#hwang hyunjin | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

heartwithoutaname · 2 days ago

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Eventually I'll have words to express how much I adore this

F i r s t W o r s h i p

Vampire!Hwang Hyunjin x Reader | sacred hunger, paint-stained thighs, first bite on the gallery floor

🔞synopsis: You were just a broke barista pulling late-night shifts, trying to make rent and forget how hard life kept fucking you over. Hwang Hyunjin was the mysterious regular with ink-stained fingers and eyes that lingered too long—always showing up at 11:47PM, always watching. Then came the offer: a job at his gallery, a thick envelope, and a contract you weren’t supposed to take seriously. You did. Now? You’re in too deep. You know what he is. And you’ve let him taste you anyway.

💌a/n: WOW. I was genuinely scared I’d have to do two parts like I did for Changbin’s filthy mess of a fic but somehow??? by the grace of horny vampire gods and Hyunjin’s unhinged mouth??? it all FIT in here??? PRAISE BE. WEDNESDAY = WRECKED-NESDAY NOW, YOU'RE WELCOME. Anyway—how’s everyone’s blood pressure? Hydrated? Neck intact? Emotionally ruined by soft aftercare and paint-smudged praise?? Good. That’s the goal. p.s. Reblog if your panties disintegrated p.p.s. The gallery is now closed for renovations (they’re repainting the fuck table) p.p.p.s. If you read this with your legs crossed and still gasped out loud? You’re valid

📌 Please read responsibly. Stretch. Stay hydrated. Do not let Hyunjin paint unsupervised.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » Bite Me — ENHYPEN « 0:58 ─〇───── 2:38 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

You smell like espresso grounds, paint thinner, and the inside of a subway tunnel at 3AM. Your professors would probably call it grit. Your bones would call it exhaustion. Your bank account would call it “survival with milk foam on top.”

You’re twenty-three. An art student at a mid-tier university with a great experimental program but terrible dorm plumbing. Your days are filled with critiques you don’t care about, roommates you barely see, and canvases you can’t afford to replace. Your nights? A hot mess of half-finished homework and part-time shifts at Solstice, the little coffee shop wedged between a dry cleaner and the outer walls of Luxe Health—the infamous, neon-washed medical fortress you’re pretty sure is a tax shelter for emotionally volatile rich people.

But you like Solstice. The machines squeal and the tips are trash, but it smells like cardamom and toasted almonds, and the late shifts are yours alone. No manager hovering. No influencers trying to spell their names in the foam. Just you, your playlist, and the occasional chaos of the espresso machine threatening to explode mid-steam.

You aren’t supposed to sit while on shift, but your manager isn't here and your feet are killing you, so you perch on the stool behind the counter, sketchbook balanced on your knees, the filter coffee from hours ago cold beside you. The sketch you’re working on is barely taking form—just the curve of a shoulder, a flash of a collarbone, the hint of something too tender to finish. You don’t remember who you were drawing. You never do, lately.

You’re halfway through shading a jawline when the bell over the door chimes.

You don’t have to look up. You already know it’s him. The same customer. Always at night. Always when you’re alone. Always... strange.

He’s tall, always dressed like he’s stepped out of a dream filtered through grayscale. Sometimes in loose black knits, sometimes in impossibly tailored coats. His hair changes—sometimes long and silky, sometimes tied back—but the eyes stay the same. Sharp. Curious. Slightly amused. And god, intense. Like he’s seeing things behind your face.

You don’t know his name. You’ve never asked. You just call him 11:47PM, because that’s when he always walks in. Not 11:45. Not 11:50. 11:47. Like clockwork. Like ritual.

And he orders coffee.

Not the kind of coffee someone just likes. No, he orders like it’s a test.

“Oat milk. Two shots of espresso. Honey. A dash of cinnamon. Extra hot. No lid.”

He never takes it to-go. He drinks it slow, eyes flicking over you when he thinks you won’t notice. You always notice. But you pretend you don’t. Because you’re tired. Because your tuition is due. Because you’re not letting some six-foot mystery man with perfect bone structure throw your routine off-balance.

Still, there’s something about him.

Once, he left a napkin behind with a sketch on it. Not a doodle. A sketch. Detailed. Elegant. Sharp. You recognized your hands in it. The way your fingers grip the portafilter when you’re distracted. You stared at it for five minutes, then folded it up and stuck it in your journal like a lunatic.

Another time, he asked you what your favorite pigment was.

Not color. Pigment.

You said burnt sienna. He smiled like that meant something.

It’s stupid. He’s probably some bored rich guy slumming it with overpriced coffee and staring at the help for fun. Maybe he’s one of those Luxe clients—they all give off weird energy anyway. You've heard the rumors. The place treats the ultra-rich. People say it specializes in impossible medicine. Some say it’s for trauma. Some whisper about bond therapy and blood contracts, which sounds like fantasy bullshit. You've always figured it’s just another hush-hush clinic for the elite.

Still, you’ve seen the clients. They don’t blink. And they never order anything but black coffee when they come in.

Except him.

He drinks it sweet. Always sweet.

La Venera is not open to the public.

There’s no street-facing sign, no Instagram account, no QR code by the door. If you know, you know. If you don’t—you’ll walk right past the ivy-covered building tucked behind Luxe Health’s eastern wall, mistaking it for a haunted boutique or the private home of someone obscenely wealthy.

It’s both.

Inside, it smells like centuries-old oil paint and carefully calibrated sandalwood. The ceilings are high. The air hums. There are no labels on the walls. No placards. No prices. Only magic.

Hyunjin stands barefoot in the center of his private studio, shirt half-unbuttoned, hair tied back with an indigo silk ribbon. His fingers are stained with deep violet and dried black—he hasn’t slept, hasn’t spoken, hasn’t done anything except paint her wrist over and over for the last three hours.

Not her whole body. Not her face. Not yet. Just the wrist. The way she presses it to the side of the espresso machine when she’s tired. That little flick of tension like her blood doesn’t want to stay inside.

He can’t get it right.

The angle’s off. The light’s wrong. It’s not singing like it did the first time he saw her. She had cinnamon on her cheek and ink under her nail and a smile so exhausted it almost broke him.

He slams the brush down, muttering curses under his breath, and drops into the cracked leather chair in the corner of the studio. His neck arches over the backrest, and for a moment, he just breathes.

“You’re being weird again.”

Jisung’s voice cuts through the silence like a butter knife sawing a steak. He’s perched upside down on the studio couch like a raccoon. His fangs are just barely visible as he chews on a licorice wand he definitely shoplifted.

Hyunjin doesn’t move. “You broke in again.”

“Wrong. I haunt this gallery. I’m part of the aesthetic.”

“You’re wearing crocs.”

“Vampire crocs.”

Hyunjin sighs. “Get out.”

From the doorway, a new voice adds flatly, “Don’t bother. He’s been here since lunch.”

Seungmin, in a three-piece suit with blood-proof lapels and the world’s most aggressive Excel spreadsheet tucked under his arm, steps into the room with the air of someone who has already filed two lawsuits today and is looking for a third.

“I brought your Luxe contracts. And a cease-and-desist from the Yoon heiress who said your last exhibit gave her ‘emotional vertigo.’”

Hyunjin finally opens his eyes. “That wasn’t me. That was the installation piece by the fledgling from Berlin.”

“She passed out during the opening night, so now you own it. And I had to convince the board that scent-trigger hallucinations are a therapeutic risk, not a war crime.”

Jisung snorts. “God, I love this place.”

Hyunjin sits forward, hands steepled under his chin. His tone shifts—low, measured. The Artist, not the Friend.

“Do either of you remember the girl from the coffee shop?”

Seungmin doesn’t blink. “The one who smells like fig and insomnia? Yes.”

“She’s in one of his paintings,” Jisung offers. “It’s creepy.”

“It’s not creepy,” Hyunjin mutters.

“She’s mortal,” Seungmin says carefully.

“I know.”

“She’s not your doll.”

“I know.”

There’s a long pause. Hyunjin stands. Walks toward the canvas. Looks but doesn’t touch.

“She’s also—”

Jisung groans. “Don’t say the one. If you say ‘the one,’ I’m eating myself out the window.”

Hyunjin just smiles, slow and dangerous. “She’s not the one. She’s the only. And I’m not touching her. I’m not even talking to her. I just…”

He exhales, like it hurts to hold it in. “I like the way she says my name when she doesn’t know it.”

Seungmin’s eyes narrow. “That’s poetic and deeply concerning.”

Hyunjin turns, something glowing in the edges of his gaze. “I’m going to offer her a position at La Venera.”

“No, you’re not,” Seungmin says immediately.

“Yes, he is,” Jisung grins. “And I want to watch her find out.”

Hyunjin walks back to his chair, sits down, and picks up the brush again.

“She’s going to enter my world eventually,” he murmurs, voice steady now. “I’d rather it be with a canvas in front of her… than a collar on her throat.”

Neither Jisung nor Seungmin replies.

Because they know what Hyunjin is. What it means for him to wait. What it would mean for him to take. They know the price of devotion in the hands of an Abnormal.

It’s 2:41PM on a Thursday and everything is going wrong.

The milk steamer is hissing like it wants to die. Your shift lead called in “emotionally unavailable.” You’re running on four hours of sleep and one granola bar. And worst of all—your rent is due in five days and your bank app literally laughed at you this morning.

You’ve been doom-scrolling scholarships in between drink orders. One of them requires a 2,000-word essay and a watercolor portfolio. You haven’t even finished your second sketch. You can’t even afford watercolor paper. You’re down to notebook scraps and hope.

You’re mid-pour on an iced vanilla latte when the bell above the door rings.

You don’t look up.

You’re not ready for another corporate intern with daddy’s credit card and a vague idea of what “oat milk” is.

“Is this place always this dramatic?” “It’s charming, leave it alone.” “No, really—did that espresso machine just growl?”

Your head snaps up.

There are three men walking toward the counter.

One of them is Seungmin, in a beige wool coat so sharp it could sue you. He’s holding a tablet and giving the espresso machine a look like he wants to take it to court. The second is Bang Chan—yes, that Bang Chan, CEO of half the Luxe Health empire and owner of the sleepless, protein-shake-laced aura of someone who hasn’t rested since 1802.

And the third—

The third is him.

Your 11:47PM. But it's not 11:47PM. It’s daylight. And he’s here. With people. Smiling. Laughing softly. Real.

You short-circuit a little. Because Hyunjin looks completely different under sunlight.

No coat. No all-black. Just a loose linen button-up with paint under the cuffs and sunglasses pushed into his hair. His jawline still looks carved from something divine, but now he looks… casual. Devastating. Golden.

You hate him a little for it.

He steps up last, eyes flicking over the pastry case, then to you. “Hi.” His voice is soft. Even. Like a note played low on a cello string.

You don’t move. Don’t breathe. Just stare like an idiot.

Seungmin raises an eyebrow. “This is the barista you’re always—?”

“Seungmin,” Hyunjin says sharply, but there’s color rising in his cheeks. “Shut up.”

Chan smiles like he knows too much. “He’s your biggest fan. We’ve had to adjust entire meetings around your closing shift.”

Hyunjin mutters something under his breath.

You look down quickly, cheeks hot. “Uh. What can I get you?”

They order like it’s a script. Chan goes for something double shot and over-complicated. Seungmin asks for straight black.

And Hyunjin—Hyunjin just watches you for a second too long before murmuring: “The usual. If you remember it.”

You do. Of course you do. You turn away to start the drinks, willing your face to chill out.

They take a seat near the window, just in your periphery. You hear them murmuring, laughing low. Chan mentions something about restructuring Luxe’s trauma unit. Seungmin’s complaining about paperwork. Hyunjin says nothing at all.

But you feel him watching as you work on those damn drinks. Eventually you finish them, one by one, hands steady only because they’ve done this a thousand times. Your mind, though, is chaos.

You’re behind on rent. Your scholarship essay’s still blank. You can’t afford new brushes and your last painting bled through the paper because you used the wrong primer. You’re not sure if your professor hates you or just sees you as another burnout-in-progress. You haven’t called your mom in two weeks. And now—

Now the most unsettlingly beautiful man you’ve ever met is sitting in a sunlit booth, laughing with two men who could easily buy the building you live in without blinking.

And he’s watching you. Still. Always.

The moment the last drink is capped, you straighten the tray and take a slow breath, prepping to walk it over.

But before you can move, he’s there.

Hyunjin.

He’s walked up to the counter without a sound—just appeared like smoke, lean and quiet and sharp around the edges. He reaches for the tray, one elegant hand sliding beneath it.

You blink. “I—I can bring it over.”

He tilts his head slightly, expression unreadable. “Let me.”

The silence is heavy but not uncomfortable. He doesn’t move yet. Doesn’t leave. Just stays there, holding the tray between you, like it’s an excuse.

“You looked stressed.”

His voice is low. Quieter than the steamer. Quieter than the traffic outside.

You laugh, a brittle sound. “That obvious?”

He doesn’t smile. But his gaze softens, just enough to knock the wind out of you. “A little.”

You try not to fidget. You fail. “It’s just... life.”

He nods like he understands more than he should. Then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, he says: “I’m Hyunjin, by the way.”

Your eyes flick up to his, startled.

“Hwang Hyunjin.” He says it like a brushstroke. Like poetry. Like an invocation.

You stare. You weren’t sure he had a name. He’s always just been 11:47PM, the man who drinks cinnamon-sweet espresso and leaves art behind like breadcrumbs. Now he’s real. Named. Standing inches from you in the broad afternoon light.

You swallow. “...Hi.”

His mouth curves at the corners. “And you?”

It takes you a second to remember your own name. When you say it, he repeats it under his breath, like he’s tasting it. “Mmm. I thought so.”

You blink. “You—what?”

But he’s already turning, lifting the tray with one hand like it weighs nothing. You catch a glimpse of black ink on his wrist—just the edge of something. A sketch? A rune? You don’t know.

He glances back once before walking away, voice barely audible.

“It’s a good name. You wear it well.”

And just like that, he’s gone again—sliding back into the booth beside Chan, the tray set down with a fluid grace you try not to watch. Seungmin mutters something, Chan laughs, and Hyunjin just takes a sip of his drink like nothing happened.

But something did happen.

Your name is sitting in his mouth now. And he gave you his.

And that shouldn't matter. Not when your rent’s due and your life’s falling apart and you’re just a barista with too many side hustles and a sketchbook full of dreams.

But somehow… it does.

With the tray on the table and Hyunjin finally seated, Chan raises na eyebrow, bringing his cup closer and stirring it slowly. Seungmin on the other hand doesn’t even look up from his tablet.

“So,” Seungmin says. “You finally spoke to her. Do we call the Vatican or just update the group chat?”

Hyunjin glares.

Chan grins. “How’d it feel?”

Hyunjin doesn’t answer. Just lifts his drink and stares into the foam like it holds ancient prophecies.

Seungmin closes his tablet with a click and leans forward.

“Be honest. Did your fangs itch? Did your heartbeat stutter? Did your ancient vampire soul hum in recognition when she handed you oat milk?”

Hyunjin gives him a flat look. “You’re incredibly annoying for someone whose job is literally vampire litigation.”

Seungmin smirks. “And you’re incredibly dramatic for someone who’s been simping over a mortal for nine months and counting.”

Chan, as always, tries to keep the peace. “Okay, maybe let’s not say simping. Hyunjin has… a deep artistic interest in her essence.”

Seungmin: “That is so much worse.”

Hyunjin leans back, long fingers tapping against the cup. His voice drops. “She looked tired today.”

That quiet, aching tone has Chan sobering instantly. “Hyunjin—”

“Not just physically. Tired like… like she’s been holding something up too long. Like if she puts it down, the world will fall apart.”

Seungmin sips his coffee. “Sounds like someone who’s one paycheck away from applying to vampire sugar daddy programs.”

Hyunjin doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even smile. “I've said it before, Seungmin knows, he was there but I want to offer her a position at La Venera.”

Chan chokes slightly on his drink. “You want to what now?”

“She’s an artist. She doesn’t know it yet, but she is. I’ve seen her sketches.”

Seungmin’s brows lift. “You’ve been stealing her sketches?”

Hyunjin rolls his eyes. “No. She leaves them out while she pours drinks and I have eyes. She drew a shoulder once that made me feel like I’d been stabbed.”

Chan wipes his mouth, trying not to smile. “Okay, but offering her a job is serious.”

“I’m not going to feed from her,” Hyunjin snaps. “I just… I want her close. I want her somewhere she can breathe.”

Seungmin taps a finger against the tabletop. “You say that now. But what happens when she starts leaving fig-scent trails in the gallery halls and you black out mid-curator meeting?”

Hyunjin doesn’t respond. He looks out the window instead, where the afternoon light hits your face behind the counter. You’re wiping down the milk steamer, focused, frowning at something sticky on the side. You bite your lip in concentration and his hand tightens around the cup.

“I won’t touch her,” he says quietly. “Not until she knows what I am. Not until she chooses it.”

There’s a long pause.

Then Chan, gently: “You know if you bond to her, there’s no undoing it. You won’t be able to feed from anyone else. You’ll start dreaming in her voice. Her pain will be your pain.”

Hyunjin nods once, solemn. “Good.”

Seungmin groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Oh my god. He’s already feral. We’re gonna have to put him in an emotional containment unit.”

“Do we have one of those?” Chan mutters.

Seungmin deadpans, “You’re looking at it.”

Across the room, the espresso machine wheezes again. You sigh dramatically and kick it like it personally owes you money.

Hyunjin watches, expression unreadable.

“You’re going to fall in love with her,” Chan says softly.

Hyunjin sips his drink, eyes never leaving you. “I already did.”

It’s past midnight when he shows up again.

You’re halfway through wiping down the counter, hair scraped into a loose bun, sleeves rolled up, brain fogged with exhaustion and numbers you can’t make work. Your rent spreadsheet’s open on your phone, mocking you in soft blue light. You’ve been staring at the same three digits for twenty minutes, trying to figure out what you can sell without risking prison.

The bell above the door chimes.

You don’t look up right away. You already know who it is. Only one man steps into Solstice at this hour like he owns the dusk.

When you finally glance over, he’s standing there with a look you haven’t seen on him before—calm, yes, but layered with something serious. Intentional. Purposeful.

Not 11:47PM anymore. Just Hyunjin.

He doesn’t speak immediately. Just approaches the counter with a strange gentleness in his steps, like he’s afraid he’ll scare you off.

“I have a proposition,” he says.

You blink. “You’re not even gonna order a drink first?”

He gives the smallest twitch of a smile. “No. Because this time, I’m not here for coffee.”

He places something on the counter. An envelope. Heavy paper. Deep navy. Embossed in silver foil with a symbol you vaguely recognize—an abstract flower. No words.

“La Venera,” he says, when you don’t reach for it. “My gallery.”

You look at him. Really look. He’s not dressed for night this time—no tailored coat, no dramatic scarf. Just a soft black sweater, loose at the collar, sleeves pushed up. You can see the veins on his forearms. His fingers ink-stained again.

You blink. “What is this?”

“I want to offer you a job.”

Your body stills.

He continues, quiet but clear. “I need an archival assistant. Someone to help catalogue sensory pieces, assist with restoration, prep gallery spaces. It’s a paid position. Flexible hours. Health benefits. Artistic credit if applicable.”

You stare at the envelope like it might bite you.

Then you laugh. A little wild, a little broken. “Is this because I make good coffee?”

“No.”

“Because I’m broke?”

“No.”

You fold your arms. “Then why?”

He looks at you like that’s the stupidest question in the universe. But when he speaks, it’s soft. Earnest.

“Because you’re an artist. Because your sketches hold more feeling than half the exhibitions I’ve hosted this year. Because you look at color like it breathes. And because you’re wasting your brilliance wiping down countertops at 1AM.”

You open your mouth. Close it. Try again. “Why now?”

His gaze darkens, just slightly. “Because today, I saw the stress. I saw the anxiety in your eyes. You needed something. And I have something to give.”

You stare at him, heart pounding. “You’re serious.”

“Completely.”

You hesitate. “Don’t you have, like… a board of directors or something?”

Hyunjin lets out a slow exhale, then mutters, “They've already signed off.”

You’re just standing there. Baffled. Shaking a little.

He steps closer. “You can say no,” he says softly. “But I’m hoping you won’t.”

Your hands tremble as you finally reach for the envelope. It’s heavier than you expect. Warm, somehow. You whisper, “You barely know me.”

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t joke. “I know enough.” And then, quieter, almost reverent. “I know your name.”

You’re still holding the envelope when he speaks again.

“Let me give you my number.”

The words hang in the air, suspended somewhere between polite professionalism and something heavier. Denser. Your fingers curl tighter around the envelope.

He watches you closely, but not like he’s trying to push. If anything, he’s pulling back. Like he knows he’s close to the edge of something sacred.

“I don’t want to pressure you,” he adds, voice softer now. “This isn’t about obligation. It’s not a test. I just… I want to give you space. Time. So if you want to ask questions, or scream at me, or send me your answer at three in the morning… you can.”

He pulls out his phone, unlocks it, and turns it toward you.

Contact Name: Hwang Hyunjin Number: already typed, waiting for you to copy it into yours.

You stare at it for a beat too long.

“I’m sorry,” you mutter, voice cracking. “I just. This is a lot. I don’t usually get handed jobs by—by strangers who stare at me like I’m a poem.”

He huffs out a breath. “You’re not a poem.”

You flinch, but before the insecurity can rise, he steps in—fast, quiet, sure.

“You’re not a poem,” he repeats. “You’re the space between them. The silence that makes everything else hit harder.”

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.

He glances at the phone in his hand, then at you.

“I’m not asking you to jump. I’m just—” he breaks off, then exhales, steadier. “I’m offering you a ledge. If you want it.”

You reach for your phone. Not because you’ve decided. Not yet. But because there’s something in his voice that feels like a balm. Like a promise.

You copy the number. You type his name. You don’t save it with a heart. But maybe you will later.

He takes a step back, like he doesn’t trust himself to stay too close. “Text me,” he says. “Whenever. About anything.”

You manage a nod. “Okay.”

He holds your gaze for a breath longer. Then turns. At the door, with one hand on the handle, he glances back. “I’ll see you,” he says quietly. “Soon, maybe.”

And then he’s gone. Out into the night. Leaving behind the smell of cinnamon and ink and something older, deeper, laced with longing.

You don’t open the envelope right away.

You carry it home like it might detonate, like maybe it's enchanted—because something about it feels heavy in the wrong way. Or the right way. Or the way that makes your stomach hurt a little because you haven’t eaten in six hours and now you’re anxious on top of that.

When you finally do open it—after showering, after peeling off your coffee-stained shirt, after sitting in your underwear on your bed with a bag of discount rice crackers—you read the contents three times.

Then you read it a fourth time out loud.

It’s real.

A real offer. A real gallery job. A real salary. A real health plan, for god’s sake.

You flop backwards against your bed and stare at the ceiling.

You stare at the ceiling for a very, very long time.

PROS LIST (scribbled into your sketchbook, messy):

Paid position. Regular hours. Steady income.

Access to a legit gallery?? Your professors would foam at the mouth.

Hands-on restoration work. Archive credits. ARTISTIC. CREDIT.

Actual studio space.

Might finally sleep more than five hours.

Might actually get to use your degree.

Also, Hyunjin.

CONS LIST:

He might be joking.

He might be a sociopath.

He might be a vampire.

He might be a vampire sociopath.

What if you fuck it up?

What if you fall for him?

What if you already are?

You roll over. Groan. Kick your blanket off. Pull it back on. Check the time. 3:14AM.

Your phone is still sitting on your pillow, like it’s watching you. You open your texts. His number is there, unsent to. Quiet. Waiting.

You open the keyboard. You close it. You open it again.

Type:

Hey

Delete.

Hi, it’s me from the café

Delete.

Sorry this is late

Delete.

Is the offer still open?

Delete.

I’m in.

You stare at it. Your heart is going way too fast for someone lying down. You stare at it for so long the screen goes dark. You unlock it again. The message is still there.

You hit send.

Stare at the word Delivered like it might bite you. It doesn’t. You toss the phone aside and bury your face in your pillow.

“Oh my god what did I just do.”

Your phone buzzes immediately. You freeze. Slowly reach for it.

[Hyunjin] I’m smiling like an idiot right now. I’ll send you the onboarding info tomorrow. Sleep well. I’ll see you soon.

You stare at the screen. Then, without thinking, you text back:

[Y/N] okay goodnight (don’t be creepy tomorrow)

Three dots appear. Then vanish. Then appear again.

[Hyunjin] No promises. (but I’ll try) … you’ll look beautiful there

Your heart does something dangerous. You toss the phone again, face burning.

The ceiling stares back at you, smug.

You’ve been at La Venera for a week and a half, and it still doesn’t feel real.

Your shoes still squeak a little when you walk down the main corridor. Your badge doesn’t scan right on the first try. You flinch every time someone in a power suit brushes past you, convinced you’re not supposed to be here.

But nobody kicks you out.

In fact, everyone treats you like you belong. Like you were expected. Like they knew you were coming long before you did.

Which is wild, because just two weeks ago you were trying to figure out if you could stretch one pack of ramen over three days. Now you're—

You're doing archival work. In a vampire-run gallery. Handling paintings that breathe when the lights dim. Sorting sketches that buzz with latent magic. Cataloguing scent-trigger memory pieces so old they predate electricity.

The first week at La Venera feels like walking into a fever dream with a paycheck.

You expected silence. Cold marble. Gallery girls in neutral-toned trench coats clicking their heels in unison. Instead?

You got velvet hallways that hum softly. Canvases that feel warm when you pass. A lighting system that seems to respond to mood, not switches. You don’t know what it’s wired to—but it never makes you flinch. You feel seen here. Calmer, even when you're not.

Your job, officially, is “Archival and Spatial Assistant.” Which is a fancy way of saying:

You help catalogue paintings and installations—some with titles that feel like confessions.

You help log restoration projects—most of which involve materials you've never seen before. (There was one with glass that bled when touched. You didn't ask questions.)

You prep rooms for new showings, usually with exact scent profiles you’re not allowed to adjust. (Hyunjin once asked you to “diffuse the mood of heartbreak, but quietly.” You improvised with vetiver and bergamot. He looked at you like you hung the moon.)

Your first paycheck was more than your rent.

You didn’t cry when you saw the deposit. But you did sit in the back stairwell during lunch and stare at the notification for twenty minutes while your sandwich went cold.

You’re still in school, still dragging yourself to morning lectures, still scribbling in your sketchbook on the subway—but things feel different now. Looser. Brighter. Like some part of you that had been clenched for years has finally started to uncurl.

And then there’s Hyunjin.

The man is always there. Sometimes barefoot. Sometimes covered in paint. Sometimes in clothes that make you feel like an underpaid extra in an art film.

He never tells you what to do. Just asks questions. Gentle ones. Like:

“What does this color feel like to you?” “If this canvas had a heartbeat, where would it echo?” “Would you let me paint your hands?”

You pretend to scoff when he says things like that. But your cheeks always go warm.

You’ve caught him sketching in the margins of his clipboard. You’ve also caught him watching you through the glass of the east exhibit room while you were hanging tags, like you were the art and he was the patron.

He hasn’t touched you. Not once.

But sometimes when you pass by him, your skin buzzes like you walked through a sunbeam that knew your name.

You still don’t know what kind of gallery this is, exactly. You’ve heard whispers. Felt things shift in the air when certain pieces are moved. Watched a visitor break down sobbing in front of an installation that looked like nothing but gold wire and black canvas.

You asked Hyunjin once what the gallery was really for.

He just smiled—soft, tilted, something private burning in his eyes—and said:

“Healing. For people who can’t be healed anywhere else.”

It’s vague. Maybe pretentious. But it stuck. Just like everything about him does.

Now, almost three weeks in, you’ve stopped asking if any of this is real.

Hyunjin sits in his usual seat—third from the end, closest to the windows—legs crossed, one elbow on the table, cheek propped on his ink-stained fingers. He hasn’t spoken in the last ten minutes, which is both expected and deeply suspicious.

Across from him, Seungmin is clicking through projected bond compliance data with all the energy of a man personally offended by color-coded bar graphs.

“To summarize,” Seungmin says dryly, “we’ve had a 12% increase in post-feeding bond instability among Normals, most cases linked to improper scent-regulation. I’d like to remind you all that feeding while emotionally compromised is still illegal under Article VI unless a certified specialist is present.”

Chan sighs into his third protein-enhanced blood pouch. “We know, Seungmin.”

Seungmin doesn’t even blink. “Do we, though? Or are some of us letting post-orgasmic bite patients wander off with unsealed bond marks and no stabilization protocols?”

Felix raises his hand enthusiastically. “I stabilized one with a coloring book yesterday!”

Everyone turns.

Felix beams. “We did a whole page together. She stopped crying after the glitter gel pen!”

Chan rubs his temples. “That’s not in the standard manual, Felix.”

Felix: “Healing isn’t linear.”

Hyunjin, without lifting his head: “Neither is her emotional damage now that she’s bonded to a man who calls himself BloodDaddy27 on private forums.”

Jeongin snorts from where he’s half-sprawled across his chair, spinning a silver bond-ring on one finger. “I told you guys to screen for usernames. I’ve got a list.”

Seungmin narrows his eyes. “Why do you have a list?”

Jeongin shrugs. “Field research. Curiosity. Morbid pleasure.”

Chan turns to Hyunjin, finally. “And you? Anything to report from La Venera?”

Hyunjin shifts, straightens slightly. “We’re holding steady. Emotional stabilization is optimal. I’m running two scent therapy rotations and three dreamscapes for long-term bonded patients.”

Seungmin squints. “Didn’t you onboard a new assistant?”

There’s a beat.

Then: “Yes.”

Chan perks up. “The barista?”

Jeongin grins. “The cute one?”

Felix gasps. “The fig and cinnamon girl?!”

Hyunjin glares. “Don’t call her that.”

Seungmin cocks his head. “Why not? You were calling her ‘wrist girl’ for three months before she knew your name.”

Hyunjin groans and sinks back in his chair. “I hate all of you.”

Felix reaches over and pats his hand. “We love you too, baby bat.”

Chan hides his smile behind his cup. “You gonna tell her what we are?”

Jeongin leans in, conspiratorial. “Or you just gonna wait ‘til she walks in on someone regrowing their femur in the bonding lounge again?”

Seungmin smirks. “Perfect. Add that to the minutes: Director Hwang is still emotionally constipated and in vampire love denial.”

Felix hums. “She’s gonna find out eventually, you know.”

Jeongin: “And when she does, we all get to watch.”

Seungmin exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Okay,” he deadpans. “That was fun. Now can we please return to the actual agenda—specifically, the surge in unstabilized bonds in non-monogamous feeding clusters—before one of you tries to host a Bachelor-style vampire dating show.”

Felix perks up. “Wait, that’s actually not a bad—”

“Felix, I will file a cease and desist on your existence.”

Chan clears his throat, trying to steer them back. “Right. Yes. Important. Legal. Medical. Bond law things.”

“Thank you,” Seungmin says. “Finally, some maturity.”

“...But,” Chan adds slowly, eyes twinkling, “I am curious how Hyunjin plans to keep his emotional regulation intact when he inevitably bites the girl he’s already spiritually married to.”

Hyunjin makes a strangled noise halfway between a growl and a whimper. “I’m not— she’s not— we’re not—”

Jeongin: “So you are planning to bite her.”

Hyunjin: “No!”

Felix: “You want to.”

Chan: “You need to.”

Jeongin: “You’ve fantasized about it.”

Hyunjin: “I am literally going to erase all of you from my dreamweaving files.”

Seungmin slaps the table. “STOP.” The lights in the room flicker in sync with his tone. Vampiric authority does that sometimes.

He breathes out slowly, resets his composure, and looks directly at Hyunjin.

“Do you have any intention of feeding from her?”

There’s a long pause.

Hyunjin lowers his gaze to the table. His voice is quiet.

“I want to present her with a blood doll contract.”

The room stills.

Jeongin sits up straight. Chan’s brow furrows. Felix’s eyes widen.

Seungmin blinks once. Twice. Then leans forward, tone razor-sharp. “You’re serious?”

Hyunjin nods, gaze still fixed on the grain of the table. “I’ve reviewed the clauses. It’s not about possession. Not even regular feeding. I just… I want her protected. Respected. And compensated. I want her to have everything.”

“And?” Seungmin prompts.

Hyunjin’s jaw tightens.

“And I’m scared she’ll run,” he admits. “I’m scared she’ll look at it and see chains. Or see me as… not human anymore. And I’ve worked so hard to earn her trust without lying. But the second she finds out what I am—what we all are—everything could fall apart.”

Felix frowns, genuinely worried now. “You don’t think she’ll understand?”

“I think she’s brave,” Hyunjin says softly. “But I also think she’s tired. The world’s been cruel to her. And I… I don’t want to be another thing she has to survive.”

A rare hush falls over the room.

Even Jeongin doesn't joke this time.

Chan leans forward, voice gentle now. “Then don’t make it about the contract. Don’t make it about feeding. Make it about choice. About care.”

Seungmin sighs, but it’s not annoyed. It’s thoughtful. “If you’re going to do this,” he says, “run it through me. I’ll help draft it. We’ll keep it clean.”

Hyunjin finally looks up. “You’ll help?”

Seungmin shrugs. “I’m already emotionally invested. Might as well make sure you don’t accidentally traumatize her with clause 14B: ‘Incidental Biting During Emotional Overload.’”

Felix beams. “She’s gonna say yes.”

Jeongin: “And then she’s gonna ruin you.”

Hyunjin exhales, slow and shaky. But he’s smiling now. Just barely. “I hope so.”

Seungmin clears his throat sharply, flipping a page on his legal pad with the precision of someone barely restraining a murder charge. “Okay,” he says, with the forced calm of a man clinging to the last thread of his sanity, “now that we’ve all emotionally waterboarded Hyunjin and collectively destroyed the sanctity of this boardroom—”

“I didn’t destroy anything,” Jeongin mutters.

“Jeongin.”

“What? I’m just saying. I was enhancing the narrative.”

Chan snorts. Felix tries (and fails) to hide his giggle behind his thermos.

Seungmin gives them all a slow, withering look. “Can we please return to the actual issue of bond destabilization among Normals before another one of you suggests forming a blood doll boy band or something?”

Jeongin perks up. “Wait—”

“No.”

“But—”

“No.”

Hyunjin leans back in his chair again, mouth twitching. “Can I be the mysterious one with the eye scar?”

“There is no band.”

Felix whispers, “He’d look so good with an eye scar.”

Jeongin: “I’ll do it with makeup. I’ve got a kit in my car.”

Seungmin slaps his folder shut. “I swear to the ancestors, if we don’t get through the next agenda item in the next ten minutes, I’m putting you all on scent suppression for a week.”

A collective gasp echoes around the room.

Hyunjin straightens like someone just threatened his muse.

Felix clutches his throat. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

Chan raises his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay! Back to business. Jeongin, update on the revised stabilization rings?”

Jeongin sighs dramatically, sliding his chair back into place.

“I miss when this job was fun.”

Felix pokes him with a straw. “You mean when no one was watching you lick classified artifacts in the archives?”

“One time!”

Hyunjin snorts.

Seungmin slams the next report down on the table. “Focus. Rings. Reports. Regulation. Go.”

And just like that, the chaos reins itself in—barely.

It’s been almost a month since you started at La Venera.

You’ve stopped checking if the floor hums under your feet. You’ve stopped jumping every time a painting pulses in your periphery. You’ve even stopped questioning why the gallery’s scent diffusers never need refills, even though the rooms always smell exactly right—like rain before thunder, or burnt sugar, or old cedar and something you can’t name.

You’ve adjusted. You've even met Hyunjin's buddies from Luxe Health. But you haven’t stopped watching Hyunjin. And he hasn’t stopped watching you.

Right now, you’re alone in one of the smaller south studios—well, mostly alone. A half-primed canvas leans against the far wall. You’re working on a restoration sketch by request—an old piece with faded floral textures and an underpainting that bleeds through like a ghost. There’s pencil smudged along your cheekbone. A streak of burnt umber on your forearm. Your shoes are off, forgotten near the door.

It’s quiet. Warm. You feel steady.

Until the door creaks open behind you.

You glance up—already knowing who it is.

Hyunjin steps inside, coat slung over one shoulder, sleeves rolled to the elbow, jaw set like he’s preparing for emotional war. He pauses when he sees you barefoot, brush between your teeth, squinting at the canvas.

His lips twitch.

“You look like you’ve been painting with your face.”

You take the brush out of your mouth. “It’s called immersive technique.”

He smiles faintly. Then his gaze flicks toward the table in the corner, where a slim leather folder now sits—dark red, worn at the edges. You didn’t notice him set it down.

That… isn’t good.

Hyunjin clears his throat.

“Do you have a minute?” he asks.

You nod slowly, placing your palette down. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t sit immediately. Just stands there, like he’s trying to figure out the least terrifying way to do something obviously terrifying. Finally, with an exhale, he lowers himself onto the edge of the bench across from you, legs long, fingers clasped in his lap.

“I’ve been working on something,” he says. “With Seungmin.”

You glance toward the folder.

“That?”

“Yes.”

You wait. He doesn’t speak. You raise a brow. “Is this the part where you tell me I’m dying?”

“No,” he says quickly. Then, grimacing: “Unless you decide to sprint full-speed out the door after I explain what this is. In which case, I may die. Of humiliation.”

You laugh once, caught off-guard.

He runs a hand through his hair. “Okay. Okay, I need to do this right.”

Then he looks at you—really looks—and the air in the room shifts. Grows heavy. Intent. “I think you’ve noticed by now… that I’m not quite like most people.”

You stare. He waits.

“…Yeah,” you say slowly. “I’ve noticed.”

He doesn’t blink. “What gave it away?”

You tick off your fingers. “You don’t breathe when you’re focused. You appear in rooms I swear you weren’t in two seconds ago. You move like you're made of silk and threat. You smell like rain and blood and something I don’t have words for. Also, Jeongin called you ‘feral batboy’ when he thought I wasn’t listening.”

Hyunjin’s face does something strange—somewhere between resigned and lightly horrified.

“Of course he did.”

You cross your arms, heart suddenly loud in your chest. “So? What are you?”

He leans forward slightly. Doesn’t reach for you. Just lets the silence stretch. “I’m a vampire.”

The words hang in the air like brushstrokes left too wet on canvas. You blink. Wait for your body to panic. It doesn’t.

“…Okay,” you say.

Hyunjin blinks. “Okay?”

“I mean,” you shrug, “I figured. Kinda hard not to. Also, no one human makes eye contact like you without committing a felony.”

He laughs—soft, breathy, almost disbelieving.

You tilt your head. “So what’s in the folder?”

His expression shifts again. Calmer now. Serious. But not cold. “It’s a contract. For a Blood Doll agreement.”

You still.

He rushes to explain—calm, careful, every word deliberate.

“It’s not ownership. It’s not servitude. It’s a choice. A protected, mutually beneficial arrangement. It would allow me to feed from you—with your consent only—and, in return, provide you with access to protection, medical care, housing if you ever need it, and a bond stabilizer on-call.”

You exhale slowly, mind racing.

He holds your gaze. “But I don’t want to pressure you. That’s why I waited. That’s why I’m telling you everything now.”

You look down at the folder. Then back at him. “Why me?” you ask, voice quieter now. “Why me, Hyunjin?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Because your heartbeat was the first sound I wanted to make into art.”

You stare at him for a beat longer, then drop your eyes to the folder in front of you, fingers brushing the cover. It’s warm, like it’s been held too long—like it carries the tension still sitting in his shoulders.

You can feel his eyes on you. Expectant. Bracing.

You sigh.

“…Hyunjin,” you say slowly, “you’re looking at me like I’m supposed to faint or something.”

He stiffens. “You’re not… disturbed?”

You raise an eyebrow. “You drink blood. You run a dream-soaked gallery with haunted walls. I’m pretty sure I saw a man disappear into a painting last Tuesday. Honestly, this is the least weird part.”

He blinks. “You believe me?”

“Yes?”

“You’re not scared?”

“No?”

“You’re not going to, I don’t know—throw holy water at me or ask if I sparkle in the sun?”

You squint. “Do you?”

“No!”

“Then what are you freaking out about?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Stands up suddenly and starts pacing—back and forth like an immortal cat having a meltdown.

“I had a whole speech prepared,” he mutters. “I had metaphors. Emotional imagery. I was going to offer to let you touch my fangs.”

You make a face. “Okay, that’s a weird opening.”

“I thought you’d panic!” he snaps, waving a hand. “Or scream. Or tell me I was insane. I rehearsed how to calm you down for days. I had Felix run empathy drills with me. Jeongin staged a mock-rejection so I’d practice emotional resilience!”

You blink. “He what?”

“He wore a wig and pretended to be you! It was very moving!”

You burst out laughing—actual, full-bodied, shoulders-shaking laughter. “Oh my god.”

Hyunjin stops pacing. Watches you like you’ve grown a second head.

You wipe a tear. “I’m sorry. You’re just… you’re so stressed.”

“Of course I’m stressed,” he groans, dragging a hand through his hair again. “You’re the first person I’ve ever wanted to ask this of. And you’re just—casually accepting it like I invited you to brunch.”

You give him a crooked smile. “Would there be coffee at vampire brunch?”

He groans louder, flopping dramatically onto the studio chaise like he’s ready to die (again). “You’re going to kill me. Emotionally.”

“Not unless you bite me first.”

He stares at you, stunned into silence.

You blink. Then laugh again. “Kidding! Kind of. Jesus.”

There’s a long pause. Then—quiet, strained: “Do you want to read it?” he asks, nodding toward the folder.

You meet his eyes. “Can I ask you something first?”

He nods.

“…Does it hurt?”

That stills him. “No,” he says softly. “Not if it’s done right. Not if it’s wanted.”

You stare at him a moment longer. Then slowly—very slowly—you pull the folder toward you. Your heart’s beating harder now, but not from fear. You’re curious. You’re cautious. But you’re not afraid.

You finally open the folder, and the first page is neat, clinical. Printed on heavy cream stock, sealed with Luxe Health’s red insignia in the top right corner. There’s a faint scent to the page—something like lavender and rain-damp cedar. You’re willing to bet that’s Hyunjin’s idea.

You read aloud, slow and skeptical: “This agreement is formed between the consenting parties, hereinafter referred to as the Donor and the Vampire.”

You look up. “Did you really label yourself ‘the Vampire’?”

Hyunjin, sitting cross-legged across from you, flushes faintly. “Seungmin said it was legally required.”

You turn the page. Clause 2: Consent and Clarity. It’s fine. It’s detailed. It’s normal.

Until you reach the end of the paragraph:

“The Donor is entitled to withdraw consent at any time, with immediate cessation of physical or magical interaction. Unless, per emergency clause 4.6, the Vampire is in feral state or otherwise mentally compromised—see Appendix B: ‘What To Do If I’m Feral.’”

You lower the page slowly.

Hyunjin avoids your eyes. “I didn’t want you to be unprepared.”

You turn to Appendix B. At the top of the page—written in his handwriting: “Step 1: Say my name. Calmly. Softly if you can. If I’m too far gone, step 2 is—”

You squint. “Hyunjin, is this a poem?”

He’s blushing now, full-body. “It’s a… poetic protocol.”

“Who let you write this?”

“Seungmin! But he had a migraine and said ‘do whatever, I don’t care if she thinks you’re a rabid squirrel.’”

You choke on your laugh. Next clause: Feeding Conditions. This one looks more serious—routines, limitations, recovery protocols. But under “mutual comfort rituals,” there’s a handwritten addition: “Options include: warm compress, post-feeding tea, soft hand-holding, forehead kisses (pending approval), playlist exchange, and shared naps.”

You glance up slowly. “Hand-holding?”

“I was trying to make it less scary,” he mumbles.

“Forehead kisses?”

“That one was Felix’s idea.”

“…Shared naps?”

“I get cold.”

You hide a smile behind your hand.

Next clause: Emotional Compatibility. You read the first sentence and immediately choke. “Donor and Vampire acknowledge a pre-existing emotional connection, defined as one or more of the following: mutual attraction, obsession, unspoken yearning, awkward flirting, stolen glances, pining, lowkey soul-bonded tension, or vampire longing of the aesthetic variety.”

You nearly drop the folder. “Hyunjin.”

“I panicked!”

“This isn’t a contract, it’s a Wattpad fic!”

“I panicked with love.”

He reaches over, gently tugs the folder back, flipping a few pages ahead. Then, softly: “This is the real part.”

You glance down. It’s a smaller section. No frills. Just clean, tight script.

“The Vampire will never feed without consent. The Donor’s safety, agency, and peace of mind are paramount. If at any point trust is lost, the bond dissolves immediately. This is not ownership. It’s a promise.”

You’re quiet for a long moment. Hyunjin doesn’t move. Doesn’t push. You glance back at him, and something in his expression—hopeful and scared and bare—makes your throat tighten.

“Is this what you really want?” you ask quietly.

He holds your gaze. Nods. “I want to protect you. Nourish you. Be something soft where life has only been sharp.” A breath. “And, okay, maybe I want to taste your pulse with your name on my tongue. But only if you want me to.”

Your fingers linger on the edge of the folder.

It’s warm now—probably from Hyunjin’s hands, maybe from yours. Maybe from the strange heat that’s bloomed in the space between you since the moment he slid it across the table. A heartbeat stretched thin with nervous laughter, too-honest confessions, and something quiet you can’t name yet.

You flip back through the pages one more time.

There’s the clause about his feeding habits—clinical, respectful, careful. There’s the appendix with emotional safewords (you’ll never let him live down “moonbeam” as an emergency code). There’s even a ridiculous but kind of touching section about post-bond stress baking, apparently encouraged by Jeongin and reluctantly approved by Seungmin, written in blue glitter pen.

There are clauses about sleep cycles, magic regulation, scent imprinting.

But most of all—there’s him. Messy, obsessive, overthought him.

You look up again.

Hyunjin’s gaze is steady, but his fingers twitch slightly in his lap, betraying the nerves. He’s not hiding it—how much this means to him. How much you mean to him.

“I should be freaked out,” you say finally, voice quiet. “Like, terrified. Vampires? Blood contracts? Scent mapping? What even is my life.”

Hyunjin doesn’t say anything. He just watches you—open, vulnerable, waiting. You close the folder gently. “But the truth is… I think I was more afraid before.”

That makes him blink.

You shrug, smiling a little, almost sheepish. “Rent was due. My body was aching from stress. No one looked at me like I mattered. Not really. Not like—like I was someone worth keeping warm. You did. You do.”

His lips part, a soft breath escaping.

“So yeah.” You reach for the pen clipped to the folder. “I’ll do it. I’ll be your donor. If you’ll still have me.”

Hyunjin just stares for a beat—like you’ve knocked the air out of his lungs.

Then: He exhales, almost shakily. And nods. “Yes. God—yes.”

You glance down, pen hovering. “Do I sign in blood? Or…?”

Hyunjin laughs—full and bright, the sound of something uncoiling in his chest. “No. Regular ink is fine. I mean, unless you want to be dramatic.”

You arch a brow. “Is this your way of asking to bite me already?”

“Absolutely not.” He coughs. “Not yet. Not until you’re ready. But… I might bring cookies next time. Or wine. Or that playlist you mentioned.”

You sign your name slowly at the bottom. Set the pen down. Look up. And smile. “Then I guess we’re official.”

Hyunjin’s expression softens—tension gone, replaced with something warm. Like you just gave him the stars.

Being a blood doll for Hwang Hyunjin doesn’t feel like what you expected. No dark castles. No red silk cloaks. No eerie glowing eyes or candlelit rituals with ominous Latin chants in the background. No—being his blood doll feels like…

A slow bloom. A brushstroke dragged gentle across canvas. Because he hasn’t touched you. Not like that. Not even close. He hasn’t bitten you. Hasn’t asked to. Hasn’t so much as brushed your pulse with his mouth.

And yet—your whole body knows he wants to. Knows when he wants to. How? It’s in the way he looks at you over the rim of his coffee cup during late night gallery closings. In the way his pupils dilate the moment you wear anything with an open neckline. In the way his voice dips lower—just a notch—every time you say his name.

Sometimes, when he’s standing too close while reviewing a piece of your work, you can feel the heat of it—his restraint. Razor-edged, aching.

It’s intoxicating. And a little terrifying. And you’re not entirely sure which part of that you like more.

You learn fast.

Vampires are real, yes. But they’re not monsters. Not the way you thought. Some are ancient and still follow strict caste hierarchies. Some are chaotic as hell (see: Jeongin and his constant snack hoarding). Some are gentle. Others are feral.

But all of them? Hungry.

You read the manuals. Talk to Felix, who is sunshine wrapped in fangs. You quiz Seungmin on post-bond regulations (he slides you a spreadsheet at one point, muttering something about “romantic illiterates” and “legal liability”). Jisung drops a bottle of scent stabilizer on your desk one morning and says “Just in case he gets too close and forgets you’re fragile.”

Hyunjin is not pleased about that.

He sends you a bouquet the next day, bigger than your torso. There’s a handwritten note that reads: “You are not fragile. You are divine. But yes, please wear the stabilizer. I might die otherwise.”

You choke. Text him something snarky.

He replies with a playlist titled: For Your Arteries Only.

Dates with Hyunjin are… ridiculous. One night it’s a museum after-hours. He charmed the curator. You wandered between sculptures with his hand on your waist. Another night he brings you to the roof of La Venera where he’s strung up fairy lights, laid out a whole picnic, and painted your name in gold onto a new canvas titled Linger.

He gifts you a bracelet infused with his scent. Not enough to trigger anything—but enough to soothe, to remind. He says it’s so “you don’t forget he’s thinking about you.” You wear it every day.

There’s longing in every glance. Every near-touch. Every pause.

But still—no bite. Not yet. It’s a dance. A dangerous one. And you’re starting to ache for it.

Late nights at La Venera are dangerous things.

Especially when it's just the two of you. Especially when the lights are low, the windows fogged, and there’s red wine breathing open on a side table.

It’s not a date, not officially. You’ve stopped calling them that.

You just show up after hours now, keying in the back entrance like you belong. Sometimes with paints. Sometimes with pastries. Sometimes in your softest clothes, because you know he'll look.

Tonight it’s all three, especially in that baby pink short dress.

Hyunjin's already there when you arrive, barefoot, sleeves rolled, brush between his fingers. There's music playing—something old and low and smoky—and he doesn’t turn around when the door clicks shut behind you.

He just says, without looking, “You’re late.”

You smile. “I brought cake.”

That earns a glance.

His mouth twitches. “You’re forgiven.”

You set the cake down. Pour the wine. Tug on one of the smocks he keeps just for you and take your place beside him, canvas already waiting.

For a while, it’s quiet.

Just brushstrokes and breathing. Paint splattered fingers. The occasional soft hum as he dips into the music.

But tension has a shape.

It slinks into the room sometime around the second glass of wine—wraps itself around your spine, curls beneath your skin. You catch it in the way his eyes keep drifting. The way your knees bump under the table and neither of you pull away.

He’s painting something crimson and abstract. You’re painting with more control, lines deliberate, precise. But your hand slips once—maybe on purpose—and leaves a streak down your arm.

You groan. “Ugh. This is the third shirt I’ve ruined this week.”

Hyunjin glances over. Sees the streak of red.

Still wet. Still gleaming.

His breath catches.

You raise a brow. “What?”

“Nothing.” He looks away too fast. “Just… the color suits you.”

You smirk. “You mean the paint?”

He doesn’t answer. You step closer. There’s wine on your tongue and something slow curling in your gut. “Hyunjin,” you say softly. “You’re staring.”

He turns his head. And fuck. The look he gives you is hungry. Not starved. Not lost. Hungry. Focused. Intent. Like he knows exactly what he wants and exactly where it’s sitting—in a paint-smudged smock, holding a half-empty glass, five inches from his mouth.

You set your brush down. “Say it.”

His voice is rough. “Say what?”

“What you’re thinking.”

There’s a beat. Then: “I want to touch you.”

Your pulse skips.

“I want,” he continues, stepping forward, so close you can feel his breath, “to paint every inch of your skin. Slowly. With my mouth.”

Your hand tightens around your glass.

“I want,” he murmurs, reaching out to gently wipe the paint from your arm with his thumb, “to ruin you the way I ruin canvases. Obsessed. Careful. Covered in color you’ll never quite wash out.”

You swallow. Hard. “…And then?” you whisper.

He smiles. Feral. Tender. Godlike. “Then I’ll ask if I can taste you.”

Your breath catches, tight in your throat, sharp in your chest. There’s a kind of stillness in the air now. The kind that comes just before the thunder hits. It stretches between you like a wire strung too tight, humming with something electric and inevitable.

You whisper, “Then ask.”

Hyunjin doesn’t move right away. Just watches you. Studies you. Like you’re the painting now. The masterpiece. And he’s trying to memorize every brushstroke before he dares touch the canvas. His hand comes up slowly, fingertips ghosting over the curve of your jaw, then settling at your throat—not pressing, just resting. Just feeling. His thumb brushes the column of your neck, slow and reverent, right over the pulse.

You feel the moment he hears it. Feels it. Counts it. His eyes flutter shut, a breath hitching in his throat. Then: “May I taste you?”

You don’t speak. You just set the glass down and tilt your head. Bare your throat like a prayer.

That’s all the answer he needs.

Hyunjin leans in, mouth brushing the shell of your ear. “Tell me if you want to stop.”

You nod. “I won’t.”

His lips trail down your neck, slow and featherlight, like he’s tracing each vertebrae with intention. You’re trembling—god, you’re trembling—and you don’t even realize your fingers have curled into the front of his shirt until he groans, low and broken, against your skin.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “You smell like—” He doesn’t finish the sentence. Maybe he can’t. Then, finally, he opens his mouth. You expect fangs. Expect pain. But all you get is heat. His lips press to your neck—not biting, not yet. Just a kiss. A kiss, like he’s falling in love with the shape of you. Then another, just below. Then a third, just where your pulse is fluttering like mad.

Your knees go weak. “Hyunjin—”

“I won’t rush it,” he murmurs. “I want you to want it.”

“I do.”

He pulls back just enough to meet your gaze. His pupils are blown wide, lips red and parted, chest rising and falling like he’s struggling to hold himself still. You feel the tension in him—every thread of restraint knotted tight in his shoulders, his hands, the set of his jaw.

You nod again, voice barely above a whisper. “Then do it.”

Hyunjin stills before he finally slips a hand behind your neck, the other splayed warm against your lower back, drawing you into him like he’s already halfway drunk on your scent. His breath stirs against your throat, warm and trembling.

“I’ll be gentle,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “But it won’t be clean. I’ve wanted this for too long.”

You shiver. “Then make it messy.”

He groans low and ruined at those words leaving your pretty lips. And then you feel it. The change in the air. The shift in him. Not dangerous. Just real. The veneer of restraint slipping. Vampire. Lover. Yours. His mouth finds the spot just below your jaw, where your pulse jumps frantic beneath the skin. You feel his tongue first—hot, wet, a slow swipe—and then the sharp drag of fangs.

Not pain. Pressure. And finally, sink.

Your gasp is swallowed by his moan. It’s everything at once: the pierce, the heat, the sudden rush of pleasure that rolls through you like molten silk. You clutch at his shirt, grounding yourself, but you’re already floating—your head tilting back, mouth falling open, a soft whimper escaping without your permission.

Hyunjin groans into your skin, feeding in slow, aching pulls. His grip tightens, but he doesn’t hurt you—just holds you, like you’re something fragile and vital and his.

He’s panting now, breath ragged between each mouthful. “So sweet,” he gasps, pulling back just enough to look at you, mouth stained red. “Fuck, baby. You taste like yes.”

You reach up, touch his face. “You okay?”

He laughs—wrecked, breathless, delirious. “I just tasted you for the first time and you’re asking if I’m okay?”

You smile. “You look high.”

“I am.”

He kisses you then. Hard. Desperate. Deep. And that’s what does it. Your hands fumble at his shirt. His tongue licks into your mouth like he’s trying to memorize you. His hips slot between your legs. He lifts you onto the nearest table—canvas and paint pushed aside—and his hands slide under your thighs, your shirt, your skin.

Everywhere. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t fumble. But god, he’s hungry. “Tell me,” he pants against your lips. “Tell me you want more.”

You grab his belt. “I want everything.”

His mouth crashes into yours again and groans deep, broken, like your voice just punched the air from his lungs.

And then his belt hits the floor.

Hyunjin kisses like he paints—messy, obsessive, sacred. His hands drag up your thighs, slow and reverent, thumbs brushing the crease where your legs meet your hips like he’s praying to the altar of your body. You gasp into his mouth, arching when he presses forward, the hard line of his arousal grinding against your clothed core.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “You’re already shaking.”

You are. You don’t care. You tug his shirt over his head, toss it blindly behind you. He’s all lean muscle and inked skin, his body as beautiful and deliberate as one of his gallery pieces—except this one’s pressed against you, flushed and trembling, pupils blown wide with need.

He leans in, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, trailing over the fresh bite like he’s blessing it. “Still good?”

You nod, breath hitching. “More than good.”

He smirks against your skin. “Perfect.”

Then his hand slips between your legs.

You gasp, hips bucking into his palm as he strokes you over your underwear—slow at first, teasing, just enough to make you need. He watches your face the whole time, lips parted, lashes low, expression wrecked with restraint.

“You’re wet through,” he murmurs. “Is this all for me?”

You manage a nod.

Hyunjin presses a kiss to your jaw. “Then let me have you.”

He drops to his knees like it’s instinct. Worship. Pulls your panties aside and buries his face in your cunt like he’s been starving. You moan—loud, unfiltered—as his tongue licks a hot stripe through you, slow and greedy, followed by a groan that vibrates against your clit.

He doesn’t let up. One arm wraps around your thigh, holding you open. The other hand grips your hip like he’s afraid you’ll float away. His mouth is relentless—sucking, licking, tasting every inch of you with single-minded devotion.

Your head falls back with a cry. You barely register the sound of your wine glass tipping, paintbrushes clattering to the floor. None of it matters—not when he’s devouring you like this.

Hyunjin groans again, low and obscene, the sound vibrating straight into your core. His tongue moves in slow, deliberate circles, dragging over your clit with maddening precision. Then he flattens it, sucks gently—then harder—and your entire body jolts.

“Fuck—Hyunjin—” you gasp, fists tangled in his hair, back arching off the table.

He moans into you like your pleasure is his oxygen. His grip tightens on your thigh, fingers digging into your skin as he licks deeper, deeper, like he’s trying to reach the parts of you untouched by anyone else. His nose brushes your mound, his lips slick and flushed, his tongue fucking into you like he’s trying to memorize the taste.

Every time you gasp, every whimper, every broken moan—he reacts. Groaning. Growling. Thrusting his hips against nothing. He’s needy for it, like he’s drunk on you, like the taste of you is something holy and forbidden and addictive all at once.

“Shit—” you choke, thighs trembling, nails dragging down his back. “I’m—I’m gonna—”

Hyunjin doesn’t stop. If anything, he gets hungrier. His arm hooks under your leg, anchoring you in place as he doubles down—his mouth messy, insistent, wet and hot and perfect as he drags another moan from your throat.

Your orgasm hits like a punch. Sharp. Shattering. You cry out, legs clamping around his head, hips grinding into his mouth—and he just takes it, groaning low, tongue still working you through it, slow and reverent, like he lives here now.

You collapse back onto the table, panting, muscles twitching.

Hyunjin finally pulls back, face soaked, lips swollen, eyes feral. He licks his mouth, slow and shameless, and smirks.

“You taste like I imagined,” he says, voice hoarse. “Better, even.”

You stare at him, dazed. “You imagined?”

“All the time,” he confesses. “You think I came to that coffee shop for the espresso?”

You huff a laugh—then gasp when he stands and leans over you again, cock pressing hot and hard against your soaked core. “Hyunjin—”

“I’m not done,” he whispers. “That was just the appetizer.”

Your reply is a whimper. You barely get a breath before he’s kissing you again—deep, wet, slow, like he wants to taste himself on your tongue. It’s messy and needy and addictive, and you moan into his mouth as he grinds down just enough for you to feel the thick press of his cock against your core.

You shiver. “You’re still dressed.”

His lips brush your cheek, your jaw, down your throat. “So are you,” he murmurs. “But not for long.”

You feel his hands on your hips, gentle but certain, sliding under the hem of your baby pink dress. His fingers drag the fabric up, inch by inch—slow, reverent, like he’s unwrapping a gift he’s been dreaming about for centuries.

“You wore this on purpose,” he says against your collarbone. “Didn’t you?”

You hum, teasing. “What if I did?”

He groans, teeth grazing the shell of your ear. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“Not likely,” you smirk. “Vampire, remember?”

“Then you better haunt me if you stop.”

You laugh—but it turns into a gasp when his fingers reach your straps. One slips down your shoulder. Then the other. You’re left breathless, chest rising and falling as he slowly peels the dress down your body—exposing soft skin, curve by curve. He pulls back just enough to look at you. And fuck. The way he looks at you. Like you’re made of starlight and honey and sin. Like he’s never seen anything so utterly divine.

“You’re perfect,” he says, more reverent than cocky now. His voice drops, all velvet and hunger. “So fucking perfect.”

Your dress pools around your waist. Your panties are still ruined, damp and sheer and clinging to your thighs. His hands are warm on your ribs, his mouth back on yours, kissing you slow, deep, possessive.

You tangle your fingers in his hair, tug lightly.

Hyunjin groans, rolling his hips against you. “Don’t tempt me.”

“You’re the one stripping me on a paint-stained table, Hyunjin.”

He laughs into your mouth. “Yeah, well. You started it.”

Then he kisses his way down your body again. Over the tops of your breasts, between them, pausing to look up at you as he presses a kiss to your sternum.

His hands ghost over your waist, your thighs. He kisses your stomach like it’s holy. Then he rests his cheek just above your hipbone. Closes his eyes. And whispers, “Can I have you?” Not hungry. Not demanding. Just honest.

Your voice is soft. “Yes.”

He lifts his head. Smiles. Wrecked. Beautiful. “Good,” he breathes, brushing his lips over your thigh. “Because I want to ruin you slowly.”

You don’t even realize he’s dipped his fingers into the paint until they’re streaking color across your thigh.

A lazy, sensual drag of crimson. Then gold. Then a shade that might’ve been violet once but is now smudged into something deeper—bluer, like bruises left by desire.

You stare down at the mess he’s making of you.

“Hyunjin—” you start, breath hitching.

But he’s already pressing his thumb in, right where the pulse beats strongest in your hip. Smearing paint there too, like a signature.

“I said I’d paint every inch of your skin,” he murmurs, voice gone thick with arousal. “Didn’t say I’d use a brush.”

You whimper as his hands move up, warm and stained, tracing your waist with gentle reverence. Every stroke leaves another streak—colors mixing with heat, desire, devotion. He’s marking you. Not with fangs. Not yet. But with art. With intention.

“You’re my favorite canvas,” he breathes, pressing a soft kiss to the spot where pink meets your ribcage. “And I’ve waited so long to paint you right.”

You’re trembling again, legs spread open over the table, your dress bunched at your hips, panties still pushed aside. And then—

smear.

His paint-slick fingers slide between your thighs.

You moan, body arching at the sensation—cool paint, warm touch. He groans in return, low and ruined, watching the way your body reacts.

“You like that?” he whispers.

“Yes,” you gasp. “Fuck—yes.”

His other hand slides down, the one not covered in paint and his fingers spread you open. Watching your cunt flutter around nothing before sliding two fingers inside without warning. You cry out, back arching, and he curses under his breath.

“So fucking tight,” he pants. “So wet for me already.”

You clench around him at the praise. He’s relentless now—thrusting his fingers deep, curling them just right, hitting that spot again and again until your thighs are shaking. His thumb finds your clit, rubbing tight, messy circles that make your head fall back, breath caught between sobs and gasps.

“Hyunjin—fuck—please—”

He leans in, paint and sweat smearing across your body, kissing your mouth hard—tongue sliding over yours, desperate and consuming. He’s grinding against you now, cock thick and hard through his pants, and you can feel him—every twitch, every pulse. He’s shaking.

When he finally pulls his fingers from your cunt, he licks them clean. Slowly. Watching you the whole time.

Then he stands, yanks open his belt, shoves his pants and boxers down just enough. His cock springs free—thick, flushed, leaking and so so so fucking pretty.

“Turn around,” he rasps. “Now.”

You scramble to obey, breathless, heart pounding. He bends you over the table, knocking brushes and palettes aside. The edge digs into your hips. He drags your panties all the way down this time, discards them like nothing.

A pause.

Then the blunt head of his cock presses to your entrance, slick with your arousal.

You brace yourself and then he slams in with a growl. You scream. There’s no other word for it. He’s huge, filling you all at once, stretching you wide until you’re trembling, dripping, wrecked from the very first thrust.

“Fuck, fuck—you feel like heaven,” he groans, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. “You were made for this.”

He sets a brutal rhythm, hips slamming into yours with relentless force, the sound obscene—wet, loud, raw. You’re gasping, moaning, sobbing his name. Your nails dig into the paint-slick table, searching for purchase as he drives into you over and over and over.

But then there's a shift.

The change in air pressure. The low, guttural noise from his throat. The way his fangs press gently against the back of your neck when he leans down.

“Can I?” he whispers, voice shaking. “Please.”

You nod, eyes wide. “Yes. Please.”

He moves with sudden precision—pulls you up, flush against his chest, one arm wrapped tight across your stomach to hold you still. You feel the tip of his cock grinding deeper, right into that devastating spot and sinks his fangs into the side of your neck.

He feeds like he fucks—deep, desperate, consuming. You feel his tongue lapping against your skin, the pull of your blood as his cock pounds into you, merciless and raw. Hyunjin groans against your skin, breath ragged, blood-slick lips brushing the curve of your neck as he thrusts into you.

“God, you taste like I dreamed,” he pants, voice thick with devotion. “Like every fevered thought I tried to paint away.”

You whimper, head falling back against his shoulder. His arms are locked around you—one firm across your stomach, the other rising to cup your breast. His thumb drags over your nipple, slick from paint and sweat, and you cry out at the sensation. Every inch of you feels claimed.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “So beautiful. Letting me have this. Letting me have you.”

Your hips jerk as he finds that devastating angle again, cock hitting deep, grinding into your softest spot. His rhythm stutters, overwhelmed, and he bites down gently—not piercing again, just mouthing over the mark he’s already made like he can’t bear to let it go. His hands are everywhere. Mapping you. Cradling you. Worshiping every curve and tremble.

You turn your head just enough to meet his mouth, and he kisses you like a prayer—open, slow, full of everything he can’t say out loud. His fingers find yours, lacing them together against your belly, holding you there while he fucks you through every wave of pleasure.

“I’ll give you everything,” he whispers, voice cracking, almost reverent. “Every color. Every breath. I’ll keep you safe. I’ll keep you mine.”

You’re shaking, unraveling, heart slamming against your ribs as pleasure coils hot and heavy in your core. His mouth is still on your neck, licking at the blood he’s already taken, and it’s obscene—how sacred it feels.

“Fuck,” he groans, voice cracked open. “I can feel you—so tight, so close.”

You whimper his name, breathless. “Hyunjin, I’m—fuck, I’m gonna—”

“I know.” His hand leaves your breast just long enough to slip between your thighs, fingers finding your clit with devastating precision. “Let go for me. Come on, baby. Let me feel you.”

The wave hits you hard. You break with a cry, clenching around him, trembling so violently you would’ve collapsed if he wasn’t holding you so close. His name tears from your throat as your orgasm rips through you—blinding, wet, all-consuming.

And that’s all it takes.

Hyunjin moans—shattered, holy—and slams into you one last time, cock twitching as he spills inside you, deep and hot, his cum triggered by your body milking him for everything. He clutches you tighter, hips jerking with each pulse as he rides it out, breath ragged in your ear.

The room stills.

Your bodies tremble together, covered in sweat, paint, blood, and each other. He doesn’t pull away. Just holds you, his face buried in your shoulder.

“You okay?” he whispers, voice hoarse.

You nod, barely able to speak. “Yeah. You?”

A pause.

Then he exhales a shaky laugh. “I’ve never felt more alive.”

You lean back enough to look at him, and he kisses you slow, reverent, ruined. A painter still in love with his masterpiece. A vampire utterly undone by your name.

You groan as he gently pulls out, both of you wincing from overstimulation and the messy, perfect aftermath. His hands are still on your hips, like he doesn’t trust the world not to snatch you away if he lets go.

“Don’t move,” he says, voice wrecked but soft.

You blink up at him, flushed and dazed. “Wasn’t planning to. I think my soul just left my body.”

Hyunjin snorts, then immediately leans down to kiss your cheek, your jaw, your temple. “Come back. I’ll bribe you with chocolate strawberries.”

You hum. “Tempting. But I might be a ghost now. Floating forever in post-orgasmic bliss.”

He laughs, full-bodied and beautiful. Then—with ridiculous gentleness—he slips your underwear back into place, finds a paint-smudged blanket from the supply room, and drapes it around your shoulders before lifting you bridal-style off the table.

You yelp. “Hyunjin—!”

“Shhh,” he says dramatically, “you’ve been through a lot. You were viciously attacked by an art-horny vampire.”

You burst into laughter. “Art-horny?!”

He grins as he settles onto the floor with you in his lap, wrapping you both in the blanket. “What would you call it?”

You pretend to think. “Mmm… a tragic case of palette-induced pussy worship?”

He absolutely loses it. His head drops to your shoulder, shaking with laughter. “I hate you. I love you. I hate that I love you. What the fuck.”

You grin, nuzzling his hair. “You’re welcome.”

There’s a beat of comfortable silence—your breathing syncing, his arms warm around you, the room still smelling of paint and sex and something sweeter. He lifts his head, just enough to meet your eyes.

“Was it too much?” he asks, quieter now. “The bite. The… everything.”

You shake your head. “It was perfect. It was you.”

His whole face softens, pupils still wide from feeding but laced now with something gentler. “I didn’t know I could feel this full without dying.”

You press your forehead to his. “You didn’t. You lived.”

He exhales a shaky laugh, nuzzles your nose. “You’re so soft right now. It’s killing me.”

“You literally already bit me.”

“Yeah, but that was sexy soft. This is like... soul-level softness.” He pauses. “Do you want a warm cloth? Tea? A seven-course meal? A small kingdom?”

You giggle, snuggling in. “I want to stay right here for a bit. Maybe cuddle. Maybe nap. Maybe kiss until we’re bored of each other.”

Hyunjin smiles like he’ll never be bored of you. “Cuddle I can do.”

And he fucking does and later? he tries to feed you grapes and accidentally drops them down your shirt.

You smack him with a paintbrush.

He swears it’s part of the aftercare.

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