#changbin fluff

chan

The hospital elevator doors slid open with a soft ding, revealing a long hallway lined with numbered doors. You shifted the greasy paper bag in your hand, still warm against your palm, and stepped out.

Room 097. You nudged the door open with your elbow, balancing the food and a soda cup. Chan was exactly where you’d left him, propped up in bed in a 45 degree angle, eyelids heavy, hair messy and slightly curlee. The heart monitor beeped steadily beside him, its rhythmic pulse filling the quiet room.

“Brought fries,” you announced, shaking the bag a little. His head lolled toward the sound, reaction delayed.

“Fries?” Chan repeated, the word slow and dragged out. His expression suggested that anesthesia hadn’t quite worn off yet.

Chan's fingers twitched toward the bag before his hand even fully registered the movement, his wrist drooping mid-air.

You walked over and perched on the edge of his bed, the paper crinkling as you unfolded the top with exaggerated care — partly to keep grease off the sheets, partly to watch his face slowly crumple into anticipatory delight. His nose scrunched first, then his mouth fell open slightly, his whole body tilting towards you.

You handed him the bag, and his fingers curled around it carefully, then he pulled out a single fry, holding it up between thumb and forefinger, then, with a slowly, he took a bite.

The change was instantaneous. His eyes widened, fully awake now, and the heart monitor stuttered, skipped, then kicked into a faster rhythm. Beep-beep-beep.

You could practically see the dopamine hitting his bloodstream, his pupils dilating further as he chewed. “Oh,” he breathed, voice hushed with reverence. “Ohhh. this is goooood”

he attacked the next fry, fumbling slightly as his anesthesia-slowed reflexes struggled to keep up with his enthusiasm.

A fry slipped from his grip, landing on the blanket with a quiet *plop*. Without thinking, you picked it up and held it out to him. Chan leaned forward, mouth open, and let you pop it between his lips. His teeth grazed your fingertips, and he hummed around the bite.

“You—” he started, then paused to swallow, his tongue darting out to catch a stray grain of salt from his bottom lip. “You made these.” It wasn’t a question. It was a declaration, delivered by your boyfriend who’d just discovered the meaning of life in a paper bag of fast food fries.

You opened your mouth to correct him—Chan, I literally got these from the drive thru— but he was already rambling ahead, “S’why I love you,” he slurred, gesturing vaguely with a fry clutched between his fingers. “Magic hands. Could marry you. Would marry you. Right now.”

His head lolled to the side, “Do they do weddings here? In hospitals?” he paused, slowly reaching a finger to point at you "do you do weddings? like, as the bride?"

You couldn’t help it—you laughed, the sound bubbling up uncontrollably as Chan blinked at you with solemn, drug-dazed sincerity.

The heart monitor’s tempo increased another notch after he heard your laugh, keeping time with the way his free hand pawed clumsily at yours, "Pretty sure you're not legally allowed to consent to marriage while hopped up on anesthetic drugs," you said, plucking another fry with your free hand from the bag and holding it out.

Chan's mouth opened automatically, eyes crossing slightly as he focused on the fry's approach. "Mmm, but I mean it, though" he insisted around the mouthful, cheeks puffing out.

He brought your joined hands to his mouth, pressing a greasy, exaggerated kiss to your knuckles. "you make amazing fries,” he mumbled against your skin, "you'd make an amazing wife too"

minho

Did I...hic... swallow a lightbulb?" Minho's voice was thick with confusion, syllables sliding together. His eyelids fluttered against the ceiling light's glare, and somewhere to his left, a machine beeped in what felt like slow motion.

The old nurse's chuckle was warm but professional. "No, sweetheart, that's just the anesthesia. You're in recovery." She adjusted his IV with practiced ease.

Minho's fingers twitched against the stiff hospital sheets, his brow furrowing deeper when they met empty space. "huh—" He exhaled sharply, arm flopping sideways with alarming lack of coordination. "Where's—?"

Your hand caught his just as panic started creasing his forehead. The instant your skin touched his, his whole body sagged back into the pillow in relief, "Oh," he murmured, thumb clumsily stroking your knuckles. "There you are." His smile was lopsided, pupils still blown wide from the drugs.

The nurse leaned over him with a penlight, her scrubs rustling from the movement. "Mr. Lee, can you tell me where you are right now?"

Minho blinked at the ceiling tiles, his gaze drifting. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again. "No," he admitted finally, his voice scratchy with sleep and drugs. Then his fingers tightened around yours, "But my girlfriend's here so it's probably okay."

You bit back a laugh as the nurse's eyebrows shot up. She turned to you with a smile. "He's adorable when he's high, isn't he?"

Minho made a noise of protest, or at least tried to, but it came out as more of a drowsy hum, his fingers flexing weakly around yours. "Not high," he mumbled, his tongue slow and heavy. "Just..." His head lolled toward you, eyes struggling to focus. "wait," he squinted at you "you brought pudding?"

You hadn't even taken the lid off yet, but somehow, he'd already caught the scent of vanilla from the little plastic cup in your bag.

The nurse chuckled again and patted his shoulder. "I'll leave you two to it," she said, slipping out of the curtained area with a final rustle of scrubs.

Minho's face lit up when you finally pulled it out and peeled back the foil seal, his drowsy expression shifting into something close to glee.

"You know me," he sighed dreamily. His hands twitched uselessly in his lap — still too uncoordinated to hold the spoon — so you scooped up a bite and guided it toward his mouth.

He accepted it with a happy noise, eyes fluttering shut as he savored it. "That's crazy," he said around the mouthful, "How do you always know?"

You were about to tease him, something about how it wasn't exactly a secret, given the way he hoarded pudding cups in your fridge — when his expression abruptly sharpened. His brows furrowed with sudden intensity, his gaze oddly serious as he squinted at you.

"Did you feed the cats, too?"

You blinked. Of all the things for him to latch onto in his anesthesia haze, that was what his brain had zeroed in on.

"Yes," you assured him, fighting a smile. "Automatic feeder’s working, water bowl’s full, and I gave them extra treats before I left."

Minho exhaled like he'd been holding his breath, his shoulders slumping in relief. "Good," he murmured, already drifting again. His eyelashes fluttered against his cheeks, heavy with exhaustion. " 'coz sometimes they get..." His words slurred together, the sentence trailing off into silence as his grip on your fingers loosened.

You watched him for a moment, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way his lips parted slightly as his breathing evened out. he hadn't even finished his pudding cup.

A soft snore escaped him, and you couldn't help but laugh under your breath. the nurse was right— he is adorable like this.

changbin

"Ow," Changbin muttered, his voice gravelly, his eyelids felt glued shut, but when he finally managed to pry them open, harsh lights stabbed his vision. He groaned, squinting at the blurry figure sitting beside him. A person, vaguely familiar, holding what looked like his phone and wallet in their lap.

He blinked. Once, twice.

The person— you —looked up instantly, pocketing your phone with a soft smile. "Hey, Binnie. How’re you feeling?"

His pupils were still blown wide from the anesthesia, giving him the dazed, unfiltered honesty of someone who hadn’t quite remembered how to censor himself yet. He blinked at you, slowly , then exhaled a quiet, awed, “…Whoa.”

You stared back at him, “What?”

“You’re really pretty.” The words came out rough, slurred at the edges but painfully earnest. He tilted his head slightly, hospital blanket pooling around his waist as he squinted at you. “Are you a nurse?”

You nearly choked on your own spit trying not to laugh. “No,” you managed.

Changbin frowned, his brows knitting together in confusion. “But you’re here,” he pointed out, “And you’re holding my stuff.” He gestured vaguely at his phone and wallet in your lap.

You bit your lip to keep from grinning. “Yeah, because I came with you.”

His head snapped up so fast his IV line wobbled. “Wait.” his eyes widened slightly “You chose to be here?”

You nodded, watching as his expression cycled through disbelief, delight, and something dangerously close to smugness in the span of three seconds.

He opened his mouth — probably to say something ridiculous — but then his gaze dropped to his own hospital gown, and his face did a complicated little twist. “Do I… look okay?” he asked, voice suddenly small.

“You're drugged,” you said with a shrug.

He pouted. “That’s not what I asked.”

Before you could answer, he made a valiant attempt to flex his bicep under the thin blanket, but the effect was ruined by the way his elbow buckled halfway through.

The IV tugged at his wrist, and he hissed, dropping his arm with a grumble. Still, he managed a wobbly grin. “Still got it,” he mumbled, more to himself than to you.

“You can barely keep your eyes open,” you teased.

“But the muscle is there,” he insisted, patting his own bicep with a sleepy sort of pride.

The nurse chose that moment to walk in, clipboard in hand, and Changbin immediately perked up like he’d been waiting for an audience. “Do I look strong right now?” he asked her, voice dripping with hope.

She barely glanced up, “Sure.”

Changbin turned back to you, triumphant, but then his expression faltered. He bit his lip, suddenly shy, fingers picking at the edge of the blanket. “So…” he started, then stopped, swallowed, tried again. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

You blinked. “Changbin. I am your girlfriend.”

Then his eyes went huge.

“WHAT?”

You burst out laughing as he stared at you in utter, slack jawed disbelief, his head whipping between you and the nurse like he needed a second opinion. “You’re serious?” he demanded, voice cracking.

“Yes.”

“You’re my girlfriend?”

“Yes, Binnie.”

His entire face turned red so fast, then he dropped his head back onto the pillow with a muffled thump, hands covering his face as he started giggling, a high-pitched, disbelieving sound that dissolved into breathless, giddy laughter.

“No way,” he wheezed, peeking at you through his fingers. “No waaay.”

The nurse turned to you, and before she could even open her mouth, Changbin jabbed a finger in your direction, grinning so wide his cheeks must’ve ached. “That’s my girlfriend,” he announced.

“I know,” she said.

“No but like—” He grabbed your hand, squeezing your fingers like he needed proof you were real. “She’s mine.”

You squeezed his hand back, rolling your eyes but unable to hide the way your cheeks warmed at his dopey declaration. "Yes, yes, we've established this," you teased, but Changbin wasn't having it — he tugged your hand closer, his grip surprisingly strong for someone who'd just woken up from surgery.

"Wait, wait—" His eyes narrowed suddenly, a suspicious wrinkle forming between his brows. "Prove it."

You arched an eyebrow. "Prove what?"

"That you're my girlfriend." He crossed his arms over his chest, the IV line got tangled in the blanket halfway through the motion.

You leaned forward before he could fumble with the IV any further, pressing a quick, soft kiss to his lips — barely a brush, just enough to shut him up.

he froze, eyes wide, his breath hitching audibly against your mouth. When you pulled back, his entire face was slack with stunned silence, his fingers hovering in mid air.

“…Oh,” he said finally, voice hushed. the tips of his ears turned red, then he swallowed hard, and nodded once, “Yeah. That checks out.”

You snorted, nudging his shoulder lightly. “Satisfied?”

“…Can you do that again?”

hyunjin

"Hyunjin, you're drooling on the pillow," you said, poking his shoulder.

Hyunjin blinked slowly, his eyelids, the anesthesia still clinging to his thoughts. He smacked his lips once, twice, then frowned, "M'not drooling," he mumbled, his words slurring together. "M'a gentleman. Gentlemen don't drool." He lifted a hand to wipe his mouth that, sure enough, had a little spit trail down to his chin.

Then the nurses approached either side of his hospital bed, One of them had a pair of scissors in her hand, which, in his state, seemed vaguely threatening until he realized they were just for cutting off the hospital bracelet. The other nurse held a neatly folded stack of clothes. His clothes.

"Alright, Mr. Hwang, let's get you changed," one of them chirped, her voice far too cheerful for someone about to strip him bare.

she reaching for the flimsy ties of his gown. Hyunjin's reflexes were delayed, but he managed to clutch the thin paper fabric to his chest just as she gave it a tug.

"Ladies, ladies, calm down!" he giggled, his words still thick. His eyes darted to you, wide and pleading, as if you alone could shield him from this indignity. "I have a girlfriend!" he announced.

The nurses only laughed, unfazed, and the one holding a fresh set of clothes— soft sweatpants and a hoodie —tried to reassure him. "We see naked people every day, sweetheart. Yours isn't special," she sighed, reaching for the gown again.

Hyunjin gasped dramatically, twisting away just enough to escape her hands, his cheeks flushing pink, "No, no, she'll get mad!" he insisted, jerking his chin toward you. His voice dropped to a whisper, though it was still loud enough for everyone to hear. "She’s scary when she’s jealous."

You couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all — Hyunjin, bleary eyed and pouting, clinging to his dignity (and his paper gown). “I’m not gonna get mad,” you said, shaking your head as you stepped closer.

It was true— you'd seen him in far more compromising positions, and besides, the nurses were just doing their job. But Hyunjin's face crumpled, his lower lip jutting out in a pout so exaggerated it could've been comical if it weren't for the genuine hurt flashing in his eyes.

"You don't care," he accused, his voice wobbling. The nurses exchanged amused glances, one of them muffling a snort behind her hand.

Rolling your eyes, you plucked the stack of clothes from the second nurse’s arms. “I care enough to dress you myself, you big baby,” you said, shooing the nurses away with a mock-stern wave. They retreated, still giggling, as you perched on the edge of the bed. Hyunjin blinked up at you, his drowsy defiance softening into something fond.

“You’re gonna…?” he slurred, and you nodded, already untangling the sleeves of his sweater. “Yeah, unless you want them to strip you.” His gasp was scandalized. “No! You’re my girlfriend. That’s your job.”

The paper gown crinkled as you peeled it away, Hyunjin’s arms flopping obediently when you guided them into the sweater. He swayed a little, forehead bumping against your shoulder, and you could feel his warm breath through the fabric.

“You’re heavy,” you grumbled, half heartedly, as you wrestled the sweater over his head. He hummed, nonsensically pleased, and muttered into your neck. “S’cause I’m a gentleman,” he mumbled, and you snorted, tugging the hem down over his hips. “Sure, keep telling yourself that.”

jisung

"Baloney," Jisung mumbled, his tongue heavy against the roof of his mouth. "Absolute…..baloney."

His eyelids fluttered, still glued shut with the weight of whatever they’d pumped into his veins. Around him, machines beeped in lazy intervals.

"I had a dream," he announced to no one in particular, louder this time, though his voice cracked midway. His fingers twitched against the stiff hospital sheets. "I had a girlfriend. Like, a whole girlfriend. Not just a ‘we held hands once’ thing. A full romcom montage girlfriend." He sighed, dreamy and dramatic, as if the memory alone was enough to melt him back into the mattress. "She laughed at my jokes. Even the bad ones. The really bad ones."

A quiet chuckle came from beside him. it was warm, familiar. "Yeah?"

Jisung's eyebrows shot up, his face twisting into a mix of confusion and exaggerated offense. "Yeah?" he repeated, dragging the word out like it personally wronged him.

His head lolled toward the sound, still fighting to pry his eyes open. "Don't 'yeah' me like that. This was cinematic. We—" He hiccuped, the motion making his IV tube sway. "—we fed each other and....cuddled..The whole cliché shebang."

The chuckle came again, softer now, closer. A hand brushed his wrist, fingers skimming the edge of his hospital bracelet. "Sounds serious."

"Dead serious," Jisung insisted, nodding so vigorously his neck protested. He winced, "I think she might’ve been a ghost."

The hand on his wrist squeezed, just enough to pinch. "Ow—hey!"

"Definitely not a ghost," you said, your thumb rubbing slow circles over the inside of his wrist where you'd pinched him.

Jisung's fingers twitched again, curling weakly toward your touch. His eyelids finally unstuck, blinking rapidly, he squinted up at you, pupils blown wide, the brown of his irises nearly swallowed by black.

Jisung stared at you for three full seconds before his lips parted in a slow, lopsided grin. "Oh," he said, dragging the syllable out, "You're real." His head flopped back against the pillow, a delirious laugh bubbling up from his chest.

"That's wild. I thought you were, like. A metaphor. Or a side effect. Or—" He hiccuped again, one hand flailing vaguely toward the IV drip. "— drugs."

You caught his hand mid-air, lacing your fingers through his. His skin was warm, slightly clammy, but his grip tightened instinctively around yours. "Nope," you said, popping the 'p' right in his face. "Just me. Your very real girlfriend."

Jisung blinked at you, like he was trying to commit every detail of your face to memory before the drugs wiped it clean again.

His grin widened, dopey and unfiltered, “Holy shit,” he breathed, his free hand lifting to poke your cheek— once, twice —as if testing for holographic resistance. “You’re solid. Like, actually solid. not a...ghost”

You snorted, catching his wandering fingers before they could migrate to your nose. “Ghost girlfriends don’t usually pinch,” you pointed out, squeezing his hand again for emphasis.

“Fair,” he conceded, then leaned in, “But listen,” he whispered, “If you were a ghost, I’d still be into it.

You burst out laughing, the sound bouncing off the walls. Jisung’s eyes lit up at the noise, his entire face softening at the noise. “You’re so gone”

Jisung’s happy expression turned into confusion. “Gone?” he repeated, tilting his head. “Nah. I’m here. Like, physically here.” He wiggled his toes under the thin hospital blanket for emphasis, then immediately winced. “Okay, maybe not all of me is here. My feet are kinda… zoning out.”

“They’ll come back,” you promised. “Just give the drugs time to wear off.”

felix

Felix blinked awake, eyes wide and unfocused, his face still slack. He looked around, then his head turned toward you, and his lips curled into a grin so sudden it was like someone had flipped a switch.

"There she is," he murmured, voice thick with sleep and whatever cocktail they'd pumped into his veins. "C'mere, c'mere." His hand flopped against the hospital bed sheets, patting the space beside him, " You're so... shiny right now. Like a... a disco ball, but softer. And smaller. And—" He squinted. "Are you glowing, or is that just me?"

You laughed, "I'm not glowing, lix" you stepped closer to him, sitting at the edge of the bed and planting a kiss on his forehead.

"I missed you," he announced solemnly, as if you'd been gone for years instead of the twenty minutes it took to wheel him out of surgery and back. "I missed you too, baby," you answered with a smile

Then, abruptly, he tensed. "Wait." His fingers tapped your arm, "Did you eat today?"

You laughed, "Yes, Felix. I ate."

His voice had lost its drowsy slur, "Are you sure you ate? fruits?.." He paused, holding a hand up to count on his fingers "like carrots, cucumbers, and also...yogurt"

"I had a sandwich," you said slowly, "and an apple. And yes, yogurt, if that’s what you’re worried about." You smoothed a hand down his arm, feeling the tension coiled there. "Felix, what’s—"

He exhaled sharply, his body sagging back against the pillows. "Good," he muttered, more to himself than to you. His eyelids fluttered, heavy with residual drowsiness. "That’s good." His grip loosened, fingers sliding down to lace clumsily with yours. "Gonna make you brownies when we get home," he mumbled, the words slurring at the edges.

"Brownies with walnuts," he clarified, because this was vital information. His voice was thick, half lost in the cottony haze of fading anesthesia. "And—and extra chocolate chips. The kind you like."

You smiled, squeezing his hand gently. "You're gonna burn them," you teased, "Like last time." The memory of smoke alarms and Felix waving a dish towel like a surrender flag made your chest ache with something fond and familiar.

Felix made a noise of protest, his head lolling toward you. "Not gonna burn them," he insisted, words smudging together at the edges. "Gonna use the timer. The one with the—" He gestured vaguely with his free hand, fingers sketching shapes in the air. "The beep. The loud beep."

seungmin

The first thing Seungmin noticed was the ceiling. It was off white, with large square lights glaring down at him. The second thing he noticed was the dryness — his throat felt like it had been stuffed with cotton balls, then set on fire. He tried to swallow and winced.

"Ugh," he croaked, his voice barely louder than a whisper. The word came out rough, scraping against his raw throat.

He blinked slowly, his eyelids heavy as if someone had glued weights to them. The lights above him cast a harsh glow that made his head pound. He squinted, turning his face away.

"Someone turn that shit off," he mumbled, but no one answered. The room was quiet except for the steady beep of a monitor nearby. He tried to lift his arm to shield his eyes, but his limbs felt like wet noodles. A dull ache radiated from his shoulder down to his fingertips.

Then he heard laughter — soft, familiar. His brows furrowed, and he turned his head toward the sound. You were sitting in a chair beside the bed, grinning at him like he’d just told the funniest joke in the world.

Seungmin’s smile was slow, the kind that started at one corner of his mouth and crept upward until it reached his eyes, crinkling them at the edges. "You're here," he said, voice still scratchy but suddenly brighter, as if your presence had flipped a switch in him.

"My throat hurts," he murmured, pouting in a way that would've been ridiculous if it weren't so endearing. "My head hurts, too. And the lighting in here is ugly." His voice was thin, frayed at the edges, but the way he said it made you laugh again.

The sound seemed to startle him, his eyes widening slightly before his expression melted into something unbearably fond. "Oh," he said, as if surprised by his own realization. "You're laughing. That's nice." He blinked slowly, his gaze drifting over your face like he was memorizing it.

Then, he added abruptly, "Actually, I might be dying. Can you check?"

You rolled your eyes (fondly) and reached for the water bottle on the bedside table, twisting the cap off with one hand. "You're not dying," you said, sliding a straw inside and guiding it toward his lips. "You're just dramatic."

He opened his mouth obediently, letting you guide the straw between his teeth. The first sip was tentative, but the second was greedy, his throat working as he swallowed.

Seungmin exhaled sharply through his nose, water droplets clinging to his lower lip as he pulled away from the straw. His eyes — still hazy from anesthesia — locked onto yours with sudden, startling clarity. The corners of his mouth twitched, and then, his entire face softened.

"Actually," he murmured, his voice still rough but lighter now, "things are looking up. The lighting is better now." and then, because Seungmin had never been subtle a day in his life, he added, "Or maybe it's just you."

You snorted, but your fingers tightened around the water bottle anyway. "Wow," you deadpanned. "You're so smooth post surgery. Do they pump you full of charm with the anesthesia, or is this just your natural state?"

Seungmin's laugh was a quiet, breathy thing, more vibration than sound. "Natural talent," he croaked, then winced. "Ow. Laughing hurts. Stop being funny." He reached for the water again, but his hand wobbled mid air, his fingers twitching toward yours instead.

You guided the straw back to his lips without comment, watching as he took another slow sip. His throat worked, Adam's apple bobbing, and when he leaned back against the pillow, his expression was smug. "See? Told you. Better already."

You arched an eyebrow. "The water or me?"

"Yes."

jeongin

The nurse who worked at the hospital was old. she had seen it all before — confused Post-operation patients, disoriented trauma cases, people who swore they were Napoleon. But this was different.

She checked Jeongin's chart again, tapping her pen against the clipboard. "And what's your name, sweetheart?" she asked, though she already knew the answer. Standard procedure. Always a standard procedure.

Jeongin blinked up at her, pupils still dilated from the anesthesia. His hair was a mess, sticking up in three different directions. He opened his mouth, hesitated — then his eyes slid past her shoulder, and his entire face transformed. A slow, dopey grin spread across his lips, so wide it looked like it might hurt. "You,"

You hadn't even said anything yet. You'd just walked into the recovery room holding a paper cup of water, freezing cold from the vending machine down the hall.

The nurse glanced between the two of you, eyebrows rising. "Do you know who this is?" she asked Jeongin, nodding toward you.

Jeongin didn’t even glance at the nurse. His gaze stayed locked on you, dopey and adoring.

“Of course I know,” he said, voice slurred but certain. “That’s—” He paused, brow furrowing, then brightened. “That’s my...girlfriend!”

The nurse’s pen hovered over her clipboard, her lips pursed in amusement. “Alright, Mr. yang,” she said, “What year is it?”

Jeongin blinked at her, his grin faltering for the first time since you’d walked in. His brow scrunched up, the effort of concentration visible in the way his fingers flexed against the sheets.

Then, with a sudden, helpless laugh, he turned his head toward you, his eyes pleading. “You tell her,” he said, then turned his head back to the nurse and whispered “She knows everything.”

You couldn’t help it — you snorted, pressing the back of your hand to your mouth to stifle the sound. and he beamed back at you.

the nurse chuckled, there was a fondness in it as she scribbled down in her clipboard. “Uh huh, and does ‘she’ know what planet we’re on, too?”

Jeongin’s face went blank for a second, then lit up again. “Earth,” he announced proudly, then, he added, “But I think she could tell you about the other ones. If you asked nice.”

The nurse’s pen paused mid scribble. She gave you a look — half exasperated, half amused — before sighing and flipping her clipboard shut. “Alright, Romeo. You’re officially the most charming post-op I’ve had all week.”

She patted Jeongin’s shoulder, then nodded toward the door. “He’s all yours. Just don’t let him try to walk yet” and she left with a final smile, the door clicking shut behind her.

Jeongin’s head turned to your direction, he tried weakly to reach for you, and you reached out and let him clumsily intertwine his fingers with yours.

“You’re real,” he murmured, he’d half convinced himself you were a hallucination.

You squeezed his hand, biting back a laugh. “Pretty sure. Unless we’re both hallucinating, which would be—”

“Awesome.”

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LEE KNOW:

CHANGBIN:

HYUNJIN:

HAN:

FELIX:

SEUNGMIN:

I.N:

Too loud. Too confident. Too all over the place.

Every class, every group chat, every hallway you tried to exist in—he was there. Smirking. Teasing. Rolling his eyes at your notes, talking over you during discussions, always finding ways to get under your skin like it was a personal hobby.

But your girls had insisted. “You need a break. You need tequila.”

So you’d gone.

Lip gloss, crop top, shots lined up like soldiers.

By midnight, the living room was a haze of heat and laughter. Someone had started a game of truth or dare with twisted rules. Everyone was half-drunk and full of bad ideas.

You should’ve seen it coming. The moment your turn came and the bottle pointed at you, a few smirks lit up around the circle like a warning.

“Okay,” Layla grinned, “truth or dare?”

You hesitated. Truth was safe. Predictable. But everyone had been choosing it all night, and you’d mocked them for it. Now it was your turn to be bold.

“Dare.”

Layla didn’t hesitate.

“Send a nude to Seo Changbin… or run a full lap around the football field naked. With a suction dildo stuck to your forehead.”

The room howled.

Someone immediately got up to rummage in a drawer. “I have the dildo!”

Your stomach dropped.

You tried to laugh it off, eyes wide. “Are you fucking insane?”

“You’ve got beef with him, right?” someone snorted.

“This is perfect.”

“You’re always bickering, it’ll shake him up.”

It wasn’t the nudity that scared you. It wasn’t even Changbin.

It was what was already in your camera roll.

A photo you’d taken months ago during a particularly filthy night, when you were feeling reckless and painfully needy. The lights had been low, your skin warm, your thoughts wicked. You’d spread yourself wide open on the sheets, wet and glistening, lips parted, your own fingers pulling at your skin. Your face was in it. Your expression ruined.

You had stared at it afterward, thinking: This is too much. No one can ever see this.

But you hadn’t deleted it.

And now… your hand hovered over it. Over the send button. The whole room was watching you, waiting.

You felt drunk. Braver than you should’ve been.

So you said, too calmly, “Fine.”

And tapped send.

It only took thirty seconds for regret to sink in like poison.

What had you just done?

He was going to lose his mind. Or worse, not react at all. He could ruin you. Show people. Mock you in class. Bring it up next time you tried to speak during a lecture.

You curled into the couch, face hot, eyes burning from the alcohol and the humiliation chewing through your stomach. Your phone buzzed once.

Then twice.

You turned it over.

Changbin 💢:

Did you mean to send that?

You stared at your phone like it had grown teeth.

Your thumb hovered over the keyboard.

Every possible answer felt wrong. You almost typed “ignore it”, but deleted it. Then you typed:

“It was a dare. Just forget it.”

Another ping.

Changbin 💢:

That’s not the kind of photo you send as a dare.

You swallowed.

Your face was burning. All the background noise in the living room—the music, the laughter, the clinking glasses—faded to a soft murmur. The heat of the dare was starting to wear off, replaced by a sick rush of adrenaline and humiliation.

Changbin 💢:

Jesus fucking Christ.

I… I didn’t know you looked like that.

You’ve been walking around class with that between your legs?

You tightened your thighs instinctively.

You typed:

“It was a stupid dare. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

But he wasn’t letting it go.

Changbin 💢:

You already had that pic?

That wasn’t a selfie. That was planned.

You took that for someone. You were gonna send it eventually.

You bit your lip.

“It’s old. I never sent it to anyone.”

Changbin 💢:

That makes it worse.

You paused.

“Why?”

Changbin 💢:

Because I’ve never wanted to fuck someone I hate more than I do right now.

You looked so good. So fucking wet. Like you needed someone to take care of it.

You blinked.

Your stomach flipped. The burn between your legs sharpened. You weren’t sure if it was arousal or pure nerves—probably both.

“This is insane.”

“You’re insane.”

“You’re still the asshole who makes me want to throw things in class.”

You deleted it all.

Instead:

“You’ve seen it now. Can you just forget it?”

The reply came back instantly.

Changbin 💢:

No fucking way.

Changbin 💢:

You’re seriously gonna act like you didn’t send that on purpose? Like you don’t want me thinking about it?

Changbin 💢:

You want me hard for you, don’t you?

“No.” “Fuck off.” “Stop.”

You didn’t send any of those.

“You’re full of yourself.”

Changbin 💢:

Nah, princess. You’re the one dripping in that pic, not me.

You closed your eyes.

He was unraveling you.

The way he talked in person was always irritating—too loud, too smug. But here? In text? At 1:03 a.m.?

He was… different. Sharper. Controlled. Bold in a way that went straight to your core.

“You’re lucky I’m drunk.”

Changbin 💢:

You think I need you drunk for this?

I’d still be hard for you even if we were sober in the library.

You bit back a noise.

Your thighs rubbed together involuntarily.

Changbin 💢:

You want me to send something back? Would that make it fair? Even the score?

Your fingers twitched.

“You’re bluffing.”

Changbin 💢:

Try me.

Your pulse quickened.

“You’re not actually going to—”

Ping.

The photo loaded slowly.

Dark sweatpants. No shirt. His abs were tight, skin glowing with a warm amber sheen like he’d taken the pic right after a workout. His hand tugged the waistband down low, and the bulge beneath was unmistakable—huge, thick, pressed to the fabric like it was dying to be freed.

You inhaled, sharp.

The outline of his cock was ridiculous. Heavy. Thick at the base, curving up. The tip clearly outlined. The kind of size that made your body react before your brain caught up.

And his caption?

Changbin 💢:

Now you can imagine what’s gonna fill you the next time you talk back in class.

You didn’t realize your mouth had gone dry until you swallowed hard.

Someone from the living room called your name. “Babe! Your turn!”

“I’ll be right back,” you called, voice strained.

You grabbed your phone, pushed off the couch, and disappeared into the hallway. Somewhere quieter. Somewhere you could breathe.

And think.

And maybe—just maybe—look again.

Because for the first time since you’d met him, you weren’t sure if you hated him… or if you just didn’t know what to do with how badly you suddenly wanted him.

—

You thought you could outlast the tension.

After the photo he sent—the dick print, the way it looked too big to even be real, the caption that made your thighs clench—you told yourself it was just late-night chaos. That once the sun came up, you could pretend it hadn’t happened.

You left him on read.

Muted the conversation.

Avoided every look in class, kept your expression cold, distant.

But Changbin?

He was different now.

Quieter. Sharper. Dangerous.

He still joked with the guys. Still sat in the same row as always. But whenever your eyes flicked up, he was watching you—really watching. Like he could still see that photo of you spread open and dripping every time you bit your lip or crossed your legs.

And when your professor assigned a partner project and called out his name alongside yours?

You knew it was over.

Later that afternoon, the library was quiet. Too quiet. The air between you was thick with something unsaid as you stood beside where he sat, laptops open, pretending to focus.

You tried not to look at him.

Tried not to remember the outline of his cock stretching grey fabric. The way he’d said “what’s gonna fill you next time you talk back in class.”

Your body hadn’t forgotten.

You’d touched yourself to that image more times than you were ready to admit.

“You’ve been quiet,” he murmured, eyes on the screen.

You didn’t look at him. “I’m working.”

“Right.”

“That’s what you were doing the other night too, huh? Working?”

You stiffened.

“I didn’t take you for the type to keep that kind of photo in your phone. Or was it just waiting for someone better to see it?”

You finally turned. “Are you done?”

He leaned back slightly in his chair, smirking—but something darker hid behind his eyes. He leaned in towards you, low and quiet.

“No. Not even close.”

You didn’t notice when he stood. But you did feel it when he moved behind you.

At first, it was just his hand brushing your shoulder as he leaned to peek at your screen.

Then he didn’t move away.

Instead, you felt the heavy press of his chest behind you. His palm slid slowly—casually—over your back. Lower. Resting at the curve of your waist.

And then he shifted—just slightly—and you felt it.

The unmistakable weight of him.

Hard. Thick. Pressed right up against your ass.

Your breath hitched.

“Miss me?” he whispered.

Your cheeks burned. “You’re disgusting.”

“Am I?”

“Because this…” his hand flattened against your hip, pulling you subtly back into his body, into his cock—“says otherwise.”

You should’ve shoved him.

Should’ve snapped, slapped, screamed.

But your body betrayed you.

Your thighs clenched. Your breathing went shallow.

And when his fingers brushed the hem of your skirt, you didn’t move away.

If anything—you leaned back.

“You liked it,” he murmured, lips just behind your ear.

“You liked knowing I saw you like that. That I wanted to fuck you from the second that photo lit up my screen.”

“You’re full of shit.”

“You keep saying that,” he murmured, voice dropping lower, hungrier. “But your body doesn’t agree.”

His hand slid lower, palm resting on your ass now—really grabbing, squeezing, like it was his already. He rutted against you once, slow, just enough to let you feel the size of him again.

You gasped, barely holding in the noise.

“Poor thing,” he whispered.

“Trying so hard to act like you don’t want this cock stretching you open.”

You closed your eyes. “We’re in a fucking library.”

“And you’re soaked,” he growled. “Aren’t you?”

You were.

You hated him for it.

But God—you wanted more.

“Tell me to stop,” he said, voice a low rumble in your ear.

“Tell me you don’t want me pushing these panties to the side and sliding in right here.”

You didn’t say anything.

And neither did your body.

Because for the first time, you weren’t sure who was in control—him, or the ache between your legs screaming for more.

His grip on your waist didn’t loosen. If anything, it tightened—fingers flexing into the curve of your hips like he wanted to memorize the way you fit under his hands.

You told yourself to move.

To snap out of it.

To shove his cocky ass away and slap the heat off your face.

But instead… you shifted.

Barely. Subtly. Almost like a breath.

Your hips arched back just the tiniest bit—and you felt him twitch.

Big. Hot. Hard against you.

And god help you, you did it again.

This time, he chuckled. Low and raspy.

“Keep doing that and I’m gonna take it personally.”

His voice buzzed against the shell of your ear, warm and wicked.

“I can swear you’re wet.”

“I’m not,” you breathed, barely able to form the words.

“No?”

One of his hands slid from your hip, slipping lower, slow and deliberate. Your skirt offered no protection—his fingers eased beneath the hem with practiced ease, knuckles brushing your thigh.

“Then you won’t mind if I check.”

You gasped. “Changbin—”

But it was too late.

His hand slid up. Under your skirt. Under your panties.

And then—his fingers paused.

Right at your slit.

Slick. Dripping. Heat soaked through cotton and flushed onto his fingertips.

He let out a quiet groan, something dark and pleased.

“Fuck me…”

You froze.

“You’re soaked.”

You should’ve died of embarrassment.

Instead, you whimpered—barely, breath catching in your throat. Your thighs twitched, instinctively trying to close, but his hand was already there, slipping further, middle finger pressing through the wetness and parting you open.

“Look at that,” he muttered. “Fighting me in public, dripping for me in private.”

“You can’t—” you whispered, but your voice cracked halfway through.

“I can,” he said. “And I am.”

His fingertip circled your entrance, not quite pushing in. Just enough to tease. To test how badly your body wanted him.

And it did.

God, it did.

“All this just from my picture?” he murmured. “You really are a dirty little thing.”

“Changbin, we’re—someone could—”

“Then stay quiet,” he whispered, lips grazing your ear. “Be a good girl and let me feel what you’ve been hiding from me.”

You squirmed against him, helpless. His hard-on grinding into your ass. His hand between your legs. Your body betraying everything your mouth refused to say.

But then—he pulled back. Slow. Measured and wicked.

“Not here,” he muttered. “Not yet.”

You let out a shaky exhale, unsure if it was relief or frustration.

“You’re not ready.”

He said it like a promise. Even more like a plan.

—

That night, your phone lit up before midnight.

Changbin 💢

You touching yourself right now?

You swallowed, heat curling in your stomach.

“No.”

A lie.

You’d been thinking about his finger, barely there, slicking through your folds. The way he pressed against you like he could fuck you through your clothes. The restraint he showed—pulling away just when you were about to lose it.

Changbin 💢:

Liar. You were dripping earlier. You think that goes away?

Changbin 💢:

You want help?

Your breath caught.

Then another message.

📷 An image.

A mirror selfie. Taken low. No shirt. Sweatpants slung low on his hips. But this time… no filter, no teasing.

His cock was hard. So obvious. Thick and curving up in those grey sweats, the head visibly straining against the fabric. His hand was wrapped around the base, gripping himself through the material.

Your core clenched.

Changbin 💢:

You made me like this. Do something about it.

Another ping.

🎧An audio file.

You hesitated… then tapped.

His voice—low, breathless, filthy—filled your room.

“Wish you were here right now. I’d be in you already. So deep you’d cry. Want you moaning my name with your thighs wrapped around my waist.”

You bit your knuckle.

“Bet you’re wet again just hearing this.”

You were.

And you knew damn well… this was only the beginning because it was obvious that you knew you should stop.

Mute the chat. Turn your phone off. Go to sleep.

But instead, you hit play again.

Changbin’s voice filled your room for the second time, low and unsteady.

“Wish you were here right now. I’d be in you already. So deep you’d cry. Want you moaning my name with your thighs wrapped around my waist.”

Your hand had already slipped under the waistband of your shorts. Shame curled hot in your chest, but it wasn’t enough to stop you.

Not with his voice saying things like that.

Not when your body was still aching from what he’d done in the library.

You typed, hesitant:

“You’re a menace.”

Changbin 💢:

And you’re quiet. You touching yourself again?

“No.”

Changbin 💢:

You’re such a bad liar.

Another ping. Another message.

Changbin 💢:

Say my name once, and I’ll show you the real thing. But let me hear how down bad you are first.

Your legs squeezed together.

He wasn’t letting up.

Not just the teasing — the control. The way he peeled you open without even being in the same room. It was like he’d figured out every weakness you had and was pressing on all of them at once.

You typed:

“You want me to say your name?”

Changbin 💢:

Just once. Out loud. Right now.

I know you’re touching yourself, i just want to hear you.

Your heart pounded. You stared at the audio reply button. Your thumb hovered.

“I’m not sending you a voice note.”

Changbin 💢:

Why not?

You’re already soaked. Already picturing it, aren’t you?

Changbin 💢:

Me pulling your legs apart. Spitting on your pussy.

Sliding in nice and slow while you beg me to ruin it.

You let out a shaky breath.

Changbin 💢:

C’mon, baby.

Be a good girl and let me hear how badly you want it.

The words good girl punched straight through your resolve.

Your finger hovered over the record button.

You didn’t overthink it. Didn’t script it. But at the back of your mind, you knew shouldn’t have done it.

You knew the second you hit record—you were crossing a line you couldn’t uncross. But the heat in your stomach, the ache between your legs, the way Changbin’s voice still echoed in your ears? It all left you trembling.

So you moaned. You whimpered.

And you said his name.

“Changbin…”

You sounded so fucking needy. So shameless and desperate.

Exactly how you felt.

You hit send with your heart in your throat, thighs clenched tight around your own hand. And then you waited—seconds dragging, breath caught in your chest.

Then: ping.

🎥A video.

No caption. No warning.

You hesitated, pulse in your ears, then tapped it.

The first thing you saw was skin—his hand, wrapped tight around the base of his cock. Thick. Hard. Heavy. His head was a darker shade of his skin, glistening with precum, veins running thick along the shaft.

The next thing you heard?

His voice. Ragged. Strained.

“This what you want, baby?”

He was filming from above, cock in his fist, his abs flexing as he pumped slowly, steadily. Each stroke was loud and wet. His hand moved like he was imagining you were already wrapped around him—tight, dripping, ruined.

“Been jerking off since you moaned my name,” he growled. “You sound so fucking pretty when you’re begging.”

You bit your lip so hard it almost bled.

“Wanna cum in you so bad,” he panted. “Wanna watch it drip out of you. Want you to feel it for days.”

And then—he grunted. Shuddered.

And came.

Ropes of it. Thick spurts shooting across his abs, the head of his cock twitching violently in his grip.

“That’s all for you,” he breathed, voice wrecked.“Next time, I’m doing that inside.”

The video ended, but you were done for.

You stared at your screen like it had punched you in the stomach. Heat licked down your spine. Your hand had slipped between your legs again before you even realized it.

You replayed the video.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

You wanted to taste it. Feel it. Be under it.

Then your screen lit up again.

Changbin 💢:

You still there?

Your fingers trembled. You didn’t even overthink it.

You typed:

“I need you.”

[📍Location Shared]

And hit send.

—

You barely had time to think.

One knock. That’s all it took.

You opened the door and he was on you—mouth crashing into yours, body pinning you flat against the wall like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

He kissed like a man possessed.

Like your voice note had ruined him. Like your moan had carved something primal into his chest and he couldn’t shake it loose.

His tongue slid past your lips, rough and greedy, tasting you like he had to claim you first.

“Fuck,” he growled against your mouth. “Took you long enough.”

You barely had time to respond—his hands were already under your shirt, palming your tits like they were his, thumbs flicking your nipples until you whimpered.

“This all for me?” he asked, breath hot.

“This pussy been soaking since the second I sent that video?”

You gasped as he shoved one leg between yours, grinding up against your clothed heat—his cock already hard, pressing through his sweats like a weapon.

“God,” he groaned. “You feel so fucking good.”

“Can’t wait anymore.”

He picked you up like you weighed nothing, carried you into your own apartment without breaking the kiss, and dropped you—hard—onto the kitchen counter.

Before you could speak, your shorts were yanked down and off. Your panties, too. Ripped aside with one rough pull.

“Fucking knew it,” he muttered as he spread you open. “Look at this wet little pussy. So damn ready for me.”

“You’re such a—”

“Say it,” he snarled, two fingers sliding through your folds, circling your clit just right.

“Say it while I ruin you.”

You choked on a moan, hips jerking up. His fingers dipped inside—thick, slow, curling—testing you.

“Tight,” he hissed. “So fuckin’ tight already.

How the hell you gonna take my cock, baby?”

You looked down—and froze.

He’d pushed his sweats down just enough, and there it was. All of it.

His cock was thick. Long. Veiny. Angry-red at the tip, already leaking. You’d seen the outline. You’d watched him stroke it on video. But up close?

It was fucking terrifying.

And you wanted every inch.

“I’m gonna mess you up real pretty.” he whispered, dragging the head through your slick folds.

“You’re not walking tomorrow.”

You whimpered, thighs trembling.

“Changbin—fuck—”

“What’s that, princess?” he smirked. “You scared of this cock now?”

“Shut the fuck up and give it to me.”

That was all he needed.

He lined up and slammed in—

The stretch was obscene. Your back arched, a broken cry ripped from your throat. He didn’t wait. Didn’t tease. He bottomed out in one brutal stroke, hips snapping forward until his balls slapped against you.

“FUCK,” he growled, head dropping to your shoulder. “Tight little cunt’s squeezing the shit outta me.”

You clawed at his back, desperate to breathe, but it felt too good. The way he filled you—so deep, so thick—you felt him in your stomach.

“Took it all, huh?” he rasped, pulling back just to thrust in harder. “Greedy little thing.”

He fucked you like he meant it. Like he was punishing you for every time you rolled your eyes in class. For every time you told him to shut up.

You were moaning like a pornstar—loud, shameless, wrecked—as he pounded into you on the kitchen counter, sweat dripping, his abs flexing with every thrust.

“You were made for this cock,” he groaned. “Fucking built to take it like a good girl.”

He pulled out suddenly, grabbed your wrist, and dragged you into the living room.

“Bed’s too far. Couch. Now.”

You stumbled, legs shaking. He bent you over the armrest, slapped your ass once—hard—and buried himself inside again with a brutal snap of his hips.

“This ass…” he groaned. “You know how many times I’ve stared at it in class?”

“Wanted to fuck you bent over all the damn desks.”

Your moans were broken now—choked sobs of pleasure every time his hips slammed into you.

He wrapped his hand around your throat, not too tight—just enough to own you.

“You love this, don’t you?” he growled. “Big cock splitting you open. My hand on your neck. My cum dripping out of you.”

“Yes—fuck—yes, Changbin, please—”

“Please what?”

“Please don’t stop.”

His grip tightened. His thrusts turned savage.

“I’m gonna cum inside you,” he warned. “I want it leaking down your thighs when you go to class tomorrow. I want everyone to know this pussy’s mine.”

You clenched around him—hard—and he lost it.

“Fuck—fuck—baby—”

He came deep inside you, groaning like he was unraveling from the core. Hot spurts filling you up, cock twitching inside your walls.

You collapsed forward, shaking.

But he wasn’t done.

He pulled out, flipped you onto the rug, and dropped to his knees.

“Need to taste you.”

His tongue went straight to your core, licking up his own mess, spreading it across your folds as he devoured you like he’d starved for days.

“Not leaving till you cum on my face.”

And you did.

Screaming his name. Shaking. Barely able to think.

Your first mistake had been sending that photo.

But your biggest mistake?

Letting him in.

Because now?

You’d never get him out.

—

You couldn’t move.

You were sprawled out on your back on the rug, blinking at the ceiling, your entire body throbbing with the aftershocks of what he’d just done to you. You felt wrecked in the best, most glorious way.

And yet—somehow—Changbin was the one panting like he’d just gone through hell.

He lay beside you, arm thrown over his face dramatically.

“I’m filing a formal complaint,” he groaned. “Your pussy should come with a fucking warning label.”

You wheezed out a laugh.

“Says the guy who just broke my uterus.”

He turned his head, looked at you.

And melted.

The shift was instant—his gaze softened, mouth twitching into the tiniest smile. He scooted closer, propped himself on one elbow, and brushed your sweaty hair off your cheek.

“You okay?” he asked, voice gentle. “Like… really okay?”

You nodded. “More than okay.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for ten years. Then leaned in and kissed your forehead, your nose, your cheekbone—everywhere but your lips, like he was saving those for dessert.

“I swear I didn’t mean to fuck you like a caveman,” he mumbled. “I blacked out. You made that sound and I was just—gone.”

“You were terrifying,” you whispered, smiling. “In the hottest possible way.”

That made him grin.

He reached over for the hoodie he’d left slung on the chair and helped you into it—actually helped, like lifting your arms, guiding it over your head, kissing your shoulder once it was on.

Then he grabbed a warm towel, knelt between your legs, and started cleaning you up with the softest, most careful touch.

“Can’t have my girl leaking all over the carpet,” he murmured.

“Your girl?”

He looked up with a cocky smirk.

“You just let me raw dog you and you screamed my name for the neighbors, baby. Don’t play shy now.”

You tried to glare, but he leaned forward and kissed your knee. Then your thigh. Then higher.

“Next time,” he said, “I’m taking you slower. Gonna edge you until you’re crying.”

Your stomach flipped.

“You’re already thinking about next time?”

He glanced up at you with a boyish little shrug.

“I think about you all the time.”

Your heart stuttered. Because it didn’t sound like a line. It sounded real. Raw. Like the truth.

He saw your expression shift and leaned in, his lips brushing your temple.

“Not just the sex,” he murmured.

“I think about you when you fight with the professor. When you tie your hoodie strings in knots. When you roll your eyes at me like you always do.”

“Binnie—”

“I like you,” he whispered.

Simple. Honest.

And it hit you harder than any orgasm.

You buried your face in his chest. He chuckled and wrapped his arms around you, one big palm cupping the back of your head like he could hide you there forever.

“You hungry?” he murmured.

“Starving.”

“Good. I got us pizza and fried chicken.”

You looked up. “You really ordered food while I was moaning your name?”

He smirked. “Actually did it on my way here but I can multitask baby.”

You laughed into his chest, and he kissed your head again.

When the food arrived, you sat curled in his lap, eating from his chopsticks while he kissed sauce off your lips between bites.

Later, when you were tucked into bed and halfway to sleep, he whispered:

“You were fucking perfect tonight.”

“I’m gonna be addicted to you now.”

You didn’t say anything back. You just pulled his arm tighter around you and pressed a soft kiss to his knuckles.

Because you already were.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authors note: Its been a hot minute without a Binnie smut 💪🏻 How are we liking this cute little enemies to lovers?? 🤭❤️

“Oh, you should’ve just said that then! He’s snackish,” you reply, as if it’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for why you’re positioned between Felix’s thighs, back to his chest, head lolled, letting him nibble on your neck as he pleases. The numbing agent in his saliva makes you feel slightly floaty. 

He is not actually putting any effort into it, like he does when he feeds. He just passively lets trace amounts of blood travel through his fangs every so often. Enough to satiate. Enough to satisfy neediness. 

Jeongin, sprawled across a couch and paying zero attention to you, mutters, “This is such a stupid show.” It’s the first time he’s spoken in over an hour, too enthralled to interrupt the stupid show beforehand. It’s not enough to dissuade you from chucking a throw pillow in his direction. 

Turning back to Chan, you reiterate, “Come join.” He opens his mouth to refuse, but you speak first. “You were up until noon yesterday, at least take a break. With us, preferably.” 

Against your neck, Felix nods his head as much as he can in his position. 

“No. I have work to do,” Chan replies. He doesn’t make a move to go do his work, though. It’ll be a back-and-forth conversation, then. He always breaks, nobody knows why he still insists on putting up a squabble over things like this. Appearances, probably. 

It takes a few seconds to fish the remote out of your pile of blankets, but eventually you find it and lower the volume. Everyone resolutely ignores Jeongin’s protesting groan. 

Felix finally disconnects and licks over his puncture marks. Their saliva contains healing properties, and it’s a general house rule that they don’t leave visible marks anywhere on your skin. A smattering of bite marks decorate your inner thighs – it’s a point of pride for a few select members. 

“Tastes good.” Felix says. He’s behind you, but you can hear the pout in his voice. “Get over here.” 

“It’s not healthy for more than one person to feed from you at a time. You’ll lose too much blood.” 

“He’s not sucking that hard,” Jeongin interjects, apparently now committed to the conversation  now that he can’t hear your cartoon. “Don’t,” a pointed look at you, “It’s too easy of a joke.” 

“You don’t like how I taste?” 

Chan throws a mirroring pointed look at Jeongin, his own silent plea not to take the bait. Then he turns back to you. “Honey, you know that’s not what I meant, but you’ll get lightheaded without food.”

Felix grabs a strawberry off the brownie-and-fruit plate beside the two of you. 

“You’ll get cold.” 

You shift to get comfier in Felix’s embrace and adjust the blankets draped across your lap. 

Twin pairs of footsteps creaking down the staircase interrupts any other argument Chan could put up. Han and Minho appear – Minho looking smug, while Han is smoothing down his hair. They’re both too enamored with each other to notice everyone else staring at them, watching their grand entrance. 

A few more steps down, one instance of Han nearly tripping down the stairs, and Minho finally looks up. He surveys the scene. Studies Chan’s stance. Glances over you and Felix. “Oh, are we snacking?” he asks.

Instead of verbally answering, you hold out your closest arm in offering. 

Han emits an incomprehensible noise that might not be words at all, then immediately turns into a blur. One moment he is still descending the stairs, the next he’s diving onto the floor and crashing into your side. 

For all his eagerness, Han takes great care not to harm you. 

He grasps your arm in his cold fingers, careful not to bend it uncomfortably, then sinks his fangs into the crook of your elbow. A slight prick of familiar pain sprouts in the seconds before his saliva takes effect. Soon enough, Han’s snuggling into your side, while Felix pulls you in closer with a gentle hum and reattaches himself. 

Minho follows Han to the ground, as he tends to go wherever Han goes. There’s another pinprick on your wrist when he joins in. 

The four of you settle into each other while a new episode’s introduction begins. Much to Jeongin’s delight, Felix reaches around to grab the remote off your lap and turn up the volume again. 

Chan releases a disbelieving sigh, but gives in anyway, just like everybody – including himself, if he’s honest – knew he would. It’s common knowledge he never stands a chance against any of you. As much as he would deny it if asked, he will actually do most things you want. 

He announces over the theme song, like it’s news, “Fine, but I still won’t feed. It’s the principle of it.” 

“You have too many principles of things,” Jeongin murmurs. 

It was barely audible, but Chan heard it just fine. Jeongin doesn’t realize what’s happening until it’s too late. 

Chan crosses over to where Jeongin is splayed out, pauses in front of the couch, and lets his entire body weight fall on top of the youngest. A slight kerfuffle breaks out while he tries to take up as much of Jeongin’s real estate as he possibly can. Jeongin relents, accepting fate, and allows himself to be cuddled. 

The couch is definitely not big enough for two grown men to lay horizontal, but they make it work. While everyone else is distracted watching the screen, Jeongin presses a kiss into the top of his head and begins playing with the ends of his hair. Chan isn’t the only one whose appearances crumble nearly instantly. 

Over time and more episodes, Changbin, Hyunjin, and Seungmin all wander into the living room. Seungmin wordlessly takes up post with your other wrist and stays there, batting away Changbin when he tries to squeeze in. 

It’s comfortable, steady, domestic in a way that makes your thoughts fuzzy if you think about it too long – which might have something to do with the four vampires attached to you, but that’s neither here nor there. 

An hour later, Chan’s snores ring out through the room. They nearly drown out the speakers. Jeongin insists you pause the show for him while he carries the oldest to bed. Hyunjin insists he’s too old to be this invested – notably, it’s also the first time he’s spoken since he joined the cuddle pile. 

Now that he’s started talking, though, he keeps at it, whining to Felix, “You’ve had her neck forever! I wanna turn!” 

Felix’s grip on you tightens. His thighs move upwards to cage you further into him. Hyunjin gets the message. 

Night evolves into dawn, and the beginnings of early light seep through your curtains around everyone’s yawns. The living room divulges into darkness when a half-conscious Felix turns off the screen. Your marathon is finally over. Nobody paid any attention to the last few episodes anyway.  

Minho jostles Han awake, fangs still sunken in your skin. Sleepily, Minho licks over both his and Han’s marks and whisks away the younger man to bed. 

You don’t even realize you’re moving until Felix has you pressed against his chest. He whispers, “C’mon, love, let’s go to bed,” into your ear, just for you to hear. 

Truthfully, he could have yelled it from the highest rooftop. He could have screamed it into a microphone. It wouldn’t make a difference. You’re the only person he wishes to hear him. Everything he speaks is for you and the other seven members of his house. And he’ll spend the rest of eternity grateful that you’re his.

☆ note: wrote this between clients, so if it's ass do not tell me, ty love u