MechaChonker

What’s life without a little chaos 28

[eyelessfaces]

grey haired oscar. reblog if you agree

[fallen-jpg]

hey it's december so time to stare at my work and judge it, here's some stuff that i still like! not included are zine stuff that i'm holding on to for now

this year i focused mainly on character drawing and im a bit more confident in it now. hoping for more drawing time next year

[parkjammys]

I NEED BOTH OF THEM SO FUCKING BADLY

[wooyoungsrightsock]

Dilfson Todd everyone

Need that man carnally at this point

[freakingholland]

"Loves me, loves me not" - Dick Grayson x fem!reader

A/N: I dedicate this one to all the people who use bro romantically. Warnings: the editing is off (sorry I was switching between mobile and desktop!) fem pronouns, use of Y/N, swearing, dumb jokes, mentions of chronic pain, implied slightly suggestive content! Summary: Dick's wrist is acting up after a rough patrol but luckily his wife is there to help him out. (hurt/comfort, domestic fluff, romance) Word count: 900 +

If you enjoyed my work:

questions/requests/ideas here! - rules here

masterlist

my AO3 archive is here

“—ah love can I get some help?”

“En route!” You jumped from your seat and jogged towards your boyfriend’s figure that just vaulted over the window frame.

Instinctively, you looked him up and down, making sure that he’s somehow intact. Dick was hunched over, cradling his left arm near his chest. His suit had multiple small cuts along his shoulders and back, thankfully nothing major – you mumbled to yourself under your breath. Still, his posture and a prominent grimace kept you on your toes for the time being.

“What can I do?”

“Take these please.” He said as he handed you his escrima sticks. You’d carefully placed them on his special shelf in your shared wardrobe before returning in a rush.

Dick couldn’t stand any longer, he sat down at the very edge of your bed. You carefully kneeled beside him.

“What now? What hurts?”

“Mostly? My pride.”

“Jokes aside Dick?”

“Just my wrist…. tired that’s all.” He’d embraced you with his good arm and kissed the top of your head.

“God you smell so good. I have to shower.”

“Yeah you do.” He chuckled at your remark.

“Thanksssss.”

“AH my legs are falling asleep.”

You shifted, placing your head on your husband’s knees. Dick winced under his breath.

You quickly straightened up, visibly worried.

“I’m fine--, promise.” He extended his right arm, with the pinky pointing up.

You raised your brow earning a giggle.

“Fine my ass…” You still entangled your finger with his.

“Language miss.” You lightly slapped his knee.

“It’s missus Grayson broski.”  

“My bad bro.“

“You good bro. But you’ll be good-er once you shower.”

“You’re probably right. Meet you on the sofa bros-- uh- love.” He gave you one last kiss on the cheek before making his way to the bathroom.

Even though Dick was his joking self you still knew that he was pretty banged up. In the meantime, you prepared a hot water bottle for his hurting wrist and heated up the lunch leftovers. You set everything down carefully on the coffee table and adjusted the blanket knowing Dick would still flop down without a second thought.

You turned on the tv and searched for something remotely entertaining for your mush-like brains.

Within minutes the sound of running water quieted down and truth be told you couldn’t wait much longer to cuddle with your partner.

Dick walked into the living room, towel slung around his shoulders, hair still damp and curling at the ends. He raised an eyebrow at the setup but quickly smiled from ear to ear, showcasing his dimples.

“Well well, looks like someone’s trying to win ‘caretaker of the year’.”

“No other nominees in the category.” You said with a huge grin.

He chuckled and sat down with a sigh, wincing slightly as he adjusted the hot water bottle against his wrist.

You caught the flicker of pain before he tried to cover it with another grin.

“That bad?” You asked softly.

“Nah.” He waved it off, though his wince betrayed him again.

“Yeaaah right.” You said, narrowing your eyes.

He pouted, stirring the butterflies in your stomach.

“Don’t look at me like that.” he said, nudging your leg with his knee.

“I really hate this part,” he muttered. “Not the bruises, not even my wrist. Just… knowing you’re sitting here stressing over me. I don’t want to be the reason you worry.”

The words hit you harder than you wanted to admit. You pulled the blanket tighter around both of you, scooting close until your shoulder pressed against his.

“What can I say… sucks to be me I guess?” You waited for his reaction that never came.

“I’m your wife Dick, of course I’m gonna worry. That’s our whole deal.” you continued.

“So what? You’re just gonna sit here chewing your nails every time I limp home?”

“Pretty much.” You smirked. “Unless you’d rather I don’t care at all.”

“Baby let’s not get too dramatic ‘kay?”

“I’d like to kindly remind you that you started this raaaather dramatic conversation in the first place!”

“Yeah yeah sorry love. For the convo and the worrying part.”

You playfully punched him in the ribs.

“OWW what was that for?!”

“For apologizing you silly goose. Blah blah ‘in sickness and in health’. That’s what I promised and you’re not getting rid of me and my worries. Period.”

“Plus it’s not like there’s a puddle of blood today. I’ve seen worse.” You continued.

“--I’m glad, I really am. To have all of this to myself.” He said, pointing at you. His finger brushed the tip of your nose.

You couldn’t help but look him in the eyes. They were still glistening under the dim lights.

“How bad is it going to sound-- if I tell you that… I kinda like when your hurt ass is forced to sit the fuck down…?”

“I take back what I said about you being worried…” he nuzzled in the crook of your neck, playfully biting you.

“No ‘caretaker of the year’ award for you.”

“There’s another award I’d like to receive.”

Dick stood up, tossing the water bottle to the side. He aggressively wrapped your legs in the remaining layer of blanket before tossing you over his good shoulder. You yelped, smacking his back. There was no point in trying to escape his firm grip.

“PUT ME DOWN!” you shouted.

“DECREASE ME THERE!!!”

Dick snorted.

“I’m not leaving you alone Mrs. Grayson, time for your award.”

[er-osion]

Grocery Store Shenanigans

pairing: Jason Todd x gn!Reader

summary: You and your boyfriend go grocery shopping

word count: 1.3k

warnings: one tiny bit of sexual innuendo, fluff

⋄∘∗⋅⋆≁≁⋆⋅∗∘⋄

“Did you remember the list?” You asked your handsome boyfriend as the two of you got out of the car.

“Of course. Did you remember the bags?” Jason replied as both of you approached the entrance to the grocery store.

“Of course.” Jason grabs a cart as you two enter the store. It’s 11 o'clock at night right now, and you and Jason are at one of the few grocery stores in Gotham that are open 24 hours a day. Because of Jason’s work as Red Hood, your routines can be abruptly upended at times but you’ve learned to adapt and overcome. You love him, so you do what you can to support and be there for him, even if that means sacrificing your sleep every once in a while.

Tonight, Jason took patrol off and you two spent the evening watching reality shows on your couch until you suddenly remembered you were out of vital breakfast and lunch ingredients for tomorrow. That’s how you and Jason ended up at the grocery store so late at night. You actually don’t mind that much, the grocery store is empty with the exception of the employees so you and Jason have the whole place to yourselves. It’s very quiet and quaint and you relish the privacy of shopping with your boyfriend.

You and Jason wandered to the produce aisle first, where you would read the list in your hand and then grab the item that was written down. Jason watched you calmly with an unreadable expression that still somehow held affection. Jason lived for these moments. The moments when life got mundane but he still got to share it with you. There was something so domestic about grocery shopping together, only doubled by the emptiness of the store that gave the two of you your own little world. You and Jason had to go grocery shopping regularly, what with your careful meal planning (and Jason’s enormous appetite) so this was an errand you both got to indulge in frequently.

“And the eggs…” You absentmindedly muttered to yourself as you picked out a carton of eggs and handed them to Jason to put them in the cart.

“Eggcelent choice, my love.” Jason quipped.

You snorted and rolled your eyes, “Leave the puns to your brother, Jaybird.”

“You’ve gotta be yolking me, Grayson’s puns don’t nearly measure up to mine.”

“If you don’t drop the sorry egg jokes you’re gonna have to scramble to find a ride home.”

Jason choked on his laugh and began pushing the cart so the two of you could continue your shopping. You made your way to the bread aisle and started filling the cart with your favorite carbs. Jason piped up again with a coy tone of voice, “Is your full name ‘food cake’? Cause you sure are an angel.”

Your head snapped toward him. You tried to conceal the smile growing on your face but your eyes, in betrayal, were full of mirth. “Are you seriously flirting with me in the bread aisle?” You asked incredulously.

“Why not? Just like you, bread is soft and delicious. I can’t think of a better place to make some moves.”

“Wow, you’re a real modern day poet.”

“Hey, if I put you in the cart with all the other loaves of bread, will you let me eat you when we get home, too?” Jason leaned forward against the cart so his figure was floating just before you, his eyebrow raised suggestively but his tone playful.

Your mouth dropped momentarily in shock. “Unbelievable. Jason Todd, you should be ashamed of yourself.” You tried to hide how flustered you were with a reprimanding tone, but you could tell by Jason’s smirk, that you’d failed.

“My question still stands.” He reminds you.

“As does your audacity, it seems.”

“Ouch. Here I am, so sweet trying to seduce you, and here you are, insulting me.” Your giant boyfriend put his hand over his heart dramatically.

“If I wanted something sweet, I’d bust into the grapes we have in the cart.”

“You have some spunk tonight.”

“TLC will do that to a lady.”

“But of course.” Jason agreed and moved the cart forward so you two could finish up your grocery store run. The two of you were walking side by side, chit chatting about nothing consequential. Jason then slipped his hand into yours and you laced your fingers together in response. His hold on your hand was firm and all encompassing, like a hug, it was unbelievably comforting. You brushed your fingers against his knuckles and from the corner of your eyes, you could see a relaxed smile grow on his face. Just being in contact with you brought a level of support and stability that let Jason relax in a way he never thought possible before meeting you.

The two of you made your rounds around the store and finally came to the check out. The tired college student at the check out greeted both of you with familiarity. You and Jason kept exchanging mischievous glances at each other, trying to hold back laughter at the checker’s obvious lethargy. After Jason paid for the groceries, you packed them back into the cart and the two of you snuck out of the building, as if you were newbie criminals robbing a store.

In the parking lot, Jason motioned with his hand to the cart with a prankish expression and you mirrored it when you processed what he was suggesting. You moved the food to one side of the cart and then Jason helped you into the cart. Both of you were full of giggles as you adjusted your seat in the cart. It was times like this, when you were especially appreciative of your boyfriend’s inhuman strength, it gave you moments to be extra childish with him. After you were comfortable, Jason reclaimed his spot at the handlebars of the cart and put flourish in getting into a ‘ready’ position.

“Okay, capitan, ready for take off?” Jason asked with faux seriousness.

You responded with equal gravitas, “All’s clear here, private.”

“Ground control has started the countdown. In 3, 2,…. and 1.” On ‘1’, Jason took off with a powerful speed. Both of you failed at holding down your laughter, the merry sound ringing throughout the empty parking lot. Jason expertly maneuvered you through the empty lot, wind blowing across your face. You gazed at Jason, your eyes full of love and admiration. It made you unbelievably happy to see Jason happy, as carefree as he could be, like right now. He deserved so much in the world, so much happiness, it made you proud that you could be a source for it. Your primary goal in life now, was to make sure the love of your life always felt at ease around you, and Jason made sure you knew that’s exactly what you did for him everyday. Jason met your gaze with equal pools of love. He’d never understand what he did to deserve you, but he’s grateful every single day that you’re in his life. You’re like oxygen. He doesn’t just want you, he needs you. Jason wants to be a constant source of happiness for you. He wants to make you laugh and smile as much as humanly possible, and if he accomplishes that by being a little childish with you, you bet your ass he’d do that everyday.

Your combined laughter and the light of your grins drowned out the sounds of traffic and sirens so customary to Gotham. There was nothing that existed outside of you, Jason, and this parking lot. Even grocery store runs were special with Jason, there was something so perfect in the domesticity you two shared. Like the expertly crafted epilogue in a romance movie, neither of you wanted this moment to end.

[tacticaldiary]

Mine, All Mine

PAIRING: Richard 'Dick' Grayson x Reader

SYNOPSIS: It makes sense now. The clinginess, the moodiness, how Dick has had a hand on her the entire time ever since the drive back home. A hand on her thigh while driving, dragging her to the couch to cuddle the second they came home.

Dick is jealous.

NOTE: I'm taking requests!

MASTERLIST

The movie neither of them are really watching pauses.

"Alright, I'll bite." She sighs, tapping her boyfriend's shoulder to get his attention. He's sprawled on top of her, both of them cuddled onto the couch, so proximity is definitely on her side. "What's going on?"

"Nothing." Dick says, muffled by the fabric of her shirt. She stares down at him for a second thoughtfully, fingers slipping into his hair. He melts at the scratch of nails against his scalp, the hot air from his exhale against her collarbone making her shiver.

"You're all sulky." She tilts her head, continues on when there's no answer. "Did you have a fight with Bruce?" a shake of his head. "Something with Wally?" Another shake. "Patrol? A case?" A soft, negative hum. She can't think of anything else that could have possibly prompted a mood like this. Dick's been like this ever since they left that cafe and-

A beat of silence.

"Oh." She breathes out, and his arms tighten around her. Gingerly, she cups his cheeks and tugs insistently until he relents, lets her pull his head up from where it's buried in her chest. His expression is...an odd mix of shame, guilt, and frustration. "You're upset with me."

His eyes meet hers and flicker away quickly. "Technically, no."

"You are." She frowns, a furrow in her brow. "I can't speak for myself if I don't know what's going on, Dick."

Somehow, his body gets heavier at his next sigh, fingers slipping under her shirt to rest on the bare skin of her back. This is an anomaly; the entire situation is so weird. Normally, communication isn't an issue for them; problems are brought up as they arise and promptly resolved with a calm conversation. She can count on one hand the number of arguments they've had that have actually led to raised voices or door slamming. Both of them are better than that.

Even now when he's seemingly bothered, Dick doesn't distance himself or try and brush it off. She knows he's probably been working through it in his head.

She almost thinks he's going to keep his silence for a moment.

"Why do you like that coffee shop so much?" His eyes are a startling clear blue, but something unfamiliar pinches his expression. She doesn't look away, faces it head on.

"Because it's close by?" She says after a moment, a little confused by the question. "My friend works there too, it's nice to catch up during her breaks."

"That's it?" He prods, lifting himself up on his elbows, still on top of her.

"The coffee's good." She shrugs, looking up at him. "I like their carrot cake."

"Anything else?"

"You're being so difficult about this." A hand shoves at his shoulder until their both sitting on the couch, facing each other. "Stop being so cryptic! What's the matter?"

"Aside from that cashier that's trying to get touchy with you?" Dick says, and it's stated so evenly that for a second she doesn't register that it's the problem.

"The- you mean Grant?" A pause, a dawning realisation.

It makes sense now. The clinginess, the moodiness, how Dick has had a hand on her the entire time ever since the drive back home. A hand on her thigh while driving, dragging her to the couch to cuddle the second they came home.

Dick is jealous.

"Of course you know his name." Dick grumbles.

"He does not want to get touchy with me."

"Babe, everyone wants to get touchy with you." He snorts, making an exasperated gesture with his hands. It shouldn't be as endearing as it is.

She doesn't see it, doesn't see the way people look at her. It's agonizing to watch the way people's gaze tends to linger, dipping up and down when they pass. How people nudge their friend's to encourage them to approach before they notice Dick standing next to her, pressed to her side. A hand around her waist or his lips pressing into the crown of her head. It drives him crazy sometimes, the way everyone seems to want a piece of his girl.

He really doesn't consider himself the jealous type, but something about that guy rubs him the wrong way. And the fact that she was there every day, almost always without him too! It's totally not a weird, controlling, creepy thing he swears! Dick just wants to be there to handle situations like that to make sure she's comfortable, and...and okay maybe he hates the idea of someone else trying to make a move on her when he's not there to scare off the attempt. He trusts her with his soul, but that still doesn't mean the thought of someone else eyeing her up doesn't leave a sour taste in his mouth.

"It's a good thing there's only one guy I want to get touchy with then." Dick hums when her hand slips under his shirt, rubbing up his spine. The light scrape of nails makes him shiver. "You have nothing to worry about, you know I love you."

"I love you too, pretty." He says quickly, but the reminder definitely puts him a little more at ease. "And I obviously trust you, it's got nothing to do with that. I just can't help it." It's a sheepish admission. "He stares at you all creepy, tries to flirt with you and everything. I've seen it."

"I haven't noticed." She says, idly scratching shapes into his back. He's so warm, always runs hotter. "But you know I'd tell him to back off if I did."

"Maybe I'll do for you next time." He goes back to grumbling, lets his head drop. She adjusts a bit when he lets himself relax and rests his entire weight on her. It's soothing, like a very heavy warm, weighted blanket.

"You are not making that poor guy shit himself." She huffs, amused at the display. "I'll deal with it in a normal, well adjusted way."

"I'm perfectly well adjusted!" He groans when her fingers tug on his hair.

"Sure..."

"I am!"

"I believe you."

Dick snorts, pulls himself up again to hover over her, slotting a knee between her legs, faces inches apart. "Very funny. I'm doing much better than the others, at least."

"Dick," A delicate hand brushes the hair out of his eyes, cups his cheek. "I don't want to think about your brothers right now." She whispers before pulling him down for a kiss.

"Noted. great idea" He mumbles against her, winding an arm around her waist to hitch her up against him almost immediately. "Me neither."

Reblog, Like and Comment! Requests Are Open!

(2/11/2025)

[dissolved-g1rl]

she loves you, and you know that cant be bad

Jason has lots of scars. They’re littered all over his skin, some are a little pinker, indicating the freshness of some of his injuries. Some are larger than others, some straight, and some jagged. You drag your finger along each one on his back, taking the time to count them to yourself. You hold your breath when he goes quiet for a second too long. You resume your petting when his snores pick up at their regular intervals. He looks so pretty like this, with the sun has barely risen, the room still in that pretty blue shade. Limbo between day and night. Jason deserves the rest, but his strong arms around you aren’t enough, feeling your palm against his back slightly quells your neediness. Knowing you can be with him in this way. Watching him with his guard down, no yelling, just seeing him…peaceful. It’s more than lovely, it’s a privilege you wouldn’t trade for anything. You fall asleep again easily, maybe after the hundredth time of tracing every notch in his spine. You want to be intimate with every dip and curve of Jason’s body, even the obscure ones.

Jason is on a similar level of domestic voyeurism, if one can call it that. He wakes up with you drooling agains his skin, you’re shielded by his chest, the warm rays of light not reaching your eyes keeping you deep in dreamland. You’re not prim, nor proper, and he really, really enjoys that. The drool against your cheek, and the little extra roll under your chin because your jaw is slack. He smiles so wide the dimple in his cheek becomes increasingly prominent. He carefully shifts, pulling you a little closer to him, sliding his hand up the back of your shirt. He can feel your skin react with goosebumps, If you weren’t such a blanket hog his hands wouldn’t be cold, you sow what you reap baby.

“Ugh, Jay.” You grumble, no one could sleep through his cold, calloused fingers stroking their skin. “Ugh, Jay.” Jason mocks your sleepy tone, giving you some nice back scratches, from your shoulder blades all the way down your spine, then back up again. He can sense you’re upcoming cold shoulder, mocking so early in the morning usually is a bad decision, but he can never resist. He squeezes you before you can roll away. Jason cups your cheeks so hard your lips pucker. Perfect, now you have to shut up and accept his affection. Morning breath be damned. He smacks kiss after kiss until you’re trying to bat him away. “You’re crazy.” You say breathily, looping your freed arms around him. He’s successfully gotten himself out of the dog house. “Yeah, crazy for you.” He laughs at your reaction to his cheesy line, the way you scrunch your nose up, trying not to smile, so fucking cute. “You liked that? Ewww, don’t tell me you’re gettin’ soft.” Jason is teasing, with you, it comes easy. “Shut up, you’re the soft one.” You scoff, he grabs your hand, pressing it against his chest, and down his abs, even when he’s relaxed like this, his muscles are defined. Firm, you can feel each notch. “This is not soft. I’m a lean mean muscle machine.” He says, playfully giving you a knock to the chin. You laugh and he can’t resist kissing you again, your hand travels up his abdomen to his chest, you can feel the steady thump of his heart. Jason has had a lifetime of cruelty, but a lifetime of gentleness is what he deserves, you’ll do your best to provide it.

dividers by @cursed-carmine

a/n: i just know he snores, that septum deviated asfff

[star-crossed-sluts]

Hi if you’re taking requests, could we get some more Loki x fat female reader?

Loki is a tummy man and you can’t tell me otherwise.

Maybe it could be with body worship and reader is still pretty confident as well but is shy about liking when Loki plays with her belly. I can really see Loki loving fat or chubby tummies and wanting to squeeze and jiggle and kiss them

Loki is indeed a tummy man, the stars told me so and they're always right.

Contents: 2.7k words, female reader, chubby reader, morning sex, vaginal fingering, PinV sex, focus on reader's stomach, fat used as a descriptor (non-negatively), unprotected sex, coming inside, love mentioned once, lighthearted teasing, mirror sex, reader is described with a muffin top and love handles, shade thrown on love languages

Minors DNI

You are responsible for your own media consumption

You woke softly, the kind of gradual awareness of the world that only came when you awoke of your own accord after a deep sleep. No alarm blaring to force you from bed, no responsibilities to rush to. Birds gently chirped in the distance – background noise instead of an annoyance – and the sunlight softly danced in the room, warming your exposed skin like a warm bath. With the firm body laid with yours, it may have been the most peaceful morning this apartment had ever seen.

“... the hell are y’doing, Loki?”

His lips curled against your neck. Honestly, you don't have a clue how this man is supposed to be the god of lies and trickery: he has the most obvious tell. 

When he tries to bullshit you, he talks like he's trying to reach a minimum word count. 

“I'm sure I have no clue as to what you're referring, my love,” he purred into your soft skin, nose nudging into your hair. “I am merely displaying physical affection upon my most favorite mortal: as per the ‘Love Language Guide' we previously read.” 

“Okay, first of all,” you scoffed, clearing your throat of morning frogs, “I made you read that so I could rant about how it's bullshit pseudo-science penned by a man to get sex.” 

“And your lecture was riveting,” he recovered flawlessly, “I do believe I shall pen my own research on the subject and employ you as my co-author. Shall we experiment with acts of service this evening? I do make a marvelous roast duck.”

You ignored the obvious attempt to distract you. “Second of all,” you insisted, reaching down to pinch the back of his hand. “Why is your physical affection focused entirely on my muffin top?!” 

Loki easily brushed your pinch off, gripping your soft tummy even tighter now that he'd been caught and using it to hold you in place until his firm body was pressed seamlessly into your softer one. “Is that what you call it,” he mused, sighing dreamily as his fingers kneaded. “What an adorable name for such a lovely part of a lovely woman.” 

A laugh bubbled in your throat, his lighter touches tickling your sides. “Y'know, I figured you for a boob guy, but you're a real freak.” 

“Takes one to know one, dove,” he retaliated, nipping at your lobe. 

“I'm not the one fondling my lover’s stomach, of all things.” 

“If it would make you happy, love, I'd gladly fondle other parts of you as well.” 

You let yourself laugh, abandoning your facade of being upset with him, and turned your head, sharing a soft morning kiss over your shoulder. His lips moved lazily against yours, pressing forward when you tried to pull back, a single hand trailing up your body until his long fingers wrapped around the column of your neck – never squeezing, he wouldn’t dare, simply another part of you to hold. You finally coaxed him to release your lips and shared a soft smile, savoring the sight of the early morning light making his midnight hair and porcelain skin sparkle in a testament to his godliness. “Good morning, my love,”

How blessed you were, that you got to wake up to this sight every morning and make a god blush as he grinned like a schoolboy. He repeated your sentiment against your skin as he retreated into the crook of your neck, laying tender kisses like a foundation. “Do we have to rise just yet,” he pleaded – though he’d deny such a thing ever happened – and used the grips on your neck and tummy to pull you back even tighter to his chest. “Won’t you let me worship my goddess, love?”

You wished it didn’t affect you so much, but all this time later, and he still made you melt with a few words cooed in your ear. You responded by rolling your hips back on his, breath hitching as his very prominent, very large bulge pressed against your thinly clad ass. “How do you wake up this hard?”

“Well, I can hardly be blamed,” he insisted, hips moving to match yours, his hand groping your belly drifting to the waistband of your panties, pinky and ring fingers dipping beneath. “I do have the most gorgeous creature in the nine realms beside me all night.” 

A laugh turned into a gasp as the pads of his fingers found your clit, swiping through your folds before teasing your pearl with your own slick. “Always have an answer, don’t you?”

Loki chuckled, the hand on your neck guiding you back to his lips. “They do say I have a silver tongue.” 

He put that silver tongue to work, lapping past your lips as if he’d been without them for years instead of a single night. He grinned into your mouth when you gasped, two fingers slipping into you to stroke your velvet walls, and took the opportunity to invade your body even further. His fingers carefully stretching your cunt, his tongue curled around yours, pressing nearly to the back of your throat as he eagerly swallowed your whimpered moans. His thumb strumming your clit, long fingers working your already slick pussy open enough to take him, hips rocking against yours, shaft slotted between the soft cheeks of your ass, his mouth on yours – all of it filling every sense, wrapping you up in him until-

“‘S too much,” you gasped into his mouth, even as you kissed him harder. “Please, Loki, I need you now,”

And your poor love was so weak against you, he already knew he’d be giving you whatever you wanted as soon as you started whimpering around his tongue. “I’ve got you, my love,” he promised, voice still thick and raspy with sleep. He gave a final pump of his fingers, stroking that peachy spot inside you like he just couldn’t help himself, before he was tugging your panties down your thighs. He let you finish the job with a final, needy grope to the plush fat of your inner thigh so he could shove his boxers down as well. You heard the wet thwap of his leaking tip slapping his stomach, desperately rolling over to take in the beautiful sight of his long cock, flushed with need and drooling precum against his firm abs- “Ah-ah,” he tsked, steady hands flipping you back over. 

Loki pressed his body against yours once again, this time completely bare. Warm fingers gently pulled your nightshirt off you as his leaking cock laid neglected against your ass. His arms, firm with lean muscle, wrapped around your nude form, lips descending on your collar as he held you tightly.

A man, worshiping his goddess.

“So beautiful,” he murmured against your soft skin. One hand, arm slipped under you, cupped your breast near reverently, those thin pianist’s fingers straying across your nipple as if he could play you as well. The other was distracted, rubbing over your waist from one love handle to the other, squeezing just enough to make your pliant body dimple under his touch. A rock of his hips and his cock pressed between your thighs, parting your fat lips, slotting himself against your wet heat without pushing in just yet.

A flick of his wrist and your sheets flew off. A snap of his fingers and the wide mirror from the bathroom was in front of you, showing you exactly how you looked as you laid, hair undone, bare as the day you were born, letting a man fondle your body like it belonged to him.

And fuck what a sight it was.

“There she is,” Loki sighed dreamily, grinning when he noticed you were only looking at him. But no one could blame you: his pale skin – broad shoulders peeking out from behind your form – beginning to flush from your activity under the covers, his messy hair pushed back from running his hand through it, and those sparkling emerald eyes looking at you like you hung the stars – who wouldn’t admire such a work of art? 

But Loki only had eyes for you. One finger gently guided your chin until you saw what he saw: a beautiful woman, straight out of a painting. Bedheaded, with pink marks starting to darken from his lips dotting your skin, your position on your side accentuating your glorious hips. 

“My beautiful goddess,” he murmured, making eye contact with you in the reflection. His hand trailed all the way down your body, tracing every roll and curve, until he reached your mound. Lining himself up, he only spoke again as he pressed inside of you. “My queen,” he gushed, trailing his lips down your jaw as it dropped from the stretch. He rolled his hips, carefully pressing only as much as you could take into you before pulling back. “Look at that,” he coaxed, as if you had the strength to look away, watching your fat pussy swallow him inch by inch. His hand returned to your love handles, gripping them firmly. “Look at how we were made for each other.”

A whimper of his name fell from your lips, and he knew you so well he eased more of his cock inside you, giving you exactly what you wanted before you even asked for it. “I was made for you, darling,” he cooed, narrow hips pressed against your fuller ones as he finally sheathed his entire cock in your weeping cunt. “And you, for I.”

His name dropped from your lips again as a whine: something so embarrassingly needy it had you trying to bury your face in the pillows even as you rocked your hips back, making sure he wasn't holding out on you. “Can't take it when you talk like that,” you weakly complained. His smooth chuckle sent shivers down your spine. 

“I'm only telling the truth, dove,” he promised. Face half turned into the pillow beneath you, your eyes still locked on your joined reflection, you watched him rake his dark gaze over your body. Biting his lip as he gave a firm thrust into your heat, just enough to make your body quiver in his arms. 

The sight lit a fire in him. He held you tightly, teeth latching onto soft skin as he pounded into you, only seeming to go harder as breathy moans spilled from your lips. “Fuck- look at yourself, lovely,” he urged, breath hot against your ear. And fuck, how could you look at anything else? 

Your plush rippled with every sharp slam of his hips. Your slick juices made his cock shine in the early morning light when he pulled back, and made the faintest squelch when he slid back in. Ivory fingers pressed into your skin, leaving soft marks as they traveled your body. His sharp nose tucked against your temple, audibly breathing in the soft smell of your shampoo as he kissed your head. 

You really were beautiful together. 

Loki played your body like an expert musician, every gentle strum and sharp pluck laid precisely where it would make you moan and whine exactly how he wanted. Fingers on your breasts and clit wandering away to squeeze any part of you that quaked a little too temptingly before he seemed to remember he needed you to come before him. He wouldn’t allow anything else, he’d said before, and besides, there was nothing that did it for him as well as watching and feeling you fall apart on his cock. 

“Lokiiii,” you squealed, weakly kicking a foot back when it made him chuckle. “Not funny!”

“‘Course not,” he agreed, but he still pinched at your nipple again in an attempt to get another squeal from your soft lips. “Not funny at all – tell me what you need, dove.” His lips latched onto the marks he’d already made, like he wasn’t satisfied they would last and wanted them darker. “Tell me what you want,” he practically begged, a soft touch on your chin guiding your face out of the pillows so you couldn’t hide from him. “Tell me what I need to do for my queen to make her come undone for me.” 

He thrust into you like a man on a mission, the glittery glow of magic wrapping around your bodies like thick honey, helping him touch you in all the right ways all at once. Your thigh tugged up that little bit higher to better watch him disappear into you at just the right angle, folds held open for him to play your clit like his favorite toy, heavy breasts lifted just slightly to take off a weight you’d long since grown used to, and-

And freeing his hand to return to your plump midsection. 

You’d laugh if you weren’t busy speeding towards the cliff’s edge. 

His palm pressed low on your stomach, as if he could feel himself kissing your cervix through the layers of chub. Long fingers curling into the fat, manipulating your pliant body under his touch. You finally answered him. 

“Put less effort into groping me and kiss me already-” a sly grin curled at your lips, “-my king.”

Loki of Asgard, once and future conqueror of Earth, whimpered against you. His hips stilled, quivering as he pressed as deeply inside you as he could. A shaky breath huffed out his nose, washing over your hot skin. “Ooh,” he purred, trailing his sharp nose up your neck until you could see the mischievous glint in his eyes as your only warning. “Naughty girl,” barely finished leaving his lips before they covered yours, eagerly swallowing any noise that tried to escape you. He started pounding into you, smile pressed against your lips growing wider with every moan and giddy squeal he pulled out with his brutal pace – hard and fast, absolutely ravaging your body from all sides. While he practically bruised your poor cunt, his tongue fucked your throat, spit and tears and sweat from both of you ruining another set of silk sheets. His hands never stopped their assault on your body, every reaction to his roughness tracked with greedy touches, as if he was trying to consume you in your entirety. 

You didn’t need to announce that you were close: a hand snapping to his head, tangling your fingers in his silky black tresses, and pulling him even harder against your lips told him for you. He practically vibrated as electricity seemed to thrum between you, lighting every nerve in your bodies on fire as he chased you over that peak. 

Breathless moans slipped out of the cracks where his lips couldn’t fully cover yours, Loki driving into you more desperately as your tight heat sucked him in with every shudder. Your body melted against him as you rode the blissful waves, clenching around his cock again and again as his hips stuttered against yours. He sank into you to the hilt, grinding against you with every thick spurt of cum he pumped into you, like he wouldn’t stand for even a single drop being wasted. 

You laid in bed together, both panting in the aftermath. Loki pumped his soft cock into you once more, simply because he would never get enough of you. You came back to Earth softly, the kind of gradual awareness of the world that only came when you’ve been fucked so perfectly and lovingly. The birds had been joined by the sounds of the city coming to life as the sun climbed higher, now casting a golden glow throughout the hazy room, making all the sweat-dotted skin sparkle like polished marble. With the firm body laid with yours, pressed against and inside of you to leave no space between, you were sure the two of you held for each other the most love the universe would ever see.

Even when his palm gave the gentlest slap to your stomach just to see it jiggle.

“Loki!”

“Ehehehe- no, no hair pulling! Ah- truce, my love- I YIELD!”

[vigilantekisser]

let it be done unto me

pairing: husband!matt murdock x f!reader

18+ cw: breeding kink (mentions of impregnation & pregnancy – both matt and reader want kids here), dom!matt, oral!f receiving, doggy, mating press, light bondage, choking, biting, use of “good girl” “my wife” during sex, slight dacryphilia, possessive behavior, classic daredevil guilt, allusions to religious devotion, fluff

summary: some dreams have always felt beyond reach for matt, including having a family of his own. but post-party, three drinks in—turns out all he had to do was ask. (wc: 7.5k)

note: foggy and marci are married and have a kid here! also matt holds a baby in this one, so obv it’s totally self-indulgent : )

A/N: HAPPY FATHER'S DAY to the dilfest lawyer on earth!!! i started this completely intending for it to be just filth but my nine year delusionship with this man means everything i write about him WILL grow feelings

The bustling warmth of Foggy’s apartment hits you the moment you step in the door. Every inch of the space is alive with the sound of chatting adults and shrieking children, not to mention the same incongruously happy verse of “We Did It!”—the Bluetooth speaker cutting out the Dora playlist over and over. Bright balloons cling to the backs of chairs, paper plates and half-eaten cupcakes cluttering every surface. To put it simply, it’s utter domestic chaos.

So obviously, it’s hard not to smile.

“Wow,” Matt says beside you, his lips twitching upward faintly as his head tilts to take in the scene. “This place is alive.”

“Alive,” you snort, swatting him gently on the arm as you guide him through the threshold. “It’s a full-on circus. Foggy must be in hell.”

“Can confirm,” Foggy interjects. He’s appeared behind you as if summoned by the mere mention of his name. There’s a smear of frosting on his button-down, and there’s a crazy light in his eyes you haven’t seen since college. “Thank God, cavalry’s here. I was this close to drinking Scotch out a sippy cup.”

You laugh, leaning in to hug him as Matt claps him on the shoulder. “Happy birthday to the big guy!” you grin as Foggy pulls back. “Officially one! How’s it feel?”

“Haven’t heard, huh? We’re auctioning him off later,” Foggy deadpans, though the affection peeks through. “Which reminds me—mind if I pawn off your husband for a bit?” He turns to Matt, gesturing toward the kitchen where a battalion of Nelson women’s engaged mid-conversation, holding plastic cups and talking animatedly. “Dude, do me a solid and work your lawyerly magic on the aunties, please. They’ve been talking about SNTs all afternoon and frankly, I cannot feign interest anymore.” 

“Oh, Fog, I don’t know if I’m the guy for that—” Matt starts, but Foggy’s already steering him toward the fray. “You’re exactly the guy, go make them cry with one of your blind crusader stories. Right this way, ladies,” Foggy urges, as Matt’s protests are drowned out, swallowed by the chattering mass of Nelson aunts. 

You stay back, still laughing, and duck toward the table of snacks. From the few remaining drinks, you grab a can of Yoo-Hoo and your finger along its sweaty condensation—until the sharp wail of the baby cuts through the din. 

You turn. 

Across the room, the birthday boy’s squirming in his frazzled aunt’s arms, flushed and clearly seconds away from a full-blown meltdown. Without thinking, you slip over to them (Yoo-Hoo forgotten), holding out your hands with a soft, “Here, let me.”

Teddy comes to you easily, his weight settling against your hip as he lets out one last cursory wail before quieting. His chubby fists tangle in the fabric of your dress, his head falling against your chest as his breathing hitches. You rock him gently, murmuring soft nonsense under your breath until his cries subside entirely. It doesn’t take long before he’s calm, little body relaxing against yours as he smacks his lips softly, his stubby fingers patting at your collarbone. 

Across the room, the Nelson women chatter on around Matt.

“You poor dear,” one of them coos, clutching his elbow, “how’s work? Foggy says the firm’s doing very well. You boys must be rolling in clients.”

“It’s steady,” Matt says mildly, “we’ve been lucky.”

“And her?” someone else asks. “That sweet girl of yours still hasn’t run away screaming?”

A small smile curves his mouth. “Still here, thankfully.” A chuckle goes around the circle. 

“Oh honey,” Foggy’s mom cuts in, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “So, when do you think you’ll have one of your own?”

Matt raises his eyebrows, amused and a little cornered.

One of the great-aunts is squinting across the room. “Hmph, looks like she’s halfway there already.”

He tilts his head slightly, tuning in—adjusting the direction of his senses—then stops. His heart stutters. The space between you—the constant hum of your heartbeat, the soft lilt of your voice as you soothe the baby—it’s all amplified in his head, pulling his attention like a magnet. 

“Must be nice,” another jokes. “You can always tell who’s gonna be a good mom. Poor Foggy looked like he was going to pass out.”

Matt smiles faintly, his usual charm just barely masking how his throat has tightened. “Ah, she’s good with kids. Always has been,” he says, deliberately keeping his tone light.

The mention of children is a trap he’s navigated before, typically with casual deflections that fall back on vague hopes of someday. But this time, the words are harder to shake off, and when one of the aunties has so pointed it out—the way you’re holding Foggy’s baby, calm and radiant and perfectly at ease—it feels less hypothetical and more, well, inevitable.

“Well, you’re doing well for yourselves now,” one of the women says, her tone pointed but kind. “Don’t wait too long. You’ve got a good thing going—and if you ask me, you could use one of those little ones running around.” 

“We’ve got some time,” Matt laughs offhandedly. “Haven’t really sat down and talked it through in depth. Maybe soon.”

Mercifully, the conversation shifts, but Matt’s distracted now. Every word buzzes in the background as he hones in on the sound of you: the soft rise and fall of your breathing, your voice swaying upward as you coo at Teddy, the faint rustle of fabric as you shift your weight to keep him secure on your hip.

Before he knows what’s happening, you’ve made your way across the room to him, oblivious to the swirl of tension beneath his skin as you’re saying something lighthearted about how “it’s about time Uncle Matty took a turn.” He doesn’t even have time to protest before the toddler’s being nestled against him, pudgy fingers pawing at his tie.

“Careful,” he says, a little alarmed. “I could drop him.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Couns,” you say breezily, smoothing a hand over Matt’s arm. “You’ve done this before. Plus he’s pretty sturdy, you know. Babies are tougher than they look.”

Matt falls silent, holding the baby cautiously, keeping completely still so that not even his breathing will disturb the delicate balance of the moment. Teddy squirms briefly before miraculously—horrifyingly—settling into his chest, and Matt’s heartbeat jumps, but the baby’s doesn’t. There’s just the faintness against his sternum, the rise and fall of milky breath; he can feel the pulse in his tiny wrist. The echo of a hiccup in his ribs. He finds himself cataloguing every flicker of life beneath the fragile skin. 

It’s overwhelming.

“Matt,” you say softly, “you okay?”

He nods, handing Teddy back to you a little too quickly. “Yeah. It’s just—he’s warm.”

“He didn’t pee on you, did he?”

“No—no,” Matt chuckles faintly. “Not that kind of warm.”

You lift a brow at him, but say nothing more. The baby yawns, then burrows into you again. Matt can hear everything. The low, involuntary sound you make when the baby nestles just right under your chin. The shift in your skin temperature: your whole body warmer than usual. And that scent—he’d missed it before, but God here it is, subtle but unmistakable under the usual fare of your perfume. Sweet earth, clean sweat, and something deeper, headier. His heightened senses tell him what his mind has tried to ignore; it makes his chest tighten and imagination run rampant. He tries to shake away the thought, wresting his focus from the way you smell so right, so perfect, but it’s hurtling like a tidal wave.

By the time you’re on the train ride home, the realization has planted itself in the hollow of his chest, refusing to be moved. You sit beside him, scrolling idly through your phone, humming some barely-there melody under your breath.

He’s silent the whole time, thoughts turning over in endless waves.

It’s already dark outside when you arrive at the apartment. Matt’s still unusually quiet, his mind somewhere else entirely. You shrug off your coat by the door and toss it onto the hook with a bit of flair. Trying to fill the silence, you busy yourself with telling him about the Nelson family dog—a story you picked up about the ratty little mop of a thing getting passed around from household to household like a fuzzy hot potato.

“It’s probably because it’s so ugly,” you grumble lightly, shooting him a grin as you kick your shoes off toward the mat. “Swear, if you could just see it, it really is so ugly it’s insane.”

Matt is usually one to tease, grinning back in that sly, devil-may-care way, but tonight he doesn’t even give you a huff of amusement. Your brows draw together in concern: could someone have said something earlier? He wasn’t one to let offhanded comments get to him, but there had been exceptions… Or maybe the party was too much? Its noise and chaos and endless stimulation, well— you could see this silence as an aftermath.

“Matt?” you finally ask, your tone gentle as you cross the small space to him. He hasn’t moved from where he’s standing near the door, barely out of his coat. “Are you okay? You’ve been so quiet since we left. Did something happen at the party?”

The longer he stays silent, the more determined you become to shake an answer out of him. Whatever storm is brewing in his mind, you’ll be damned if he keeps it locked away, as he tends to do. It triggers your instinct to soothe. Or at the very least, poke fun at it to take the edge off. “C’mon, don’t leave me hanging here. Whose ass do I have to beat? Was it Uncle Tommy? Was it something I–”

“Sweetheart,” Matt cuts through your ridiculous coaxing. Though his tone is steady with concerted effort, there’s a flush creeping up the column of his neck, coloring the edge of his ears.

You step back half a pace, blinking. “What?”

“It’s nothing. Please.”

“Doesn’t seem like nothing. Matt, tell me what’s going on with you.” In truth, you greatly dislike all this unceremonious pushing and goading, but the last time he’d gone quiet like this it turned out he’d been hiding a broken rib and a tender side from late night patrol. You frown, stepping closer. “Are you hurt?”

“No, no, I’m not. Honestly.” The shift is almost imperceptible, but you notice the way his body tenses further, throat bobbing as he swallows hard. He drags a hand through his hair, sighing deeply, “Forget it.”

“Forget it?!” you gasp dramatically, clutching your chest. That at least earns you the faintest twitch of a smile on his lips, but he smothers it so fast you wonder if it was a figment of your imagination. “Oh, no. No, no, no.” You wag a halfhearted finger at him. “You absolutely do not get to brood like that then ‘forget it’ me! You’re going to tell me, Matthew”—the way you enunciate his name is pointed—“because you at least owe it to me to tell me if you’re hurt, or I swear to God I’m—”

“Fine,” he snaps, putting an end to your mock dramatics. The tension in him pulls tight enough that the words tumble out unguarded. “Let’s have a baby.”

You blink.

The air around you seems to still, as if the apartment itself is holding its breath, having followed his bidding for silence.  “What?”

“I want a baby with you,” he confesses slowly, sounding pained. It sounds almost like loathing, the derision with which he views how badly he means it. 

You laugh before you can stop it, strangled and half-scandalized. “Matt, Jesus! What the hell…”

But your startled amusement is already tapering off as it clicks into place. Oh. His quietness, his strange mood during the ride home—it was now making perfect sense. Earlier, you were utterly at ease with Teddy, and maybe he’d been, too. The situation now glaringly obvious, your heart starts to race and Matt’s expression darkens when he picks up on it, his lips twitching with that slow, devilish smile you know all too well.

“Oh,” you begin, blinking up at him as you straighten.

That smile. Christ.

“Yes, oh,” he says, already closing the distance between you. “I mean it.”

His hand finds your waist, pulling you closer to him with deliberate pressure.

“Let’s make one,” he murmurs. “Right now.”

Your heart hammering violently in your chest, you tip your head back slightly to meet the wine-dark mirrors of his glasses. In the reflection, all you can see is yourself. His next step seals the last inch of space between you, and when his mouth finds yours, whatever resistance you had left dissolves like sugar on the tongue.

His kiss is needy, and you feel his every hot exhale fanning your cheeks as a hand slips to your waist—guiding you, pushing you back, back until your spine hits the wall. His other hand curls around your nape gently, cushioning the press of your head against the panel. You gasp into him, grabbing at the tense muscles of his shoulders through his shirt. He’s so close, pressing so close now that you can feel the heated hardness through his slacks. Well, he seems to not mind. If anything, he wants you to feel it, grinding himself against your stomach.

“Somebody’s eager,” you tease playfully, never mind that you’re growing lightheaded from the delicious burn of his stubble scratching your face. “Christ, this is a lot of intensity for a lady who just inhaled too many cupcakes. Mmf, ow!”

His teeth catch your bottom lip, nipping at it lightly before letting it free.

“Not now, honey,” he rasps against your mouth. You know it well enough to be a warning, but you don’t know if it’s more terrifying or thrilling. The hand at your waist slips upward, finding the curve of your breast over the flimsy material of your dress. Your face grows embarrassingly hot, and Matt’s breath hitches, groping you a little harder, more possessively, and the thought crosses his mind: the sensation of your tits rounding out for him, growing swollen, heavy with milk… Fuck, the thought makes his cock jerk hard in his pants, and the guttural moan that tears from his chest seems to surprise even him.

Fuck, Matt, get it together.

Shaking his head, he dips down to the crook of your neck, inhaling deep. You smell so damn good—milky and earthy and uniquely you—it’s a shame you’re oblivious to it. What you aren’t oblivious to, though, is the way he’s trembling slightly. From restraint or the desperate undercurrent of his desire, you can’t tell.

“Is this really you?” you ask, breathless now, trying to wriggle just enough to make him loosen his grip. This isn’t like him—not Matt the charming husband, the overzealous lawyer. But you do recognize him. This voice, it belongs to the man who comes home late at night beaten within an inch of his life, collapsing on the floor as you scramble for the medkit. But that part of him has been quieter, gentler lately, less frequent with the overly suicidal excursions—a promise he’d offered you when he asked you to marry him. 

And yet here he is now, returned with that fire reignited, directed solely at you.

“You smell so good I can’t think straight,” Matt murmurs, his nose dragging along your throat, pausing to press a hot, deliberate kiss behind your ear. “You wanna know something?”

You nod, the unbearable heat trickling between your thighs.

“You were holding him,” he begins, voice rasping like he can barely get the words out, “and all I could think about was my baby. Our baby. You’re ovulating right now, and Christ, sweetheart—I can smell it on you.”

That stops your breath cold. You’re reeling, your internal voice screaming for decorum, coolness, anything that might save face—but it’s impossible to, not when hot nerves are zinging traitorously through your body at his words. Not when his hands are on you, hot as brands. Not when he’s put words to the question you’d been hoping he’d bring up again for the past year.

It’s so embarrassing how easily he unravels you. Case in point–

His hand cups your sex through your soaked underwear, pressing the heel of his palm into you hard.

“Matt—!” It’s more of a plea than anything else, but you barely manage to say anything else before his hands slide down your weakened thighs, broad palms curling under them, and he lifts you effortlessly. He hikes you up further against the wall, grinding his hips into you and fuck, you can feel him pulsing—he’s like iron, a fact you’re darkly aware of even through the unconscionably selfish layers of his clothes hiding his hardness from view. The sheer force of his want makes you gasp, hands to his chest as if to push him away—though you clearly have no intention of doing so.

But seemingly, he does.

He pulls back from the kiss, and for the first time all night, you catch a flicker of hesitation cross his face. A crack in the mask of breathless certainty, the very same that had carried you across the room and into his arms just minutes ago.

“Are you sure you want this?” 

You almost laugh. He’s asking you? When he’s the one tearing you out of your clothes, talking filth? “Are you?” 

“I… Well–” The vibrations of his voice tickle your collarbone as Matt rests his head against your shoulder, unceremoniously snapped from the trance of his arousal. Visibly, achingly, he’s searching for words that won’t come. You take it upon yourself to help him out.

“I am.” It’s unsatisfactory; his silence tells you this. For a moment there’s only his measured breathing. But you know what he’s not saying, and he doesn’t have to tell you. It’s there again—the old voice in his head, convincing him he doesn’t deserve any of this, much less the privilege of asking for anything more. The quickly vining doubt in him dictates it: allowing himself this is the most selfish thing he can do. 

You cup his face in your hands so he can’t turn away from you.

“Matt, I know what you’re thinking,” you say gently. “I want this, alright?”

For a split second, you wonder what it’ll take to pull him back from his misery. You swallow, rubbing the sides of your thumbs along his cheeks soothingly. “I want it. Not in spite of your life; because of it. Yes, you bleed and lie and you flake out and… keep going on these fucking suicide missions and yes, yes they scare the shit out of me… But even if I’m scared, I believe you’ll come home, because you always do; that’s who you are. You keep getting back up even if the world’s given you so much reason to be unkind to it.” 

Wordlessly, you reach up and remove his glasses gingerly, tossing them toward the table. They land somewhere with a dull clatter. In the half-light of the living room, you can only make out parts of him, the cut of his cheekbone, the impressionistic slopes of definition on his face. This must be just a fraction of how he sees you, defined solely by blunt form and sensation.

“And that’s why I’m here, too. It’s just my choice as it is yours.” You press your forehead to his, finding him scorching against your clammy skin, before pulling back again. “Your night patrols, all that… If you believe that people deserve all the chances they can get, that there’s always a future for them no matter what came before, then have faith that it includes you, Matt. Everything you fight for is why I believe we could do this. What’s ahead could be dangerous, but what if it’s worth it a—what’s that word you like?” Your lips quirk slightly. “A thousandfold more. We can still bring good into the world, in all the ways we can, can’t we?”

Have faith that it includes you, Matt.

He closes his eyes. He does want it, all of it, more than anything in the world and he’s being the greediest man in the world right now, taking and taking and you’re letting him. Have faith that it includes you.

“You make it sound so easy.”

“Well, it is. It’s no question if it’s with you.” You pause for a bit, before leaning back in, eyebrows wiggling playfully. “And you know, I haven’t refilled my prescription… So if we do this, it’s real. So ask me again.”

An incredulous, lighthearted scoff finally breaks through him. “Unbelievable. Are you sure you’re not the lawyer between us, sweetheart? That was one hell of an argument,” he says, chuckling boyishly through the pecks you’ve started to nip on his cheeks. “Fine. Last chance—are you sure about this?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Ha, ha, Mr. Murdock. Please. As if you believe in last chances.” 

He grins, can’t help it, can’t hide it; it’s crooked and a little desperate. But it’s impossible to skirt around it, your body betraying every rational thought. “Yes,” you whisper, your legs wrapping around his waist, arms sliding around his neck to pull him closer. “Yes, I want this. I want you.”

The words have barely left your mouth before Matt presses his hips into yours again, his groan muffled against your neck. The conversation has quelled the worst of his fears—but not the hunger. If anything, your unshakeable trust in him has unleashed something deeper within, darker and older than guilt. Something he can’t say aloud.

But God knows it. And he knows it.

The knowledge threatens to unmake him: he could fill you now, right now with your heated body primed and the timing perfect, let nature take its course. Your cunt is soft and warm and open, ripe and ready for him. And fuck, it hits him like a train.

Fucking you full to knock you up, marking you with proof of your unwavering faith— 

The thought makes his cock ache so hard it’s a mercy he’s still clothed.

Conversely you’re a mess, dress bunched up and panties soaked, and your heart is beating so hard you’re sure it’s deafening him. Matt locks your thighs over his forearms and carries you down the hall in steady steps, kiss never breaking until your back finally hits the bed. He’s over you in seconds, broad and solid and trembling with restraint that’s quickly breaking.

He looms above you, working deftly on the buttons of his shirt with one hand, the other braced beside you on the mattress to keep you where he wants you. His lips—rosy and pouted, kiss-swollen—curl into a knowing half-smirk.

“You have no idea,” his voice is rich with the thickness of his lust, “the way you taste and smell right now. If you could feel what I feel standing this close to you, you’d lose your mind.”

The shirt finally slips free, hitting the floor with a dull thud. Your eyes trail over his chest, marked by two long scars like uneven wings taking flight. Then his broad shoulders, the planes and valleys of muscle. Oh, Christ. He leans down, his hands already finding the material of your dress.

“Up,” he coaxes, warm but unyielding. You obey instinctively, helpless to raise your arms up and shimmy a little so he can peel the dress up and toss it aside in one smooth motion. His lips descend to your collarbone, stubble grazing the sensitive skin there as he kisses you with maddening patience. Every sensation of his tickling, hot breath sends sparks rushing through your veins, but it isn’t nearly enough. You squirm, desperate for more, but he’s already working his way down—kisses tracing paths between the valley of your breasts, down your stomach, until he reaches the waistband of your panties.

Nose nudging against the soaked fabric, Matt inhales deep, a shameless groan rumbling from his chest as his hands grip your thighs, keeping them spread. “Fuck,” he murmurs, “you’re dripping for me, honey. Been like this since the train home, haven’t you?”

You flush but don’t deny it. The damp feel of the delicate lace between your thighs is proof enough. He chuckles softly at your silence, a finger twisting under the waistband to peel the damp fabric down, sliding it off the smooth skin of your legs to toss it aside. And suddenly, the room seems to be completely saturated by your arousal, steeping into every inch of air he pulls into his lungs.

Still, Matt doesn’t seem to be in any rush. His lips return to your inner thighs, tracing sultry kisses to burning flesh. Thighs pressed to his ears, the sound of your arteries reverberates like a drumline inside his skull. Femoral, uterine, iliac —he can name every one he hears. A symphony thrumming for him, hot and rhythmic. He kisses the spot where it sings beneath your skin.

(What an asshole, you’re thinking, knowing his every peck is deliberate; every drag of his tongue is just close enough to where you need him that it makes you squeal with frustration.)

“Matt,” you snip, tugging at his locks to guide him where you want him. “Stop teasing and just fuck me already!”

He pulls back from between your legs, lips curved into a cocky grin. “Be patient,” he chides, shaking his head like you’re a child spoiled rotten. “I gotta take care of you first, don’t I?”

You open your mouth to argue, but he isn’t done.

“I heard, it’ll take better if you come first,” he says evenly, using that court voice, the one he uses to explain the facts of a case and win over the jury without fail. “So… I’m gonna make you come again…” a kiss on the inner side of your knee, “…and again….” on your inner thigh, “…and again…” on your pubic mound, “…until your body has no choice but to take me.”

The filthy promise pulls you taut as his nose bumps against your clit. “Oh? And just where did you hear this news from, Counselor– Oh Christ–!” You gasp, hands tightening in his hair as his tongue darts out, tasting you lightly before pulling back just long enough to smirk at how you tremble under him.

“See?” Matt says, voice positively dripping with smugness. “You’re already so wet, sweetheart. Let me handle it, alright?”

And then he buries himself between your thighs, his tongue delving into your folds with ravenous precision. Fuck, he could die happy right then, the sour-sweet taste of your slickness robust and vividly ripe on his tongue, incomparable to its scent he’d only enjoyed since before that point. You cry out, your head falling back to the mattress as he pulls you higher with every stroke of his tongue, every flick and flat press against your clit, mouth working generously to kiss your needy cunt open.

Determined to see you come undone, he dives his rough fingers into you, his tongue maintaining pressure upon your clit. Your walls clench at the sensation of being breached, nerves going haywire with excitement as he pumps his fingers in and out of you. When you call out his name, he brushes at that sensitive spot, conditioning you by the whimpers and cries falling out of your mouth. Training you like an animal to associate the heightened pleasure with his name, though really he has no need to. No one has ever touched you with such precise devotion as him. 

Your heels dig into his back, hips canting to demand more. Matt grunts against you, the vibrations sending shockwaves through your entire body, and you can feel the mattress dipping slightly as he ruts against it, his own desperation spilling over.

“Matty—fuck—” you pant, hands clutching at the sheets. He only growls in response, his free hand curling against your legs to hold you in place, barring any attempt at escape. He’s eating you like a man starved, shamelessly groaning and fucking the mattress at your taste—and with the pressure in your stomach threatening to snap, you fold and unfold, instinctively trying to get away.

But Matt, all-knowing and bent on denying you the privilege of holding back, presses down harder inside you, rubbing while he sucks at your clit. You curse uncontrollably and the white-hot high finally, finally washes over you violently, downwards, down then up with your thighs clamped around his head, clenching around his thick, thrusting fingers. Matt refuses to slow down or let up, working you through every spasm until you’re left a panting, boneless mess beneath him.

“Christ,” you mutter weakly, when you can get it together enough to speak. The world’s still spinning around you, folded inwards to just the sight of him sitting back on his heels. His mouth and jaw are obscenely glistening with your wetness. Matt, sensing your hitched breath, correctly infers that you’re staring shamelessly at him, and at the bulge that’s tented angrily between his legs.

Smug little shit that he is, he brings his hand up to his mouth. The pretty-pink petals of his lips purse around his fingers as he revels in your taste. Matt hums his praise low in his throat, but you don’t get to enjoy the show as much as you want. The mattress shifts, and his hands close tight around your waist, turning you over onto your arms and knees.

Bent over for him, the anticipation is electric, your body still oversensitive from your high. But you can’t help it, that errant need to reassert yourself.

“Jesus, finally,” you muse, smirking above your shoulder. “I was starting to think you were all talk, Counselor.”

That earns a snap.

You hear the leathery rasp of his belt sliding through the loops of his pants, a sound that makes your toes curl.

“Watch your mouth,” he says, pushing your head forward. He leans down to press a hard, claiming kiss to your shoulder blade. The cold metal of the belt buckle kisses your wrists a moment later, and he binds them behind your back in a practiced knot, giving the binding a perfunctory tug to test its hold. 

Oh. Fuck.

Every inch of your arched posture has you laid bare for him in surrender. Your shoulders are sunken into the mattress, having lost the arms to brace yourself with. Ever the gentleman, he holds you steady with a firm grip while the other hand touches between your thighs, trailing all the way to your wet slit. He inhales sharply at the mess waiting for him, your arousal clinging sticky up to his knuckles. 

Matt huffs a laugh under his breath.

“So fucking ready for me,” he murmurs. 

Fisting his cock, he gives it a few rough tugs, precum slicking over his palm as he aligns his hips behind you, pushing forward. You feel the fat, hot head of his cock notch between your folds, and your cunt clenches on instinct, greedy for the stretch about to come. But Matt’s cruel with his patience, and his pace is leisurely slow.

One of his hands finds the knot of your bound wrists and tightens his grip, using the tension to anchor himself. 

He’s soaking in every detail. How your heat radiates off every cell of your skin; the fertile slick seeping out of you, perfuming the air so thickly he can taste it on his tongue. He can hear your heartbeat in your cunt, veins rushing with blood and fuck, he wants to ruin it, claim you with a violence that will leave no doubt in your body, least not in your womb. But even completely soaked, he knows your body needs time to adjust to him.

You whimper, pushing back to take control, but Matt holds you rooted in place. “Ah,” he tuts, clicking his tongue in disapproval. “You’re not getting it that easy, sweetheart. Patience, remember?”

“I literally just fucking came!”

He grits his teeth. The blunt crest of his cock presses into you, splitting you open and it knocks any trace of defiance from your mouth, bordering on too much but your pussy’s welcoming it, spasming around the overwhelming sensation as he fills you to the hilt.

“Oh fuck—” you gasp, “you’re so deep, Matt– Matt—”

“Yeah?” Voice almost cracking as he draws his hips back, only to thrust forward again with a punishing roll that has you keening. “I told you. So fucking tight. Jesus. Your pussy’s just pulling me in.”

Your body jolts with every thrust, each one driving deeper, testing the limits of what you can take. Every time he slams in, your cunt makes a wet humiliating sound and then the hand gripping your wrists slides up, pushing between your shoulder blades to shove you down hard into the mattress as his movements pick up. Fucking you in earnest, his cock drilling into your heat with a brutal, single-minded rhythm that has you whimpering, crying out his name.

“Listen to how wet you are,” he snarls, grabbing the round swell of your ass, “you want it as bad as I do. You smelled so fucking good all day, d’you know how hard it was for me? It was torture. So good with that baby— Gonna let me give you one? Make you mine? Do you want that, honey?”

“Yes–fuck–yes,” you’re panting, thighs trembling as the coil in your stomach tightens and tightens, “want it so bad, Matt, don’t stop–”

“Oh, I’m not stopping,” Matt growls, his chest pressing flush against your back. His breath is hot and wet in your ear. “How many kids do you want, honey? I’ll give you as many as you’ll let me. I’ll put one in you right now. Not gonna stop til I fill you up.”

The shift in angle forces a sob from you as he sinks even deeper, his cock grinding up deeper than before, hitting that unbearable bundle of nerves with a dense pressure that makes your vision blur at the edges. Your arms are still trapped between your bodies, they’re numb and aching but it feels so so good, getting fucked by your husband with abandon. Matt doesn’t falter; he’s fully over you, pinning you down with his full weight as his mouth finds the curve of your shoulder, teeth scraping the tender skin before biting down hard.

You cry out, pain-blinded. The sharpness slices clean through you and with the overwhelming heat, the stretch of him inside you—there it is, you come undone with a fractured sob, violent and searing. Your bound hands writhe uselessly, the bite on your shoulder singing as your vision whites out. Your ears ring, barely registering Matt’s voice swimming in and out of focus, calling you Good girl good girl… his hand petting your head, stroking your hair as your body shakes for him.

Then he’s pushing himself upright again, pulling out and rising to his knees behind you. His praises are still trailing out of him in soft whispers. One hand reaches for the belt at your wrists, tugging—your spine pulled upright by the motion. You whimper a breathy protest as your limbs stretch from disuse.

“You’re doing so well for me,” he praises, voice buttery and low. He sounds so sweet it makes your bruised core flutter, even now. His hands work at the leather binding behind you and finally, mercifully, you’re freed. But your body’s limp, shaking from the aftermath, and without the belt holding you up, you collapse forward like a puppet with its strings cut.

Matt chuckles. “Easy, baby.”

He eases you over onto your back carefully, slipping a pillow under your spine to support your sore back. He’s pressing kisses all over your cheeks— and his cock, still swollen and slick with your release, twitches at the salt clinging to his mouth. You’ve been crying.

“Poor thing,” he murmurs, brushing a knuckle along your jaw. “So sweet for me. Is my girl tired?”

You can barely say anything; you nod shakily. Your arms are tingling from the blood finally returning.

“And does she want to stop, hm?” A kiss to your cheek. “Does my sweet girl want to stop?”

You manage a small shake of your head.

A rough, pleased sound rumbles from his chest. “Good. That’s what I thought.”

The pins and needles in your arms are buzzing unpleasantly, but your cunt clenches at his voice anyway. You whine pitifully, and of course he hears.

“One more, alright, honey? Will you give me one more?”

Then he’s shifting, settling himself between your legs again. His hands wrap under your knees–thumbs pressing into the tender divots beneath the joints—and he presses them forward, toward your shoulders. Folded in half, you gasp at the stretch. Completely open beneath him, pinned by nothing but his weight, you shiver under the totality of his presence over you.

“This,” he murmurs, brushing a hand over your lower belly, “this is where our baby’s gonna grow, sweetheart. Right here.”

The blunt head of his cock nudges at your entrance and you’re so wet it slides through the mess of your arousal, teasing but not entering, just enough to make you sob.

“Matt—please—”

“Shh,” he soothes, lining himself up, pressing in. “There we go. So good for me, you’re taking it so well.”

This angle—God, it’s worse than before; better than it. Deeper, impossibly so, hitting places inside you you’ve never felt before, spots that send your nerves screaming. You sob helplessly as your body struggles to accommodate him, every thrust dragging against your walls, each ridge and vein of his cock felt completely. 

“C’mon,” he pants as his movements pick up the pace, thrusts growing fast and erratic. “Gimme this one, sweetheart. Just one more for me, I promise.”

The bed protests beneath you, the frame rattling against the wall. The wet slap of skin fills the room, and just as you start to feel that sharpness creeping up again, something stupid occurs to you: you’re loud. Your screams, the creak of the bed, the sound of your cunt around him– the neighbors—

You turn your head, trying to muffle yourself against your arm.

Matt growls, yanking your arm down and at the same time, he pulls out nearly all the way—only to slam back in with bruising force, hard enough to knock all the breath from your lungs. You can’t stop the scream of his name torn from your throat.

“Matt— please, the neighbors—”

“No,” he snarls. “I’m your husband. I get to fuck you as loud as I want. You want this?” 

You nod frantically, too breathless to answer.

His hand finds your throat, grasping firmly around the delicate column. He feels the hammer of your pulse against his palm, heavy and turbulent like a rushing flood. He tightens his grip just enough to feel it catch beneath his thumb. To him, it seems unmistakably perverse—this power to still you if he wanted. And yet your trust is entire, your faith in him unshaken. 

“Then let them hear,” he says. “Let them hear what I do to my wife. Let them know how good I’m fucking her.”

A generous god, a present one. That’s what you’ve made him.

“Say my name,” he demands, voice rough, “want to feel it in your throat.”

“Matthew,” you choke out, completely helpless to his touch. Matthew, Matthew, Matthew…

It’s slipping. That darker thing inside him rising, coaxed loose by the mess of needy wetness where you’re connected. It wants to claim you and mark you, become His peer, one worthy of your devotion. 

Have faith that it includes you, Matt.

He licks the salt from your neck. “Can feel how close you are.”

His hand leaves your throat and presses flat against your stomach, right above where his cock punches deep. The pressure of his cock bulging under his palm sends another wave through your body. The feeling at the pit of your gut’s starting to rapidly swell, acute and compounding by the second as he fucks you with the whole length of his cock. 

“Feel that?” he rasps, pressing down harder. “That’s where m’gonna fill you. Right into your womb. And if it doesn’t take this time— I’ll fucking make sure it does the next. You won’t even have to lift a finger.”

Then his hand drops lower, to your cunt, gathering your creamy slick with his thumb to rub the swollen nub of your clit with. 

“Come for me, sweetheart,” he says, the words strangled. “Come while I fuck my baby into you.”

You look down where you’re connected, where his cock sinks in and out of you, coated in slick and so much need and you break. Your walls seize around his length, body convulsing as your climax tears through you. You cry out, legs twitching and nails raking across the sheets. Above you, Matt groans with a guttural, broken sound. His hips drive forward once, twice—the head of his cock kissing the ripe seal of your womb, and then he’s coming, thick and hot, filling you with so much it leaks around his cock even as he keeps pumping deep as he can go. His sweat’s dripping onto you as he holds you tightly, arms trembling with the effort of staying upright. You twitch beneath him, aftershocks rolling still and he collapses onto you, pulsing with the last desperate pulses of cum from his cock.

Your body’s completely pliant, legs trembling even when he finally stills. 

“Let gravity help,” he says, easing out gently. He slips the pillow from beneath your back and tucks it under your hips, before slumping beside you. You giggle weakly, nuzzling into his neck. Your sweet husband’s back, placing soft lingering kisses all over your face as his chest heaves from the earlier exertion.

“So,” you start, the haze starting to set, “can you really tell?”

“...Yes,” Matt admits. His voice is husky, warm with affection. “You smell different. And you’re warmer, just a little–”

“Smell different?! Do I stink or something?”

He laughs into your hair, arm pulling you in tight. “Sweetheart, I think we’ve established well enough that you smell absolutely beguiling to me.”

You roll your eyes, your finger tracing absent shapes on his chest. Heart, triangle, star. He hums at each one.

Smiley face. That earns a chuckle. 

“Anyway, you weren’t half bad with Teddy either,” you muse thoughtfully. “I think you’d make an amazing dad.”

You opt not to tease him about the blush creeping up his cheeks.

“Matt.” You clear your throat. “You know, I really do want it, but… I just want you to know that I’m happy, even just now. And I’m not stupid, I know you could…,” you try not to say die, “...well, the worst could happen. Even then, I’d still want this life with you, whatever I can get. When we got married, I knew that would come with it, and– And if we do have a kid, if the future holds that for us, then it won’t just be us. We have Foggy and Karen and Marci, and my family, too. Takes a village and all that, y’know?”

You pause to catch your breath, Matt nodding you on.

“Point is, we’ll never be left alone, no matter what. I know that’s something you worry about a lot. So if– if something ever did happen to you…” You force yourself to say it, “we’d survive. We can keep living. But between surviving with you and without you, I’ll always choose with. So I’m asking you to let yourself have this. If you really want it. Just promise me you’ll be more careful.”

Have faith that it includes you.

He’s silent for a moment, his hand stroking gently at the slope of your arm.

“I promise,” he says at last, “I really do want it.”

He knows you know the rest. That’s all he can say, pressing a kiss to your temple. Thank you isn’t nearly enough, but it buzzes in his pulse anyway. Smiling faintly into your hair, he lets it stretch just long enough… Before the gravity of the moment slips from his shoulders, not all the way but just enough to let in that familiar, crooked grin.

“Oh, but you know, honey,” he murmurs, lips on your cheek, “you’re not pregnant yet.”

The laugh bubbles from your throat, and he can feel the sound against his skin.

“That was just round one.” His hand slides down to grip your thigh, and he feels you shiver. Perfect. “Let’s get to work then, Counselor.”

a/n: i want his kids swimming in me

[irysque]

“omg this fic is so long im so sorry”

im going to eyp

[wooyoungsrightsock]

This and “English isn’t my first language” that’s how I know the fic will be scrumptious

[wooyoungsrightsock]

FINALLY FIGURED OUT MY FREEBIES FOR THE ATLANTA XH CONCERT

I’m making photocards, but make them memes..

[cryptotheism]

She let me hit it because I solved her riddles three

[bobakett]

When my hot wrestler wife leaves me

[bobakett]

Oh wrong post

[cryptotheism]

No stay in this space with me

[sugawhaaa]

The xh community on here is so small that istg we all know and interact with each other 24/7 unintentionally 😭

@liverspaghett @joocomics @joohanisms @jooillusion @b1mbodoll @puppyluvfics

[wooyoungsrightsock]

Well hi I’m newish I’ve been a casual listener since Happy Deathday but recently ( cause my best friend is obsessed with them) started stanning. I’ve bias Jooyeon since Happy Deathday

[sugawhaaa]

Omg welcome 😍 I promise you will not regret stanning them bc they are so silly and down to earth and they're music? Actual fire 🤭

[wooyoungsrightsock]

Thank you 😊 I have regretted it so far and from watching Rock the World I can tell they’re 6 goofy guys!!

[sugawhaaa]

The xh community on here is so small that istg we all know and interact with each other 24/7 unintentionally 😭

@liverspaghett @joocomics @joohanisms @jooillusion @b1mbodoll @puppyluvfics

[wooyoungsrightsock]

Well hi I’m newish I’ve been a casual listener since Happy Deathday but recently ( cause my best friend is obsessed with them) started stanning. I’ve bias Jooyeon since Happy Deathday

[dakusan-deactivated20250804]

First Claim I

Vampire!Seo Changbin x Reader | neck-biting, desk-fucking, plushie-bribing menace who accidentally imprints and panics

🔞synopsis: You’re a human research intern at Luxe Health—smart, stubborn, and the daughter of one of Chan’s closest human allies. You wanted field access. Real data. Real vampires. You didn’t expect to be assigned to Seo Changbin. Cold. Ruthless. Director of Hostile Containment. And now—completely obsessed with you. One blood-slick riot drill, a desk-breaking tension spiral, and a bar incident later, you’re covered in bite marks, plushies, and an illegal contract that says you’re his. You didn’t mean to fall in love. But then again, neither did he.

💌a/n: OH MY GOD I DID IT. I FINISHED IT. FIRST CLAIM I IS HERE. THE “I” IS NOT FOR AESTHETICS. IT’S BECAUSE I HAVE SINNED. 😇 You’re probably wondering why the title sounds like a vampire legal document and also why there’s a Roman numeral in it. WELL. FUN FACT. This fic was supposed to be a single thing. But then I blacked out halfway through writing the office scene and woke up with so many words, 17 plushies, a blood contract, and Jeongin threatening to flee the country. So now it’s in two parts 😇. Second part, click me, to continue reading 💋. Sorry it got this long that I had split p.s. reblog for clear skin, forehead kisses, and a vampire bf who growls when someone else touches you p.p.s. not to be dramatic but Changbin is the reason vampire HR exists now (hi seungmin, he's not getting paid enough for this) p.p.p.s. if you've ever had a thing for dangerous men who call you “baby” while saving your life and then ruin your life… same

⚠️ warnings: 18+ / MINORS DO NOT INTERACT | oral, penetrative (wrap it up people), multiple rounds | breeding kink if you squint | blood-sharing / vampire biting (consensual) | choking (consensual) | marking / possessiveness / claiming | rough sex → soft aftercare | desk sex, couch sex, morning sex | slight somnophilia vibes (you wake him up riding) | jealousy & territorial behavior | Jeongin trauma (comedic)

📌 Please read responsibly. Lock the door. Don’t bleed in front of rogue vampires. Stretch.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » Guilty — Taemin « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:10 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

Your father was one of the few humans who could walk into Luxe Health and be bowed to.

He never wanted the spotlight—didn’t need it. Power, he’d always told you, was quiet. It was in the rooms no one saw. It was in the contracts they couldn’t understand. His pharmaceutical empire made him a billionaire. His shadow investments in vampire medicine made him untouchable.

You’d grown up watching boardrooms turn silent when he entered. World leaders called him by his first name. Vampires—old ones, cruel ones—inclined their heads in recognition. His reach extended beyond patents and patents—he helped build Luxe, quietly backing Chan during the facility’s earliest expansions.

A legacy man, through and through.

And you? You were expected to be his reflection.

But instead of joining the executive suite, you carved a different path. PhD in biogenetics. Trauma recovery specialization. Graduated top of your year. Published early. Interned in high-risk human clinics. Refused nepotism—until now.

Because Luxe was different.

Luxe was where vampire biology met experimental care, where research meant risk. And you wanted in.

You’d stared Chan down during your interview, both of you seated in a private wing lit by enchanted glass and scent-sealed vents. You wore a black turtleneck and a steel charm under your wrist to keep your pulse from triggering a blood response. He wore concern under his professionalism.

“You could work anywhere. Hell, I’ll give you a lab myself.” “I don’t want a desk. I want data. Let me near the real ones.” “You understand this isn’t a simulation?” “I understand blood. I want to see what it does to them. I want to help.” “You get hurt in containment, your father will kill me.” “Then don’t let me get hurt.”

That got a small, reluctant grin out of him.

He still tried to assign you to Bio-Monitoring. You refused. He offered Private Recovery. You declined again. It was only after hours of back-and-forth, after you signed the enchanted consent papers and passed an emergency restraint drill that he finally gave in.

“Fine. I’ll assign you a handler.”

“Who?”

“Someone who’ll hate having you. Which means you’ll be safest.”

Enter Seo Changbin.

Director of Hostile Containment and Physical Defense Operations. Known inside Luxe as The Wall. The Lock. The Enforcer.

He was Normal-born—bloodlines rooted in protection, not politics. His family didn’t scheme. They didn’t climb. They stood in front of danger and took the blow first. The Seo name was legend in containment sectors, and Changbin had turned it into scripture.

He wasn’t like the other executives. He didn’t wear tailored suits or silk-lined coats. You first saw him from across the upper observation deck of Containment Wing B. Tactical gear. Armored sleeves. Twin silver hoop earrings—enchanted for sun protection. He barked orders with the gravel in his voice, hands wrapped in reinforced gloves still smudged with someone else’s blood.

You watched him haul a rage-state vampire back into a suppression cage with nothing but brute strength and clenched fangs.

You said nothing. But you felt your breath catch.

He turned—just once—to look up at the deck, meeting your gaze through reinforced glass.

It was the most silent threat you’d ever seen.

Your official orientation packet didn’t include a welcome. Just your schedule. And a warning scribbled in red at the bottom.

Changbin will meet you in Training Bay Four. Do not be late. Do not lie. Do not bleed.

Training Bay Four

You arrive two minutes early.

The corridor to Bay Four is silent, save for the hum of reinforced lighting and the soft tap of your shoes on vampire-grade flooring. Your badge grants you clearance with a flicker of enchanted silver. You note the biometric seals, the backup vents, the locked cabinet labeled "Anti-Feral Protocol: Class B+".

Cute.

The door slides open.

Inside: dim lights. Floor mats. Medical staging equipment along the walls. A tranquilizer gun laid casually on a side table. And him—Seo Changbin, arms crossed, shirt tight across muscle, sleeves rolled to his forearms like he’s about to kill something and doesn’t want blood on his wrists.

He doesn’t acknowledge you right away. Just glances once. Then keeps inspecting a steel baton in his hand.

You step forward, crisp and polite. “Director Seo.”

He doesn’t look up. “No.”

You blink. “No…?”

“Not Director. Not Sir. Not Handler.” His voice is low, flat. Dangerous. “I didn’t ask for this. So don’t pretend we’re in some stupid chain-of-command arrangement.”

Okay.

That’s the energy.

You clasp your hands behind your back. “Noted.”

He looks up then—eyes dragging over you slowly, not with lust, not yet, but suspicion. Like he’s cataloging every inch of you to determine how much of a liability you’ll be.

Hair tied back. Neutral expression. Enchanted cuffs, like Chan insisted. And a slim tablet tucked under one arm, filled with blank logs you’re meant to fill with field notes.

Changbin stares at it. Then at you.

“You bring that thing near a rage-state vamp and they’ll shatter it into your throat.”

You don’t blink. “Then I’ll take notes after they’re restrained.”

His jaw ticks.

It’s subtle, but you catch it. That flicker of annoyance, or maybe grudging respect, coiled tight in his posture. You know his type—military-minded, logic over emotion. He’s been trained to view anything human and rich as soft, as disposable, as protected by systems he doesn't trust.

You, unfortunately, were designed to make men like him twitch.

“You’re human,” he says bluntly. “I don’t care what degrees you’ve got. If they turn on you, you’re dead before I can move.”

You nod. “That’s why I’ll stand behind you.”

It slips out—a little bold, a little flirty, maybe. You can’t help it.

He scowls.

“Cute,” he mutters. “Let’s hope you’re still standing after your first bleed scare.”

You don’t respond to that. Instead, you cross to the nearest work station and begin pulling on a lab coat—charms embedded in the seams, scent-masking threads at the collar.

He watches you. In complete silence.

“What did you think I’d be like?” you ask, just to needle him.

“Worse,” he replies.

That makes you laugh, short and sharp. “Disappointed?”

He tosses the baton into a bin behind him without looking. The sound clangs off the wall. Then he steps toward you, stopping close enough that you feel the thick static of vampire presence—more force than temperature. Like a shift in gravity.

His voice lowers.

“I don’t care whose name is on your badge. You don’t belong here. That’s not a threat. That’s biology. That’s reality. You’re not built for this floor.”

You tip your chin up. “And yet. Here I am.”

Something flickers in his eyes—rage, maybe. Or something darker. “You bleed, and they’ll tear each other apart to get to you.”

“Then I won’t bleed.”

“And if you cry, I’ll have to restrain them. Not because of the sound. Because they’ll smell it. Because it’ll make you taste better.”

You swallow.

His gaze drops to your wrist. The vein there, soft beneath the cuff.

Then—

“You’re not mine,” he says finally. “That’s why this is a problem.”

And he walks past you. Straight into the containment wing.

The rest of the week is… interesting.

Changbin doesn’t speak unless he has to. You suspect it’s a self-preservation tactic—less words, less risk of snarling them. He prefers barked instructions, curt assessments, and the occasional dry, "Don’t do that," when you dare to observe too closely.

You’re not offended. You’ve been ignored by worse. And at least this vampire doesn’t smile at you with fake charm—he just stares at your pulse like it’s his job.

Because it is.

Still, the chemistry starts to hum beneath everything. Silently. Inappropriately.

Like the time you dropped your pen near an observation cage and leaned down to grab it—and he was suddenly behind you, one hand ghosting your elbow like he’d yanked himself back at the last second.

“Don’t kneel in containment zones,” he snapped.

“Why?”

“You don’t want to look like prey.”

You stood slowly. His eyes stayed on your throat the entire time.

Or when you laughed during an intercom briefing—just a soft exhale, something about the absurdity of rage-state protocol involving the phrase “de-escalate with tone modulation”—and he turned so sharply you thought he’d dislocated his neck.

“Something funny?”

“Tone modulation, Changbin.”

“My tone is modulated.”

“It is,” you grinned. “Modulatedly pissed.”

He looked away before you could see his mouth twitch.

divider

And then there was Hyunjin.

Director of Sensory Magic and Bond-Stabilisation Therapy. Ethereal. Tall. Wears flowy black trousers that are definitely cursed for dramatic effect. Smells like sandalwood and metaphysical trauma.

He appears at 8:04 AM, waltzing into the containment briefing room with a portfolio under one arm and a crystal cup of black tea in the other.

“You’re the intern, right?” he says to you, voice like a lullaby dipped in sarcasm. “Hi. I’m Hyunjin. I specialize in trauma, blood, and unbearable beauty.”

Changbin: sighs like he’s aged six years.

You blink. “Pleasure?”

“Likewise. Your scent is... odd. I like it. Feels like lavender anxiety with a hint of ‘my dad’s the reason this building exists.’”

“That is disturbingly accurate.”

“Thank you. I smell emotions for a living.”

Changbin, already done: “Why are you here.”

“Art therapy,” Hyunjin replies cheerfully. “One of your patients bit a guard and then painted a ceiling mural in dried blood. So now it’s my turn.”

You nod solemnly. “That's either deeply poetic or a workplace hazard.”

Hyunjin gives you a conspiratorial smile, then leans toward Changbin.

“You’re vibrating.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. You’ve been vibrating since she got here.”

“Get out.”

“Oh, I will. But not before I tell you this—”

“The bond lines are reacting.”

A silence falls.

You frown. “What?”

Changbin goes very still. Hyunjin just sips his tea.

“I don’t think there’s a full imprint,” Hyunjin muses, eyes half-lidded. “But there’s a shimmer. Minor resonance. Micro-claim reaction, maybe from proximity or blood compatibility. Nothing formal. Yet.”

“Explain,” Changbin says darkly.

“It means,” Hyunjin purrs, “that your subconscious thinks she’s yours.”

You try not to choke on your breath. Changbin’s jaw clenches so hard you hear it crack.

“Get. Out.”

“Love you too~” Hyunjin sings, walking pleased with himself.

You don’t speak. Neither does Changbin.

He storms past you. You catch the heat in his eyes as he brushes your shoulder—intentional this time—and the word he mutters beneath his breath.

“Fucking bond magic.”

You find him ten minutes later in the weapons sanitization bay, rinsing blood off his gloves like the scent offends him personally. You’ve learned not to speak until the first rinse cycle finishes—he doesn’t like being startled when he’s armed, which is fair, given that his fists are already registered as weapons.

Still, you’re kind of proud of yourself for finding him at all.

“Director Seo,” you say, purposefully polite, like nothing awkward or claim-related was dropped into the air twenty minutes ago. “Reporting for observation duty.”

He doesn’t look up. “You’re not scheduled for containment until this afternoon.”

“I reviewed the schedule. You approved my presence for the morning tier-three briefings.”

Now he looks up.

Slow. Irritated. Maybe impressed.

You smile. Not too much. Just enough to say: you may be terrifying, but I am very smart and very annoying, and I know what I’m doing.

He exhales through his nose and turns to unstrap his arm guards. “You’re exhausting.”

“You’ve barely spoken to me today.”

“Exactly.”

You follow him down the hall.

“So. What’s the plan for the briefing?”

“We sit. We talk about the vampires that tried to kill us yesterday. Then we eat sad protein bars and pray the afternoon isn’t worse.”

“Do I get a protein bar?”

“No.”

“Rude.”

He opens a door with his palm print. You keep walking two steps behind, like some kind of blood-resistant intern duckling.

“Stop following me like that,” he mutters.

“Like what?”

“Like you trust me.”

You pause. Just a beat. “Shouldn’t I?”

He doesn’t answer. Not with words. Just stops at the door to the observation deck, turns on his heel, and pins you in place with one look. Not violent. Not even angry. Just—charged.

His eyes drop briefly to your wrist.

You know why. The cuffs. The enchanted ones. Your pulse hides behind them, but not perfectly. Not anymore.

“That bond shimmer thing,” you say casually. “Is it real?”

His jaw clenches. “No.”

“Hyunjin said—”

“Hyunjin says a lot of shit when he’s bored.”

“But he’s Director of Bond-Stabilisation—”

“And half-little shit. So maybe don’t let him seduce you with theories about what might be humming in your bloodstream.”

You try not to laugh. “You’re jealous.”

He levels you with a stare. “I’m protective.”

A beat.

“Let’s go. You’re already late to pretend you’re qualified.”

The observation deck smells like silver disinfectant and anticipation.

A long arc of reinforced glass separates the interns, researchers, and field techs from the three vampire patients below. Tier Three—partially stable, partially sedated. They pace like sharks in segmented enclosures, each one built to suppress a different aspect of their bloodlust.

One wears a pulse collar. Another has her hands in anti-magic cuffs. The third—

The third just stares at the ceiling, whispering to someone who isn’t there.

You’ve read their files. Watched their intake footage. Memorized their reactions to auditory triggers, temperature shifts, scent stimuli.

None of that prepares you for seeing them in person. For feeling the way the air tightens when their eyes flash toward the deck.

You exhale slowly.

Changbin stands behind you now. Arms crossed, expression unreadable. His presence is less a body and more a barrier—a pressure field humming behind your spine, like even your heartbeat has to ask permission to move.

You speak low. “I thought Tier Three wouldn’t react to observers.”

“They don’t,” he says. “Unless they smell something… interesting.”

You glance back at him. “Am I interesting?”

His gaze flicks down your neck. Just once. “You’re a problem.”

Your lips twitch. “Is that why you’re standing like a vault?”

He doesn’t answer. Just nods toward one of the staffers entering the lower level—tranq cart in hand, ready for standard evaluation.

You go still.

Because the vampire closest to the glass has stopped moving.

He’s looking at the intern. Then, slowly—too slowly—his head turns toward the deck.

His nostrils flare.

And his eyes lock on you.

A sound escapes his throat. Low. Animal.

The lights shift in warning—soft amber glow pulsing into a harsh, sterile white. That means pre-breach aggression. No movement yet. But something is rising in him, and it’s not from visual cues.

“Changbin,” you say quietly. “He’s scenting me.”

Before you finish the sentence, Changbin steps between you and the glass. His hand comes up—not touching you, but close, too close—and his body covers yours like instinct.

“Do not move.”

You freeze. Not out of fear. Out of recognition. This is what he was made for. Not planning. Not speaking. Not strategy. Just this. Standing between danger and what it wants.

The vampire lets out a snarl. Not at Changbin—at you. At your blood. Your presence. At whatever trace has started seeping through your enchanted cuffs.

“He shouldn’t be able to scent me through protocol,” you whisper.

Changbin’s voice is low. Controlled. Not for you—for himself. “He shouldn’t. Which means something changed.”

You swallow. “Is it the bond shimmer?”

He doesn’t answer. Just turns to the observation technician and snaps, “Trigger level-one sedative protocol. Now.”

You don’t speak as the team below confirms sedation, locking the cell with reinforced restraints. Changbin watches the whole process with his arms folded tight over his chest, jaw clenched hard, like he’s holding back teeth and truth in the same breath.

You feel the tremor in your own fingers. Faint. Ridiculous. You’re not supposed to shake. Not after everything you’ve trained for.

So instead—you do what you’re meant to.

You sit. You pull out your tablet. You start writing.

Tier Three Observation Log: Day 7 Time: 14:31 KST Subject: Patient 3 Status: Rage-state response triggered. Sedation successful. Unscheduled aggression. Cause: Unknown.

You pause. Your fingers hesitate over the stylus. Then, slowly, you write:

“Possible external stimulus: researcher blood compatibility breach. Protocol seals potentially bypassed via resonance shimmer.” “Unknown if catalyst is environmental or biological.” “Proximity to Director Seo… may be relevant.”

Behind you, you feel it—the shift in air pressure. Changbin moves.

You keep writing.

“Subject’s behavioral pattern deviated within 5–6 seconds of visual contact. Breathing irregularity noted in researcher. Physical response from Director Seo immediate. Shield positioning, non-contact but full frontal coverage.” “Verbal command issued: ‘Do not move.’” “Researcher obeyed.”

You shouldn’t write that part. But you do. Because it’s the truth.

You stop.

Because there’s a shadow over your shoulder now. His breath, soft. Controlled. Right beside your neck.

“Are you writing about me?”

You don’t look up. “This is observation. You're part of the response system. Therefore, you're in the log.”

He’s quiet.

Then—

“You wrote down that you obeyed me.”

Your throat tightens.

Still, you force your voice to stay clinical. “It was a direct command. I assessed the situation. You were correct.”

He huffs. Not quite a laugh. Not quite not one either. “You always do what you’re told, then?”

You tilt your head. “Are you asking professionally or personally?”

Silence.

Then he steps back, just enough for you to exhale fully again. “Pack up. You’re done for the day.”

You blink. “What? No. That was one anomaly—”

“It was one second from breach. One second from your blood on the glass. You’re done.”

You rise, slowly. “You don’t get to bench me, Changbin. I’m here to learn. I’m not afraid.”

He moves so fast you don’t see it—only feel it. Your back hits the wall. Gently. Caged. Not rough. Not dangerous. Just… immediate. His hand braces near your head.

You could push him away. You don’t.

“Do I make you nervous?” he asks, voice low.

You lift your chin. “No.”

“Then why are you standing like you’ll bolt the second I move?”

Your breath hitches. His eyes drop to your mouth.

“You need to understand something,” he says, voice darker now. “This isn’t a lab anymore. You’re not some ghost in the background. Not to them.”

Not to me, either. He doesn’t say it. But you hear it anyway.

“You bleed down here,” he murmurs, “and they’ll turn on each other just to see who gets to taste it first.”

You swallow. “And you?”

A pause.

“I’m not them.”

His eyes are still on your mouth.

Your breath stutters. The room feels smaller. Like the space between your spine and the wall is folding in on itself. Like if he leaned forward just one inch—

The door hisses. And everything stops.

You both freeze like teenagers caught under the bleachers.

Then: “...Wow,” comes a familiar voice. Flat. Dry. Absolutely done. “Am I interrupting?”

Changbin doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even pretend to look guilty.

You, on the other hand, do the awkward shuffle-of-shame, stepping sideways out of his arm cage like oh nothing to see here despite the fact that you’re flushed, your pulse is audible, and your cuff is glowing faintly.

You don’t have to turn around to know it’s Chan.

CEO of Luxe. Founder. Friend of your father. And currently standing there with his arms crossed like he walked in on two pit bulls mid-mating ritual.

“You know,” Chan says, squinting at Changbin, “when I said ‘protect her,’ I didn’t mean press her into the infrastructure.”

You cough.

Changbin doesn’t react. Just exhales slowly, gaze still on you, dangerously unreadable.

“Nothing happened,” he says.

Chan raises a brow. “Sure. And I’m a priest.”

You attempt to salvage your dignity by fixing your shirt and clearing your throat. “Director Seo was explaining scent-driven aggression. We were discussing field protocol.”

“Yeah,” Chan says. “Your field protocol involves pinning interns to reinforced walls and breathing like a dying wolfhound?”

You frown. “That's oddly specific—”

“—because that’s exactly what I just saw,” Chan cuts in. “Look, I get it. Trauma bonding. Biological resonance. Forbidden attraction. Super hot. Not here.”

Changbin finally turns. “We weren’t doing anything.”

“Your arm was over her head. There was breathing. You were doing something.”

A long pause. You bite your lip.

Chan runs a hand through his hair. Then looks at you. “Are you alright?”

You nod, heat crawling up your neck. “Fine. No contact.”

“No contact yet,” Chan mutters under his breath. “Hyunjin’s going to have a field day.”

Changbin glares.

Chan throws up his hands. “Alright, alright. Just—dial it down, yeah? Last thing I need is her father calling me to ask why his daughter is suddenly branded like Luxe property.”

Your heart skips. Changbin stiffens.

“That’s not happening,” he says, too fast.

Chan raises an eyebrow. “You sure? Because your scent is all over her cuffs. And she’s glowing.”

You glance down.

Shit. Your cuff is glowing. Just faintly. Silver shimmer, almost imperceptible—except you know what that means.

Resonance.

“Fantastic,” Chan sighs. “If you bite her, I’m firing both of you. And also throwing a party, because finally. But then firing you. Definitely that part.”

He turns to leave. Pauses in the doorway. “Oh—and we have a board meeting in twenty minutes. Thought you should know, Bin. Maybe wipe the murder off your face.”

And he’s gone.

The door hisses shut.

Silence.

You stare at the wall for a full beat before turning back to Changbin, who’s now leaning against a metal cabinet, arms crossed, smoldering with quiet fury and something else.

“So,” you say lightly. “That was... educational.”

He exhales.

“I need to kill Hyunjin.”

You grin. “You want to kiss me.”

A pause.

Then: “That’s the fucking problem.”

Your cheeks are burning.

Not in the cute, girlish way. Not in the “oops he caught me off guard” way either.

More like: Changbin just said he wants to kiss you, in that low, ruined voice of his like it physically hurts him to admit it, and now you’re standing here flushed, breathless, trying to decide if you need a cold shower, a therapy appointment, or a restraining order.

And yet, you're frozen in place, mouth open in mild, stunned betrayal of your own hormones.

“I—excuse me?” you manage, voice pitching slightly.

He doesn’t repeat it.

He just turns away, rubbing the back of his neck, muscles shifting under his shirt like anger barely contained by sinew.

You blink. Once. Twice.

Then, with as much dignity as you can salvage: “Okay. Great talk. Loved that. Definitely didn’t almost faint. Gonna go now.”

You turn, fast. Start toward the door like it hasn’t been absolutely defiled by tension in the past three minutes. You nearly trip on your own tablet case.

Changbin doesn’t say anything—of course he doesn’t—but you can feel his eyes on your back. Watching you leave like you’re some kind of… temptation with legs and clearance level three.

You smack the door control.

“See you later,” you call without looking.

“Not if I see you first,” he mutters.

You pause. Glance back. “Was that a threat?”

“No,” he says. “That was restraint.”

Luxe Health: Secure Conference Chamber 04.

The lights are low. The table is long. The vibe is supposed to be “strategic think tank,” but it’s rapidly deteriorating into “eight vampire men trying not to talk about the girl their enforcer wants to throw against a wall.”

Chan sits at the head. Arms folded. Pretending to be in CEO mode.

To his right: Minho—sharp suit, sharper cheekbones, reading a file with the kind of expression that says I will kill you if this isn’t worth my time.

Next: Changbin, still silent, jaw tight, the ghost of that wall scene clinging to his shoulders like scent.

Across from him: Hyunjin, dressed like a cursed gallery curator, twirling a charmed ring around his finger like he knows exactly what happened and will Not Be Normal About It.

Felix, beside Hyunjin, radiating golden-boy calm but quietly watching Changbin like he’s a patient with rising vitals.

Jisung is already bored. Playing with a vial of enchanted hemalixir, mumbling something about “scent stabilization is a myth, unless the girl’s really hot, in which case—yeah.”

Seungmin, pristine as always, flipping pages in the Medical-Legal Binder™ with the calm of someone who has absolutely drafted “What To Do If Your Co-Worker Bites a Human Intern” policy before.

Jeongin sits at the end, very clearly not supposed to be here, scribbling notes like do not flirt with rage-state interns even if they are pretty???

Chan clears his throat. “Alright. Meeting agenda. Let’s start with the containment breach.”

Minho: “Handled.” Chan: “Great. Sedation delays?” Seungmin: “Filed. Disciplinary warnings pending.” Felix: “Patient is stable. No residual psychic fallout.” Hyunjin: “No feedback loops. But there was—” he pauses, smiling slowly “—a resonance flare.”

Seven heads turn.

Changbin doesn’t move.

Jisung: “Like a shimmer?” Felix: “How strong?” Hyunjin: “Enough to make her cuff glow.” Seungmin: “Her cuff glowed?” Jeongin: “Her?”

Minho sets down his file. “Who’s her.”

Chan exhales loudly, temples already throbbing. “The intern.”

Minho stares. “The intern?” Seungmin: “The investor’s daughter?” Hyunjin: “Oh, she has a name now. Fascinating.” Felix: “This was during observation rounds?” Jisung: “I thought she was in Bio-Monitoring.” Chan: “She asked for Containment. I approved it.” Minho: “Why?” Chan: “Because she’s qualified.” Hyunjin: “Because you’re afraid of her dad.” Chan: “Also that.”

Pause.

Then Hyunjin, with all the grace of a panther mid-gossip: “Changbin pinned her to a wall.”

Silence. Absolute silence.

Minho looks at Changbin. Changbin doesn’t blink.

Jisung drops his vial. “WHAT.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Changbin mutters.

Hyunjin: “Oh, you’re right. It was much worse. You said—and I quote—‘That’s the fucking problem.’”

Felix is gasping, Seungmin is writing furiously and Jeongin? Well, his mouth is full open and he's horrified, possibly traumatised but also amazed.

Minho: “Bin.”

Changbin: “Minho.”

Minho: “You touched her?”

Changbin: “I didn’t bite her.”

Chan: “Which was somehow the most shocking part of the encounter.”

Hyunjin, dreamy: “He wanted to. The air was thick. You could feel the denial.”

Jisung: “DID YOU SMELL HER?!”

Changbin: “No.”

Seungmin: “But you’re emotionally compromised.”

Felix: “And scent-bonded.”

Jeongin, whispering: “Does this mean she’s gonna be his?”

Everyone turns.

Jeongin blinks. “I—I mean, that’s how bonds work, right?”

Long pause.

Hyunjin nods solemnly. “He’s right. It’s giving First Claim.”

Chan groans. “Do not name it like a romance novel.”

Jisung: “Too late. That’s what I’m calling it now. First Claim. Sounds hot. Who’s writing the fic?”

Seungmin: “I’m writing the liability clause.”

Minho rubs his temples. “Focus. What’s our next step if this escalates?”

Chan: “We don’t panic.”

Hyunjin: “We monitor.”

Felix: “We support.”

Jisung: “We watch the slowburn unfold.”

Jeongin: “We take notes.”

They all look at Changbin.

Changbin exhales, voice flat: “I hate all of you.”

Hyunjin smiles. “That’s the bond talking.”

Meanwhile...

You sit alone in one of the upper-level staff lounges. Not the fancy one near Chan’s office. The dusty one tucked behind a corridor labeled “Emergency Sanitization Supplies — Floor Two.” Which is exactly your vibe right now: emotionally spilled bleach in human form.

There’s a half-melted iced Americano in your hand. Cold and bitter as sin, and entirely useless at stopping the blush that has not left your face in the past thirty-seven minutes.

You take a sip. Pause.

“Okay,” you mutter to no one. “So maybe you’re a little attracted to him.”

You shake your head.

“No. No. That’s not attraction. That’s a biological stress response. He’s massive. His arms are the size of your thigh. Of course your brain is confused.”

Another sip. Stronger this time.

“Besides. He’s grumpy. Doesn’t talk. Glares like you keyed his car every morning.”

Beat.

“…Which is hot. Ugh. God. Okay. Shut up.”

You lean back in the chair, bumping your head lightly against the wall. Your enchanted cuffs hum faintly on your wrists—still active, still shimmery, still threatening to give away your entirely inappropriate emotional situation at any moment.

“You are not falling for Seo Changbin,” you say out loud, stabbing your straw like it personally offended you. “You are here to research biological trauma responses. Not become one.”

A janitorial bot wheels by. You stare it down.

“Don’t judge me.”

It beeps and rolls off.

You groan.

“Okay, but he did say he wanted to kiss me.”

A beat.

“No. He said that was the problem. Totally different. Very unromantic. Entirely scientific.”

Another pause.

“...Except he looked at your mouth like it was his last meal.”

You let your forehead drop to the table. “I need a new lab. Or a tranquilizer. Or both.”

From down the hall, you hear footsteps. Familiar ones. Heavy. Measured. Your whole body goes still.

“Oh my god,” you whisper. “If that’s him, I swear to every vampire council on Earth, I will throw myself out this window and enroll in accounting.”

You peek over your arm. It’s not him. Just a courier bot.

You sigh in relief. Then disappointment. Then immediate confusion. “I need therapy.”

You’ve just convinced yourself that you’re not in love with him—truly, deeply, definitively not in love with Seo Changbin—when the facility-wide comms system crackles to life.

“Attention all Containment and Observation units: Tier Three Drill commencing in fifteen minutes. Standard breach simulation, sedative protocol live. Assigned teams, report to Deck B.”

You blink.

A beat later, your tablet vibrates with a direct dispatch message.

CONTAINMENT DRILL TEAM C Supervisor: Director Seo Changbin Team Members: Y/N (Intern Observer, Clearance 3), Dr. Lee Yejin, Tech Operative Ryu, MedOps Rep Kwon.

You reread it three times.

“Okay,” you whisper to your coffee. “That’s fine. It’s fine. Just a drill. Just a very physically intense, close-quarters drill... supervised by a man who literally wants to bite me.”

You get up. Straighten your jacket. Slap your cheeks. Mutter something about professionalism and “Don’t you dare look at his mouth.”

And then you go.

Deck B is chaos. Organized, high-security chaos, but chaos nonetheless.

People rushing to prep sedatives. Armored gloves being locked in place. Staff adjusting their neck seals and throat shields. It’s all routine—but there’s a charge in the air, the kind that only happens when danger is about to pretend to be real, but everyone secretly knows it could become real anyway.

You arrive at the meeting point and immediately spot him.

Changbin.

In full Containment gear now. Tactical black, reinforced sleeves, cuffs over his wrists. His enchanted silver hoops glint under the sterile lighting. His face is unreadable, like he’s already halfway in fight mode.

He sees you.

You swallow. “Reporting for drill duty,” you manage, voice mercifully steady.

He gives a curt nod. “You stay behind me at all times. Log what you see. Don’t engage.”

“Got it.”

“And don’t bleed.”

You offer a very dry smile. “I’m aware.”

The rest of the team gathers. You all get briefed, handed mock protocols, sedative vials, dummy tags. Then comes the worst part: the formation split.

They divide you into pairs.

You already know what’s coming.

“Intern Y/N,” the ops tech says. “You’ll be with Director Seo.”

A brief silence follows.

Someone coughs. Someone else definitely smirks. Changbin doesn't blink. Just mutters: “Let’s move.”

The drill progresses.

Zone One: Cleared. Zone Two: Dummy vampire restrained. Zone Three: Simulated aggression triggered by shouting and flashing lights.

Still under control.

Then you reach Zone Four. Where something feels... off. The lights are slower to respond here. There’s a faint hum of magic in the air—sharper than usual. Your cuffs prickle on your wrist like static’s trying to get in.

Changbin stiffens. His hand lifts, a silent signal to halt.

You obey instantly.

The dummy vamp in Zone Four is chained. Supposed to be dormant. Eyes closed, breath shallow—controlled simulation.

But it sniffs the air. Its head twitches. Its eyes snap open. Not red. Black.

“That’s not a dummy,” Changbin says quietly.

“What—”

“It’s real.”

You feel your blood go cold.

“That’s a live rage-state. Someone fucked up the deployment roster.”

The vampire lunges against its chains. The others around you freeze.

The sound that rips from its throat is not an actor’s growl. It’s low. Bone-deep. Hunger manifesting as sound.

“It’s scenting,” Changbin mutters. Then, sharply—“Get her out.”

Someone grabs your arm. Starts to pull you back.

You don’t get far.

Because the vampire speaks. “Yours,” it snarls. Voice distorted. “She smells like yours.”

And then the chains break. Not by accident. Not by wear. By force. It launches. Straight at you.

Everything happens at once.

Screams. Sedatives deployed. Magic barriers flaring—

And Changbin moves. No hesitation. No words. Just speed.

He tackles the vampire mid-air, slamming it against the reinforced wall with a crack that shakes the entire floor. His fangs are out. His whole body is glowing with rage—not hunger, not loss of control.

Claim.

The vampire snarls, twisting beneath him, repeating it over and over: “Yours. Yours. Yours—”

Until Changbin’s hand wraps around its throat and slams it into silence. The vampire chokes once—then goes still. Not unconscious. Held. Crushed into compliance.

Changbin's forearm pins the creature’s chest. His other hand is still around its throat.

Your breath is loud in your ears.

Changbin doesn't move. Not right away. Just stays there, caging the creature against the wall like some monstrous, divine sentinel—fangs bared, gaze locked not on the vampire…

But on you.

Finally, Changbin’s grip tightens.

Crack.

The vampire slumps, unconscious now. Not dead. But close enough. Silence falls, broken only by the whir of containment drones resetting and the hum of the barrier recharging.

A long pause.

Then: “Director Seo,” one of the ops officers says carefully. “We’ll take it from here.”

Changbin steps back. Breathes once. Just once. Then turns to you. His voice is steady, too steady. “You’re off this floor for the rest of the week.”

You frown. “I didn’t—”

“Not a request.”

He walks past. Doesn’t look back.

Three nights later.

You're in a booth with a glittering drink in hand, skin still glowing from the bathroom highlighter your friend insisted on using (“you need shimmer, bitch—post-trauma sparkle tax”).

The music is too loud, the air smells like spiced rum and citrus perfume, and your heels already hurt.

But the buzz is warm. The girls are laughing. And you… are babbling.

“—and then he just walked off, like full dramatic coat sweep, and I’m standing there with adrenaline in my mouth and a full trauma boner or something, I don’t know—”

“Wait, trauma boner?” Your friend Zara chokes on her drink. “What does that even mean?”

“It means,” you say, stabbing your straw into the crushed ice like it personally wronged you, “I need therapy. Or a different internship. Or a restraining order. Or him. Honestly, I don’t know anymore.”

Your best friend Hyerin leans over the table. “Okay, wait. Let’s back up. Did he save your life?”

“Well, technically—yes,” you admit. “But also, I wouldn’t have been in danger if someone didn’t bond-glow like a possessive hellhound and piss off a rogue vampire in the first place—”

“You like him,” Hyerin grins, leaning in conspiratorially.

“No, I don’t.”

“You do.”

“I don’t!” You throw your hands up, nearly sloshing your drink onto your dress. “I like peace. I like science. I like not being tackled by muscle demons with jawlines sharp enough to slice through reinforced cuffs—”

“Right,” Zara hums. “And when you say jawline, you mean—”

“This isn’t about his jawline!”

Pause. You stare into your cocktail like it might offer answers. It doesn’t.

“…It’s a little about the jawline,” you mutter.

The table bursts into laughter. Hyerin’s already pulling out her phone.

“I’m texting him,” she says.

“YOU DON’T EVEN HAVE HIS NUMBER.”

“Not yet.”

You scream into your hands.

But, the universe hates you and you're sure of it.

Because not five minutes after you scream into your hands—screaming about him—the music shifts, the crowd parts like some hedonistic Red Sea, and in walks the reason your blood pressure has had a permanent residency in the clouds: Seo Changbin. Black shirt, tactical boots like he stomped straight out of the field and into the VIP section. Sleeves rolled. Forearms coiled. Expression unreadable.

And beside him?

Hwang Hyunjin, shirt unbuttoned halfway like a walking sin. Felix, honey-blonde hair and already blowing kisses at the bartender.

You—mid-sip of a definitely-too-strong cocktail—choke. Loudly.

Zara slaps your back. “Oh my god—what is it?”

“Don’t—look—now—” you wheeze, clutching the table, “but the reason for my imminent emotional breakdown just walked in with his vampire boy band.”

“What—” Hyerin starts, glancing over—And immediately gasps. “HOLY FUCK, IS THAT—?!”

“Yes!” you hiss. “It is! And now we’re gonna leave quietly, like normal people who do not talk shit about their boss and then get haunted by it in real time.”

Too late.

Felix spots you first. Smiles like he’s already decided to ruin your life for fun. He taps Hyunjin. Hyunjin turns. Sees you. Smirks like he’s proud of himself for causing all this. Like he’s got a bingo card and just checked off “accidentally start a soulmate crisis.”

And then—

Changbin looks up. Finds you. Freezes.

You freeze, too.

It’s mutual nuclear deer-in-headlights energy.

Then—and this is the worst part—he visibly exhales. Rubs the back of his neck. Says something to the others.

And starts walking over.

You panic.

“Abort,” you whisper. “ABORT MISSION—HE’S COMING—WHY IS HE COMING—”

Hyerin hides her face behind her glass. Zara just leans in like this is the season finale of a drama.

Changbin reaches the table. “…Intern.”

That voice. Low. Calm. Slightly hoarse like he’s been shouting over noise—Or thinking about you.

You blink up at him, stunned. “D-Director.”

“Didn’t know you frequented this club.”

“I—don’t,” you stammer. “I mean, I do. But not, like—frequently. Just—on occasion. Very rare occasions. Like now. And maybe never again.”

He looks vaguely amused. “Shame.”

You short-circuit. “Sorry?”

He leans in a little. Just a fraction. Just enough for your drink to forget how to exist and nearly spill itself. “Shame,” he repeats. “I was starting to think this place had good taste.”

You black out a little.

Felix, ten feet away, definitely whoops.

Hyunjin raises a brow like he’s just been fed.

You pray for the earth to swallow you whole.

It doesn’t.

Instead, Changbin steps back—cool as ever—nods to your friends, and says, “Don’t stay too late. You’re still technically under blood-scent restriction.”

And then he’s walking away. Felix blows you a kiss. Hyunjin mouths, “You’re welcome.”

You collapse onto the table.

Zara: “I’m gonna need you to explain everything. Slowly. With details.”

Hyerin: “You’re so in love with him.”

You: gargling incoherently into your straw.

Somewhere, across the bar, Changbin slides into a booth beside Hyunjin, downs a drink like he’s trying to forget his own existence, and mutters: “…I’m so fucked.”

Hyunjin watches Changbin slam his drink like it personally insulted his ancestors.

Then, with all the grace and smugness of a man who has never once minded his business, he drawls: “Soooo… when were you planning on telling us you’ve imprinted on your intern?”

Changbin glares at him over the rim of his glass. “I didn’t imprint.”

Felix snorts. “You tackled a feral vampire like a rabid Cerberus because it looked at her. Your aura’s been glowing since Tuesday. You’re literally scent-marking her by accident.”

“I’m not—!” Changbin exhales, runs a hand down his face. “It’s not like that.”

Hyunjin raises a brow. “Oh? Then what is it like, Binnie? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’ve got yourself a little intern-shaped problem. Or, more accurately—” He leans in. “—a little intern-shaped crush.”

Changbin doesn’t respond. Which is, obviously, confirmation.

Felix grins. “Awww, hyung… You’ve got a type.”

“I do not have a type—”

“You do. And apparently it’s smart, clumsy, slightly sarcastic science girls who wear combat boots and forget how to breathe when you look at them.”

“I swear to god—”

“She was literally squeaking at the table. You know how hard it is to make a scientist squeak?”

Hyunjin nods solemnly. “It's usually the lab rats that squeak. Not the interns.”

Changbin slumps in his seat. “You two are insufferable.”

Felix beams. “We’re supportive.”

“We’re observant,” Hyunjin adds.

“We’re just saying,” Felix continues, “that if you don’t make a move soon, she’s gonna keep thinking she’s hallucinating the sexual tension. Which, by the way, is not subtle. It’s practically a hazard.”

“I can’t make a move,” Changbin mutters. “She’s under my department. It’s complicated.”

“You tackled a rogue vampire for her,” Hyunjin says, sipping his drink like he’s delivering a TED Talk. “Pretty sure the ethics line was already blurred when you went full murder-glow in front of ten ops staff and a clipboard.”

“And she blushed,” Felix adds. “Like, blushed. The kind of blush that requires ice water and therapy.”

“She screamed into her hands,” Hyunjin says thoughtfully. “Cute hands, by the way.”

Changbin growls. “Touch her and I’ll dislocate your soul.”

“There it is,” Felix sings. “There’s our favorite blood-stained simp.”

Changbin slams his glass down again. “…I hate both of you.”

Hyunjin shrugs. “You hate yourself more. For feeling things. Tragic.”

Felix leans in, bright-eyed. “But also… so hot. Honestly. We’re rooting for you. And if you ever need help figuring out how to ask her out without sounding like you’re proposing a hostage trade—we got you.”

Changbin just sighs. Drags a hand through his hair.

Across the bar, you're still hiding behind your drink. Still red in the face. Still not over it. He sees you peek out from behind your straw. You meet his eyes. Then duck back like you’ve been caught.

Changbin exhales through his nose. “…I’m so fucked,” he mutters again.

Hyunjin grins. “No, Binnie. You’re in love.”

Back at your booth...

You slip away from the booth with a muttered excuse—something about needing another drink, maybe some air. Really, you just need a minute. A minute to breathe without Hyerin’s knowing smirks or Zara’s whisper-yells of “he’s literally looking at you again—right now—look—”

So you push through the low-light crowd, heels clicking on scuffed tile, until you reach the bar.

The bartender’s busy with a round of orders. You lean against the counter, nursing the last of your drink, trying very hard not to glance back toward that particular booth.

(You fail. Twice.)

Behind you, the crowd shifts. You barely register the presence until someone leans in—too close. A voice at your ear, slurred and syrupy:

“Well, well. What’s a little thing like you doing all alone in a place like this?”

You freeze.

The man—no, not a man. You feel it instantly. The cold, too-calm stillness of him. The unnatural sharpness beneath his smile.

Vampire.

Not glamoured, not registered, not glowing with the controlled hum of city-trained restraint.

Your instincts scream.

“Back off,” you say, louder than intended.

But he laughs, low and slow. “Easy, sweetheart. Just being friendly.”

His hand brushes your wrist. Too fast. Too cold. You slap it away—but he grabs instead. Tight.

In a second, he’s behind you. Hand curled over your pulse point, voice rasping in your ear: “I can smell it on you. Something sweet. Someone’s touched you recently. Staked a claim…”

Your blood chills.

“Let go of me.”

“No.”

And that’s when the air changes. A blur cuts through the room. A gust of wind and rage and fire. And suddenly he’s there.

Changbin.

One hand wrenches the vampire back by the collar, the other slamming him into the bar so hard the counter cracks.

No warning. No mercy. Just fury. His eyes are glowing. His fangs are bared. His whole body radiates kill energy.

“She said let go.”

The vampire chokes. “Y-You’re—she’s marked—by you—?”

Wrong answer.

Changbin’s fist slams into his jaw. “Don’t ever touch her again,” he growls, voice pitched so low it could gut steel.

People are staring. No one interferes. Because every creature in this place knows exactly what just happened.

Possession. Protection.

He doesn’t let go until the vampire is limp. Until bouncers come, dragging the rogue away.

Then—and only then—does Changbin turn to you. He’s still shaking. “Are you okay?” he asks, low. Urgent. Too close.

You nod, numb. “Y-Yeah. Just… shaken.”

He exhales. Looks like he might kill someone else, just to be safe. And then—he touches you. Carefully. A light hand on your arm, grounding. His thumb strokes the spot where the vampire grabbed you.

“You’re not walking anywhere alone again,” he mutters.

You blink up at him stunned, lips slightly parted.

Behind you, from the booth, Hyunjin howls. Felix starts clapping. You scream internally. Changbin stiffens at the sound of Hyunjin’s howl. His jaw ticks and Felix’s enthusiastic applause is not helping.

You’re frozen, wide-eyed, still clutching your half-empty glass like it might shield you from this mortifying reality.

Then—Changbin sighs. Long. Suffering. Like a man just barely holding it together. His hand is still on your arm. He hasn’t moved it. Hasn’t looked away from you once.

“…Come on,” he mutters, voice low. “Let’s get you out of here.”

Your eyes flick up. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he says, and it’s so firm, so quiet, so final that you stop arguing.

He gently guides you toward the exit, threading you through the pulsing crowd like you’re something precious he needs to protect. His hand never leaves your lower back.

You pass the booth. Hyunjin wiggles his fingers like a cheeky villain. “Have fun~”

Felix leans across the table, stage-whispering: “Use protection. Emotional or otherwise.”

You hiss: “I hate both of you.”

Changbin: “Mood.”

The door swings shut behind you, muffling the music. The night air hits you—cool, quiet, a little sobering. You’re standing on the sidewalk now. Streetlights glowing. People still spilling into the night around you. But none of it touches the little bubble you’re in. Him. You. Too close. Not close enough.

“…Thanks,” you say, because you have to say something. “For—y’know. Back there.”

Changbin tilts his head, studying you. “You’re trembling.”

You glance down. Damn it, you are. “I’m fine,” you start, but it’s a lie, and he knows it.

“Come on,” he says again, voice gentler this time. “I’m taking you home.”

You blink. “You don’t know where I live.”

He lifts a brow. “Then give me the address. Or come to mine.”

You open your mouth. Close it. Open it again.

“…Option two.”

His jaw ticks—just once. “Yeah?”

“…Yeah.”

He nods. Doesn't look smug about it, not even a little. Just serious. Focused. Concerned in a way that makes your stomach flip. He leads you to the car and opens the passenger door and waits for you to climb in.

You do.

You buckle in. You try not to feel the weight of this. Of him. Of what this is starting to mean. He pulls into traffic, jaw tense, one hand on the wheel, the other flexing in his lap like he’s trying very hard not to reach for you again.

Finally, softly: “I meant it,” he says. “No more walking alone. Not with rogues sniffing around. Not with you glowing like…” He swallows. “…like someone’s already claimed you.”

Your breath catches.

You stare at the window. At your reflection. At the tiny shimmer in your wrist where that rogue touched you and your magic had flared in instinctive response.

“…Did you?” you whisper. “Claim me?”

The car is very, very quiet.

Then—

“I think,” Changbin murmurs, “I’ve been trying not to.”

Your heart stutters. He pulls into his building garage. Parks. Turns to you. “I don’t think I can help it anymore.”

Your mouth goes dry.

You feel it—the tension laced through the silence like a livewire. The air between you sparking with things unspoken. Untouched. You turn slowly to look at him. At the way his hand tightens slightly on the gearshift. At the muscle ticking in his jaw. At the way he’s not looking at you, like one glance might undo him entirely.

“…You’re not helping,” you say quietly. Half a joke. Half a truth.

His eyes flick to yours—fast, sharp, dark. “I’m not trying to.”

Your stomach flips.

For a moment, neither of you moves. Then he gets out, walks around the car, opens your door like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t. You step out, legs unsteady, and he’s right there—close but not touching. Always not touching.

The ride up is quiet. Elevator soft and silver. You watch the floor numbers climb and try not to think about how his shoulder nearly brushes yours. His apartment is sleek, clean, dimly lit—him, in every way. Cool-toned. Quiet. Safe.

He hands you a blanket. Points to the couch. “You can take the bed if you want.”

You blink. “You’re giving me your bed?”

He shrugs. “You were almost attacked tonight. I’m not gonna add back pain to the list.”

“…I’m not fragile.”

“I know,” he says. And that—that—comes out rough. Like it costs him to say it. “You’re not. But I care anyway.”

Silence.

You stare at him. He stares back.

Then he turns—like he has to physically pull himself away from you—and heads to the kitchen. “You want tea?” he asks, opening a cupboard. “Chamomile? Peppermint? Something to help you sleep?”

“Do you ever sleep?” you ask, still standing there.

“Not well,” he says, then glances over his shoulder. “Especially not when you’re walking into danger with a straw in your mouth and no backup.”

You scoff. “That’s oddly specific.”

He gives a faint, crooked smile. Then hands you a mug. “Drink. Couch or bed—your choice. I’ll be out here if you need anything.”

You take the mug. Your fingers brush. He freezes.

You both do.

Then you take a step back. He exhales. Like that one inch spared him from crumbling.

You sit on the couch, curling up under the blanket. He doesn’t go far—just settles at the far end, close enough to hear you breathe, far enough not to cross the line he’s clearly drawing for himself.

“You meant it?” you ask softly. “What you said earlier? About… not being able to help it?”

He doesn’t look at you. Just stares straight ahead. “Yeah.”

You nod once.

Then: “Good.”

His head snaps toward you. Eyes wide. Disbelieving. But you don’t explain. Don’t press. Just sip your tea and look ahead, heart pounding so hard it rattles your ribs.

The Next Morning. LUXE HQ — Sublevel 4, Operations Command

Changbin slams a file onto the desk. “Okay. No, seriously. What the fuck.”

Chan blinks over his coffee. “Good morning to you too?”

“I claimed her.”

“You what.”

“I didn’t bite her. I didn’t mark her. I didn’t even kiss her. I’ve had literal breakfast sandwiches more intimate than this—how did I claim her?!”

Hyunjin: “You cuddled a little aggressively. Maybe that counts now.”

Changbin whirls on him. “I didn’t cuddle.”

“Sure, sure. You just cornered her against a bar with glowing rage-fangs and vowed eternal protection. Totally platonic.”

Seungmin looks up from his tablet, deadpan. “You’re all idiots.”

Everyone turns.

Seungmin sighs. “She glowed.”

“…Okay?” Changbin scowls. “So?”

“She glowed for you. Back. You both flared at the same time. That's enough.”

Chan squints. “Wait—flared like a synced pulse?”

Seungmin nods. “Uh-huh. That’s proto-bond activation, dumbass. Happens sometimes when a vampire's instinct collides with a compatible magic signature. If she didn’t resist—and you didn’t stop it—boom. Partial imprint.”

Hyunjin gasps. “You magic-matched?! Like in those scandalous shifter novels?!”

“God,” Changbin groans. “Why is everyone insane.”

“You imprinted,” Seungmin repeats flatly. “Like a duckling. Congratulations.”

“I didn’t imprint—”

“Too late,” Seungmin shrugs. “Duck-mode engaged.”

Changbin blinks. “But… she’s human.”

Seungmin doesn't look up from his tablet. “And yet. Duck-mode engaged.”

“Stop saying that!” Changbin practically yells. “What does that even mean?! I didn’t do anything! I didn't bite her! I didn't mark her! We didn’t even touch—okay, maybe her arm—BUT THAT DOESN’T COUNT!”

Chan slowly sets his mug down. “Okay. First of all—calm down. You're glowing through your shirt again.”

“Second of all,” Seungmin adds helpfully, “it’s not about species, genius. It’s about resonance.”

“Resonance of what?! She’s human. She’s caffeine and sarcasm and zero threat response!”

“She’s also a latent,” Seungmin says casually.

Changbin freezes. “A what.”

“A latent. Human with dormant arcane receptors. Rare, but not impossible. Probably doesn’t even know it.”

Chan nods like this makes perfect sense. “Makes sense. Explains the glow. Explains the surge. Explains why your bitey instincts went nuclear.”

Hyunjin sips his drink. “Explains why you look like you wanna chew drywall.”

Changbin runs both hands down his face. “Okay, so let me get this straight. You’re telling me I accidentally started a soul-bond with a human scientist who drinks iced Americanos like a war crime and actively hates that I exist?”

Seungmin: “Correct.”

Hyunjin: “Romantically hates you.”

Felix (just arriving): “Wait—did you guys tell him about the duck thing yet—”

Changbin lets out a guttural scream.

Felix immediately turns around. “Nope. Nope. Not dealing with that energy. I just got here.”

Chan sighs and looks at Seungmin. “What now?”

“Nothing,” Seungmin says. “We wait.”

“For what?”

Seungmin shrugs. “For her to walk in, glow at him again, and trigger phase two.”

Hyunjin lights up. “Ooooh. What’s phase two?”

“Denial,” Seungmin deadpans. “And then sex.”

Chan promptly walks into the wall.

Later that day...

Changbin walks into his office with the weight of twelve hours of emotional torment and zero hours of sleep on his shoulders.

And there you are.

On his couch. Legs crossed, tablet in your lap, stylus tapping in that specific rhythm you do when you're thinking—but also trying to annoy someone.

"—and technically, if you inject nano-trace silver into vampire bloodstreams in microbursts, you could mimic a detox reaction without permanent damage. But the ethics board won’t approve it. Cowards."

Changbin pauses in the doorway.

You don't even look up. "Also, your potted plant is dying. Again. I watered it for you. You’re welcome. God, do you ever hydrate anything?"

He stares at you. "How did you get in here?"

“I have a passcode,” you say sweetly, still not looking up. “You gave it to me. Remember? Post-bar-murder cuddle tea?”

He grits his teeth. “That wasn’t a cuddle, it was proximity-based grounding.”

“Sure,” you say, scrolling. “Anyway, I reorganized your research drive while I waited. You had like four folders labeled ‘fuckshitlater’ and one just called ‘bite?’ with a question mark. Are you okay.”

He groans. “No. No, I am not okay.”

“Because of the rogue vampire attack?” you ask, finally glancing up at him with infuriating innocence. “Or because of the whole soul resonance proto-bond imprinting duck-mode glow-surge sex-prophecy thing?”

He slams the door behind him. “WHO TOLD YOU?!”

You blink. “…Hyunjin texted me a duck emoji and then just, like, thirty fire emojis.”

“Of course he did.”

You fold your hands in your lap, lips twitching. “Soooo. Duck-boy.”

He glares. “Do not call me—”

You smile, absolutely evil. “Quackbin.”

He collapses into his desk chair with a groan like his soul is leaving his body. “I liked it better when you were scared of me.”

“No, you didn’t,” you say, voice soft now. “You liked it when I trusted you.”

That shuts him up.

For a moment, it’s quiet. Just the hum of your tablet and the static weight of your words in the air.

Then—

“I’m still not biting you,” he mutters.

You look at him over the top of your tablet. “Who said anything about biting?”

Silence. Too long. You go back to scribbling like you didn’t just send him into a silent breakdown spiral.

And Changbin's staring at you.

You’re not looking at him. Or rather—you refuse to look at him. Because the heat of his gaze is melting through your skull, and if you meet it, you will combust. Internally. Physically. Spiritually. Biblically.

So instead, you tap your stylus. Innocent. Unbothered. Professional.

“You reorganized my drive?” he asks, voice hoarse.

“Mmhmm.”

“And you saw the ‘bite?’ folder.”

“Mmhmm.”

Silence. Tension coiling like a wire between you.

“…You know,” he says, leaning back in his chair, voice low, rough, dangerous, “it’s really fucking hard to be a good man when you’re sitting on my couch like that, talking like you didn’t almost get mauled last night, glowing like you want me to finish what we started.”

Your stylus stills.

“I wasn’t glowing,” you whisper.

“Oh, sweetheart.” His voice drops a full octave. “You were fucking radiant.”

Your thighs press together instinctively. He notices.

His fangs throb behind his lips. His hand twitches. His desk creaks.

You should stop this. You should get up. Leave. Think. Anything.

Instead—

You slide your tablet to the side. Stand. Walk to his desk.

He watches every step. Like prey. Like worship.

“Binnie,” you murmur, placing your palms on the desk and leaning forward—into his space, into the flame, into him. “If you’re going to keep protecting me, maybe you should figure out what you’re protecting me from.”

His breath stutters.

And then—he’s up.

Chair shoved back. Hands on the desk. Caging you in. Not touching—but so close.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he growls.

“I’m not asking.”

Silence. Heavy. Electric.

Then—

“Last chance,” he whispers. “Tell me to stop.”

You tilt your chin up, lips parted. Eyes burning. “I dare you.”

He’s on you in a second.

Not kissing—consuming. Mouth crushing yours, hands still gripping the desk like they’re the only things keeping him from tearing the room apart. His teeth barely miss your lips. His growl vibrates straight through your chest.

You gasp. He shudders. Like that sound is his favorite drug.

One hand finally lifts—cups your jaw, thumb dragging along your cheek like you’re porcelain he’s terrified to break. Like he knows he will anyway.

“You’re mine,” he breathes against your mouth. “I didn’t even bite you and you’re—fuck—you’re already mine.”

Your hands fist in his shirt, yanking him closer. “So do it.”

“What?”

“Bite me.”

He stills. Completely. His pupils blow wide. The air between you crackles. “…You don’t know what that means,” he says. But his voice—his voice is wrecked. Strangled.

“Yes, I do.” You pull him down. “I’m not glowing because I’m scared, Binnie.”

And that’s all it takes. His lips crash back into yours.

He breaks from your mouth and growls, low and guttural against your throat.

“Tell me again,” he pants. “Tell me you want it.”

“I want it.”

“Louder.”

“I want it—” you gasp, and then—

He bites.

White-hot. Sacred. Feral. It’s not pain. It’s release. Your entire body arcs, grabbing at him, breathing him. He moans against your skin. Deep. Broken. “Oh, fuck—you're perfect—you were meant for me—”

You whimper and his hand’s already under your shirt. Already gripping your waist like he’s anchoring himself to the earth. He pulls back from your neck slowly, licking the blood, sealing the wound. His fangs glint in the light.

“You’re mine now,” he whispers, reverent. “Do you feel it?”

You do. Gods, you do. The pulse under your skin—matching his. “You feel it?” he whispers again. His breath ghosts across your lips. “Right here—” He presses his palm to your chest. “Right here where it started.”

You nod, dazed. Eyes wide. Glowing, just faintly, like your body can’t help but respond to his anymore.

And then—

He moves. Effortless. His arms sweep under your thighs and back in one motion, lifting you like you weigh nothing. Your tablet clatters to the floor, forgotten.

“Binnie—”

But you don’t get to finish. He's walking towards the couch where he sits—wide-legged, strong—on it like a throne. Settles you on his lap, thighs straddling his, your knees framing his hips.

You can feel him. Hard. Pulsing. Right there between your legs.

His hands grip your hips. Not pulling. Just holding. Like he still can’t believe you’re real.

“You sure?” he murmurs. “Because once we start—once I have you—I won’t stop at one night.”

You lean in. Press your forehead to his. Your breath fans his lips. “Then don’t.”

His resolve snaps.

The kiss is searing. Tongue, teeth, want. He’s everywhere, hands on your back, your thighs, under your shirt. Lifting it. Sliding it off. His mouth moves down your throat, tongue lapping over the healing bite mark like he needs it again.

“You smell like mine,” he groans. “You feel like mine.”

He lays you back across the couch. Kneels between your legs like he’s worshipping at an altar. Like his entire being has narrowed to you—the sound of your gasps, the curve of your waist, the way you already arch for him without shame.

He growls when his fingers fumble at the waistband of your pants. The fabric won’t budge fast enough, caught around your hips, and it tears a low, guttural curse out of him.

“Fucking—stupid—pants—” he snarls, tugging with enough force that the button snaps open, the zipper halfway down before his hands drag them down in one desperate, furious motion. “Why do you wear so many fucking layers, baby?”

You laugh—breathless, wrecked—until he leans down and bites the inside of your thigh. Not hard. Just enough to make your laugh stutter into a gasp.

“Not funny,” he mutters, voice dark, lips brushing your skin like a threat. “You don’t get to make jokes when I’m trying not to devour you.”

Your panties are next. Gone in one motion. He curses again when he sees the slick already glistening between your thighs.

“Oh fuck,” he breathes. “Look at you. You’re dripping."

You whimper. Arch. One hand threads into his hair, the other fisting the couch beneath you.

Changbin looks up—eyes glowing, fangs just barely showing. “Don’t worry, baby,” he purrs. “I’m about to ruin you.”

And then he lowers his mouth.

Tongue hot. Skilled. Starving.

He moans the second he tastes you—like it’s the first meal he’s had in a century—and you shatter against his mouth, hips bucking, body already twitching like he’s possessed you with just a single lick.

He groans again, deeper this time, as his tongue dips between your folds—slow, savoring, like he’s mapping every part of you. His grip on your thighs tightens, holding you open, steady, as he works you apart with practiced precision.

“God, you taste—” his voice is muffled, reverent, hungry. “Like I’ve been starving for this.”

You whimper, hands curling tighter into his hair, hips instinctively lifting toward his mouth. He groans in approval, dragging his tongue up again—slow, thick, unhurried. He lingers at your clit, teasing flicks that make your whole body jolt, then seals his lips around it and sucks.

Hard.

You cry out. He doesn’t stop. One hand slides up, spreads across your belly like he’s grounding you—his weight, his heat, his claim—and the other presses your thigh wider, deeper, closer to ruin.

The noises—his mouth, your breathless gasps, the wet drag of tongue and lips—are obscene. Worshipful. He eats like he’s praying with every lick, every suck, every growled “mine” that vibrates straight into your core.

Your body trembles.

You’re close. You know it. He knows it. And he doesn’t let up—just flattens his tongue and drags it over you again and again until your legs are shaking and your voice is breaking and—

“Binnie—fuck—I’m gonna—”

He growls into you, low and possessive, and that’s what sends you over. You come hard, bucking under his mouth, moaning his name like a chant, like a plea, like a promise.

He holds you through it, mouth still working you gently, easing you down from the high like he never wants to stop tasting you.

And when he finally lifts his head—face glistening, eyes blown wide, lips parted like he’s drunk on you—you don’t even get the chance to catch your breath.

Because he crawls up your body, slow and dangerous, voice a dark rasp in your ear:

“Next round,” he says, “I want to feel you clench around my fingers. Gotta stretch you out baby.”

You nod—barely a breath, barely a sound—and that’s all he needs.

“Good girl,” he murmurs.

His praise sparks something molten in your belly, your thighs already trembling as he kisses down your body again—slow now, like he’s savoring the aftershock. One hand strokes your inner thigh, the other cradles your hip, grounding you as his mouth ghosts over your navel.

“You’ve been holding back on me,” he says against your skin. “Didn’t know you could fall apart so sweet.”

You arch. Whimper. He grins, a little feral. A little in awe.

And then his fingers—warm, thick—slide between your folds.

You gasp.

“Still so wet,” he groans, like it physically affects him. “Fuck.”

The first finger eases in slowly, just enough to tease. He watches your face the whole time—like he’s cataloging every twitch, every flutter, every breathless moan. The second finger follows not long after, and you feel the stretch—tight, aching, divine.

“You’re already squeezing me,” he mutters. “God, you’re gonna feel so fucking good when I’m inside you.”

He moves them slow at first. Curling. Testing. Finding every spot that makes you jolt, your body clenching tighter with each drag of his fingers.

And then—he adds pressure. A twist. His thumb brushes just right and—

“Bin—!” you cry out, hips jerking.

“I know, baby,” he says, voice thick. “Let go. I’ve got you.”

His fingers keep working you open, steady, relentless, obscene in how perfectly they move inside you.

He grins—sharp, wicked, knowing exactly what he’s about to do. And you know it too. Because the moment his fingers thrust in again—deep, curling just right—he lowers his head back to your thigh.

Changbin sinks his fangs into your inner thigh.

The twin puncture stings for a moment—sharp, shocking—before it’s drowned out by the wave of heat that floods your body. Your hips buck against his hand, a broken moan tumbling from your lips as the blood rushes from the wound and straight to his mouth.

He groans. Loud. Filthy. Like the taste of you—your blood and your cunt and your ruin—is the single most divine thing he's ever known.

“Fuck, baby…” he pants into your skin, voice low, wrecked, drenched in hunger. “Sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted.”

And then—he starts drinking.

Slow pulls. Tongue lapping between sucks. All while his fingers keep fucking into you, faster now—deeper, harsher, relentless.

The pain and pleasure twist together—searing heat in your thigh, soaked heat between your legs—and it’s too much. Your body starts to shake, your hands scrambling for anything—his shoulder, the couch, his wrist, his hair—just to anchor yourself.

He doesn’t stop. He won’t stop.

“You were made for this,” he growls, lifting his head from your thigh, blood-streaked lips glistening. His fangs flash in the low light, eyes burning. “Made to bleed for me, to cum on my fingers, to take every fucking drop of what I give you.”

Your walls pulse around him as if to answer. And fuck, he feels it. “Oh, you liked that, huh?” he laughs, dark and breathless.

Your name leaves his lips like a prayer and a promise all at once—then he leans back down, licking the bite to soothe it, even as his fingers slam harder inside you.

His thumb circles your clit—rough now, merciless—until you’re sobbing his name, thighs trembling, your body a livewire of heat and overstimulation.

“Give it to me again,” he whispers, mouth brushing your thigh, his voice soaked in greed. “Cum for me while I’m still inside you—fuck, baby, cum while I’ve still got your blood on my tongue.”

You break.

With a strangled cry and your back arching clean off the couch, you cum—again—clenching so tight around his fingers he has to curse, biting back a groan as he feels you pulse around him.

He keeps fucking his fingers into your cunt, slowly, riding out the waves of your orgasm before pulling his fingers out slow—wet, shining, ruined—and licking them clean.

Every drop. Every flick of tongue. Like it’s the only meal he’ll ever need.

“Still hungry, baby. Don’t think I’m done yet.”

Your thighs are still trembling, overstimmed and slick, body twitching from aftershocks when you feel the shift—Changbin rising above you, the heat of him crowding close.

He’s panting, flushed, eyes blown wide with hunger as he shoves his sweats down in one desperate motion.

And when his cock springs free—thick, flushed dark, glistening at the tip with pre-cum—your breath catches.

“Oh my god—” you whimper, voice cracking, eyes locked on the size of him. “Binnie, I… that’s not gonna—there’s no way you’re gonna fit—”

He grins.

That grin. The one that splits his face in half. Filthy. Cocky. Dangerous. The one that says: he knew you’d say that.

“Why do you think,” he growls, sliding one hand down your thigh again, fingertips brushing your soaked pussy with reverence, “I made you cum twice on my mouth and fingers first?”

He leans in—grinding his cock just barely against your slick folds, dragging the tip through the mess he made of you. You twitch, hips jumping, a sobbed gasp tearing from your throat.

“I had to get you ready, baby,” he whispers in your ear, voice molten. “Had to soften you up. Make you all loose and wet and perfect.”

You whine. Beg. Legs spread wide, fingers digging into his back, helpless and aching and needy.

“I—Binnie, please, please—”

He shudders at your tone. Cock twitches against your slit, smearing more of his precum along your folds.

“Oh, look at you,” he breathes, licking into your open mouth like he owns it. “Begging so sweet, baby. So fucking desperate.”

His cock nudges at your entrance—just barely—and your whole body arches like a live wire.

“You want me to ruin this little cunt, yeah?” he asks, dragging his tip against your slit again, teasing, leaking, cruel. “Wanna feel me stretch you open? Fill you up?”

You nod, babbling now. “Yes—yes, Binnie, please, I want it, I want you—”

“Then take a breath,” he grunts, lining himself up. “Gonna give it to you slow, baby. Gotta feel every inch.”

And fuck—

The stretch. The burn.

His cock presses in, just the tip, and already your mouth falls open, head tipping back against the cushions with a broken moan. He watches your face. Watches the way your lips part, your lashes flutter, your fingers claw into his arms like he’s too much—

But you’re still taking it. Bit by bit. Inch by aching inch.

“That’s it,” he whispers, awed, watching you swallow him whole. “That’s my good girl. So tight, baby, fuck—”

Your cunt grips him like a vice, soaked and fluttering around his cock, and he has to stop—just for a second—jaw clenched, breath punched from his lungs.

“Jesus fuck,” he hisses. “You’re gonna make me lose it.”

He’s only halfway in.

And already—already—your walls are clenching around him like they can’t let go, like your body’s trying to pull him in deeper even as it struggles to take him.

Changbin groans—low, guttural—like it’s tearing through his chest. His hips twitch forward another inch, and you choke on a moan, body arching, back scraping against the cushions.

“Fuck, baby…” he pants, stilling there, halfway buried inside you. His eyes drag up your body, drinking in every inch like he’s starved for the sight. “You look so—fucking—good.”

His hand comes up slowly, fingers tracing your jaw, thumb brushing your parted lips. And then—

He wraps it around your throat. “Look at you,” he mutters, squeezing just enough to make you gasp. “Cock halfway in and already losing your mind.”

Your eyes flutter. A soft, wrecked sound leaves your throat. You try to move—hips tilting up, desperate to take more—but his hand around your neck tightens.

Still.

“You gonna let me in, baby?” he whispers, voice dripping with sin. “You gonna take the rest? Let me ruin you properly?”

You nod, barely able to breathe now. Lips parting around a gasp, fingers gripping his forearms like please, please, please—

And then—

He snaps his hips forward. All at once. To the hilt.

You scream. Your body arches, eyes rolling, cunt spasming around him so tight he growls, low and vicious, fangs flashing.

“Fuck— that’s it.” he bites out, hand still firm around your throat, pinning you.

You can’t speak. You can barely breathe. All you can feel is the burn, the stretch, the fullness—his cock buried so deep it feels like he’s rearranging you, like he’s claiming places no one’s ever touched.

He holds still, grinding just enough to make you cry out again, your whole body twitching under his.

“So tight,” he breathes, voice full of dark reverence. “So warm. You were made for me.”

His hand loosens, just a little—enough to let you suck in air, enough to let the tears gather in your lashes. And then his other hand finds your waist, gripping it hard.

“Now hold on, baby,” he rasps. “I’m gonna fuck you until you can’t say anything but my name.” And the second your breath stutters under his hand—eyes dazed, lips red and kiss-swollen—Changbin snaps.

He pulls back just enough to feel the drag of your walls around him—tight, fluttering, soaked—and then he slams forward.

Hard.

You cry out, choked by his grip, back arching, legs trembling where they’re spread wide beneath him.

And then he does it again. And again. And again.

His pace is brutal—merciless—hips snapping into you with the force of someone barely holding on, cock pistoning deep with each thrust. You’re wrecked, voice gone to gasps and sobs, hands clawing at his back like you don’t know whether to pull him closer or push him away.

“Fuck, listen to you,” he groans, mouth right at your ear now, voice dark silk. “Whimpering like a little bitch every time I fuck into you.”

He grinds down between thrusts, making sure you feel him—every vein, every inch, every filthy promise his cock is making inside your cunt.

You sob his name, barely a sound—“B-Bin—”

His hand tightens around your throat. Your walls clench, pulsing, fluttering around him. “That’s it,” he whispers against your throat, and then—wet, open-mouthed kisses.

He devours the side of your neck—tongue dragging over skin, lips sucking marks into the curve of your throat, his fangs grazing every so often like he’s teasing the idea of biting again.

“God, you feel so fucking good.” he pants into your skin, hips hammering into you.

His free hand grabs under your knee, yanks your leg up over his hip, angle shifting—

And fuck—

He hits that spot. Again. And again. And again—

“Bin—please, I—!”

“Oh? Gonna cry for me?” he taunts, tongue licking over a fresh bruise blooming on your neck. “Go ahead. Cry while I fuck you dumb.”

Your whole body’s shaking, throat going raw from the sounds he’s dragging out of you. You’re gasping around his grip, every thrust shoving the air right back out again.

“Gonna fill this pussy up,” he groans. “Breed you like you were meant for it.”

Your moan—sharp, cracked, desperate—makes his thrusts get rougher.

The couch creaks. Your skin slaps against his. The room is full of nothing but obscene, messy, feral sounds. And when your body finally breaks, cunt spasming hard around his cock, stars bursting behind your eyes—he feels it.

He growls, deep in your throat. “Oh you’re cumming? Fuck, that’s it, squeeze my cock—take it—fucking take it, baby—”

Your orgasm crashes into you with devastating force. Your vision blurs, body going taut, your scream caught beneath his hand around your throat as your cunt clenches hard around him—tight, pulsing, desperate.

Changbin snaps.

“Fuck—fuck—fuck, that’s it, baby—”

His hips stutter, rhythm breaking as your walls milk him, suck him in deeper, tighter—your whole body shaking beneath him, back arched like you’ve forgotten how to breathe. His fangs flashing as he drives into you, cock twitching with every thrust.

And then—he cums. Hot. Deep. Endless. He growls, low and filthy, his whole body curling over you like a beast as his cock jerks inside you, painting your insides with thick, pulsing ropes of cum.

You moan—wrecked, breathless, barely conscious—feeling every pulse, every spurt. But he doesn’t pull out. Not yet. Instead, he rocks into you again—slow now, but deep—like he’s riding out the high, dragging both of you through the aftershocks together.

“Still twitching, baby,” he murmurs, voice rough silk, kissing your cheek, your jaw, your throat. His hand releases your neck—just enough to let you breathe, to suck in broken, wet gasps between sobs and moans.

“You feel that?” he whispers, cock still moving inside you, slow and obscene. “Feel how fucking full you are? God, you’re leaking already.”

You whimper, helpless, every inch of your body undone, trembling as he thrusts once—twice—just enough to push his cum deeper.

“Just a little more,” he breathes. “Let me have a few more, baby. You can take it. You’re being so fucking good.”

And fuck, you do.

You let him roll his hips, dragging his cock through your oversensitive cunt, both of you panting, covered in sweat and come and the kind of pleasure that breaks people.

Each stroke slow, reverent, dragging you both through the final waves of high until you’re trembling and gasping his name like it’s the only word left in your vocabulary.

And finally—finally—he stills.

His forehead drops to yours, eyes closed, chest heaving. His cock rests deep inside you, twitching once more before it settles, his cum slowly seeping out around him.

He kisses you—soft now, messy and lingering before pulling back. His breath evening out before yours does. You’re still trembling—body slick, wrecked, stuffed full and stretched wide, lips kiss-bruised and pulse still fluttering where he bit you. But it’s the way he holds you afterward that undoes you completely.

His nose nudges yours. “Hey,” he whispers. “You okay?”

You nod—barely. He shifts just enough to cradle your face in his hand, thumb brushing your cheek. “I need words, sweetheart.”

Your voice comes out cracked. “I’m okay. I’m… more than okay.”

His eyes search yours. Devour you, even now—but it’s not hunger anymore. Not like before. It’s reverence. Wonder. Like he still can’t believe he gets to touch you, much less have you.

He presses a kiss to your forehead. Then your temple. Then down the bridge of your nose like he’s mapping your whole face in devotion. “You didn’t just let me feed,” he murmurs. “You gave. That’s…”

He swallows hard. “That means something.”

You blink up at him. “I know.”

And that’s when it hits him. The weight of what just happened. What he is to you now. What you are to him.

“Come here,” he whispers, voice gone hoarse. He pulls out slowly, careful like he’s afraid he might hurt you, and you whimper at the loss—already aching. He hushes you instantly, curling you into his chest, one hand gripping your thigh.

He kisses the bite mark on your neck like an apology.

You're still tucked in his lap, legs draped over his thighs, your body humming from every place he’s touched you. There’s a strange quiet between you now—intimate, heavy, not uncomfortable. Just full. Like something sacred has been spoken without words.

“Mine,” he murmurs again against your skin, soft this time, like a prayer.

And then the office door opens.

“Hyung, I need to talk to you about the security issue at the northern—”

Jeongin freezes. Absolutely freezes. His eyes go wide.

He sees your shirtless body curled into Changbin’s chest, the half-buttoned shirt hanging off Changbin’s shoulders, the damp marks on his throat, your thighs, everything.

He turns. Immediately.

“NOPE. NOPE. NOT AGAIN. WHAT THE ACTUAL—”

“Jeongin,” Changbin tries.

Jeongin throws a hand in the air, walking backwards out the door like he’s warding off a vampire exorcism. “DON’T EVEN. I SWEAR TO GOD.”

You choke on a laugh and bury your face in Changbin’s chest. He groans.

Jeongin’s voice echoes from the hallway. “YOU WERE THE SANE ONE, HYUNG. THE ONLY ONE. WHAT IS THIS—CHAN HYUNG 2.0??? I NEED A VACATION. I’M BOOKING A FLIGHT TO MALTA. FUCK YOU. FUCK THIS WHOLE COURT.”

Seungmin’s voice drifts in from further down the hall. “You’re not going anywhere, Jeongin.”

“I DESERVE PEACE!”

“No one told you to barge into Changbin’s office without knocking.”

“I KNOCKED! I ALWAYS KNOCK! THEY NEVER LISTEN!”

You’re trembling with laughter now. Changbin sighs and kisses your temple. “We might’ve... soundproofed the room.”

Jeongin’s distant shriek: “SEUNGMIN LET ME TAKE A SINGLE DAY OFF—”

“No.”

“WHY IS THIS A SEXUAL COURT NOW? IT USED TO BE BLOOD AND BUSINESS AND NOW IT’S BITE MARKS AND BONDING—”

You finally break, giggling uncontrollably against Changbin’s chest. He just groans and hugs you tighter.

“…He’s never gonna let this go,” you murmur.

“Nope.”

“…Should we lock the door?”

“We’re soundproofed, baby. We don’t need to lock shit.”

You glance up at him. He smirks.

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

[wooyoungsrightsock]

HOW IS MASTER PIECE NOT IN THE THOUSANDS?!

[starsundermyflesh]

dude i hate peoples obsession with thinking changbin has abs. he has a tummy. it is hot. ppl will say oh i love his belly/tummy and yall come RUNNING with "ITS ABS HE HAS A SIX PACK 🤬🤬" you are not being as nice or protective or whatever as you think. you are acting like him having a tummy is an insult. he is not fat, (which also isnt bad either????) he has muscle mass. more muscle means it can be less defined. CHANGBIN HAS A SQUISHY TUMMY AND ITS BEAUTIFUL AND ITS SO HOT!!!!

[angel-writes-skz-here]

I'll reblog this every. single. time. A tummy and strong arms? YES PLEASEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!

[heartseekerjhin]

just straight to the history books, i am speechless i have no words, this is all im going to think about forever (x)

[wooyoungsrightsock]

NOW HE REALLY HAS A PONYTAIL!!!