Vampire!Bang Chan x Reader | blood ritual, silk sheets, first time he finally takes you
🔞synopsis: You weren’t looking for luxury. You were looking for survival. But then he chose you—Bang Chan. Now you sleep in silk, eat like royalty, and bleed for him on schedule. He’s fed from you before. Gentle. Controlled. Ritualistic. But he’s never fucked you. Not once. Tonight, that changes. Because his hunger is showing. His eyes are black. And you’re in that dress he bought you. And when he finally takes his bite—he doesn’t stop there.
💌a/n: OK SO LISTEN 🩸 Yes. I know I answered an ask ages ago about how Chan is so rich. but for this series? i said fuck it. switched it up. because he deserves it. you deserve it. silk sheets and bite marks forever. also no, i’m not making profiles for every member. that’s boring and I’m busy making them FEED AND FUCK INSTEAD 😌 priorities. if you’re not bleeding and shaking by the end, did you even read it? 🔪💋✨
p.s. reblog if it ruined you. reblog if you whimpered. reblog if you said “oh.” out loud.
p.p.s. more members coming next Wreck Me Wednesday!
p.p.p.s. blood tastes better when it’s yours. ok bye 🖤
⚠️ warnings: 18+ / MINORS DO NOT INTERACT | biting kink | marking kink | blood drinking as foreplay (and during) | fingering + grinding | overstimulation | breeding kink language (explicit) | “mine” possessiveness dialled to 1000 | choking (light, erotic) | mirror of praise + filth | power imbalance | luxury kink | ritualistic aftercare | cum, blood, and luxury bath oils
The idea of becoming a Blood Doll didn’t start as a fantasy. It started as a last resort.
You weren’t desperate. Just… cornered. By bills. By bruises you didn’t ask for. By nights too long and mornings that arrived with nothing but guilt and cold toast. Seoul was a city of glass towers and low shadows. You had lived in both.
You weren’t supposed to know about the Veil. About vampires. About what they offered behind silk-curtained doors. But you did. One overheard conversation in a blood clinic waiting room was all it took. A name passed like a secret. A dare:
“LUXE Health. If you’re lucky, someone will choose you.”
So you cleaned yourself up. Not for them. For you. You memorized their rules. Got the bloodwork done. Sold everything else. And when you finally arrived—dressed in borrowed black with lips bitten pink—you didn’t flinch.
Because somewhere beneath the hunger and the silence, you had a single thought: “If I’m going to belong to someone… make it him.”
You saw him before he saw you. Or maybe that’s just what you tell yourself now.
Bang Christopher Chan. The vampire who owns medicine. The one whose name is spoken in hushed reverence at trauma wards and whispered in moans between silk sheets.
Abnormal. Born, not turned. The kind of vampire the Veil fears because they cannot predict him.
He didn’t need to feed from you that night. He didn’t even touch you. Just read your file, looked into your eyes, and said—
“You’ll do.”
Not cruel. Not kind. Just… certain. And that certainty rewired you.
That was three months ago.
Now, you live on the top floor of a private Luxe facility in Gangnam. You don’t work. You don’t pay. You just exist—dripping in silk, gliding past glass, touched only by magic and occasionally by him.
You eat better than royalty. Your scent is monitored for health. Your sheets are laundered daily in blood-neutral detergent. Every book you ever mentioned liking? It's in your room. Your bath oils are imported. Your wardrobe is measured by hand.
But he hasn’t fucked you. Not once. Not yet. He’s fed. God, has he fed.
The first time, you thought you’d die from how soft he made it. The second time, you wanted him to bite deeper. The third time? You whimpered his name. He smiled, lips wet, but didn’t take you. Not then.
And yet—he gives.
A diamond choker with a spell-lock that hums when you're near danger. A dress you only wore once, now preserved in a glass case because he liked how you looked in it. Shoes hand-delivered from a Paris atelier, dyed to match the undertone of your skin. Perfumes keyed to his scent.
He gives like a man who has everything—except you.
Tonight, you had been his date. A Veil-chartered event in an underground gallery beneath Itaewon. Not that you paid much mind, except the fact that you stood by him looking all pretty, dressed by him.
And now? Now you’re back in the penthouse.
Your heels click across imported stone. You’ve just slipped off your earrings when you feel it—the hum in the walls. The signal. Feeding hour.
He’s never missed one.
You turn, heart already pounding.
He’s in the doorway. Loosened collar. No tie. Silver watch still on his wrist. And his eyes…
Black.
“Sit,” he says, voice silk-dark.
And you do, because God, you always obey.
He crosses the room like a secret unfolding—measured, lethal, beautiful. His gaze never leaves yours. Not even as he loosens the first button of his shirt. Not even as he sheds his jacket and drapes it over the back of a chair. The air shifts around him—cooler, heavier. The scent of cedar and clove curled in hunger.
You sit where he wants you. On the edge of the fainting couch, legs pressed together beneath silk that still smells like his cologne. Your lipstick is still intact. Your throat bare. The pulse at your neck, traitorous.
He kneels in front of you.
Not like a man worshipping. Like a vampire calculating.
His fingers brush your ankle, sliding upward in a touch so light it’s almost imagined—up the line of your shin, over your knee, until he’s nudging the hem of your gown higher, just enough to settle between your legs, kneeling. Commanding.
He doesn't speak right away. Just watches you.
Eventually, he reaches for your wrist. Not to feed.
Just to hold. “You're warm.”
You nod, breath shallow. "I always am. After we go out."
Something flickers across his face. Amusement? Possession?
He leans forward. Mouth hovering over your neck. Not touching. Just breathing. "Do you want the bite here?"
"Yes."
He doesn’t kiss you. He doesn’t ask again. He bites.
You gasp. His fangs are surgical. Smooth. Deep. You feel it in your blood, in your thighs, in the way your dress shifts against your hips as your whole body arches toward him.
It’s not pain. It’s pressure.
One of his hands at your waist, the other on your thigh, grounding you as he drinks your sweet blood in slow. His tongue flicks once. Just once. Over the wound.
And that’s what makes you whimper.
His groan is almost inaudible. Almost. He drinks a little deeper.
You clutch the shoulder of his shirt and try to stay still—but you can’t.
You shift. You rub your knees together. You tilt your head further back like it’ll coax more of him out, like it’ll make him—
He stops. Pulls back. Blood on his lips. Collarbone flushed. Hands tighter now.
You’re panting.
"You should rest."
But he doesn’t mean it. Because his eyes are still black. And his cock is hard under his trousers. And you’re still in that dress he picked—silk, slit high, neckline low enough for his teeth to dip beneath.
“You’re still hungry,” you whisper.
He says nothing. But his hand slides higher up your thigh. Just barely. Just enough.
“Feed again,” you murmur.
He exhales. Shaky. Like he’s fighting something ancient. “If I feed again,” he says, voice wrecked, “I won’t stop.”
Your reply is immediate. “I don't want you to stop.”
His hand grips your thigh harder.
A beat. Two. And then—he snaps. His mouth crashes to yours like it’s the only law he’s ever obeyed.
Hot. Wet. Starving.
There’s no finesse. No restraint. Just tongue and breath and blood—your blood—smearing between your lips as he kisses you like he’s waited centuries. You taste iron and cedar and the slick salt of him groaning into your mouth.
His palm slides up your spine, yanks you forward. You gasp. He swallows it. You moan. He deepens it. Your fingers claw at his shirt, dragging it open, buttons scattering somewhere onto the marble.
“Chan—”
“Shut up,” he growls, biting your bottom lip, licking where it splits. “I told you. I won’t stop now.”
You don’t want him to.
Because you can’t think. Can’t breathe. Can’t survive if he doesn’t keep kissing you like that—like he’s drowning in you and wants to take you under with him.
He stands, dragging you up with him, your body flush to his. His hands on your ass, gripping through silk. You feel him—hard and heavy—pressed against your stomach. You grind against him. Shameless. He groans into your mouth like you just handed him your soul.
“On the bed,” he rasps, voice ruined.
You don’t walk. You stumble. He follows, eyes black, jaw clenched, pupils blown so wide you swear they swallow the moonlight.
Three steps from the bed, you spin and grab him by the open collar of his shirt—what’s left of it—and pull.
Hard.
He stumbles with you, low grunt in his throat, and you fall back onto the sheets like gravity’s been waiting for this moment.
Silk against your spine. Chan above you, braced on trembling arms. His shirt ripped wide open from your fingers, chest heaving. Eyes on your lips before leaning in again. Lips on your own. Tongue hot and deep, one hand gripping your jaw like he wants to brand his name there.
His knee shoves between your thighs and you start grinding against it. Moan into his mouth like a sinner under oath.
Your dress slips off one shoulder and of course he notices and his mouth leaves yours—trailing fire down your throat, tongue flicking the half-healed bite on your neck. You arch like a live wire. He sucks. You cry out. And then he speaks against your skin.
“You don’t understand what you’ve just done,” he rasps, voice shaking. “Letting me kiss you. Letting me taste it from your lips…”
He presses his forehead to your collarbone. His breath shudders. So does your body. “I’ve waited,” he says. “I’ve waited—every night. Let you heal. Let you rest. I was good.”
He lifts his head. Stares down at you. “But now you’ve ruined that.”
His hand slides under the slit of your dress. Fingers ghost over your inner thigh. He groans. "Fuck, you're so wet baby."
You whimper.
He leans down again, nose brushing your jaw, lips grazing your ear—
“One more bite,” he whispers. “Then I fuck you. And I don’t stop until your blood knows who it belongs to.”
"Please." You say. Desperate for it.
Chan's lips press against your shoulder, just below the dip of silk where your dress has fallen. He's slow, gentle, taking his time. Before finally, he bites and you gasp, sharp and wrecked.
His fangs in slowly this time. Not like earlier. No urgency. This bite is...savouring.
You clutch the sheets, back arching as he feeds again—mouth latched to your skin, tongue lapping slowly between pulses. Every draw pulls heat to your core. Every sound he makes against your skin echoes between your thighs.
And then you finally feel his hand parting your legs more, fingers brushing over your already soaked panties. You twitch and he groans into the wound.
"Dropping," he murmurs, mouth still on your flesh. "From being bit."
His fingers slip beneath the fabric. Contact. He traces the seam of your folds with two fingers before running them up again, pressing into your just enough to make your hips holt.
You moan out. That moan ripped straight from the center of you.
He chuckles darkly. Fangs still buried. Your blood on his tongue. Your cunt in his palm.
"So sweet," he growls. "Every part of you."
His thumb starts to circle that bundle of nerves. Not fast. Not hard. Just deep, tight pressure—rhythmic, possessive, hypnotic.
You’re panting now. Writhing. Your blood still feeding him as he works you from below.
His free hand grabs your thigh, pinning it open. “This pussy’s been waiting for me,” he hisses, licking over the bite again. “Wet and so so perfect for me.”
Two fingers thrust inside and your head snaps back. A choke moan spills out. You feel everything.
“Say it,” he demands, pulling back from your shoulder, licking the wound clean. “Say who owns you.”
“Y-You—fuck—Chan, it’s you—”
“Say it properly.”
His fingers curl just right.
“You own me,” you cry. “You own all of me—*fuck—*please don’t stop—”
“I told you,” he pants, mouth against your lips again, hand fucking you slow and deep, “I’m not stopping tonight.”
Chan finally pulled back, slowly. Fangs retracting from your skin. Mouth now painted with your blood again. He looks wrecked. Hair falling into his eyes. Chest rising like a storm's behind it. But his fingers? They've started fucking into you, a slow pace.
He sits back on his heels between your thighs, one hand fucking deep, slow, curling into that spot that makes your breath catch and your thighs twitch. The other hand trails up your waist until it cups your breast through the fabric. His thumb brushes over your nipple.
“Aw, look at you,” he coos, voice soaked in dark heat. “Dripping for me. Can feel it, baby girl.” His fingers move faster now—tight little thrusts that make your cunt clench, soak, squeal.
“You gonna cum?”
“Yes—yes, I—”
“I can feel it,” he growls. “All that sweetness pulling around my fingers. Fuck—so tight. So fucking good for me.”
He leans over, tongue lapping at the blood smeared down your clavicle while he finger fucks you harder. “That’s it. Let go. Be good. Cum on my hand.”
You cry out—knees jerking, hands clawing at the sheets, your entire body arching as heat snaps. Your orgasm crashes through you. But Chan doesn’t stop. Not until you’re trembling under him, cunt pulsing around his fingers, thighs soaked and twitching.
“Good girl,” he whispers. “You give so fucking much. You always do.”
He pulls his fingers out slow, watching the mess string between you.
Then—finally—his hands go to your dress. He peels it off of you, revealing every inch of your body to his hungry eyes. "Now," he murmurs, eyes dark again. "Now I take what's mine."
You barely catch your breath before you hear it—
The sound of his belt unbuckling.
Fast. Sharp. Desperate. He’s done waiting. His slacks fall in seconds. Boxers shoved low. His cock now in full view. Heavy, thick, veins pulsing. He is already flushed, the tip angry red and dripping.
Your mouth parts in awe. Your cunt clenches in instinct. “Look at you,” he breathes, crawling back over you, cock resting hot against your thigh. “Already shaking… and I haven’t even put it in yet.”
He grabs himself—gives one slow stroke, tip dragging along your folds as he lines up. You feel the heat of it.
“You want it?” he rasps.
“Yes. Please—”
“Then take it.”
And he pushes in. Slowly, gently, wanting to savour the feeling of your walls around his cock. You arch with a cry—eyes wide, fingers scrambling to hold onto something. But it’s no use. You’re being split. He’s so thick, and the stretch is perfect—too perfect. Your pussy tightens around him like velvet glove, and he groans low, forehead dropping to yours.
“Fuck, baby girl—so fucking tight—so good for me—”
He bottoms out.
One perfect grind of his hips. You feel everything. But he doesn't move yet, his hips flushed with yours.
"You take me so well," he whispers. "This pussy was made for me. You were made for me."
You whimper, breathless.
"Please—move—”
"I can. Remind me, who do you belong to baby?"
"You—you, Chan—fuck, I’m yours—”
"Good girl." he whispers. Pulling back and then slamming back in. Hard. Deep. Merciless. His thrusts picking up pace. Harder into you. Your body jerks up over the bed. He grabs your waist, pulls you back onto him.
Over and over.
The sound is obscene—skin on skin, soaked and slick. Your name is gone. All that exists is his name—Chan, Chan, Chan—echoing from your mouth, screamed into sheets, licked from your lips by the man breaking you open.
“You feel that?” he grits, fucking you deep, jaw clenched. “That’s mine. This body. This blood. This fucking cunt—”
He slaps your thigh. You moan.
“Say it again.”
“I’m yours—yours, yours, yours—”
He groans—fucks you harder. At least for a few more thrusts until he moves again. Shifts. Flips you over. Fast. Rough. Hands firm under your hips. One sharp drag and your body turns beneath him—your chest to the sheets, ass up, knees wide on instinct.
You gasp, caught off guard by the dominance of it. And he just laughs—low, filthy, feral.
“That’s better,” he growls behind you. “Now I can really fucking feel you.”
His hand spanks your ass and you jolt.
Chan drags his cock through your slick folds again. Lining himself up. "Stay still," he commands. "Take it.£
And he thrusts back in. Hard. Deep. Full.
You scream. Into the pillow.
He fills you so completely from this angle, cock hitting new spots you didn’t know existed. And when he grinds in deep—stays there—you feel your whole body shudder.
Chan's hand moves into your hair. Fisting it and yanking your head back just enough that you arch for him. And the other hand? It wraps around your throat.
"You look so pretty like this," he hisses into your ear. "Open. Dripping. Mine."
He starts moving again—fucking you slow and rough, every stroke long and deep and perfectly angled. You’re choking on moans now—your own breath caught in your throat where his hand rests, light but threatening. Possessive.
“You gonna cum again?” he pants, hips slamming into you. “Gonna soak me like a good little blood doll?”
You nod—whimper—beg.
“Say it,” he growls.
“I—I’m gonna cum—fuck, Chan, please—”
“That’s right,” he snarls. “Do it. Let go.”
He pulls your hair harder. His cock slams deeper. And you shatter. Second orgasm—harder than the first—slams through you like lightning. Your whole body convulses, cunt pulsing around him so tight he groans, slams in deeper, loses rhythm—
“Fuck.”
He lets go of your throat. Pushes you flat to the bed, still buried inside you.
And then? He pulls out—panting, ruined—and flips you again.
“We’re not done,” he breathes. “Not until I fill you.”
You’re breathless. Sprawled on the sheets on your back again after being flipped. Skin flushed, throat kissed red, thighs sticky and trembling.
But he’s not done.
Chan climbs over you again—eyes black, cock still hard, soaked with your slick and heat and ownership. He grabs your legs, lifts them, pushes them up high over his shoulders.
You whimper. He growls.
“One more,” he rasps. “You’re gonna take one more.”
And then he thrusts back in. His thrusts never easing up, except this time instead of being fast, they're harder, deeper. Hitting deep inside your pretty dripping cunt.
Your legs tremble where they rest on his shoulders, your hips arching up instinctively to meet his every thrust. He’s so deep now—your cunt swallowing every inch, fluttering around him like it already misses him when he pulls back.
“So tight,” he pants, sweat dripping from his jaw as he fucks into you. “So full. You feel that?”
He leans down—body folding over yours, pressing you into the bed. You gasp at the intensity—your knees practically touching your ears, your body caged beneath him. And before you know it, his mouth finds your throat again. Not the old bite. No.
This time it's lower. Right over your pulse. A new mark. A new claim.
He sinks his fangs in—again. But this time? He cums. At the same fucking moment.
You feel it—his cock twitching deep inside you, spilling into you with a primal, guttural growl against your skin. His hips still grind as he pumps you full, fucking it deeper, deeper, until your stomach coils from the pressure and the heat and the ache.
“That’s it,” he pants against your skin. “Take it. All of it. I’m gonna fill you—mark you—fuck it so deep into you it'll leak all night.”
He’s still feeding, slow now—tongue lapping, lips suckling, like your blood is the final part of the ritual.
And you? You’re crying his name.
“Chan—Chan—fuck—yes—yours—”
He lifts his head, face painted with blood and victory and crashes his lips onto yours.
Wet. Possessive. Full of cum and blood and everything he is.
“Good girl,” he whispers, against your swollen lips. “My good little blood doll.”
He pulls out—slow. Your thighs twitch. His cum leaks from between them. He watches it, chest heaving, and smirks before his eyes move on to you. Eyes no longer black, but softer now, sparklier. You’re wrecked beneath him, trembling and flushed, marked in blood and sweat and cum.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, fingers ghosting up your thigh. “You took me so well.”
You try to speak. Can’t. All you can do is breathe—shaky, grateful, undone. He leans down. Presses one kiss to your cheek. Another to your temple. Then the curve of your throat where your blood still lingers.
“You’re okay,” he whispers, so gentle it nearly makes you cry. “You’re mine now. And I take care of what’s mine.”
He moves with eerie speed after that, but never rushes you. One moment he’s gone, and the next—he’s back.
A warm cloth in his hand.
Something for your bite marks.
A glass of cold water.
A square of dark chocolate—your favourite.
“Small sugars after feeding,” he says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Prevents dizziness. Helps the body remember pleasure.”
You nibble it, fingers weak. He watches every movement like it’s precious.
Then he scoops you into his arms. You’re already drifting—high on oxytocin, on safety, on the way he smells like expensive oud and dark cherry blood.
“Where are we going…?” you murmur.
“Bath,” he says, already striding down the marble hallway. “You’re not sleeping with my cum leaking down your thighs onto silk sheets."
You huff a laugh into his chest. "Didn't you say you wanted me to leak all night?"
"I don't remember that. I never said that." But Chan is smiling, dimple smile and his ears are red.
In the bathroom, he takes the time to set you down on the edge of the tub gently while he takes care of filling it up with warm water, adding in jasmine oils. Whilst the tub fills up, Chan steps back to undress fully now, taking off that ripped shirt off.
By the time the tub is filled up, Chan makes sure to ease you in the tub, hands firm yet gentle before sliding in behind you and pulling your back to his chest, arms wrapping around your waist.
"You did so well tonight," he says softly, mouth brushing your shoulder. "I told you id' take care of you."
You nod. Too relaxed to speak.
His fingers draw idle shapes over your stomach, over the curve of your breast, over the softest parts of you that no one else touches.
“Sleep here, if you want,” he whispers. “Stay here. Forever.”
You simply relax, your head against his shoulder, eyes fluttered closed, breathing steady. "Mmm...forever." you murmur.
And Chan leans down to press a kiss to the side of your head.
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