waiting years for this.

“I’m not gonna make you leave,” you said. “I’m gonna fuck you until you forget your name.”

And then you sank down on him.

His reaction was instant.

High-pitched, breathless whimpers. Eyes rolling back. Hands flying to your hips but not gripping—just resting, like he was too afraid to move, too afraid to mess this up.

You took him slowly, inch by inch, feeling the way he stretched you open, how wet you already were just from watching him. His cock filled you completely, bottomed out with a soft slap, and he sobbed.

“P-please,” he begged. “Please move, I—I need—oh god—”

You rolled your hips.

Once.

Then again.

And Jisung lost it.

His nails dug into the blankets, his head buried into your shoulder, breath coming in sharp, uneven pants.

“Y-you’re so warm,” he gasped. “Feels so good—feels better than anything, oh fuck, I’m—”

You bounced on him slowly, lazily—grinding down in circles, making him feel it. He was already whining again, that sweet pitch in his voice like he couldn’t decide if he was going to cry or come.

You tugged his hair. Tilted his head back.

“Look at me.”

He did.

And you kissed him again—slow and open-mouthed this time, swallowing his sounds, letting him moan into you like he needed it to survive.

“I’m not mad,” you whispered. “I’ve wanted this too.”

His eyes filled with tears.

“I—I love you—”

“I know.”

You bounced faster.

His hips tried to chase yours, but he was too fucked out. He couldn’t keep up. He just whimpered, head back, cock twitching deep inside you.

And when your walls squeezed around him, when your nails raked down his chest, when you leaned in and moaned his name right against his ear—

He came.

Hard.

Hot.

Sticky.

With a shout and a tremble, his whole body went rigid under you, cum spilling deep, so much of it, and he was still babbling—

“I love you—thank you—fuck, I love you—I love you”

You stayed there.

Grinding through it, fucking him through the high, kissing the corners of his wet, pretty eyes.

And when you came next, clenched tight around his sensitive cock with a soft cry of his name, he nearly passed out from how good it felt.

You didn’t get off him for a long time.

He wouldn’t let you.

Not because he needed to go again (though he definitely did), but because he didn’t want to let go. His arms curled around your waist, his face pressed into your chest, his voice soft and hazy.

“…so I guess I’m not just the dog babysitter anymore, huh?”

You laughed.

“No, Ji,” you whispered. “You’re mine.”

And he smiled into your skin.

“Finally

[minholuvr333]

𐙚 i want it ⋆  h.js  x reader

part one ⋆ part two

pairing: han jisung x inexperienced virgin! fem!reader genre: smut warnings: swearing ⋆ slight corruption kink ⋆ needy han ⋆ slight perv!han ⋆ sorta dubcon ⋆ reader is called “baby” (several times) & “my girl” (once) ⋆ spit kink ⋆ non penetrative sex ⋆ munch jisung ⋆ dialogue heavy wc: 707 synopsis: you both promised to take it slow, but jisung struggles to keep his word, and you certainly don't mind. author's note: been thinking about this for days this is so incredibly self indulgent its not funny. this is not beta read. this is barely proofread. i'm just a whore. the first 870 or so of yall saw a slightly different version than everyone else onward. i made some slight changes that needed to be reworked for clarity. and for those of you interested, part 2 is linked above!

© dollracha do not copy reupload or repost.

“fuck, ‘m sorry, baby.” jisung whines into your neck as he ruts his cock against your wet panties. he’s got one hand wrapped tightly around his cock, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. you’ve both soaked your panties, his precum and the wetness from your pussy make it almost uncomfortably sticky.

“god, ‘m so fuckin’... gross.” he rambles, pulling himself up to spit on his cock. he watches it slide off the side of his tip and down your ass. “making a mess of your poor pussy just to get myself off.”

“hannie…” your moan has him rolling his eyes back. you can’t remember how you ended up beneath him, just that you didn’t want it to stop yet. It wasn’t enough. and yet you were trying to find it in you to tell him to slow down, it’s what you wanted after all. to take it slow, wait until ‘the right time’ for your first time with jisung. that went out the window the moment he started feeling you up today.

“i know… said i'd keep my pretty girl all pure for a little longer.”

but jisung’s cock throbs at the sight of you all defiled. your hair is a mess from when he shoved you down on the bed and had his hands all up in it when he kissed you earlier. your makeup is smudged, mascara messy from the way tears well up in your eyes and spill when his cockhead rubs against your clit just right. your lipstick blurs around your lips from the sloppy kisses you shared. he begged you not to wear a bra this morning when you got dressed, it made your tits even easier for him to access. all he had to do was pull down your little tank top and they were all his. your skirt is pushed up, soft tummy peeking out. and your pussy, so wet for him already and he’s still one layer away. 

“look at you… so nasty f’me.”

“can i take off your panties? please, baby?” jisung stops rutting against your clothed pussy and gives a couple hard taps against your clit. “know it’s dirty, baby. but it’ll feel good, okay?”

all you want at this point is to feel good–screw everything else–so you nod and lift your hips so he can slide your panties off your legs.

You try to shut your legs but jisung is quicker. both of his hands keep your thighs open. “let me see that pretty pussy, don’t hide it from me.” he’s quick to spit on it again, and this time you can’t help the high pitched moan that escapes your lips. 

“did your exes ever spit on it, baby?”

you shake your head, hands coming to cover your flushed face. nobody’s ever touched you like jisung has. you've kissed your exes, dry humped, even came from it too. but jisung's the only one who's touched you so intimately, and a part of him hopes it stays that way.

“like it?” he asks and you don’t respond. is it wrong to say you liked it? it’s gross, you think. it’s so so gross… but is it wrong?

warm saliva hits your pussy again, this time you can feel jisung’s breath on you. 

“do you like it when i spit on your pussy, baby?”

“... yes…” you respond, and finally pry your arms away from your face. jisung’s laying down on the bed, hands pressed against your thighs to keep them open. he can’t decide what's a sweeter sight, your glistening pussy or your wide eyes. for now, his eyes lock with yours.

“fuck…” jisung whispers. his eyes fall back to your pussy with a smile. he licks his lips and lets his head fall against the blankets.

“ji?” you reach for his hand, and as soon as he feels your hand on his he’s grasping it, and raising his head up to kiss your knuckles. 

“i know you wanna take it slow… but please, please can i eat you out, baby? ‘s all i want.”

jisung agreed to take it slow, but he's got you half dressed and soaking your bed. maybe you should be mad, but god, the pleasure jisung was giving you was addicting. you weren’t afraid to give yourself away to him at this point.

“i want it.” you nod, and jisung kisses your hand again.

“gotta give my girl what she wants then, yeah?”

© dollracha do not copy reupload or repost.

[minholuvr333]

Abs racha? Muscle racha??? MUSCLE RACHA 1000%

Cause they are all in it 🤤🥵

Credits to the owners of the pictures

[minholuvr333]

before pride month ends does anyone wanna admit they have a crush on me

[minholuvr333]

[minholuvr333]

N O   S A I N T   I N K

Tattoo Artist!Han Jisung x Reader | blah blah blah

🔞synopsis: Tattoo Artist AU. You just wanted a tattoo. What you got was a cocky artist with a praise kink, a filthy mouth, and the ability to make you cum so hard you forget your name. What starts as innocent skin-on-skin becomes texts at 3AM, breathless calls, panties on the floor, and getting ruined over a tattoo chair by a man who calls his dick “emotionally supportive.”

💌a/n: HELLO DEMONS. welcome back to my sin bin. and YES. i spun the wheel of filth™ again because i have too many prompts, too many requests, too many ideas and i am ONE feral braincell away from combusting. this week’s winner of the roulette: jisung x reader, tattoo shop edition. hence why this was posted late — i had no idea what to write and then accidentally birthed a full plotline, two orgasms, a man with separation anxiety, and the best dick of your fictional life. oops 😇 p.s. reblog this or i will haunt your mirrors at 3AM whispering “dumb little slut” in han’s voice. p.p.s. if you message me your fave skz member, i might drop you a mini filthy tattoo artist!AU ficlet just for them. no promises. only threats. p.p.p.s. light a candle. hydrate. send this to a friend

⚠️ warnings: 18+ | MINORS DNI | EXTREMELY NSFW | Oral (f. receiving) — graphic, intense, life-altering | Pussy eating obsession (Han is a munch) | Filthy, unrelenting dirty talk — degradation + praise mix (chaos edition) | “Good girl,” “slut,” “mine,” “cum for me” energy | Clit stimulation + g-spot pressure = brain cell deletion | Multiple orgasms (yes. multiple.) | Fingering, choking, possessive hand-gripping

📌 Please read responsibly. Hydrate. Stretch.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » MOVE — Taemin « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:32 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

Late afternoon, Seoul.

The sky is bruising purple with evening haze. You’re standing outside a tattoo parlour in a tucked-away alley—NO SAINT INK—recommended by a friend who said, “Go there. Ask for Han.”

You’re nervous. Not just because it’s your first tattoo—but because your stomach won’t stop twisting with that type of anticipation. The kind you feel when you know something irreversible is about to happen.

The parlour looks nothing like the industrial, hyper-masculine shops you've passed before. It’s dark, yes—but with soft underlighting. Neon signs buzz low in the windows, one glowing "SINNER'S HANDS" in deep red. Another in cursive:

“we only leave beautiful scars.”

You push the door open, bell jingling. It smells like antiseptic and incense. Lo-fi hip hop pulses from hidden speakers. The walls are matte black, scattered with flash art—some delicate, some obscene. A few erotic, one absolutely feral. You step toward the desk—

And then you see him.

Han Jisung.

Slouched in a leather chair behind the counter, legs spread wide, one hand holding a sketchpad, the other spinning a tattoo gun idly between his fingers like a toy.

Dark, slightly wavy hair. A few strands falling into his eyes. Rings on nearly every finger. One silver bar in his eyebrow. Another glinting on his lip.

He's wearing a sleeveless hoodie, arms covered in ink—some intricate, some scrawled like afterthoughts. His forearms flex as he shifts, glancing up at you lazily, and then—

Freeze.

He smirks. Not the kind of smirk you’re used to. This one slides slow across his face like silk on skin—cocky, amused, interested. He sets the sketchbook down and stands, sauntering over.

“You lost, angel?”

His voice is warm gravel. A little teasing. He’s already clocked you as a first-timer.

You swallow. “No. Um… I think I have an appointment? For 5PM?”

He leans against the counter, gloved hand flipping through the schedule.

“Name?”

You give it. He taps the page. “First ink?” he asks, gaze flicking over you.

You nod.

His eyes drag down your form and back up again—like he’s marking you before the needle ever touches you. “Cute.”

A pause.

“Alright. You’re with me.”

The moment he leads you past the curtain, everything quiets. Not literally—there’s still the low thrum of lo-fi beats playing through overhead speakers, and you can hear the soft buzz of a machine in the next booth—but something in the air shifts. You’ve stepped into his space now.

The room is dim, intentionally so. Not cold or sterile, but intimate. The walls are painted a charcoal grey, with scattered framed sketches and flash art displayed like gallery pieces. A small desk against the back wall is cluttered with ink bottles, gloves, stencils, and scribbled notes on napkins. There’s a chair in the center—sleek black leather, mechanical levers gleaming faintly under the spotlight aimed above it. It's positioned deliberately beneath a halo of warm light, like a stage for sin.

Han gestures for you to sit.

You do, heart already hammering harder than you'd like to admit. Your hands grip the armrests automatically, more out of nerves than necessity.

He sanitizes his hands in silence, then slips on a pair of black nitrile gloves with practiced ease. The snap of the first one makes you flinch. He notices.

A flick of his mouth—half amusement, half something darker.

“So. You still sure about it?” he asks, voice calm but low, like smoke over velvet.

You nod, holding out the reference image you brought—a small, simple design. Meaningful. Something you’ve thought about for months. A delicate poppy, petals slightly unfurled…But at the base of the flower, instead of a regular stem, it grows from the open mouth of a tiny anatomical heart.

Han doesn’t look at the paper right away. His eyes stay on you for just a moment longer than they should. Then he takes it gently, fingers brushing yours through the gloves.

“Pretty,” he murmurs, gaze flicking from the paper to your face. “Subtle. Clean lines… this’ll look good on you.”

You try to smile, but your throat feels tight. “Thanks.”

“Where do you want it?”

You hesitate. Then, softly: “Ribcage.”

That earns you an arched brow and the barest flicker of a smirk.

“Shy spot. I like that,” he says, turning to prep his materials. You watch the muscles shift as he reaches for a stencil pad. “Okay, shirt off. Just what you need, nothing more. I won’t bite.”

You freeze.

He pauses for a beat. Then tilts his head, eyes crinkling slightly. “Unless you beg,” he adds with a wink.

Your cheeks go hot. You laugh—nervously. It feels like your skin is already burning.

You carefully lift your shirt just high enough to expose the side of your torso, tugging the fabric over your bra, folding it under your arm to keep it out of the way. You're acutely aware of how much skin you're showing—even more so under that bright, direct light.

He kneels beside you with the stencil, gaze focused. You expect him to avoid eye contact, to be clinical—but Han is anything but.

His fingers brush your waist, and they stay there, warm through the gloves. His hand spreads slightly, holding your skin steady as he gently presses the cool stencil to your ribs.

“Breathe for me, yeah?” he murmurs, glancing up at you with a crooked smile. “I’m gonna press it right here…”

You suck in a breath, chest rising.

He places the stencil deliberately. Slowly. His face is close—close enough that you can see the curve of his lashes, the faint sheen of gloss on his lip ring. You smell cedar and musk on his hoodie. His fingers flex slightly against your side.

He looks up.

“You’re already twitchy,” he says softly, voice dropping just enough to make you forget how to breathe. “Gonna be a fun ride.”

You don’t know if he means the tattoo. And neither does he.

He stands and moves to the table beside him, switching out tools like it’s second nature. The machine buzzes to life with a sharp mechanical hum.

You tense.

He catches it immediately.

“First pinch might sting,” he says, voice suddenly gentle, almost coaxing. “I’ll talk you through it. You’re good.”

You nod again, trying not to clench your fists.

Then his hand is back on your body.

He anchors you with one palm spread wide over your side, right above your hip. It’s not forceful, but there’s weight to it. A possessive steadiness. The leather chair creaks faintly under the shift of your body.

And then the needle touches. A sharp, sudden sting. You wince.

“Breathe. Just like that. You’re doing so well, pretty,” he says, voice a constant hum in your ear. “Your skin takes ink like a dream. Fuck, this is gonna look good.”

You exhale through your nose, trying to focus on the sound of his voice instead of the burn.

It helps. But not in the way it should. Because Han doesn’t shut up. Not once.

“Don’t squirm too much… unless you want me to slip.” “You’re soft here. So fucking soft.” “Bet you’re the type who likes being teased, huh?”

You let out a choked laugh, more from panic than humor. He grins, eyes glinting.

The buzz of the machine, the heat of his palm on your skin, the constant commentary—it all blends into a haze. You’re dripping adrenaline and something else entirely. You feel like you’ve been stripped down far deeper than your shirt allows.

After what feels like both a lifetime and a blink, the needle slows. He lifts it. “Almost done. You’ve been such a good girl for me.”

The words land like a slap and a stroke at once.

He sets the machine aside, reaching for a fresh cloth. He wipes your skin slowly. Not rough. Not rushed. Every pass of his hand is careful, gentle.

You’re trembling now. Just a little.

He leans back finally and exhales. The air feels different. Like it’s shifted again—thicker.

“There,” he says. “Wanna see?”

You nod, throat dry.

He helps you up—guides you to a mirror near the corner. His hand stays on your back.

You look. And for a second, you forget how to breathe again. The tattoo is perfect. Clean, delicate, exactly how you pictured it. But it’s not just the ink that makes your chest ache—it’s the fact that it’s his. His hands made this. His touch. His art. On your skin.

“My work’s on you now,” he murmurs behind you, voice low and close. “You’re not gonna forget me, are you?”

You shake your head. You couldn’t if you tried.

The moment you slide your shirt back down, your skin feels… different. Not just because it's slightly tender from the ink, but because his touch still lingers. Like heat soaked into your bones. Like a fingerprint on your soul. You shouldn’t be this affected—he’s just your tattoo artist. Right?

You sit there for a moment longer than necessary, blinking as he finishes cleaning his station. His gloves come off with a snap, and he tosses them into the bin. You glance up, and—yep—he’s watching you.

Leaning casually against the counter, arms crossed, hair a little mussed, rings catching the light. Smug as hell.

“You survived,” he says, voice bright with that chaos-riddled lilt again. “Didn’t cry. Didn’t puke. I’m impressed.”

You roll your eyes. “High praise.”

“I’ve had grown men pass out from rib pieces,” he shrugs. “One guy farted. Loud. Mid-linework. I almost dropped the machine.”

You snort despite yourself. “Well, thanks for not comparing me to the Fart Guy until the end.”

He grins, wide and gleaming. “No, no, you’re top-tier,” he says, stepping closer to grab your care sheet. “Didn’t even whimper. Except for that one part where your breath hitched and I thought—y’know, for a second—you might come on the chair.”

You nearly choke. “Excuse me?!”

“Kidding,” he sing-songs. “Unless…?”

Your glare is ruined by the flush racing up your neck. You stand and grab your bag in a hurry, trying to save face. “You’re awful.”

“I’m delightful.”

He leads you back toward the front desk, swaying just slightly with each step, like he’s got too much energy stored in those shoulders. You swear he’s bouncing on the balls of his feet. It’s giving feral golden retriever with a tattoo gun and a praise kink.

You hand over your card while avoiding eye contact.

He hums dramatically as he takes it, flipping it over like he’s studying an ancient rune.

“You sure you don’t wanna tip in other ways?” he says, deadpan.

Your jaw drops.

He grins, swipes your card, and taps it dramatically against the reader before handing it back. “Joking, obviously. Unless that wasn't a ‘no,’ in which case, I’m free next week—Tuesday, after 7?”

You grab the receipt from the printer and scowl at him. “You flirt with all your clients like this?”

“Only the pretty ones who shake when I touch their ribs.”

You stare.

He smiles wider.

“Okay, okay—last line, I swear,” he chuckles. Then, softer: “Hey. Can I get your number?”

The way he asks it—it’s not sleazy. It’s bold, sure. But there’s this undercurrent of actual interest, like he’s asking for something more than just your digits.

You blink. “Why?”

“‘Cause I want it?” he says, grinning. “Also, in case your tattoo needs a touch-up. Or emotional support. Or if you just feel like sending me hot selfies. It’s a multi-purpose thing.”

You hesitate. Your pulse says yes before your mouth does. He notices. He always notices. You hand him your phone, and he immediately types his own number in, labelling it:

HAN “WILL NOT SHUT UP” JISUNG 🖤

He sends himself a text from your phone, winks, then gives it back. “Now we’re connected,” he says “Digitally. Spiritually. Carnally—well, not yet.”

You open your mouth to sass him. “You were so close to being cool,” you say.

“Close is my middle name.”

You snort and shake your head as you step toward the door. “Bye, Han.”

“See you soon, angel.”

You’re out the door.

The texting started immediately. Like, within minutes of you leaving the shop.

What began as tattoo care check-ins (“don’t scratch it or I’ll spank you—unless?”) turned into daily chaos. Then nightly chaos. Then a full-blown flirtationship spiralling out of control.

Han texts like he lives inside your brain—firing off filthy one-liners between jokes that make you wheeze-laugh at 1AM, switching between “you’re my filthy little secret” and “pls tell me I’m cute or I’ll cry.”

You finally cave after he begs you to get ramen at 9PM “as friends who have sexual tension.”

You show up. He’s already sitting cross-legged in the booth, hoodie sleeves rolled up, lip ring glinting, chopsticks twirling in one hand like he’s about to duel someone.

He greets you with: “You look edible. I meant that in a respectful way. Mostly.”

You try to play it cool. He doesn’t let you.

The whole night is full of dumb jokes, spicy noodles, and under-the-table foot nudging that turns into ankle grazing that turns into—

“You keep that up, baby,” he murmurs across the table, “and I’m gonna drag you to the bathroom and remind you what these fingers can do.”

You nearly choke on your drink. He laughs, head tilted back, so proud of himself.

You leave flustered. He kisses your cheek in the parking lot. Just your cheek. But his hand lingers at your waist. His mouth is right next to your ear.

“Call me when you can’t sleep,” he says, low. “I’ll make sure you get tired again.”

You almost trip on the curb.

The calls eventually started and slowly became routine. Especially those 1AM phone calls, they were like clockwork. You, in bed, breath heavy as his voice would melt through the speaker.

“You touching yourself yet?” “You want me to talk you through it?” “Want me to tell you what I’d do if I had you on my lap right now?”

He moans in your ear when you do what he says.

Filthy. Unfiltered. And when it’s over—when you’re breathless and ruined—he says the softest things:

“Wish I was there to hold you.” “You’re so fucking hot, but you’re also cute and funny and it’s unfair.” “You still like me, right?”

It’s not just lust anymore. It's want. Sticky, addictive, confusing want.

It started with a text.

Just one. Sent on a whim while lying in bed late at night, staring at the first tattoo he gave you—delicate black lines peeking from beneath your shirt, still soft to the touch even weeks later.

[You, 11:23PM] thinking about getting another one

You didn’t expect a fast reply. But Jisung’s name lit up your phone in under two minutes.

[HAN “WILL NOT SHUT UP” 🖤, 11:24PM] oh?? 👀 where when how much skin we talking is it just an excuse to see me again (pls say yes)

You rolled your eyes. Typed back:

[You] hipbone small script and maybe what if it was both

His reply came in a blink:

[HAN “WILL NOT SHUT UP” 🖤] come by the shop this friday after hours no distractions just me. you. ink. doors locked. lights low. …for professionalism, obviously 🙃

You stared at the screen for a long time before replying.

And then:

[You] see you friday.

Friday. 9:04PM.

Seoul’s city pulse is just starting to dim when you push open the door to NO SAINT INK for the second time.

The bell doesn’t ring. He told you it wouldn’t.

The neon signs are still lit—SINNER’S HANDS flickering a slow blood-red glow in the window—but the rest of the shop feels different. Empty. Still. Like something waiting to be touched.

The lights are dimmed. Only one small lamp buzzes near the back, casting long shadows across the matte-black walls.

Your steps echo a little as you walk inside. Then—

“Back here, pretty.”

His voice, low and smooth, floats from behind a curtain in the far booth.

You follow it. Pull the curtain aside. And there he is.

He’s already set up.

Tattoo machine prepped, gloves laid out neatly beside his sketch pad. He’s wearing an oversized black tee tucked loosely into ripped jeans, sleeves rolled just enough to show off the ink that curls around his biceps like living things.

He doesn’t look at you at first.

He’s focused on the script you’d sent him earlier—your design. A small phrase, handwritten in your own messy scrawl: “still hungry.”

When he finally glances up, it hits you like the first time all over again.

The way his lip curls. The way his eyes bite first and ask questions later. “Look at you,” he murmurs, voice dipped in something dark and fond. “Back for more.”

You lean against the booth’s edge, heartbeat already in your throat. “You said professionalism, remember?”

He stands slowly. Walks toward you. You can feel the heat radiating off him in waves.

“I lied.”

A beat. Then—

“Where’s it going again?”

You lift the hem of your hoodie just a little. Hook your thumb beneath your waistband and tug it down, just far enough to expose the sharp curve of your hipbone.

His gaze drops.

Stays.

He doesn’t speak for a moment too long. Just stares—like he’s trying to memorize you before he ruins you. “That’s dangerous, you know,” he says softly. “Letting me touch you there.”

You try to swallow. Fail. “You’re the one who said no distractions.”

He smiles. “You’re the fucking distraction.”

He gloves up without another word.

You lie back on the chair, heart slamming in your chest, every inch of skin suddenly too hot.

You’re not sure what you expected. Something casual? Familiar? But the moment his gloved hand touches your bare hip—steadying you, fingers spread firm and warm—the entire world narrows to him.

“Breathe for me,” he murmurs, positioning the stencil. “Just like last time. You remember how good you were for me?”

You exhale shakily.

“You gonna behave again tonight, pretty thing?”

You whisper: “Maybe.”

He leans in. His mouth is close to your skin. His voice—barely a breath. “God, I hope not.” He’s still positioning the stencil.

And you? You're laid back on the chair, hoodie bunched beneath your ribs, waistband tugged low, every nerve ending on alert. The soft lamplight paints shadows across his jaw as he kneels between your legs, eyes focused.

And then—

“You know,” he says lightly, pressing the stencil into place, “I’ve seen a lot of hipbones. But this one might be my favourite.”

You snort. “Wow. So original.”

He grins without looking up. “What, you don’t believe me?”

“I’m sure you say that to all your clients.”

“Only the ones who sext me about popsicles and then block me for ten minutes.”

You go still. He finally glances up. Smirks. “Yeah. Thought I forgot about that?”

You mutter, “I hate you.”

“You love me,” he says immediately, like it’s a fact. “You want me to ruin your life. Slowly. Lovingly. With tattoos and aftercare.”

You cover your face. “Shut up.”

He laughs—a low, breathy sound. Then, softly: “I’m starting the line now. Hold still, baby.”

The machine whirs to life.

It’s quieter than you remember. Or maybe you’re just more aware—of everything. The way his gloved hand steadies your hip, thumb dragging along the edge of your waistband. The needle’s sharp kiss. The buzz settling into your bones.

And Han’s voice. God, he never stops talking.

“This spot’s sensitive,” he says, totally casual. “Most people squirm. But I like that.”

You tense. He notices. Of course he does.

“Relax,” he murmurs, dragging the line smooth. “You’re doing perfect.”

Another pause. Then—

“Don’t suppose you’re into pain, are you?”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to. He chuckles under his breath. “God, you so are.”

But then, just like that—his tone shifts. He quiets. Focuses. And the teasing melts into something heavier. “Almost done,” he says, more softly this time. “You’ve been so good for me again. Always are.”

You blink. Your heart skips.

He wipes your skin again, slow and reverent, then leans back to look. He’s still crouched between your thighs, eyes focused, lips parted slightly as he takes it in.

“Fuck.”

You blink. “What?”

He looks up at you. No grin now. Just quiet, open admiration. “It’s gorgeous,” he says. “Like… stupid good.” He presses a kiss to his gloved fingertips and taps them against your skin.

“Still hungry,” he reads aloud. “God, I could write essays on that.”

“Don’t,” you whisper.

“Too late. MLA format. Double spaced. Thesis: you’re gonna kill me.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re flushed. Breath shallow. Because now that the needle’s done…

He’s not moving. His hand stays on your waist. His eyes flick to your lips. Then back down. Then—

“You want me to touch you?”

The question lands like a live wire in the room. But he doesn’t push. Doesn’t smirk. He just waits. Like he’s offering something sacred. Like he’d back off the second you said no. But you don’t. You can’t.

You nod. Barely.

His fingers tighten on your skin. “Nah,” he murmurs. “Say it. I want to hear it.”

You swallow.

“…Yes.”

“Yes what, baby?”

Your brain short-circuits.

“Jisung—”

“Use your words, pretty thing. Or I’ll stop before I start.”

You suck in a breath, eyes locking with his. “I want you to touch me.”

He moves instantly.

The gloves are still on when he presses his palm flat against your hipbone, fingers spreading possessively. His hand feels huge there—like it was made for this exact spot.

“Fuck. Been thinking about this since the first time you came in,” he mutters, voice dropping into something rough, reverent. “You looked so fucking good in that chair. All nervous and squirmy.”

He bends down.

Kisses the edge of your new tattoo, so soft it almost hurts. “My name’s not even on you,” he whispers, “and I’m still acting like you’re mine.”

Your stomach flips. You whimper.

And he grins, but it’s different now—hungry, not cocky. “Take your pants off.”

You blink.

He meets your eyes. “Let me take care of you.”

You obey—slow, breathless, trembling under his gaze. You slide them down and toss them aside. He leans in again, eyes tracing over the new ink and everything below it, slow and starving.

You’re not wearing much underneath, lacy pink panties, with a very obvious wet spot on your center.

He groans softly. “You’re already wet.”

You gasp when his fingers brush over you, lazy, like he has all the time in the world. “All this from a little needle?” he teases. “Or is it the artist?”

“Fuck you,” you breathe.

He laughs. One low, wicked exhale. “Oh, you will. But not yet.”

He leans back, peels his gloves off slowly—dragging each finger loose one by one, like he’s unwrapping a gift. Tosses them into the bin without taking his eyes off you once.

Then he lowers himself between your legs.

Spreads your thighs just a little further apart with both hands. You hear him exhale.

“Fuck. This is gonna kill me.”

He doesn’t touch you yet. Just leans in.

And presses a kiss right above your knee. Then the inside of your thigh. Then a little higher. And a little higher.

Your breath hitches when his lips ghost just beside the fabric.

“Soaked through lace,” he murmurs. “That’s so fucking pretty, baby.”

You’re shaking now.

He mouths over the wet spot—not even pulling them down yet. Just letting the heat of his breath and the drag of his lips torture you. You feel the scrape of his lip ring as he kisses you again, open-mouthed, right there.

“Bet you’d cum just from this,” he whispers. “My mouth through your panties. Barely even trying.”

You whimper. One hand fisting the edge of the chair.

His fingers slide over the wet spot next, slow and teasing. Two fingers rub a lazy circle, barely pressing—just enough to make your hips twitch. “I should leave these on,” he says, almost to himself. “Just push them to the side. Make you beg for it.”

You breathe, “Jisung—please—”

That does it.

He hooks his fingers under the waistband and drags them down—slow, deliberate, watching every inch of you get exposed.

He groans loudly the second you’re bare. “Holy fuck.”

Then he’s leaning in again, this time nothing between you. He kisses your inner thigh first. Then lower.

Then—

His tongue drags one long, obscene stripe up your center. You cry out, hips bucking—he presses a hand to your stomach, holding you still with an effortless command:

“Stay fucking still.”

Then he goes back in. He licks you like he means it—messy, slow, then fast and deep. His tongue circles your clit with practiced chaos. He moans against you, loud, like you taste like something sacred.

“You taste like fucking heaven,” he groans, voice muffled.

His hands spread you wider, his tongue dipping into your heat, nose pressed right up against your skin.

Then he sucks. Hard.

Your head falls back—gone.

“That’s it,” he purrs. “My perfect little slut. Look at you.”

Your hands tangle in his hair. You tug. He groans again and ruts into the fucking air, desperate for friction while he eats you out like he’s starving.

“You gonna cum on my mouth?” he growls, voice wrecked. “You want me to keep going or make you beg for it?”

You try to answer—can’t.

He pulls back for just a moment, lips and chin shining. “Use your words, baby. You know the rules.”

“Please—fuck—don’t stop, please—Jisung—”

“God,” he groans. “Keep saying my name like that and I’m gonna cum in my fucking jeans.”

Then he dives back in, faster now, tongue fucking into you, hand moving to circle your clit with soaked fingers while he sucks and moans like you’re his last goddamn meal. He’s everywhere—his mouth, his hand, the filthy hum of his moans vibrating straight through your core. He doesn’t pause to tease, doesn’t stop to talk this time. He’s all action now. Starved. Feral.

“Fuck,” he growls between licks, the words hot and wet against your folds. “You taste so fucking good. Gonna make me lose my mind.”

His tongue pushes in again. He flicks it fast, then slow, then sucks at your clit with a deep, wet moan that makes you cry out, back arching clean off the chair.

“There you go,” he pants, not even breaking rhythm. “Just like that. Give it to me, baby. Come on.” His voice is breathless, desperate—like he’s the one about to cum.

You’re shaking. Legs trembling. It’s too much. It’s not enough.

Your hands are clutching his hair, holding him right where you need him, and he just groans louder, grinding his face deeper like he wants to live between your legs. His lip ring catches against your clit—again, and again—and your thighs clamp around his head instinctively.

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even flinch.

He just moans into you, hands gripping your hips tighter, holding you down as your whole body starts to unravel. You feel it in your spine. In your toes. In the fucking air.

“You close, pretty thing?” he slurs against your clit. “Yeah, you are. You’re fucking dripping—making a mess for me. So fucking perfect. All mine.”

That breaks you.

You cum harder than you ever have in your life—with a sob, a gasp, a full-body spasm that crashes over you like a goddamn tsunami.

You hear yourself. You scream his name.

Jisung. Jisung. Jisung.

And he takes it.

He drinks it down like a man possessed, moaning into you like you’re water in the desert, like he’s been waiting his whole life to taste you fall apart. He doesn’t even stop when you cum—he licks you through it, tongue softening only slightly as your body twitches and bucks and pleads for mercy.

It’s too much. It’s so good it hurts.

“J-Jisung—fuck—wait—too much—”

Only then does he pull back, chest heaving, face absolutely wrecked. His mouth, his chin, even the tip of his nose glistens with you. He looks dazed.

Blessed.

He runs a hand down his face and just stares at you—spread out, soaked, shaking, glowing.

Then: “Holy fuck.”

You blink up at him, still gasping, brain static.

He grins—wide, flushed, proud as hell. “I knew it. I fucking knew it. Best pussy of my life.” You try to sass him. You really do. But all that comes out is a whimper.

“Aw,” he coos, leaning down to kiss your cheek. “Dumbed you out already?”

He brushes your hair back, kisses your forehead. “You okay?”

You nod. Barely.

“You want more?”

You nod. Desperately.

He chuckles, voice thick with affection and wrecked restraint. “Yeah, baby. Me too.” Then he stands up, undoing his belt with shaking hands, and murmurs: “Get comfy. ’Cause I’m gonna fuck you so good, you forget your own name.”

You’re still gasping. Still trembling. But your eyes follow the movement of his hands—shaking slightly as he undoes his belt, then the button, then the zipper.

He pushes his jeans down—

And your breath catches. You knew he’d be pretty. But not like this. Not this.

Thick. Flushed. Slight curve to the left.

And not just the look of it—the feel of it, even before he’s inside. You know instinctively it’s going to destroy you. That kind of snug fit that presses into all the right places and leaves no room for secrets.

He strokes himself once, slow and slick, precum already leaking from the tip. “Gonna be good for me, baby?” he asks, voice shaking as he fists his cock. “Let me feel that perfect pussy now?”

You nod. Dumb. Ready. So wet you feel it drip onto the chair beneath you.

He lines up—rubs the head of his cock over your folds, up and down, teasing your clit before circling your entrance. You’re still sensitive. Still twitching. And he feels it. “Still throbbing for me,” he murmurs. “God, you’re unreal.”

He pushes in. Slow. Deep. Too much. Too good.

You cry out—your body arching, your hands gripping the armrest and his forearm and anything you can reach.

Because he fits. Perfectly. Thick enough to make you stretch wide, gasp, feel it in your lungs. But not enough to hurt. No—just enough to ruin you.

“F-fuck,” he groans, head falling forward. “You’re squeezing me so tight—Jesus—don’t move yet, I’ll cum too fast—” He bottoms out, hips flush to yours. He stays there for a second. Still trembling. His cock twitches inside you.

“I’m gonna die,” he whispers. “I’m gonna die in this pussy.”

You laugh—a breathless, broken thing—and he grins like he’s proud.

Then? He pulls out halfway. And slams back in. Hard. And again. And again. Fast. Unhinged. Like he’s been waiting to do this for weeks. “Oh fuck, that’s it. That’s it, baby—keep takin’ it—so fucking perfect—”

He’s rambling now. Whimpering.

Each thrust hits so deep you swear you see stars. It’s a rhythm that shouldn’t exist, shouldn’t be real. Every stroke dragging against your g-spot, every snap of his hips making your thighs quake.

And he’s talking. So much.

“You feel that? Huh? You feel how good you make me?” “You’re all mine. This pussy? Fucking mine. Say it.” “Say it, baby, c’mon—tell me who it belongs to—”

You choke out, “You—it’s yours, Jisung—fuck, you’re so deep—”

He moans—wrecked. “God, I’m not gonna last—fuck—you’re too good—you’re too fucking good—” Then he bends down—mouth at your ear, hips still pounding into you like he’s trying to brand your soul.

“One more,” he whispers. “Just one more, yeah? Be my good girl and cum for me again—come on—cum on my cock—let me feel you—”

You barely get the chance to nod. Because then—he changes rhythm.

Not slower. Not gentler. Worse. He fucks you harder. Deeper. Like his body knows exactly how to hit every nerve inside you. Like he’s memorized your walls. And maybe he has. Maybe from the moment he first touched you in that chair, his entire brain rewired for this—for you.

“So fucking tight,” he pants, voice cracked open, almost panicked. “Shit—look at how you take me—look at that, fuck—”

He’s holding your waist again, but carefully—just above the fresh tattoo. His fingers dig into your ribs, grip locked in, not letting you squirm away as he slams into you, pace frantic, unrelenting.

“Can’t touch your hips,” he growls, “so I’m gonna hold you right here—just like this—until you fall apart again.”

Then his hand slides down. Finds your clit. And rubs. Fast. Tight.

You moan loud.

“Tell me what it feels like,” he pants, eyes locked on your face, wild. “Come on, baby—talk to me. You know the rules.”

You try. You try so hard.

“It’s—fuck—Jisung—it’s too much—I-I can’t—”

His hand doesn’t stop. His cock drives up into you like it’s chasing your orgasm, like he can feel it coming and he wants to drag it out of you with his bare hands. “Yes, you can. You’re my good girl, right? My perfect fucking baby—tell me what you feel.”

You sob. “It’s everywhere—it’s so deep—I feel you in my stomach, Jisung—”

That makes him moan—full, wrecked, helpless. “Yeah? That’s it, baby. You feel me stretching you out? You feel how hard you’re clenching around me?”

He’s unhinged. Fucking you like he needs to feel you cum on his cock. Like it’s his only goddamn mission in life.

“Don’t hold back. Let me have it. Show me how good I make you feel.” His fingers tighten, rub faster. His cock keeps slamming up into that perfect, perfect spot.

And you break.

You fall apart on him with a cry that splits the air—your orgasm ripping through you like a detonation, a white-hot snap that makes your whole body lock up and tremble.

You cum hard. Harder than before. Harder than ever.

And he feels it. Feels you clench around him like a vice, walls pulsing, soaked, squeezing every last bit of him until he’s gasping into your throat. “Fuck—fuck—I’m gonna—baby—I’m—”

He slams in once, twice more—then stills. Buried deep. Groaning so loud it echoes. And cums. Hot. Fast. Deep. He fills you up with a desperate, whimpering exhale—head falling into the crook of your neck, fingers flexing tight on your waist as he rides it out, hips twitching helplessly inside you.

“Jesus—holy fuck—how are you real—”

You don’t know what you say. You don’t know if you’re breathing. All you know is he doesn’t let go. Not even after. His arms wrap around you, one hand sliding up to your ribs, the other cupping your jaw gently as he leans in and kisses your forehead.

Sweet. Messy. Possessive.

“I’m so fucking in love with your pussy.” he mumbles against your skin.

You laugh—wrecked and breathless. “You just came in me.”

“I did. I’ll take responsibility.”

“You didn’t even mean to.”

“That’s what makes it romantic.”

But then he goes quiet. Both of you do. Still joined. Still pulsing. The only sound in the room is your breathing—shaky, shallow, shared.

Han’s body is draped over yours, his skin hot and sticky, his face buried in your neck like he might actually die if he moves. He’s not even thrusting anymore—just lying there, full-on koala mode, arms around your waist, cock still twitching inside you like it doesn’t know it's over.

“I think I saw God,” he whispers.

You blink, still boneless and floating.

“Pretty sure she winked at me and said ‘Good job, Jisung.’”

You snort into the crumpled pillow beneath you. “Was she hot?”

He lifts his head just enough to deadpan: “She looked like you.”

A pause.

“Except taller. And clothed. And not full of cum.”

You let out a noise that’s half wheeze, half scream, face flushing as you try to twist away—but he tightens his grip, groaning as his still half-hard cock shifts inside you.

“Nooo, don’t move,” he whines. “You’ll make me hard again and I’ll die. You’re too powerful.”

You roll your eyes. “You just came in me, and now you’re being dramatic?”

He lifts his face, eyes wide. “I’m always dramatic. But now I’m dramatic and post-nut mushy.”

You smack his arm—lightly. He grins and kisses your shoulder like he’s never been happier in his life.

Then, suddenly gentle: “You okay? Need anything?”

You hum. “Water. A towel. A new pelvis.”

“I can offer you one of those things.”

He pulls out slowly, careful. You both wince a little, and he immediately fumbles for the nearest clean towel, muttering, “Shit, sorry, sorry—damn, we really did that, huh?”

He cleans you up softly, thoroughly. Tongue poking out in concentration, hands warm and reverent. You watch him in the dim light—his flushed cheeks, mussed-up curls, that stupid satisfied look on his face like he just won the lottery and the trophy was you.

He helps you sit up, eyes wide looking you over as if wanting to make sure you are okay and not just saying you're okay.

You smile at him, dazed. “That was insane.”

“You’re welcome.”

Then, quieter: “I really like you, by the way.”

You glance at him. He’s suddenly shy—voice small, fingers playing with the hem of the towel. “I mean—I know this was hot and wild and unholy, but like. You’re not just hot and wild and unholy. You’re…” He scratches the back of his head. “Cool. Funny. Gorgeous. Smart. And you have great pain tolerance and taste in art and—I dunno—your moans live in my soul now.”

You blink at him. He shrugs. “I just think you’re neat.”

You laugh. You can’t help it. You lean in, kiss him soft. He melts instantly.

Twenty minutes later, you’re both curled on the couch in the back lounge. Your legs are over his lap. You’re sipping water. He’s holding your hand and doodling hearts on your thigh with a sharpie.

“So,” he says, yawning. “When do you want your third tattoo?”

You give him a look. “Planning ahead?”

He smirks, smug. “Just making sure I get to fuck you again.”

You flick his forehead.

“Ow—okay, okay. For art. Not for horny.”

But you both know the truth. You’re absolutely getting another tattoo. And this man is going to absolutely ruin you again. With love. And dick. And filthy words. And then cuddle you like a little spoon with separation anxiety.

So the answer? Yeah. Yeah you will be seeing more of him. More dates. More dick. More tattoos. Guess it's fate.

[minholuvr333]

W h e r e V a m p i r e ! S K Z L i k e s t o B i t e Y o u

Vampire!SKZ OT8 x Reader | eight fangs. eight fixations. and every filthy way they ruin you where it hurts the most

🔞synopsis: You thought you knew desire. You thought you understood sex. Then they bit you. This isn't love. This is hunger. Worship. Power. A kiss laced with venom. A cock buried in your cunt while your blood runs hot down their chin. Eight vampires. Eight bite locations. Eight ways to lose your mind and beg for more.

💌a/n: Welcome to fucking Wreck Me Wednesdays. This was supposed to be “mini.” Instead I wrote eight vampire sex case files with feeding traits, bite kinks, and full-blown NSFW lore. Somewhere between Chan’s heartbite and Han's “mine mine mine,” I lost the plot and my soul. Some are longer. Some are feral. Some are shorter. All of them ruined me and they shall ruin you too. Read responsibly. Stay hydrated. Stretch your legs. Cry in the bathtub. p.s. reblog = consent to be ruined by a vampire. p.p.s. Tell me who broke you. For science. p.p.p.s. pls enjoy the song :3. i will also get to the asks later today, haven't forgotten!

⚠️ warnings: NSFW / 18+ ONLY — minors will be fed to Minho. This series contains graphic vampire smut and feral content not suitable for the emotionally stable | Bloodplay + feeding during sex | Biting (everywhere) | Obsessive/possessive behavior | Power dynamics (soft dom to unhinged dom) | Crying, overstimulation, choking on moans | Praise kink, degradation kink, breeding kink | Fang kinks. Vein kinks. Chest kinks. Thigh kinks. | Oral (receiving + giving), rough sex, soft sex, bubble bath sex, rage sex

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

𓆩 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑 𓆪 BANG CHAN // Abnormal Vampire Obsessed with control. Addicted to your pulse.

🩸PREFERRED BITE LOCATION ‣ Neck or heart — where the pulse is loudest. He wants to hear it skip.

💉FEEDING STYLE ‣ Controlled. Lethal. Intimate. ‣ Always timed with orgasm. May edge before bite. ‣ Often restraints you during feeding. Uses voice as a binding tool.

🫀EFFECT ON SUBJECT ‣ Rapid heartbeat. ‣ Dissociation from overstimulation. ‣ Emotional dependency post-bite. ‣ High risk of imprinting.

⚠️PROGNOSIS ‣ Orgasmic blood-loss. ‣ Neck bites mid-thrust = blackout-level pleasure. ‣ Heart bites = ego death. Immediate sobbing. ‣ Lingering soreness + possession marks.

𓆩 CASE STUDY 001 𓆪

"Strip. Slowly."

You're standing in front of him—already trembling, already soaked. He hasn’t touched you. Not yet. Just sits back on the velvet chaise like he’s watching a performance he paid for in centuries. Legs spread. Shirt open. Mouth smiling, fangs peeking. Hands not on you.

Not yet.

You undress like you're unwrapping something forbidden. And his eyes don’t leave your chest. Not even once.

"There," he murmurs when your top hits the floor, voice like silk over blade. "It stutters when you know where I'm going to bite. Do you want it tonight?"

You nod, breathless.

"Words, darling."

"...yes. Please."

It doesn't take long, really it doesn't. Because one second you were putting on a show for him, stripping, peeling layer by later until you were naked and suddenly, you were now laid down on the bed with Chan knelt between your thighs, breathing against your cunt without touching.

With only one single kiss, not touching. Not yet.

"So warm here. You've been aching for me all night, haven't you? Dripping for me. Thinking about how it'll feel when I bite your chest and fuck you until your name melts off your tongue?"

You whimper, nod, hips twitching—but his hands grip your thighs down firm and leans forward, tongue finally moving—not inside you—no, he flicks along your folds. One stroke. One taste. Then stops.

"Mm. You're going to wait for me to bite. I'll have to make you cum with my mouth first."

He eats you out slowly. Sinfully. Like a king savouring dessert before the main course. Fingers spreading you, tongue teasing, lips sucking your clit just barely enough to make your stomach tense. Then he stops. Over and over. Until you're crying, hips grinding, begging.

"Please—Chan, please—fuck—just let me—"

"Let you what?" he says, smiling against your pussy. "Bleed? Break? Cum?"

"Yes—fuck, yes—all of it."

He hums against your cunt like you gave him a goddamn prayer.

"All of it, huh?" He drags his tongue up slowly, catching your clit just to hear the gasp he wrings from your throat. "Then keep those thighs open. Let me earn it."

And he does.

His mouth descends like a curse and a promise, this time not stopping. He licks like he’s reading scripture off your skin. Like he’s memorizing the shape of your moans. Two fingers press in, curling perfectly, while his tongue circles your clit with calculated cruelty. He’s not being sweet—he’s being precise. Every flick, every suck, every curl of his fingers is designed to make your legs tremble and your mind splinter.

“There it is,” he growls into you when your hips start bucking. “So fucking wet, baby. You gonna cum like this? Before I even bite?”

You try to answer. You really do. But it’s already happening. Your stomach tightens, thighs trembling, mouth open on a silent scream as your orgasm crashes down—hot, humiliating, perfect.

He doesn’t stop.

Licks through your orgasm, dragging it out. Groaning low, fingers still thrusting, until you’re gasping, writhing, overstimulated and dripping. Then—finally—he pulls back. Just enough to lift his head.

His mouth is wet. His chin shines with your slick. And his eyes—god, his eyes—are blown wide, black with hunger. “Now you’re ready,” he says, voice darker, lower. “Now you’ll taste right.”

He climbs up your body slowly, kneeing your thighs further apart as he goes. One hand cages your throat—not tight, just present—and the other cups your breast, thumb rubbing lazy circles around your nipple.

And then he leans in. Presses his lips right over your heart. The bite is sudden. Deep.

Your blood floods his mouth, and he moans—moans—like it’s better than sex, like it’s what he’s been starving for. His hips grind against yours as he drinks, hard cock pressing against your folds like a promise. You’re shaking beneath him—your orgasm still echoing, your body pulsing, blood pouring into his mouth like a gift only he deserves.

And then—just when you start to go dizzy—he pulls back. Fangs red. Lips stained. Chest heaving.

“Still with me?” His voice is rough, wrecked with restraint. “Because I’m not done.”

You nod—but barely. Your whole body is trembling, and your vision is hazy, floating from the orgasm and the blood loss and the fact that he bit your fucking heart like it was a fruit he’s waited centuries to taste.

And he’s still fully dressed. Shirt unbuttoned, dark slacks hugging his thighs, belt still on. You’re naked and wrecked and soaked, but he’s untouched. Pressed against you, blood-slick mouth and cock hard against your pussy—but untouched. “Look at me,” he whispers, dragging his fingers down your side, over the bite mark, over your trembling hips. “Look at me while I feed you something else.”

And then he leans back.

Slowly. Casually.

Undoing his belt with one hand, unzipping his pants like he's got all the time in the world. His eyes never leave yours as he slides them down just enough to free himself—his cock thick, flushed dark red, leaking at the tip, veins mapped like sin. You swear it twitches when he sees your thighs shake.

“So fucking pretty like this,” he murmurs, wrapping one hand around the base and giving himself a lazy pump. “Open. Dripping. Ruined. And all for me.”

He strokes himself slow, torturing, his fist sliding up over the head and back down, slicking it with precum while his other hand presses down on your lower belly, keeping you there.

“You feel that?” he asks, dragging the head of his cock through your folds. “That’s mine now. This heat. This slick little cunt. Your blood’s still warm inside me and now I’m going to fuck it back into you.”

You sob. Actually sob. Because even just the way he slides against your folds—up and down, dragging over your clit, teasing your entrance—it’s too much.

“Please, Chan,” you whisper, voice hoarse, “I want you inside—I want to feel it—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.” He lines himself up. Presses the head in just a little. Just enough to make you gasp. “You’ll take it. Every inch. Slow.”

And he means it.

He pushes in inch by devastating inch, watching your face the entire time—watching your mouth fall open, your eyes flutter, your back arch. You feel every ridge, every vein, the stretch of him parting you slowly like he’s carving space for himself where no one else belongs.

“That’s it,” he groans, voice breaking. “So fucking tight.” Another inch. Another. “God, you’re squeezing me like you missed me.”

You cry out. Not from pain. From pleasure. From the overwhelming fullness, from the feel of him dragging along your soaked, overstimulated walls.

He pauses halfway in. Just pauses—hips pressed flush, cock twitching inside you, breath hot against your cheek.

“You want more?” he asks, fangs still out. “Tell me. Tell me how bad you want me to fill you.”

“Please,” you gasp, tears spilling, voice trembling. “I need it—I need you inside—all of you—fuck, Chan, please.”

His hips snap forward. You scream. He bottoms out with one deep thrust, cock buried to the hilt, and the stretch burns so good.

“There,” he grits, grinding slow, deep, merciless. “That’s what I wanted. That fucking clench. That pretty little scream.” He stays buried in you for a moment—deep—just breathing, letting your walls flutter and your cunt adjust to the full stretch of him. Your legs instinctively wrap around his waist, trying to lock him in, but he just smirks.

And then he starts.

Slow. Precise. The first few thrusts feel like worship—or punishment—dragging out so achingly slow that your body clenches tighter, trying to chase what he won’t give you. His hips roll, grinding into you, the thick weight of him pressing against every oversensitive inch of your soaked, blood-drunk cunt.

“Fuck, you feel perfect,” he groans, head dropping to your throat as he sets a slow, grinding rhythm. “So fucking warm. So tight. You gonna cry for me again, sweetheart?”

You already are. You’re gasping, eyes glassy, body shaking as he rocks into you with that slow, devastating rhythm. One of his hands cradles your face, the other beside your head, keeping you exactly where he wants you.

And then—he leans in. Mouth dragging across your skin. Kissing your jaw, your cheek, your lips, your throat. Peppering kisses like you’re sacred. His fangs scrape lightly down your neck and you twitch underneath him.

“You like that?” he whispers, lips brushing your ear. “The fangs. The pressure. You want me to bite again, don’t you?”

Your breath stutters. He knows. Of course he knows.

“Not yet,” he murmurs, thrusting deeper. “Not until you cum on my cock. Not until I’m so deep you forget how to speak.”

He picks up the pace now—still controlled, but faster. Harder. The sound of skin slapping, of your soaked cunt swallowing him in, fills the room along with your moans. Your nails drag down his back. Your hips rise to meet his.

“That’s it. Take it, baby. Take all of me. That greedy little pussy was made for me, wasn’t it?”

You nod frantically. “Yes—fuck, yes—made for you, only you—”

He kisses you. Hard. Bruising. Tongue sliding past your lips like he owns your mouth too. And when he pulls back, his eyes are pitch black, fangs still bared, lips red from your blood.

“Say it again.”

“Made for you,” you cry. “Yours. Only yours.”

“Good fucking girl.”

His pace snaps harder now—deep, perfect strokes—one hand gripping your thigh, the other pressed firm against your throat. His body curves over yours, keeping you pinned while he fucks you like he’s staking a claim inside your cunt.

Your legs tighten around him. Your belly coils. You feel your orgasm building—hot and sharp and dizzying.

“You gonna cum again?” he pants, rutting harder now. “Gonna let me feel it? Let me feel that pretty little pussy milk me while I drink from your heart again?”

You sob. You nod. You beg.

“Please, please—bite me—fuck, Chan—please—”

And that’s all it takes. He thrusts deep, one last time, grinding hard against your cervix, and then bites—again—right over your heart.

You cum instantly. Your walls clench so hard around his cock it triggers his own orgasm—thick, hot, flooding you as he groans into your skin, drinking and thrusting and owning you. When he finally pulls back, he’s panting, licking the wound tenderly. Your body’s trembling—soaked, stuffed, claimed—and he just looks down at you like you’re a masterpiece.

Chan leans down, kissing your lips so softly now. "You're mine sweetheart. Bloody, body, soul."

𓆩 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐓𝐇 𓆪 LEE KNOW // Abnormal Vampire Sadist in silk. Devours screams. Fuck-first, feed-later type.

🩸 PREFERRED BITE LOCATION ‣ Inner thigh — where you're softest, where you beg hardest.

💉 FEEDING STYLE ‣ Slow. Pain-laced. Erotic. ‣ Often feeds while fucking from behind. ‣ Fingerplay first—he has to feel you fall apart before the bite.

🫀 EFFECT ON SUBJECT ‣ Shaking legs. Sore hips. Oversensitive clit. ‣ Mind-fracture from orgasm + blood loss combination. ‣ Known to cause dehydration, bruising, and uncontrollable sobbing. ‣ Marked behavioral changes: submission, clinginess, obsession.

⚠️ PROGNOSIS ‣ Orgasm coincides with bite. Scream = trigger. ‣ Thigh bites may cause blackout + limp for 2–3 days. ‣ Post-bite euphoria. Known to whisper “again” while you’re still twitching. ‣ Irreversible addiction risk. Do not engage without safe word.

𓆩 CASE STUDY 002 𓆪

“You’re not gonna cum until I tell you to. Understand?”

His voice is silk-coated steel—low and lethal. You’re on your back, naked, legs spread wide on the silk sheets, with Lee Know fully clothed beside you. Not even undressing. Just watching. Eyes dragging over your soaked cunt like it’s something he owns. Like it exists to be ruined.

You nod, desperate.

“Use your words.” His eyes narrow, lips curling with warning. “If you want my fingers inside you, you’d better earn them.”

“Yes. I understand,” you breathe. “Please—Minho, I need it—”

He hums, finally moving. One hand strokes up your thigh, so gentle it makes you shiver. “So polite,” he murmurs. “And already dripping. All this for me?”

Two fingers press between your folds, parting you slowly. You moan. He doesn’t move fast—he just teases. Up and down, collecting slick. Spreading it messily across your clit before tapping it, sharp and precise.

You jerk. He laughs softly.

“No cumming, sweetheart,” he reminds you, before pushing a finger in.

You moan, clenching instantly. He’s slow at first, curling upward to find that spot, rubbing it deliberately. Then a second finger. Scissoring, stretching. His thumb rubs lazy circles over your clit, but never enough. Never fast.

And when you start to tighten around him, about to tip over—he pulls out.

You scream. He smiles.

“Again,” he says, and starts over. Fingers, curl, rub, drag—stop. Over. And over. By the fourth time, your body’s twitching. Your thighs shake. Your hands are fisting the sheets. “Minho—fuck, please—I’m going to lose it—”

“Good.” He leans over, mouth brushing your ear. “Then maybe you’ll behave.”

He grabs your hips, flips you over in one smooth motion—onto your knees, chest to the sheets. One hand presses between your shoulder blades, forcing your spine into a perfect arch. The other? Slipping down to play with your pussy again.

“You’re so wet baby,” he murmurs, dragging his fingers back through your folds. “I’ve barely done anything.”

You sob into the sheets. Then you feel it—his tongue. On your inner thigh. Not your pussy. Not yet. Just slow, deliberate licks on the sensitive skin right near your pulse point.

You freeze.

“Oh, did you think I’d forgotten about the bite?” he purrs.

He kisses the skin first. Then bites. His fangs sink in with a sharp, hot pain that melts instantly into pure fucking ecstasy. Your vision goes white. Your arms give out. You cry out, body trembling as blood leaves you in slow, sensual pulses.

And the second his mouth pulls back—

He’s undoing his pants.

You hear the belt unbuckle. The zipper lower. Then feel it—his cock, thick and flushed, dragging through your soaked folds. “You want this?” he asks, voice darker now. “Want to be fucked while your thighs are still bleeding?”

“Yes—fuck, yes—please—”

He slides in.

No warning. No mercy. One smooth, brutal thrust that knocks the air out of you. His hips slam into your ass, cock buried to the hilt, and he groans—deep and guttural—like he just found heaven inside your cunt. “Fuck,” he pants, grabbing your hips with bruising force. “So tight. Still twitching from that bite?”

He doesn’t wait.

He starts moving. Deep, hard thrusts that punch cries from your throat. Your back arches, cheek pressed to the sheets as he fucks you in a perfect rhythm—every stroke hitting exactly where you need him.

And he does not stop.

“Cry for me,” he growls, slapping your ass. “Scream. Let them hear how good I fuck what’s mine.”

You scream. You cry. You babble his name like a prayer.

“That’s right,” he hisses, hips snapping faster. “Fucking perfect.”

You’re gone. Broken. Bleeding. Full. And when your orgasm is close, when you're just about to cum—he doesn’t stop you. “Let go,” he pants. “Give it to me. I want to feel this cunt strangle my cock.”

You do. You collapse, sobbing, shaking, cumming so hard your thighs go limp. But he doesn’t stop.

Minho groans through his teeth and keeps thrusting—fucking you through your orgasm like he’s chasing something deeper. His grip bruises your hips, cock dragging through your soaked, fluttering walls, harder now, rougher.

“You sound so pretty when you break,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “I can feel it. Every pulse. Every squeeze. You're milking my cock like you want me to stay inside forever.”

You whimper, twitching under him, nerves fried, cunt still clenching in aftershocks. Your body is shaking—numb, overstimulated—but he fucks you through it, like you owe him every second.

“I’m close,” he growls, burying himself deep. “Gonna fill you up—fuck, just like this—”

A sharp snap of his hips, one final grind—and then he spills into you with a broken sound, teeth bared, fangs glinting. His cum is hot, thick, flooding your sore cunt as he presses as deep as he can, breathing hard against your spine.

But he’s not done. Not even close.

The second his cock slips free—wet and dripping with both of you—he’s flipping you over again. Your body’s limp, arms trembling, blood drying sticky on your thigh. You can barely focus. Barely breathe.

But you feel him. The press of his mouth. The heat of his breath.

“Still bleeding here,” he murmurs, fingers parting your thigh. “And you’re still so warm.”

He doesn’t give you time to answer before he bites again.

Same thigh. New wound.

You scream—not from pain, but from the crash of sensation. The moment his fangs sink in, your body floods with another unbearable wave. You’re twitching, crying, clenching around nothing—your cunt soaked, still dripping his cum—while he drinks, slow and deep.

Every pull of his mouth makes your stomach tighten. Your hands claw at the sheets. You’re delirious—gone—his mouth on your thigh, blood leaving in perfect rhythm with the mess between your legs.

He moans softly against your skin. Then he pulls back. Lips stained. Fangs gleaming. Blood running down your thigh like a love letter written in ruin.

He crawls over your body, eyes dark and hungry still. “I’m not done with you yet,” he murmurs, licking the blood from his lips. “But I’ll let you rest…”

One hand strokes your cheek, surprisingly soft.

“For now.”

𓆩 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐄𝐍𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐂𝐄𝐑 𓆪 SEO CHANGBIN // Normal Vampire Made of muscle, menace, and moans..

🩸 PREFERRED BITE LOCATION ‣ Below the ribs or just above the hipbone

💉 FEEDING STYLE ‣ Possessive. Worshipful. ‣ He growls when he drinks, like it's carnal. ‣ Usually feeds during sex. Leaves deep bruises around the wound from how hard he grips.

🫀 EFFECT ON SUBJECT ‣ Breathless moaning. ‣ Clawing, overstimulated orgasms. ‣ Emotional grounding. Heightened intimacy. ‣ High likelihood of imprinting if bitten more than once.

⚠️ PROGNOSIS ‣ Feral rut-level fucking. ‣ Bruised hips, shaky legs, blood-drunk sobs. ‣ Bite leaves a phantom heat that spreads like wildfire. ‣ Will absolutely carry you to a bath after and tell you you did so well.

𓆩 CASE STUDY 003 𓆪

You were teasing him. You didn’t mean to—but you were.

The corset was tight. The skirt was short. Your lipstick matched the red of your bite mark from two nights ago. You were only supposed to drop off the file he needed but you knew what the outfit would do to him. What it always did.

And the moment he looked up from his desk and saw you?

All bets were off.

He’s already panting when he slams the door shut behind you. One heartbeat later, you're pinned to the wall—hard. His broad chest flush against your back, his breath already ragged and hot against your ear.

You hear the low, animalistic growl deep in his chest before you feel it—rumbling through you like a warning.

Or a promise.

Because you’re standing there in his office after midnight, wearing nothing but a black lace corset that cups your breasts high, a tiny pleated skirt that barely covers your ass, and delicate panties—thin, sheer, soaked. Stockings, too. Garter belt. Lip gloss still shimmering.

You knew what you were doing.

And so does he.

“Take that shit off,” he growls, voice already thick with bloodlust and need.

You turn—barely—and meet his eyes. They’re black. Fully fucking black.

And you’re soaked.

“Changbin—” you whisper, breath hitching, thighs pressing together. It’s not a protest. It’s a plea.

He doesn’t wait. Doesn’t ask. One sharp tug and your corset jerks loose at the back—ripped. Another growl, and your panties are shredded in his hands, lace in tatters. The air hits your bare skin and you whimper.

“You fucking tease,” he snarls, grabbing a handful of your ass. “Walking in here dressed like this? Like a fucking offering?”

You squeak as he grabs you under the thighs and lifts—one arm. Just one arm and you're airborne, slammed back against the wall like you weigh nothing to him.

Because to him? You’re not fragile. You’re his.

His mouth crashes into yours—hot, brutal, claiming. His tongue is deep before you can breathe. Fangs brush your lower lip and nick the skin just enough for blood to bloom, sweet and fresh, and he moans against your mouth.

“You wore this for me?” he growls between kisses. “Fucking knew it. Knew you were trying to get ruined.”

You nod frantically, breathless. “Please—need it—need you—”

Then he drops. To his knees. Fast. Like gravity yanked him straight down. He’s still fully dressed in black slacks, fitted shirt, sleeves rolled up. Muscles bulging, chest heaving, mouth already parted. And you? You’re bare now—corset loosened, panties gone, skirt hiked up around your waist, legs trembling over his shoulders.

Your back hits the cold wall. Your pussy is right at his eye level. And he looks up at you like he’s about to worship you.

Or destroy you.

“Fucking look at you,” he growls, dragging his thumbs up your inner thighs to spread you wider. “You're soaked. All this for me?”

You can’t speak. You nod. His smirk turns feral. “Good.”

He doesn't waist a second, Changbin devours you.

No teasing. No buildup. His tongue dives in like he’s starving—wide and wet, licking through your folds with a brutal, messy hunger that makes you cry out on impact.

“F-fuck—Changbin—”

He groans. Moans into your pussy like it’s his favorite meal, nose buried, chin soaked, lips dragging up your slit again and again until they’re flushed and swollen with your slick. His tongue curls up to your clit—flicks, circles, sucks. Sloppy and relentless.

Then?

He starts making out with it.

No joke. Full mouth. Open, hot, filthy kisses against your cunt—like he’s Frenching your pussy with every ounce of his desperate need. Tongue moving deep inside, then sliding up to wrap around your clit, sucking hard, then soft, then hard again. Over and over.

Your legs are shaking on his shoulders.

He drags one arm around your ass, pressing you closer to his mouth, while his free hand slides two thick fingers inside—curling, fucking, spreading your walls until you're gasping like you’re being split open.

He’s growling into your cunt, fingers pounding, tongue flicking your clit like he’s trying to drag the orgasm out of you with brute force.

“Come on,” he pants between slurps. “Give it to me. Cum on my tongue, baby—now—”

Your scream tears through the room. It breaks you. Your orgasm hits like a punch to the gut—raw, loud, endless. Your whole body locks. Your thighs clamp around his head. Your vision goes black for a second.

And he fucking loves it.

Keeps sucking through it. Fingers still thrusting. His mouth sealing over your clit again as if your climax is what he’s been waiting for all day.

Only when you’re gasping, limp, twitching—only then does he finally rise.

And fuck, he looks good.

Mouth soaked. Chin gleaming. Eyes still black. Fangs bared.

You barely have time to catch your breath before his hands are moving—fast. Belt undone with a sharp snap, pants shoved down, briefs yanked below his thighs. His cock springs free—thick, flushed, already leaking at the tip. Harder than sin.

You don’t even get a chance. Because suddenly—he lifts you. Again. Effortlessly. Strong arms under your thighs, back slammed against the wall. And this time, he doesn’t wait.

He slams into you.

One thrust—brutal, perfect—and he’s fully inside. Stretching you open. Your head rolls back, mouth open in a soundless scream as your cunt grips him like a vice.

“Fuck—yes,” he snarls against your throat. “That’s it—tight little pussy—knew you could take it.”

He doesn’t stop.

He fucks you into the wall. Rough. Desperate. Fast and deep and relentless. The slap of skin on skin echoes, your moans ricochet off the walls, and his name is the only thing you remember how to say.

“Changbin—Changbin—oh fuck—”

He groans against your skin. “You’re mine.”

And then?

He bites. Hard.

Right into your neck—fangs sinking deep, blood spilling into his mouth like wine from a sacred chalice. You scream, thighs trembling, orgasm threatening again just from the pain, the pressure, the possessive violence of it.

But he’s not done.

He licks the bite. Bites again—your shoulder this time. Then your collarbone. Then your neck again.

Everywhere.

Like he needs you in his mouth, over and over, just to stay grounded. Like drinking you is the only thing keeping him sane. His cock is ruthless inside you—dragging through your soaked walls, pounding harder each time you clench around him.

Your head spins.

He’s drunk on you. Absolutely gone.

“Fucking addictive,” he snarls. “Gonna mark you everywhere. Fill you up. Drain you dry. Fuck—this pussy’s perfect—squeezing me like it wants to bleed.”

Your hands claw at his back. Your nails dig into his shoulders. He loves it. Groans from deep in his chest. Slams into you even harder.

“Take it,” he growls. “Fucking take it. All of it. Don’t you dare stop squeezing me—make me cum, baby.”

You do.

Your orgasm hits again, body seizing, cunt fluttering around his cock like it’s made to wring him dry—and he loses it.

With a guttural snarl, he slams in deep—hips grinding, cock twitching as he spills inside you in heavy, scorching pulses.

But he doesn’t pull out.

Doesn’t move.

Just stays there—cock buried, teeth still scraping your neck, hands fisting in your hair and thigh like you’re the only thing anchoring him to this plane.

He pants. Shudders. Then licks your wounds. Gently. Worshipfully.

“Mine,” he whispers, pressing kisses to every bite mark. “Fucking mine. And I’m never letting go.”

𓆩 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐍 𓆪 HWANG HYUNJIN // Abnormal Vampire Beauty made ruin. Moans like a prayer. Kisses like a curse.

🩸 PREFERRED BITE LOCATION ‣ Pulse points — wrists, neck, inner thighs

💉 FEEDING STYLE ‣ Hypnotic. Addictive. Laced in poetry and pain. ‣ Always bites during orgasm. Sometimes mid-cry. ‣ Tongue traces first. Fangs follow like a kiss you asked for in a dream.

🫀 EFFECT ON SUBJECT ‣ Euphoria-induced sobbing. Clutching, clawing, surrendering. ‣ Heart palpitations, glossy eyes, speech loss ‣ Often left with multiple bite marks in one session—each placed like a secret

⚠️ PROGNOSIS ‣ Known to say “You’re mine” while you’re still moaning. ‣ Multiple orgasms expected. Blood + sex high overlap. ‣ Post-bite daze may last hours. Often found still shaking in his arms. ‣ Extreme bond-forming. Danger of becoming his favorite. And never leaving.

𓆩 CASE STUDY 004 𓆪

You feel him before you see him.

That overwhelming stillness, the kind that drowns out thought. Your breath catches—and then there he is, walking in like a vision, black silk shirt half-buttoned, pale chest glistening, golden hair slightly damp like he’s just stepped out of a dream.

Hyunjin doesn't speak at first. He just walks toward you. Barefoot. Soft steps. Eyes fixed on you like you’re the only thing in the world that exists.

And then?

“You wore my favorite,” he murmurs, fingertips brushing the strap of your lace slip. “Ivory. Like fresh canvas.”

His lips ghost over your collarbone. Not a kiss. Not yet.

“I’ve been thinking about this,” he whispers, “all night. What color you’ll bleed for me. What sound you’ll make when I make you fall apart.”

You tremble.

He lifts your chin gently, eyes gleaming obsidian. “Lie back, baby. Let me paint.”

You obey, shivering as you settle onto the bed—bare skin against cool silk, thighs pressed together from sheer need. He doesn’t make you wait long. Just climbs over you slowly, like you’re delicate, precious, sacred.

And then his mouth is on your wrist. Kissing. Worshipping.

“I’ll start here,” he breathes. “Where your pulse is softest.”

The bite is slow. Precise. A sharp flash of heat as his fangs pierce your skin, followed by dizzying pleasure—almost like he’s sipping your soul. He groans, low and ruined, as your blood coats his tongue.

“Mmm… divine,” he whispers against your wrist, pulling back only to let the droplets smear along his lips. “But I want more.”

His hands trail down. One over your breast, teasing your nipple, the other slipping between your thighs.

“You’re soaked,” he hums, licking the blood off his fingers. “Did you get this wet just from the bite?”

You nod. He smiles like it’s the best thing he’s ever seen.

Then—he spreads you.

Kisses down your body, trailing open-mouthed devotion from your chest to your stomach, thighs, then—

“Oh, fuck—Hyunjin—”

He groans as he reaches your cunt, breathing deep. “So pretty,” he murmurs, “and all mine.” Hyunjin leans in to press a kiss over your clit. Soft. Like the place between your legs is a cathedral and he's repenting with every breath.

His lips brush your folds. Once. Twice. Then his tongue flattens against your clit, slow and wide, dragging up until your hips twitch off the bed.

“Sweet,” he breathes, eyes fluttering closed. “So fucking sweet—like nectar, like stars, like sin.”

You moan.

He moans louder.

Because Hyunjin isn’t just eating you out. He’s savoring. Every lick is long and deliberate, every press of his tongue a whispered poem. He swirls around your clit—soft at first, then pointed—then sucks it into his mouth with such aching, focused gentleness you cry out without warning.

“Hyunjin—”

He groans at the sound of his name. The vibration floods through your cunt.

“Say it again,” he whispers against you, then kisses your clit again like it’s your mouth. “Please. Sing for me.”

“Hyunjin—fuck—please—”

You can’t help it. You’re squirming, writhing, lost beneath him. Your thighs tremble around his head but he doesn’t let go. One arm wraps behind your waist, anchoring you to his mouth like he can’t stand the idea of you pulling away.

His tongue starts to move faster—up, down, circle, suck—messy, wet, worshipful.

Slurping sounds fill the air. His own moans grow desperate. He drags you closer, face buried deep, nose pressed against your clit, tongue flicking mercilessly now. Like he’s not kissing anymore—he’s feasting.

You sob.

You’re panting his name like a spell now. Your back arches. Your thighs clamp.

His fingers dig into your skin. His tongue curls up and in. Every noise you make feeds him. Fuels him. Until he’s drunk on it. High on it.

High on you.

When you cum, it’s violent. Like drowning in silk. You clench around nothing, but feel everything. Your body locks. Your mind breaks. Your mouth opens—but nothing comes out.

And Hyunjin just groans. Like your orgasm was inevitable. A masterpiece finished.

He licks you through it. Sucks gently on your clit like he’s coaxing the last bits of your soul out through your cunt. Then another kiss. And another. Until he finally slows, breath ragged, mouth glossy with you.

His eyes rise to meet yours. Black. Dilated. Reverent.

Your breathing’s still erratic. Limbs heavy. The aftershocks of your orgasm ripple through you in soft, involuntary flinches. And Hyunjin just watches. Licks his lips, eyes locked on the trembling between your thighs like it’s the final frame of a painting he’s not done signing.

Then? He shifts.

You barely register it until his mouth is on your inner thigh.

Not rushed. Not greedy. Just—gentle. Open-mouthed kisses along the softest part of you. His fangs slide out.

You feel the sharp brush of them ghost over your skin. He drags them softly, so softly, up the inside of your thigh, until your hips twitch from the sheer anticipation.

Then—

The bite.

It’s deep. Precise. His fangs sink into the flesh of your inner thigh like they were made for this—like your body was crafted just for his teeth. The sting is immediate, yes, but it blooms so quickly into pleasure that your head falls back, lips parted in a choked gasp.

Hyunjin groans the moment your blood hits his tongue.

His hands grip your thighs tighter, anchoring you as he drinks. Slow at first. Then deeper. His throat works in soft, rhythmic swallows. You can hear it. The slick sound of him feeding.

And all the while—he moans.

Like he’s tasting divinity. You try to move. He growls. “Stay still.” he breathes against your wound.

He licks the blood as it trails, mouth sticky and stained. Then another kiss. Another bite. This time, just a little higher—closer to where he just worshipped you with his tongue.

You gasp. The pleasure-pain bursts behind your eyes.

“Hyunjin—please—”

He hums your name into your skin. Wipes his mouth on your thigh like a signature. Then finally climbs up your body, hovering above your face. Eyes on your perfect pillowy lips, but he doesn't kiss immediately. He just hovers. Lets you see the blood on his lips—your blood—before whispering: “You’re mine, now. I’ll paint you in bruises and bites."

Then he kisses you.

Tongue deep. Copper-sweet. Blood-warm and you melt. Melt like puddle in his arms. His arms, exactly where you belong.

𓆩 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐖 𝐖𝐀𝐋𝐊𝐄𝐑 𓆪 HAN JISUNG // Normal Vampire Chaos incarnate. Bites first, thinks later. Addicted to your blood and your moans—equally.

🩸 PREFERRED BITE LOCATION ‣ Side of the neck ‣ Also: your chest, your fingers, your thighs—he’s not picky. Just rabid.

💉 FEEDING STYLE ‣ Chaotic, breathless, unrestrained. ‣ Often bites mid-fuck or right after you cum. ‣ Will feed and finger you at the same time, panting into your blood. ‣ Tastes you like he’s making out with your pulse.

🫀 EFFECT ON SUBJECT ‣ Overstimulation. Dizziness. Bite-high. ‣ Orgasms feel drugged—like you're floating underwater. ‣ Can trigger full-body shivers, sobbing, giggles, and collapsing. ‣ Irregular heartbeat post-bite. Known to laugh while you cry.

⚠️ PROGNOSIS ‣ Bite syncs with his orgasm. ‣ Feeds multiple times in one session—don’t expect to walk. ‣ Cums from your taste. Known to say “I need you again” before he’s even pulled out. ‣ Proceed with caution: addiction is mutual.

𓆩 CASE STUDY 005 𓆪

Han Jisung is already naked.

He wasn’t supposed to be. He was supposed to wait. But the second you walked into his apartment—short skirt, bare thighs, lipgloss still wet—he lost his fucking mind. Clothes gone. Fangs out. The kind of wide, dangerous grin that promised disaster and begged for it, too.

“You’re gonna ride me, yeah?” he pants, back hitting the bed with a thud. “Wanna see your tits bounce while I bite you.”

You swallow. Nod.

“No, no—c’mon,” he grins, already breathless. “Say it. Say you’re gonna ride me like you mean it.”

“I’m gonna ride you, Ji,” you whisper, crawling over him. “So fucking hard.”

“Fuck yes—” His head drops back, eyes fluttering. “My girl.”

You straddle him, feeling his cock hot and thick between your folds. He’s already leaking, already twitching beneath you. Your slick coats him in seconds. But he doesn’t thrust—no, he waits. Lets you drag your hips up and down until you’re both dizzy with it.

And then—you sink down.

“FUCK—” he cries, hands flying to your hips, gripping so tight you’ll bruise. “Shit—so warm—so tight—don’t move—fuck, baby, let me feel you like this—”

But you move anyway.

Start slow. Grinding your hips in circles, milking moans from his throat. He looks wrecked—sweaty, flushed, eyes half-lidded and glowing red. One hand sneaks up to grope your tits. The other stays on your hip, flexing with every grind.

When you start bouncing? He chokes.

“God—fuck—ride me—ride me, baby, please—”

You do.

Faster. Harder. Until your thighs burn and your pussy tightens with each drop. His mouth is everywhere—licking your collarbone, mouthing at your nipples, biting into your neck without warning.

He drinks. Moans into the wound. Licks the blood like it’s the only thing tethering him to earth.

You scream.

Not from pain—from pleasure so sharp it cuts. He pulls back, blood smeared on his lips, gasping like you just fucked the soul out of him. “You taste like heaven,” he whispers. “Fuck—I’m gonna cum—baby, cum with me, ride me until we break—”

You do. Together.

A shared orgasm that hits like a freight train. Your cunt tightens around him in rhythmic spasms, and he holds you through it—groaning, babbling praise, licking blood from your skin while he cums so hard his whole body shudders beneath you.

But he’s not done.

Because your chest is rising and falling—vulnerable, flushed—and he leans up, presses one last kiss between your tits.

Then bites again.

And again.

And again.

Your body’s still trembling. Muscles twitching. Slick and cum sliding down your thighs where he’s still buried deep inside you, twitching with aftershocks.

But Jisung?

He’s laughing.

Low. Breathless. A little too unhinged to be safe.

“You’re still warm,” he pants, lapping at your collarbone like it’s glazed in sugar. “Still fucking clenching around me. You’re gonna kill me, baby.”

You try to answer. You really do. But your brain has melted. Your mouth just opens—gasping—and that’s when he bites again.

Right above your heart.

You scream. Loud and broken. His fangs sink into skin like it’s the only place he belongs—like he can claim you from the inside out. He drinks like you’re water and he’s been parched for centuries. Moans like your blood makes him high. His cock twitches inside you, still half-hard and swelling again.

“Fuck—” he breathes, pulling back, his lips coated crimson. “You’re sweeter here. I knew you would be.”

Then he tilts his head. Looks down.

Sees it.

His cum.

Dripping out of your pussy like melted candlewax. A creamy mess of lust and love and loss of control. “Oh my fucking god,” he groans, manic. “I made you drip like this?”

A pause, a sharp inhale.

“Addicted,” he whispers. “Completely fucking addicted. You don’t even know—baby, I need—”

He bites again. Your shoulder this time. Then the other side of your neck. Then the curve of your breast.

He kisses each one after, messy and frantic, tongue smearing blood and spit across your skin like a mad artist painting his masterpiece.

And then?

He flips you. Again.

Pins you down now, hands on either side of your head, his mouth dragging over your body like he can’t choose where to ruin you next. I want to fuck you again,” he confesses, breath shaking. “Want to stay inside forever. Want to drink until I forget my name.”

“You already did,” you whisper, hoarse.

He grins. Wide. Bloody.

“Good.”

And then he bites again. This time? Your mouth.

Kisses you so hard his fangs nick your lip. Blood trickles in. He licks it up like a shot of liquor, hands gripping your thighs, your ass, your tits—anywhere he can touch.

"I love you. Mine, mine, mine forever."

𓆩 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐑 𓆪 LEE FELIX // Abnormal Vampire Soft on the surface, deadly underneath. Sleeps in silk, fucks like a fever dream.

🩸 PREFERRED BITE LOCATION ‣ Over the heart or the curve of your breast

💉 FEEDING STYLE ‣ Gentle at first. Almost shy. Kisses before teeth. ‣ Feeds while holding you close—rocking, murmuring sweet things into your skin. ‣ But when hunger takes over? He gets lost. Mouth drunk. Eyes glazed. Almost feral.

🫀 EFFECT ON SUBJECT ‣ Full-body shivers. Skin hypersensitive. ‣ Overstimulation from prolonged oral + emotional collapse after the bite. ‣ Heightened affection post-bite—clinginess, sobbing, echo-pleasure. ‣ Bite mark often becomes an erogenous zone.

⚠️ PROGNOSIS ‣ Dreamwalkers induce trance-like states in partners. Bite can cause mild hallucinations. ‣ Reader may experience floating sensation + blackout orgasms. ‣ Blood-sharing with Felix forms rapid bond. Extremely addictive. ‣ Warning: prolonged exposure may result in crying during aftercare. And begging for more.

𓆩 CASE STUDY 006 𓆪

The penthouse is quiet when you return.

Shoes off. Dress unzipped. Champagne still singing in your veins from the gala. Felix walks in behind you, shrugging off his velvet blazer, golden curls loose around his temples, skin glowing under soft amber lighting.

He looks too good—black silk shirt open at the chest, fangs glinting behind his smile, eyes already darker than they should be. Not hunger. Something else.

Devotion.

"You were perfect tonight," he murmurs, fingers ghosting your waist as he draws you toward the bathroom. “But I didn’t like sharing you.”

Your heartbeat stutters. “You weren’t exactly subtle either,” you whisper, recalling the way his hand had stayed glued to your lower back all evening, lips to your ear at every chance, voice dipped low with possessive undertones. Like you were his prize.

His worship.

His next meal.

Felix chuckles. “No. I wasn’t.”

The tub fills behind you—steaming, lavender-scented, full of white foam and rose petals. His idea, of course. He always did prefer indulgence after restraint.

He helps you in like you’re made of porcelain. Your skin sinks into the warmth with a sigh. Felix climbs in after, settling behind you, legs spread so you’re seated snugly between them. Your back hits his bare chest, and already, you can feel it.

The thrum beneath his skin. The restraint snapping thread by thread.

“You wore that dress to kill me,” he murmurs, mouth against your neck. “Slit up to your hip. No bra. Lace so sheer I could see the curve of your nipples under every chandelier.”

You smile. “And?”

“And now I’m going to take my time with you.”

His hands cup your breasts from behind. Thumbs flicking your nipples. Bubbles cling to his wrists, his forearms. His lips drag up your neck. Soft. Featherlight.

Then sharp.

A kiss first—then a bite.

Fangs sink in, clean and deep, right beneath your jaw. You gasp, head falling back against his shoulder as the pain melts into pleasure. He drinks slow—just a few sips, just enough to make you squirm—and licks the wound clean with a reverent groan.

“So sweet tonight,” he whispers. “You taste like champagne and sin.”

You whimper.

His hands trail lower. One slips down between your thighs, parting you under the water, fingers pressing into your cunt with aching care. The other? Gliding over your thigh, then gripping it, spreading you wider for him.

He doesn’t tease.

Two fingers sink in—slick, hot, stretching you open as the water laps around you. His thumb finds your clit, circles slow and steady. The angle is perfect. Deep. Focused.

"You always take me so well,” he breathes into your skin. “Even when you’re trembling.”

You are. Shaking, helpless, your body already wrung too tight. The bite. The warmth. The way he touches you like he’s composing a symphony.

And then—he pulls you closer.

“Ride me,” he whispers. “Like you did the last time I fed on your heart.”

You whimper. Turn in his arms, straddling him with the water sloshing over the edge. His cock is already hard, flushed, pressed against your stomach as you rise onto your knees.

He watches you. Eyes half-lidded. Blood-drunk.

When you sink down on him—slow, stretching around his thick length—you both moan. Your nails dig into his shoulders. His hands grip your waist like he’s anchoring himself to reality.

“Fuck—baby—you feel like velvet,” he chokes out. “So wet. So fucking warm—”

You start to move.

The rhythm is gentle at first. Slippery skin, heavy breaths, the sound of water shifting with every roll of your hips. Felix bites your shoulder. Then your collarbone. Then lower, tongue lapping blood before it cools, fangs sinking in again like he’s trying to mark every inch.

You're bleeding. You're riding. You're both coming undone.

“Look at you,” he groans. “Dripping for me. Bleeding for me. My perfect little canvas.”

Your orgasm builds like a tide—slow, inevitable. His cock hits all the right places, his hands guiding you faster, his mouth sealing over your throat for one final bite as he moans into your skin.

“Cum for me,” he pants. “Feed me while you fall apart.”

Your whole body tenses—like a wave crashing against fragile glass.

And then it shatters.

You break apart on him with a choked cry, thighs trembling, nails clawing down his back. Your orgasm ripples out in hot, helpless pulses, cunt fluttering around him, blood still seeping slowly from your bitten throat as you collapse forward into his arms.

Felix growls.

The sound vibrates through his chest, deep and guttural—feral with need. His mouth seals tighter around your neck, and he drinks as you shake through your climax. Every pull of his lips sends fresh aftershocks rolling through you. You're twitching, overstimulated, undone.

“That's it,” he whispers, lips stained, eyes fluttering shut in bliss. “That’s my angel. Give me everything.”

He swallows every drop like he needs it to survive. Like your pleasure is the only thing that can keep him sane.

When he finally releases your throat, his tongue traces the wound—gentle now, reverent, like he’s kissing the holiest part of you. Blood paints his chin. His cock still buried inside you, twitching, heavy, throbbing.

Then—he lifts his head.

You see it in his face. The complete loss of control. His pupils blown wide, lips red, hair clinging to his temples in damp, golden waves. His hands clutch your waist again—and he thrusts up once, hard, a broken moan escaping his throat.

“Oh—fuck—” he gasps. “I’m gonna—”

You’re still pulsing around him. Still warm, wet, perfect.

He buries himself deeper, spilling into you with a low, desperate groan. His mouth finds yours mid-release, kissing you like he’s tasting eternity. Tongue slick with blood and love. You’re breathless, trembling, still locked together in the cooling water—and only then does he speak again. Softly. Against your lips.

“You’re divine.”

You smile weakly, forehead to his. “So are you.”

Felix brushes a petal from your shoulder. One last kiss to your jaw. One last whispered truth, low and sacred:

“I’d bleed for you too.”

𓆩 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐃 𓆪 KIM SEUNGMIN // Normal Vampire The gentleman with a scalpel smile. Clinical precision. Calculated hunger.

🩸 PREFERRED BITE LOCATION ‣ Inner arm — intimate, exposed, and close to your heart. ‣ Sometimes the chest or side of your ribs

💉 FEEDING STYLE ‣ Calm. Measured. Strategic. ‣ He plans his bites—timed, placed, controlled. ‣ Often feeds during emotional peaks—after soft sobs, laughter, confessions, or sex. ‣ Gentle on the surface, but watch closely: there’s a dangerous edge underneath.

🫀 EFFECT ON SUBJECT ‣ Heart rate spike followed by unusual stillness. ‣ Floating sensation. Hallucination-like euphoria. ‣ Skin hypersensitivity for hours after. ‣ Develops strong dependency on his praise and attention.

⚠️ PROGNOSIS ‣ Low-risk externally—but internally, you’ll never forget the way he says your name. ‣ Prolonged feeding can induce dreamlike sedation or emotional bonding states. ‣ Known to leave almost invisible marks—but you feel them for days. ‣ Vulnerability spike: tendency to confess secrets or cry in his arms after.

𓆩 CASE STUDY 007 𓆪

You hadn’t spoken in over an hour.

Not since the fight.

Not since he said, “Maybe if you didn’t run every time we got too close, I wouldn’t have to wonder if you actually want this.”

You’d slammed the door to the bedroom. Now you’re sitting on the edge of the bed, wrapped in one of his shirts, staring at the wall like it’s going to offer answers. It doesn’t.

The air is tight. Tense. Like everything’s been coiled too long.

Then—you hear his footsteps.

And suddenly, he’s there.

Seungmin doesn’t speak. Doesn’t shout. He just walks over, grabs your jaw with cold fingers, and tilts your head up.

“You want to be left alone?” he asks quietly. “Or do you want me to make you feel something again?”

Your breath stutters. That look in his eyes—sharp, calculating, barely restrained—isn’t the usual teasing calm.

This is something else.

You whisper, “Make me.”

And just like that—he snaps.

You’re pushed back against the bed. His body cages yours, knees on either side of your hips, hands pinning your wrists above your head. You gasp, arching—but he doesn’t give you time to speak.

“I hate fighting with you,” he growls, voice low and lethal. “You know that?”

You nod, breathless.

“But you push me. You always push. And then you run, and I let you. But not tonight.”

His lips crash to yours—angry, desperate, hungry. You kiss back just as hard, teeth clashing, tongues twisting. Seungmin bites your lip—draws blood. Licks it up like you’re wine and he’s parched. “Take it off,” he demands, tugging at the shirt. You pull it over your head, baring yourself to him completely and his eyes darken.

His eyes scan your body like he owns it. Like he's earned it. Then—he lets go.

Just releases your wrists and leans back, chest heaving. You blink, confused, but he only settles onto the mattress, dark hair mussed. One arm folded behind his head. The other gestures lazily down his own body.

“Take your panties off.”

You hesitate.

He raises a brow. “Now.”

You obey.

Silently, you slide the soft lace down your thighs, aware of how his gaze never leaves your center. You think—maybe—he wants you to straddle his face. Let him taste the slick that’s already gathering between your legs.

But Seungmin has other plans.

“Turn around,” he murmurs. “Back to me.”

You do, breath catching.

“On your knees. Over my chest.”

And that’s when it hits you.

You’re not riding his mouth. He’s placing you above him, facing the length of his body, and when you obey—when your hands brace on the bed and your knees sink beside his ribs—he shifts both of you down.

So now he’s under you. And your soaked pussy is right above his mouth. But his cock? Hard. Heavy. Inches from your face.

“Open your mouth, baby,” he growls. “And keep it open while I ruin you.”

You barely have time to whimper before his hands are gripping your hips, dragging your pussy down to his mouth. His tongue licks one long stripe through your folds before his fangs sink into the plush of your thigh with no warning, no restraint.

You cry out.

But then—you moan.

Because his mouth is everywhere. Kissing. Biting. Tongue fucking you while blood still runs hot against his lips. He’s feeding and pleasuring, starving and devout all at once.

And you?

You finally do what he told you.

Shaky hands pulling down his grey sweatpants and his briefs, his cock springing out, hard, leaking, throbbing.

You lean forward. Wrap one hand around the base of his cock. The other balances on his thigh. And then—you sink your mouth over him, slow at first, tongue pressing to the underside of the thick, pulsing length that jerks the moment you moan around it.

He groans.

Deep in his throat. A growl of praise.

“Just like that,” he breathes against your cunt. “Take it all, baby. Feed me while I fuck your throat.”

You do.

Mouth stuffed full of his cock, your hips rocking over his face as he feasts between your thighs like you’re the cure to every craving. His tongue works in circles—then flicks. His fingers dig into your ass, spreading you wider, holding you still when your thighs start shaking.

You’re dripping. Gagging. Gasping for air.

And Seungmin? He never lets up. Every time your mouth slides down over his length, he rewards you with another harsh suck, another bite to your thigh, another moan against your clit that sends you reeling.

Until you’re both right there.

Teetering. Desperate. Drenched in sweat, saliva, and blood.

Then—his cock throbs. Your walls flutter. Your body clenches around nothing as the orgasm explodes from your spine, rolling over you like a wave of fire.

Your juices soak his mouth. He drinks. Groaning. Devouring. Never stopping.

Your body trembles through the high and just as you release his cock from your mouth, gasping, your hand wraps around his base again, stroking him once, twice before he finally cums. All over your chest. Your mouth which you made sure to keep open. Your tongue.

Seungmin is panting, eyes dark, lips red, blood dripping from his mouth like wine and he licks your inner thigh again. "Feel better now?" he asks hoarsely.

You collapse sideways onto the mattress, dizzy and dazed. "Fuck you," you whisper.

He smirks.

"You already did. But unless you want more, I'm happy to oblige~"

𓆩 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐅𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐒 𓆪 YANG JEONGIN // Normal (Evolving Abnormal) Vampire The sweet boy with the sharpest bite. Addicted to affection. Dangerous when starved.

🩸 PREFERRED BITE LOCATION ‣ Shoulder blade, inner thigh & lower back

💉 FEEDING STYLE ‣ Emotional. Impulsive. Clingy. ‣ Bites happen mid-kiss, mid-moan, mid-breakdown. ‣ Never feeds clean—always leaves marks. ‣ Mouthy. Sloppy. Overwhelmed. Often doesn’t stop until you pull him off.

🫀 EFFECT ON SUBJECT ‣ Heavy euphoria followed by crashing neediness. ‣ Breathing becomes erratic. Limbs tremble. ‣ Intense emotional projection—feels what you feel, tenfold. ‣ Causes your body to crave touch long after the bite ends.

⚠️ PROGNOSIS ‣ Unpredictable: safest when loved, most lethal when rejected. ‣ High risk for overfeeding during sex due to overstimulation. ‣ Known to whimper while drinking. ‣ Will worship you for hours afterward like he’s trying to say sorry with every kiss.

𓆩 CASE STUDY 008 𓆪

You’re still wearing it.

That lingerie set—the one in soft wine-red lace, delicate enough to tear, pretty enough to drive him feral. It’s sheer over your chest, satin at the waist, and trimmed in ribbon. You’d worn it as a surprise. You didn’t expect him to unravel like this.

Jeongin stares at you from the mattress, already shirtless, eyes darkened and jaw clenched. He looks dazed. Hungry. Like he’s been trying not to lose control all night and now he’s at his limit.

“I’m not taking it off,” he says hoarsely, reaching for you. “It’s too perfect. Too hot. Just—ride me like that.”

Your breath catches.

You crawl into his lap slowly, knees bracketing his hips, arms wrapping around his shoulders. His hands grip your thighs, sliding up the sheer lace with reverence and a tremble. Then his mouth is on you—kissing down your neck, biting gently at first, tongue soothing the sting. But that’s not what he really wants.

“I need it,” he whispers. “Please. Let me bite.”

You nod.

He doesn’t hesitate. Sinks his fangs into the swell of your breast just above the lace, groaning low as your blood hits his tongue. You moan at the feeling of the heat rush that floods your body. Your hips grind down on instinct. He grips you tighter, hips twitching beneath yours.

“Fuck,” he gasps, pulling back with blood smeared at the corner of his lips. “You taste so good.”

You rock against him again. He’s hard already, pressing against your center through thin layers. Your pace quickens as you straddle him, grinding down in search of friction, your moans growing louder with every pass.

And then—he thrusts up once, twice, desperately, through his boxers, trying to meet you. It’s messy. Uncontrolled.

“Take me out,” he pants. “I—I need—please—”

You reach between you, freeing him from his briefs. His cock is flushed, heavy, leaking against your hand. He bucks into your touch, then holds your hips steady while you pull your panties aside and lower yourself onto him—inch by inch, lace still clinging to your skin.

His head drops back against the pillow with a moan so wrecked it doesn’t sound human. “You feel… fuck… you feel unreal.”

You start to move.

Slow at first—steady rolls of your hips, his hands roaming every inch of you he can reach. His fangs flash again as he watches you bounce, lace framing your curves, blood still drying on your chest.

“I can’t—can’t hold back,” he grits out. “Need to bite again—need to feel you everywhere.”

You nod, too lost in pleasure to form words.

This time, he bites your shoulder. Then your neck. Then your breast again through the fabric, enough to tear the lace slightly. Each time, his tongue follows, soothing the sting with a worshipful lick before he moans against your skin.

You’re shaking. Close. So close.

“Jeongin—”

“I know, baby," he growls—but this time, there’s a rasp in his throat. A dark edge. A thirst not just for you—but for what’s inside you. What feeds him.

Then—he snaps.

Jeongin bucks up into you with renewed force, rough and desperate, the rhythm turning messy and fast. One hand clutches your hip, guiding your motion, the other lands sharp against your ass—slap.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he hisses through clenched teeth. “Take it. Ride it. Don’t you dare stop.”

You try to answer, but your voice breaks. He’s deep, hard, relentless. The blood loss, the overstimulation, the lace chafing just so—it’s too much, and still not enough.

Then he sinks his fangs into you again.

Lower this time—just above your heart. A claim. A feeding. His moan is filthy against your skin as he drinks, hips slamming up with each pull from your vein. His lips seal to the bite like it’s sacred, tongue swiping the spill before it stains.

You feel yourself tipping, unraveling—body jerking, walls fluttering around him. He groans, hands digging into your ass, holding you in place as his thrusts become erratic.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he pants, blood-slicked lips against your breast. “I could drink you dry. Fill you up. Fuck—don’t stop—don’t stop.”

You don’t. Your body moves on instinct—legs trembling, hands clutching at his chest, your moans dissolving into shattered gasps as you ride him harder, faster, deeper.

He fucks up into you like he’s chasing something primal—like he’s on the edge of breaking, of shifting into something unholy. His grip on your hips bruises. His jaw is clenched tight. He’s staring at you like you’re divinity draped in lingerie and blood.

“Fucking—cum,” he snaps, voice cracking. “Let me feel you.”

And then—you do.

It hits like a flood, your whole body locking around him, head thrown back as the orgasm rips through you. You cry out, shaking, grinding down on him as your walls clench and flutter and milk him mercilessly.

Jeongin loses it.

He growls—a sound feral, needy—and slaps your ass again, rougher this time, then grabs your waist and slams up into you with sharp, punishing thrusts. No rhythm now. Just desperation. His cock drags along every swollen, overstimulated nerve inside you as he chases his own climax, jaw clenched, breath ragged.

“Fucking—tight—fuck, I’m gonna—”

Another slap. Another thrust. His fangs flash again like he’s tempted to bite one last time, but instead he buries his face in your chest, breathing you in like you’re oxygen. His fingers sink into your thighs, holding you down as he spills into you with a deep, guttural groan.

His entire body jerks.

Once. Twice.

Then stillness.

His grip softens—only a little. His face stays pressed against your skin, your blood still drying against his lips. His cock twitches inside you, aftershocks making your thighs tremble from where you’re still seated on him.

He finally breathes. Hoarse. Like he’d forgotten how.

“…mine,” he whispers. Like a prayer. Like a vow.

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

[minholuvr333]

alien minho + overstim??

or maybe his saliva or something creates tingling...

oh you know his saliva makes you feel tingly

tw; nsfw and smut and oral and fem reader… oh and minho is an alien with tentacles :3

alien!minho one shot posted here!

some days, alien!minho feels absolutely ravenous. no matter how many times he makes you cum, no matter how many of those tasty chemicals release in your brain and flow through your bloodstream, he still isn’t full- isn’t satisfied. good news for you!

minho loves to make a mess with his food, spitting onto your already wet cunt, using his tentacles to make sure you’re covered in the liquid. the sensation is like that of pins and needles, but on your most sensitive parts. he makes sure to give your clit extra attention, lapping over it with the intent on soaking you and the sheets.

he loves to leave a trail of sparks over your body, starting at your lips, traveling down to your neck, then your hard nipples get extra love. next, lighting moves down your stomach, then to your core. he loves eating you out for hours, loves to make you so exhausted you still twitch with phantom electricity when he’s done.

and you- you crave it. nobody could ever do what minho does to you. no one could ever make you cum like minho. even when you feel like jello, body unable to keep up, tears staining your pretty pink cheeks, you still beg for it. you still beg for him to use you in any way he wants. because at the end of the day, you’re his.

minho also loves to see how many of your holes he can use at once, either with his cock or tentacles or tongue, but that’s another story for another time :3

a/n;

i wanted to get this out bc i’m still thinking about him… but also i wanted to give the ladies what they deserve while i work on this big post <33 i love u freaks

[minholuvr333]

sorry it’s taking me literal ages to get requests done rn i’m working on one that im putting my heart and soul and ass into, which should be out by this weekend >:3

in the meantime, send me your most filthy deranged freakish thoughts about skz so i can avoid doing work for my real job <33

pls match my freak and yap with me thank uuuu