#switch reader

you and minho fought often, so often that it had become second nature to you. being stuck in the same group—being roommates— only made it worse. it was constant, and frankly suffocating.

“no, I'm serious,” he said, taking a step closer, “we practiced that turn a hundred times.”

“and I did it right a hundred times,” you shot back. 

“one mistake doesn’t mean you get to tear me apart! besides, don't act like you didn't use the wrong foot while switching into the diagonal step.”

minho scoffed, folding his arms— staring at you like you slapped him.

“wrong foot?” he repeated. “i made up for your late count.”

you scoffed—did he think you were a joke? “made up for your late count?” 

was he coming up with excuses, or did he genuinely believe that messing up the step counted as helping? 

“you didn’t make up for anything. you panicked.” you snapped back, stabbing your finger into his chest. 

“you rushed and threw off my balance.”

“shit, so now it's my fault you couldn’t land it?” he pressed, stepping even closer, eyes darkening—the air between you felt thicker.

"I would've landed it if you hadn’t yanked me early!” you retaliated, your chest rising and falling, frustration taking over.

minho stepped closer with a glower, eyes narrowing—as if he was daring you to push further. 

“we failed because you froze.” he said, voice low and sharp.

“no,” you responded quickly, bitterly laughing. “we failed because you don't know how to dance with someone—only over them.”

for a moment, he looked stunned.

“...what did you just say?”

“i said,” you took a deep breath before continuing. 

“you don't like to dance with people,” you repeated, not backing down. “you dance like you're alone, and everyone else just has to keep up or get dragged.”

silence rung out between you.

minho’s stare hardened, disbelief turning into something colder— ready to fight back— until a hand gripped his shoulder, trying to hold him back, that hand belonging to felix. 

“can you guys please relax?” he huffed, a concerned look on his face. “you both made mistakes—so stop fighting. it's not going to change the fact that we failed because of you two.”

minho's jaw clenched, but felix's grip kept him from lunging forward. you were staring at minho half in disbelief and half in frustration. a part of you wanted to provoke him, but the other was telling you to drop it. 

felix shook his head, letting go of minho. “seriously guys, what's done is done. you two messed up your duet, and we all faced the consequences. yelling at each other won't fix shit.”

minho’s glare snapped towards you, but he didn't argue.

before you two killed each other, rapid footsteps echoed down the hallway. hyunjin slowed to a stop in front of you both, eyes wide and grinning.

“guys,” he said, catching his breath. “we’re getting a second chance!”

both you and minho froze. 

“...second chance?” felix asked, confused.

hyunjin nodded, voice stable now. “yeah, the professor knows the mess with your duet affected the rest of us, buuuut… he's giving us one more shot. basically—fix your part, or the whole group suffers.” his ecstatic tone when he first arrived shifting into something more serious.

minho blinked, mouth open slightly. “fix it…? together?”

“yes,” hyunjin stared at him, exhaling like he couldn't believe he was saying it. “how else are you supposed to perform a duet? anyways, this means you actually have to cooperate. no more screaming in hallways, holding grudges, and for god’s sake stop flirting in front of us!”

“what? okay, i”m going to stop you there,” you quickly cut off hyunjin. “in what world would I ever flirt with that narcissist?”

minho’s gaze flicked to you for a second—clenching his fists like he was going to defend himself, until hyunjin's voice stopped him.

“sure, whatever— i don't care if it's flirting or fighting. you guys need to put aside your pride for once and make sure we dont fuck this up okay?” his voice firm—making sure he got his point through your heads.

“so what, are we supposed to just pretend that didn't happen?” minho responded, getting worked up all over again. 

felix exhaled loudly as he stepped forward—preparing to step in if something happened. “no.” he paused before looking directly at both you and minho, “you’re supposed to shut up and not make it worse.”  

“yeah, you guys can do whatever you want after we pass.” hyunjin leaned onto the wall, agreeing with felix.  

“seriously, how do you guys argue this much? does it not get tiring?” felix's eyes flicked between the two of you, genuine confusion painting his face.

“minho’s ego is clearly too high to accept that I'm just as good of a dancer as he is—so he constantly nitpicks every little thing I do. It's like he's obsessed with me or something.” you responded flatly, maintaining eye contact with minho.

“me?” he scoffed, a humourless laugh slipping out, “obsessed with you? you wish.” 

felix ran a hand down his face, exhaustion coloring his voice. “you know what? forget I even asked.” he glanced at hyunjin, who shrugged helplessly. 

“just— go home and work things out, okay? we can't risk losing our last chance because you two can't stand being in the same room for five minutes.” 

minho grabbed his bag from the corner, already heading towards the door. “fine, whatever.”

you followed him out, the door slamming shut behind you. the campus was quieter now, most people gone for the night. the only things you could hear were a few voices in the distance and the footsteps of both you and minho.

the walk back to the dorms was suffocating. minho walked a few steps ahead, with his hands shoved in his pocket—you kept your distance, staring at the pavement—wondering how you would try and work with him.

by the time you reached the building, your chest felt heavy—you couldn't tell if it was anxiety or anger. minho pushed through the entrance without looking back, and you caught the door before it could shut in your face.

“seriously?” you muttered.

he didn't respond. didn't even flinch.

up the stairs, down the hall, and finally—your shared dorm room. minho unlocked the door and stepped inside first, tossing his bag onto the couch like he’d already forgotten you existed.

you closed the door behind you— a little harder than necessary, and stood there for a moment, staring at him before you sat on the couch, keeping your distance.

“so what now?” you asked, breaking the silence. “we just pretend that didn't happen?”

minho turned slowly, leaning against the arm of the couch. “what do you want me to say?”

“i don't know—maybe acknowledge the fact that you were being unreasonable?” you said, frustration bleeding into your voice.  

“unreasonable?” he let out a breathless chuckle and shook his head, “youre the one who can't take criticism.”

you let out a forced laugh before retaliating, “that's rich coming from you.” minhos gaze dropped onto your crossed arms, “someone seriously needs to put you in your place.” 

minho's mouth opened, then closed. his eyebrows shot up, and for a second, he just stared at you—like he couldn't quite process what you just said.

“i—what?” his voice came out slightly higher than usual, and you watched as his ears turned pink. “put me in my—are you serious right now?”

you shrugged, trying to keep your expression neutral. “yeah. someone really should.”

he let out a breathless laugh, running a hand through his hair as he looked away. “that's—you can't just say shit like that.”

“why not? it's true.”

minho’s gaze snapped back to yours, something flickering in his eyes that you couldn't quite read. he opened his mouth like he was gonna argue, but no words came out. 

“you’re unbelievable,” he whispered, but his voice had lost its bitterness.

“why?” you tilted your head, a small grin appearing on your face. “did I finally find a way to shut you up?”

“shut up,” he said, but there was no anger behind it—just embarrassment he was very desperate to hide. he cleared his throat— trying to avoid making eye contact with you. “it's getting late…can we just— can we figure out the choreography tomorrow? Please?” 

you glanced at the time on your phone. he wasn't wrong—it was late—you were both exhausted from the performance and the argument that followed. 

“fine.” you said, uncrossing your arms. “but you’re actually going to work with me this time, not against me.”

“i always work with you,” minho protested weakly, finally meeting your eyes again. 

“sure you do.” you stood up from the couch, grabbing your bag from where you dropped it, "that's why we failed today.”

he winced slightly at that, and you almost felt bad for bringing it up. 

almost.

the silence that followed felt heavier than before. minho looked away, jaw working like he wanted to say something, but couldn't find the words. 

“i’m going to bed,” you said, finally breaking the tension. you couldn't do this anymore tonight—the arguing, the back and forth. you were exhausted.

“yeah,” minho said quietly, still not looking at you, “okay.”

you turned towards your room, taking a couple steps, but stopped and hesitated for just a second. part of you wanted to say something else— maybe apologize for your comment, but you were too tired to deal with anything. 

“we’ll figure it out tomorrow,” you added, softer this time. 

minho’s eyes flicked up to meet yours briefly, and he nodded, “yeah. tomorrow.” 

you gave him one last look before heading into your room and closing the door behind you. the moment you were alone, you dropped your bag on the floor and collapsed onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling.

tomorrow. 

you’d fix everything tomorrow.

you just hoped it would actually be that simple.   

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the next morning came too fast.

you woke up to sunlight shining through the blinds and the muffled sound of movement in the space outside your room. for a moment you just laid there— replaying last night in your head, you regretted a lot of things.

you groaned, dragging a pillow over your face—ready to scream, until a sharp knock on your door jolted you upright. 

“are you up?” minho's voice came through, flat and cautious.

“yeah,” you called back, shoving the pillow aside and swinging your legs off the bed. “i’ll be out soon.” 

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the practice room felt different.

emptier.

colder.

felix and hyunjin were already there when you arrived. felix was sitting against the wall—earbuds in, eyes closed like he was mentally preparing himself for whatever chaos would unfold. hyunjin was sitting next to him, scrolling on his phone—but the way he kept glancing at the door told you he’d been waiting.

“morning,” you greeted them, dropping your bag by the wall—beginning to stretch.  

felix pulled out one earbud. “hey.”

hyunjin straightened up, rolling his shoulders back. “okay so—are we going to do this, or are you two going to need another minute to… i don't know, get it out of your system first?”

“we’re fine,” you responded quickly.

“sure you are.” hyunjin didn't sound very convinced.

minho walked past you, already pulling his arm across his chest to stretch. “let’s just start. the sooner we fix this, the sooner we're done.”

you shot him a look. “wow. how motivating.”

"i wasn't trying to motivate you,” he muttered, not even looking at you. “just being realistic.”

“right.” you bit your tongue, resisting the urge to say something that would start another argument.

not today.

felix stood up and sighed loudly. “okay, let's go over the group part first—just to make sure we’re all on the same page, then you two can work on the duet.”

you and minho nodded at the same exact time.

hyunjin let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “you guys are so weird.”

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you thought everything was going well. the counts were clean, the transitions smooth, and for once you weren't second-guessing every movement.

then minho opened his mouth.

“your footwork’s sloppy.”

you stopped turning to face him. “yeah? well your back isn’t straight.”

“it doesn’t need to be straight for this step, dumbass,” he shot back, crossing his arms 

“sure,” you said, tilting your head slightly. “but you should practice it anyway to make sure you don’t fuck it up a second time.”

minho's eyes widened for just a second before his expression hardened. he took a step towards you, voice dropping. 

“fuck it up? are you seriously going to stand there and act like yesterday wasn't on you?”

“it wasnt—”

“yes it was,” he cut you off jaw tight. “stop trying to rewrite what happened just because you don't want to admit it.”

your chest tightened, heat creeping up your neck. you lowered your voice, leaning in just enough so that he could hear every word. “keep talking like that and I’ll make sure your footwork isn’t the only thing that’s sloppy by the end of the hour.”

minho blinked. his mouth opened slightly, then closed—staring at you, clearly caught off guard.

“yeah?” he finally managed, voice rougher than before.

hyunjin groaned loudly from across the room. “could you guys whisper any louder? i was just starting to hear my own fucking counts.”

felix rubbed his temples, as if a headache was forming. “i think we should just stop for today—“

“what? no," minho said quickly, breaking eye contact with you. “i can’t leave yet. i’ve got so much to go over.” 

hyunjin and felix glanced at each other momentarily, before hyunjin stepped forward.

“perfect! you and minho can do whatever it is that you need to do and felix and i can relax. i’m sure you two wouldn’t understand, but carrying a group project on your back isn’t very easy,” 

hyunjin slung his bag over his shoulder, turning towards the both of you to give you a final look, “make sure to work on your duet sections before you have any extra fun.”

hyunjin and felix didn't waste any time. they headed for the door, not even bothering to glance back. you didn't think much of it—not until the door swung shut behind them.

then you heard it.

the lock.

a soft, deliberate click.

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i really hope u guys enjoy it so far because this genuinely took years off my lifespan while writing it..

lmk in the comments if you would like to be added to the taglist for chapter 2 !!

taglist: @minho4luv @daises-and-domming @gabimmat @mxmx09

read chapter two here.

Switch!puppy!Seungmin who was nervous to enter puppyspace with you for the first time. It takes a lot of trust to hand over that much power to someone else, to submit like that with someone, and while he knows he trusts you, it's also embarrassing. And he's a switch, so he knows he's capable of being in control. He doesn't mind being the person who takes control in bed, who takes without remorse. You do look so pretty with tears in your eyes, your cheeks flush and your hair a mess across the sheets.

So he lets it ride out like that, for a while. He catches himself, sometimes, unwillingly slipping into puppyspace around you. You'll get stern with him, shoving his greedy fingers out of whatever you're cooking and telling him to sit down, Seungmin. The shift of your tone, from playful to serious and commanding? It makes his brain a little fuzzy, and he finds himself obeying your orders sometimes without even really thinking about it.

You, unfortunately, are a self-proclaimed "Seungmin expert", and pick up on the shift right away. Switch!puppy!Seungmin doesn't even realize anything's happening himself until far after you've noticed it. He just listens sometimes, because it feels good. Right, almost, like when you're in charge he has no choice but to listen. While Seungmin in his regular headspace is a brat and a tease, puppy!Seungmin doesn't really know how to be anything else but good.

You don't breathe a word about it, waiting for him to bring it up. You know him well enough to know he gets defensive, and while you're very open about how you enjoy when his tone gets sharp and in control, you don't think he's quite ready to be honest about it yet, so you let it sit. Because you aren't being fully honest, either.

Switch!puppy!reader who knows what Seungmin's going through. Or, at least, you have a suspicion. You see the way his eyes glaze over when you praise him just right, a truth underlying your teasing tone. You let the pitch of your voice shift, just like you do when you talk to a real dog, and you watch the tips of his ears go pink and his words get jumbled as he stutters to tell you to knock it off. You pull him to lay his head on your lap during a movie night and watch him go boneless as you scratch gently at his hair, murmuring in the quiet parts of the movie about how good he is, how cute he is when he lets himself be taken care of.

You know all of these things because you're the same - a little part of you just wants to let go. There's a lot of comfort in being in puppyspace, in being nothing more than just a dumb dog for a little bit. To no longer think, but to just feel. It's a good feeling, and you've known that it's something you've been interested in trying out for a while now. You have the bare basics in a small box in your closet, buried amongst shoeboxes and other things you still hadn't unpacked since you moved into this apartment god knows how long ago.

The hardest part for you is that you can't tell if it's just a sex thing for Seungmin. You know that you could slip into that space without needing it to end with an orgasm - letting go doesn't always have to involve sex - but you still can't tell if it's just a kink thing for Seungmin, and not a comfort thing. So you let it sit a little longer, watch him carefully, try to pick up the signs. The box in your closet holds a collar, some dog ears that match your natural hair color, and a small ball, the kind that dogs bat around and chase aimlessly. A new pair of ears and a shiny collar that's his size join the box quietly one day, and you pretend that you got them "just in case", not because you're hopeful or anything. It stares at you every time you open the closet now, but you ignore it, keep telling yourself that it's not the time.

Unfortunately for you and switch!puppy!Seungmin, the time doesn't always wait for you to be ready.

It's been possibly one of the worst days of Seungmin's career. His lyric notebook gets soaked with someone's coffee in the cafeteria and they barely apologize, even though the pages are browning and curling and crumbling in a way that Seungmin knows he can't save. He gets struck with inspiration halfway through the day and is forced to write it on sticky notes and pray he doesn't lose them. And, naturally, he does lose a few, and it makes him want to tear all of his hair out (and it's only ten in the morning).

Things only snowball from there. Jisung won't leave him alone during dance practice, and normally he's only refusing his hyung's antics because it's fun to watch him pout and double his efforts, but Seungmin genuinely thinks he might cry, and Jisung doesn't seem to feel the rising tension under his skin. Seungmin doesn't, not until he snaps, calls Jisung a flurry of names he doesn't actually mean, and storms off before he makes things worse. Minho says something about a ten minute break, and Seungmin takes the full ten minutes trying not to sob.

He doesn't understand why he feels so out of control, why everything is too big too loud too bright for him right now, but he does understand that he needs to get it under control. He goes back in, apologizes to Jisung through gritted teeth and a lot of forced eye contact, and lets the weird tension sit over the room and pick at his skin.

It only gets worse when he can't get one of the steps right. Everything else already feels wrong, and suddenly he's stumbling mid-move, the one step throwing him off so bad that he fumbles to catch up every time. Minho's kind, at first, eyes searching his like he's trying to figure something out, but clearly he can't, because the more Seungmin messes up, the harsher the words get. The two of them are both stubborn bastards, and while Seungmin knows he shouldn't push it, shouldn't aggravate him, he can't stop himself, and Chan has to use his leader voice to keep them from yelling at each other. Chan calls for another break, too close to the last one, and voices are hush and eyes are sharp in his back as he settles far away from everyone else, trying to even out his breathing.

Seungmin hasn't fought this bad with someone in the group since his early debut days, when he wasn't even an adult yet and wasn't ready for the world he was stepping into. And now he's been harsh to two of his hyungs, and when Jeongin, sweet baby Jeongin, pads over nervously to try and ask him what's wrong, he feels what he could only call a growl tear out of his throat. Jeongin blinks at him, eyes wide, and his mouth opens to speak, but Seungmin beats him to it.

"Can you just leave me alone?" He bites, meaner than he means to, and his heart cracks in his chest when Jeongin's lip wobbles a little bit as he nods and steps away.

"Shit, Jeongin-ah, I-"

"Don't, hyung," Jeongin says, sounding small, "It's fine. You can have space. I didn't mean to bother."

It's not fine, because Seungmin doesn't want space. He wants something, but he can't put his finger on it. He thinks he needs someone to grab him by the scruff of his neck and make him stop. He needs the feeling of someone reminding him of his place so that he can recenter and recalibrate. But he can't ask for that, so it keeps building instead.

Dance practice is tense and awkward, and Seungmin doesn't breathe a god damn word for the rest of it. He knows he should - should get out whatever's sitting on his chest, let something out - but he can't, not now. He can't explain what the feeling digging at the back of his skull is yet, so he ignores it, until it's a dull throbbing and he can't stop tugging at the hair at the base of his neck, trying to get the itch to go away.

He has to record lines later, and even Chan, calm, put together leader Chan, can't wiggle out what's wrong with him. Not for a lack of trying on his part, but Seungmin's mouth refuses to listen to him, his body doesn't feel like his own as he swats Chan's worrying hand away and all of growls again when Chan tries to pull him in closer. The skinship is usually a comfort he doesn't take lightly - he may joke he doesn't like it, but he always gives in - but he has this feeling in his gut that he doesn't deserve it. That this isn't the skinship in the way he needs it now. He feels too equal to Chan, and the swirling feeling in his gut pleads him to be lesser. To sink to his knees in the studio and let Chan card his fingers through his hair. He grinds his teeth together instead.

His phone dies as he opens it to text you to let you know he's going to be a little later than usual, and he really, really might cry. Chan must see it, ever observant, and sends him off, giving him some half-assed excuse about the audio recording not working properly. Some bullshit about the system that Seungmin knows isn't true, but he's grateful, because it means he can leave.

He, of course, runs into a too-chatty staff member in the elevator, who insists she walks with him to his car, whose voice is too sharp and nasally and somehow she lilts her voice so that every sentence sounds like a god damn question, and Seungmin is barely able to keep it professional enough to slip into the company car waiting for him with a gritted "annyeong" and a very thin smile. He's an idol, and somehow all of his training is slipping out from between his fingers, his trained personality slipping away as whatever's worming away at his brain pokes and prods a little more.

He wants to text you to be ready when he gets home, but he remembers once again that his phone is very, very dead when he tries to turn it on. He audibly groans, and the driver sends him a wary glance through the rearview, and Seungmin snaps his mouth shut, embarrassed. God, why can't he get a hold of himself?

His heart jackrabbits in his chest, like a caged animal trying to escape, and he barely even registers that the company car is pulling up outside of your building until the driver is gently calling out a quiet "Seungmin-ssi?" to the back of the car. He flushes, stammers out a gamsahabnida, and fumbles out of the car.

He doesn't greet you when he comes in, knowing his silence will cue you in that it's one of those nights. He convinces himself that the restlessness under his skin and the sound of his own pulse in his ears is because he needs to take everything out on you. That he just needs to be in control of one thing today, and he knows you'll let him once you see the sour look on his face. He's sure he looks a mess, and he imagines your face now, stained with tears after being edged for the third time in a row, and he thinks he knows what he wants.

"Min?" you ask, peeking your head around the corner, eyes widening a fraction when you catch a glance of him, "Oh. Hi, sir."

You say it so sweetly, voice immediately dropping into something subservient, and it would usually send a sick thrill through Seungmin. The fact that he can get you to fold without saying a word is usually something that gets his cock kicking up in his pants and straining against the fabric, but the twitch is weaker tonight. His mind is still fogged by his day - that's what he tells himself as he gives you a sharp glare, voice cold as he speaks.

"Drop."

And you do, falling to your knees in a way that certainly must hurt, but you don't complain, because you're good. Seungmin wonders, for a moment, what it feels like to be good like that. He shoves it down again, curling his mouth into a snarl.

"I just had the nastiest day today, jagiya," he says, tone indifferent, "So I'm going to take it all out on you tonight, and you're not going to stop me."

He says it like it's a fact, fingers coming to grab your hair and tug it back harshly to tilt your eyes to meet his, but he lets the silence hang for a moment. It's a chance for you to safeword, to dissent, and when you don't, he hooks a thumb into your mouth, forcing it open. He plays with your tongue for a moment before spitting into your mouth, watching it mix with yours on your tongue.

"Swallow," he says, and when you do, he laughs, "God, such a slut, aren't you? So easy, you'd just do anything I asked of you, huh?"

You make a sloppy sound around his thumb, suckling on it gently, looking up at him with big, wet eyes. He slips his thumb out of your mouth and wipes the excess spit on your cheek without a thought, like your spit wasn't even worth tarnishing his pants. You squirm, heat flooding your system.

He nods off towards the hall behind you, and you tilt your head up at him, waiting.

"Bedroom, now. If you're not fully naked by the time I get there, you're in for a punishment, jagi."

"...I might punish you no matter what," he calls as you scramble away, "You'd take it anyways, won't you?"

You know you're not meant to respond, so you just let out a little keen and struggle out of your clothes as you stumble to the bedroom, almost tripping over your own sock as you fight to slip the other one off. Fully naked really meant everything, and you know you'd be in for it tonight if you so much as forgot to take off a bracelet.

He follows you slowly, taking note of the trail of clothes leading to the bedroom. The best thing waits for him in the bedroom though, kneeling at the side of the bed. He loves that he didn't even have to ask - you knew your place without question, knew that you didn't get to be on the bed tonight without his permission.

Things still feel wrong, though. Seungmin can't explain it, can't explain the way that his skin crawls as he looks at you, kneeling there. Part of his brain is still cooing, still excited to see you like this, but another, louder part of it is uncomfortable. That should be you, it whispers, and he grinds his teeth together again, hoping that they would just shut up, please.

Your head is bowed, but that won't do. Seungmin feels neglected when you aren't looking at him (since when did he want to be the center of attention?) and he tuts at you, grinning when you stiffen.

"Watch me."

His words are shorter tonight, more clipped and practiced around the edges than they usually are. You don't let yourself slip under yet, because you, too, feel the strange shift in the air. There's a tension under his shoulders that is growing, which is the opposite of what a scene is meant to do. He seems excited to have your eyes on him, when usually, he revels in forcing you to be controlled enough to not even look at him. He revels in being above you, both literally and mentally. He wants you to feel lesser, yet tonight, it's not landing quite right. His words are stale, recycled, like a script he hasn't learned yet, so he's just reading the ink on the page. You watch carefully, but you can't pick out what's wrong, especially when you're not down on your knees for him and he's giving you those lazy, hooded eyes.

He strips carefully, slowly, like he's trying to tease, but his fingers shake, and he struggles with the button of his pants a breath too long. The moment feels delicate right now, and you're holding your breath without realizing it, like even the act of simply breathing will be enough to make everything fall to the ground.

He's half-hard as he slips himself out of his pants, and he stalks over to you, but it feels like a performance. More like idol muscle memory than something he's actually craving. He hates it, he hates this, hates the curl of his stomach that makes him want to be the one on his knees-

"On the bed."

Both of you seem surprised by this order. He blinks twice, rapidly, a little nervous habit he can't seem to break, and you make a strangled sound, like a question. He ignores it, instead opting to raise an unamused eyebrow at you.

"Are you questioning me?"

That's enough to have you scrambling to the bed, almost slipping off the side in your eagerness. You seem into this, at least, and that's enough for Seungmin to ease into his role. He can do this, because if it's not for himself, then he can at least do it for you.

"Hands and knees," He says, and you position yourself quickly, "I think you were a little slow getting on the bed. Were you thinking about ignoring an order? Naughty thing, I think that deserves a punishment."

"No, Min, I've been good-ahck!"

Your words get cu off by your own yelp as a harsh hand comes down to smack your ass, and a shiver tears through your body. He doesn't hit hard, necessarily, but the hit is precise, like he knows just where to targe to make you feel it tomorrow.

"And now you're talking back, too," he says with a sigh, climbing onto the bed behind you, "And here I was thinking about being nice. Count for me, now, it's the least you can do."

Another slap comes down, lighter than the last but directly on the same spot, and you warble out a weak "two". He makes what you think is a delighted sound, but you're not sure, face buried in the sheets in front of you as he hits you again, and again, and again. You count the whole time, voice getting more warbled the longer he goes. It's starting to hurt, his fingers a little harsher than usual, but you take it, the pain bleeding into pleasure, until they're both one in your mind.

...until, you hear what you could only describe as a sniffle.

It's quiet, barely audible over your own moans and the sound of his hand making contact with your ass, but it's there, and you can't ignore it. You know the risk of turning your head, of looking at him without permission, but you have to. Have to make sure you're not hearing things, that Seungmin's actually-

Seungmin's actually crying.

"Yellow," you yelp, "Seungmin, Seungmin, yellow. Stop, stop, please."

He freezes immediately, hand caught mid-air, and he blinks at you, shuffling back.

"Hey, hey, what's wrong?" He asks quietly, searching your eyes, "What can I do to make you green again?"

You flip over, wincing as your sensitive ass makes contact with the sheets, but you ignore it, propping yourself up and reach a hand up to thumb at the tears streaking Seungmin's cheeks.

"Minnie, you're crying," you say, biting your lower lip, "Why didn't you safeword?"

"I-what?" He brings a hand up to feel at his cheeks, and they are wet, "Oh."

"Oh," you parrot, looking at him, and he hates the way he melts under your watchful eyes, "Baby, what's wrong? Things felt off earlier too, but I thought you just needed to get it out."

"I don't know," he sobs, and oh god, he's really crying now, hiccupping as he stares at you, lost, that thin veil of control snapping so easily when you look at him like that, "I don't know! I yelled at Jisung and Minho earlier, and I growled at Jeongin, and at Chan, too and everything feels wrong and loud and-"

"Shhhhh, you don't need to think about it anymore," you coo, pulling him down to your chest, hoping and praying that you're reading the tension in his shoulders right, "You're here now. Listen to my heartbeat, okay? Just take a deep breath for me and let go, puppy."

It's like every thought that's bouncing around Seungmin's head turns to static, the words on his tongue mush. He goes dumb so fast, the only clear thought left in his head is your voice saying puppy puppy puppy. That's right - he's just a puppy. Puppy's don't think, they're just good. He can do that. He can be good for you, he can let go. He doesn't know why he thought that he was in charge - puppies don't think, don't make decisions.

You card your fingers through his hair gently, cooing gentle words the whole time. He doesn't hear all of them, already floating away, the worries he had earlier, the day he had earlier, all fading away. Dust in the wind, like something trivial disappearing from his mind. It's beautiful, and it's just what he needed. Why had he been avoiding this? He's too dumb now to remember, so he nuzzles into your hand instead.

"That's a good puppy," you coo, and he blinks up at you hazily, practically glued to you from how close he cuddled into you, "Does puppy want a treat?"

He nods, tongue lolling out. He wants whatever you want, but it sounds like you want to give him a treat, and if that's what you want, then of course he wants that!

You give him the sweetest smile, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of Seungmin's head, and Seungmin can't help the way his hips grind down when you do. You know this is under-negotiated, the kind of thing that you should've talked about with him first, but you do what you have to for now, because you can tell he needs this. Needs that release, needs to be dumb for a little first. You can talk later, afterwards. For now, you roll the two of you over, still plastered close to him as he greedily pulls you into him.

"Can I mount you, puppy? Put your cute little cock inside of me?" You ask gently, grinding your hips down once, and ohhhhh.

His head was already mush, but someone it's worse now. He thinks he's drooling, mouth slack at how sensitive he feels already, but he catches through hazy eyes the way you frown down at him.

"Puppy, I need an answer," you say, looking at him carefully, "Does that sound like a good treat?"

Seungmin freezes under you, going completely stiff. You want him to answer? But dogs don't talk, and Seungmin's just a dumb dog right now. He tries really hard, mouth flapping open uselessly, but the words choke out, and he's crying again, little hiccups as he looks up at you frantically, lip wobbling. Can't you see that he can't? But he doesn't want to be bad, do you think he's bad? Is he bad, by not answering? He makes a broken sound as he trembles under you, overwhelmed.

"Puppy, puppy, hey," you jump in, lacing your fingers through his, trying to ground him, "You can just nod, baby. I don't need words, just need to know you want this still. Okay? Can puppy nod for me?"

He takes a stuttering breath and gives you a shaky nod, and you relax, giving him that same sticky sweet smile.

"Good boy," you say, leaning down to kiss him, "My best boy. Always so good for me. Can you nod for me like a good boy if you want your treat?"

The world doesn't feel like it's closing in anymore, and Seungmin nods, a dopey grin spreading across his face when you say he's the best. The tears slow to a stop, and his breathing evens out, because he's your best boy. He is, but only for you.

"So perfect for me, my pretty, dumb baby," you say, and you slip a hand down to guide him to your entrance, watching his face the whole time, "Do you think you can knot me up? Fill me up with your puppies?"

You barely get the tip of his cock inside of you as you say that before his hips buck up without his control, and your mouth falls open into a moan. His mouth, already slack, forms a little 'o' as his eyes roll back into his head, and he bucks again, hips possessed by the feeling of you around him, warm and wet and taking all of his bad thoughts away with every squeeze of your hole around him.

"That's it," you say, though it's breathy, each frantic buck of his hips knocking the air out of your lungs, "Knot me like a sloppy puppy. Feels-hrk! F-feels so good, so good f'r me, pup."

He whimpers back, already so close and he's barely been inside of you. Normally, he'd be embarrassed, trying to hold himself back as he bucks into you, but he's just a dumb puppy now, and all he can think is breed breed breed. You've given him permission anyways, told him he's allowed to knot, so he lets his tongue loll out and high-pitched whines escape his throat as he fills you up, eyes rolling back as your hips don't stop.

It's too much and not enough. Seungmin's not even sure he's real anymore, everything gone in the world right now but you on top of him, milking him dumb. He thinks he's trying to speak, to tell you how good it is, but his mouth isn't his own anymore. He faintly hears what sounds like a dog yipping, and he thinks that the sound must be him, and he starts to slide out of puppyspace, because he's embarrassed, but then your hand finds his throat and he doesn't have the capacity to even perceive himself anymore.

You don't even apply any pressure - just put your hand there, and a blurry part of Seungmin's brain thinks your hand is the perfect collar, and oh, he's coming again. He can feel you squeezing around him this time as he does, and if he could hear anything but the pounding of his own heartbeat, he'd hear the way you're telling him you're coming, too. He bares his neck in submission, and another weak spurt of cum sprays into you when you lean down and bite into the curve of his neck that he exposed to you. He goes limp underneath you, fully mush and feeling perfect. The regret and the embarrassment are for later - right now, he's your perfect puppy, who filled you up just like you asked him to.

He comes back to himself in the too-small shower of your apartment as you're gently rubbing shampoo into his damp hair. He doesn't really remember how he got here, and it doesn't matter, because you're warm against his back, humming the tune to some song he doesn't recognize, but somehow it still feels like home. It's so domestic and sweet he starts to feel all fuzzy again, but that horrible swirling feeling of shame starts up in his stomach, and it drags him back into cold, harsh reality.

He just did that with you. He just submitted to you. And he wouldn't mind that, honestly, if he hadn't turned into a dumb puppy in the process. He squirms against you, trying to wiggle out of your hold, and your fingers slip out of his hair, trying not to get shampoo in his eyes.

"Hey, you back with me now?" you ask, voice so sweet, and Seungmin wants to throw up.

You hate him, he thinks, you hate him and want to break up with him and he's so stupid for slipping up like that and-

"Stop." Your voice cuts through his thoughts, your arms slipping around his waist and your chin hooking onto his shoulder.

"You're spiralling, jagiya," you say, "And you shouldn't be. I love you - all of you - and this changes nothing. If you never want to talk about it again, that's fine with me. If you want to do it again, that's also fine with me. Every version of you is attractive to me, and that's a fact. Nothing will ever change that."

The two of you spend the night very slowly talking about everything that went down. Seungmin shyly admits that he's been thinking about it, that he's slipped into puppyspace with you before, and gets even more shy when you admit that you had a bit of a suspicion already. But everything's okay, because it's you - perfect, loving you - and he can't believe he was ever scared of being vulnerable with you like this. He mourns the lost time a bit, but with new boundaries drawn and a lot of discussion, Seungmin knows that the future is going to be magical.

And now that the floodgates are open, Seungmin doesn't think that they can stop. He's glad, really, that you know him so well and knew what he needed in the moment, but now? It's so hard not to just slip when it's the two of you, now that his puppy knows that you won't judge him, that you're as into this as he is.

The dynamic shifts a bit, but only sometimes. Seungmin is still the dominant you both need on some days, words sharp and fingers mean against your skin, taking everything you have to give and a little more. He doesn't always need to be a puppy, and you don't always need to be in charge. It's nice, and he appreciates how easily the two of you can read each other and know what the other needs. How you don't push him to go into puppyspace unless he wants to, and how he doesn't push you to be in charge when that's not what you need.

There's something special about being a dumb puppy and you still submitting to him that has him drooling. You, his perfect human, still bending over and letting him rut into you to his heart's content, letting him just use you as a hole to fuck until his stupid puppy cock goes down. He loves how pliant you get under him when he does, how you beg for more and less and him all at once. He doesn't have to be under your boot to be a puppy for you (although he certainly doesn't mind when he is) and it fills a space of him that he didn't even know was empty.

The two of you very cautiously as you get further into the play, but it doesn't take long for you to nervously admit that you had bought him ears and a collar, and for him to flush a deep scarlet when you present them to him quietly.

"You don't have to wear them," you say, voice timid as you stare at him through your lashes, "I just...I kind of guessed what was going on? So I wanted to be prepared. Sorry, this is stupid-"

"I'll wear them," he interjects, eyes locked on the way the collar glints in the light, "But only if you get me a tag to match."

One embarrassing trip to Super Pet later (in which the lady at the counter asked to see pictures of your "new dog"), you've got a shiny tag that reads "Seungmin" in big letters across the front. You had tried to get him to get the bone-shaped tag, but he already looked two seconds away from scurrying out of the store, so you dropped it. You make yourself a tag, too, when Seungmin decides halfway through browsing tags to take a lap around the store ("to mentally prepare", code for "I'm shitting my pants right now"), just in case. A little part of you is still embarrassed to bring up that maybe you, too, want to try out the whole puppyspace thing with Seungmin. You think you'll save it for another day. For now, you watch the way Seungmin's shoulders drop when you click the collar around his neck, the new shiny tag cold against the smooth column of his throat. This is all you need, for now.

...until Seungmin finds the rest of your box.

In your defense, you had just decided to keep everything in the same box you always had. It was easier that way, a good way to keep track of all of the puppy things, and it's what you were doing before, so you didn't even think about taking your stuff out of it. You were the one who went and got Seungmin's stuff when it was time to play, anyways.

You hadn't accounted for Seungmin wanting to play on his own. It had been a tough night, and Seungmin woke up the next morning tired and needy. So he went over to your apartment, only to find that you were out at work. So, naturally, he thought he'd be ready for you. A nice surprise for you after a long day of work, or maybe he can make you squeeze in a quickie on your lunch break. Plus, if he's a puppy for a little bit, he can just laze about and maybe play around a little. He wonders if you would punish him if you found him with his teeth in one of your throw pillows. He thinks that he wants to find out.

He doesn't know where the box is, but he knows it's somewhere in the closet. He's usually a little hazy before you go and get his ears and his collar, so he's not really paying attention to what you're doing. The only thing on his mind usually is how long you're taking, or the throb of his erection between his legs.

So he goes digging. There's stacks of boxes of a variety of sizes pressed into your closet, shoes and memories and books you had told him you had gotten rid of, but a little sleek box sticks out. It's nicer than the others, has a little silver latch on the front, and it's not dusty, like some of the boxes around it. Bingo, he thinks, grabbing it easily and unlatching it, and the world slows down when he sees not one, but two collars in there, a second set of ears that matches your hair, not his.

The ball rolls to the side of the box with a quiet little sound as he inspects the second collar, and a rush of heat tingles down his spine when he reads your name in bold letters across the tag. Fuck whatever he was thinking about doing before - he was going to make you play with him.

You come back at dinner time to a very antsy Seungmin, wearing that shit-eating grin that you know means trouble. He's practically vibrating in his seat as you start up dinner, watching you with that smile plastered to his face that made your skin crawl.

You try to go about making dinner and small talk like normal, but there's still that air of shithousery around Seungmin, and you can't ignore it any longer.

"You know something," you chime in, interrupting him easily, "Spit it out. You look too pleased with yourself to just be talking about the mediocre sandwich you had for lunch."

"I'm not even supposed to eat bread very often, of course I'm passionate about the bad sandwich I had earlier, it was my bread quota for the week," he responds, eyes glinting, though he folds when you give him a deadpan look, sighing dramatically.

"...and I also found your puppy gear in the closet today."

"What??" You say, putting the knife you were cutting vegetables with down before you slice your finger instead of a carrot, "Seungmin. You can't be serious."

"In my defense, I really wanted to surprise you when you got back!" He defended, "And there just happened to be a collar with your name on it, so it's not my fault! Shouldn'tve put it with my stuff."

"I was jus' thinking about it," you huff, lying through you teeth, "Since you were into it, thought I'd give it a try, you know?"

"So the well-loved ball in there wasn't yours?" He coos, and you think you're going to kill him, right here in your kitchen, heat flooding your system as you gape at him.

"Seungmin!"

He just grins, and pulls a collar - your collar - out of his hoodie pocket.

"So, puppy? Wanna play with me?"

It, of course, goes wonderfully, and you're fucked dumb and full of his cum by the end of the night. He loves the way your ears are askew and the collar is damp with your sweat, and laughs when you lean up to lick a stripe up his cheek like a dog. Everything is so affectionate in the afterglow, even when you're the puppy now, not him.

But the best part about switch!puppy!Seungmin and a switch!puppy!reader is that your puppy playtimes can overlap.

Going into puppyspace and you being in control of him is great. Being in control when you go into puppyspace is pretty damn good, too. Seungmin wouldn't trade it for the world. But going into puppyspace with you?? That's where the real magic lies.

The times when you both don your ears and play together are incredible. It feels so good to be dumb together, just two dogs humping and rutting and playing together. The two of you laze about in the living room together sometimes, batting the ball around when you feel like moving. Sometimes, Seungmin will nudge you onto your stomach with his nose and mount you like a dog, panting and mouthing at you and filling you up over and over and over again until he's satisfied.

The thrusts are uncoordinated and sloppy, not even good enough to get him off normally, but something about being in puppyspace makes everything feel soooo much better. Every touch is electric, and both of your heads are so empty, the only thing either of your could be bothered to think about is pleasure. The two of you take take take greedily like this, two puppies just trying to feel good, and it's always a life-changing experience.

The two of you are always covered in bites and slobber afterwards, needy mouths unable to hold back, and with no rational voice to stop you, the two of you sink your teeth into whatever you can reach. He ends up with a bite mark pressed into the curve of his palm once and has to wear gloves in the middle of summer to hide it on camera. The fans worry about an injury, while Chan just scolds the two of you endlessly behind the scenes for being careless.

A possessive part of you likes how owned he looks covered in your bites, and he confesses that he loves seeing his marks on you, too. He also admits that sometimes, when things get too crazy and the idol life is making his head spin, he likes to press his fingers deep into the marks you've made on him that are hiding under his clothes. It makes him feel grounded and reminds him of you, and it's what he needs sometimes. Seungmin, of course, manages to make hickeys something romantic and sweet. It's something that only he could manage.

Tags: explicit sexual content, CONSENSUAL rough sex, desk sex, semi-public sex, biting, marking and slapping, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, loss of virginity, creampie, dry humping, both parties are inexperienced, switch Zandik (top/bottom dynamics leaning more towards bottom), power play, aftercare, cuddling, minor mentions of blood (biting)

Quick Summary: You and Zandik hate each other—rivalry at the Akademiya.

One stormy night you find him in your secret abandoned lecture hall. Insults fly, it turns physical (slap, shove, bite), then explodes into rough, desperate, first-time sex on the desk.

Clumsy, intense, both virgins losing control—grinding, overstimulation, him whimpering/crying. Ends with soft cuddling, kisses, and admitting the hate isn't just hate anymore.

Pre-expulsion Zandik (softer take), is probably OCC—depending on your own characterisation

Author’s Note: This is my first time writing a smut—therefore, it might be repetitive or just bad in general.

The Akademiya always felt like a prison.

Even in the small hours, when the great lanterns were dimmed to amber flickers and the corridors echoed only with the soft drip of condensation from high ceilings, the building breathed. It breathed through the rustle of turning pages, the scratch of quills on vellum, the occasional stifled cough of some scholar who had forgotten what sunlight felt like. It breathed through the weight of centuries of knowledge hoarded behind locked doors and sealed scrolls, knowledge that was never meant to be touched by mortal hands and yet was touched anyway—because mortals always touch what they’re told not to.

You had learned early that silence was safer than speech.

You moved through the marble halls like a ghost in scholar’s robes—head up, steps measured, eyes sliding past faces without ever landing. No one spoke to you unless they had no choice. No one liked you. You were weird, distant, sharp-tongued when cornered, the kind of person who made others feel small simply by existing near them. They called it arrogance… and you didn't really care.

You hated them all.

Not with loud, dramatic fury. Not with shouting or curses. Your hatred was quiet, constant, low-burning. It lived in the way your fingers tightened around your quill when someone dared sit too close in a lecture hall. It lived in the way your lips pressed thin when a professor praised mediocrity. It lived in the way you walked the Akademiya’s corridors alone at night, seeking out forgotten rooms where the silence almost felt like mercy.

Lecture Hall 7-C was one of those rooms.

Tucked behind the Rtawahist wing, small with a few windows on the wall, it had been declared off-limits years ago after some student’s reckless experiment left scorch marks on the floor and a lingering smell of burnt ozone. The lock had been broken for months—perhaps longer—and no one bothered to repair it. You had discovered it by accident one sleepless night and claimed it without asking permission, the way you claimed most things—quietly, stubbornly, as though the world owed you at least one place that didn’t ask questions.

Tonight the storm outside was apocalyptic. Rain hammered the domes in furious sheets. You’d just finished your shift at some random stall in Bazaar—you were absolutely exhausted, but you simply couldn't rest when there were so many assignments and upcoming exams. Wind screamed through ancient stone. You were soaked through by the time you reached the corridor—clothes heavy and clinging, water dripping in icy tracks down your spine, between your breasts, pooling cold in the hollows of your collarbones. Every step squelched. Your heartbeat was louder than the thunder.

You pushed the heavy door open.

And stopped.

The lantern was already lit.

Flickering and throwing long shadows across the scarred wooden desk at the front. Papers lay scattered—dense diagrams of ruin guard neural matrices, equations in sharp, slanted scripts you knew too well. Ink stained the edges. A broken quill rested forgotten in the middle of it all.

A certain cyan-blue-haired maniac sat there—exactly as he always did in your worst nightmares—sleeves rolled to the elbows, hair loose and damp from the humidity, strands curling and clinging to the sharp line of his jaw. He was writing furiously, the scratch of a seemingly new quill loud in the quiet room.

You slammed the door shut behind you with unexpected force.

Maybe too roughly…

The sound cracked like a whip.

He didn’t startle at all, you hadn’t expected him to. He simply stopped writing.

Then he lifted his head leisurely.

Crimson eyes met yours.

And something inside your chest tore open all over again.

You remembered the first time you truly started hating his guts—not the academic irritation you wore like the greatest armour, but the kind of hate that clawed inside your ribs, made your pulse roar in your ears, made every breath taste like rust and agony.

It had been a few months earlier, in Seminar Room 4-B…

The seminar was one of the late ones—the kind held after most students had already fled to their depressing dorms or the library’s restricted stacks. The topic was “Post-Cataclysm knowledge curation,” which everyone knew was Akademiya-speak for “why we hide half the things we dig up.”

Professor Sadeghi was explaining—again—why certain Khaenri’ahn schematics had been sealed rather than studied openly.

“…the risk of misinterpretation outweighs the benefit of unrestricted access,” he said, turning to wipe chalk dust from his long sleeve. “Some knowledge is better left contextualised by those with the proper training and restraint.”

Zandik, slouched in the front row with one ankle crossed over his knee, let out a single, quiet scoff—just loud enough to carry to the back.

He didn’t raise his hand. He never did.

“‘Proper training and restraint,’” he drawled, spinning a golden quill between his fingers. “That’s a polite way of saying the sages are terrified of anything that proves the gods aren’t the only ones who can build gods. You don’t bury knowledge because it’s dangerous. You bury it because it’s embarrassing. One working automaton core in the right hands and the whole divine monopoly starts to look like a very expensive bluff.”

Several students shifted, some rolled their eyes and exchanged glances. The professor’s mouth thinned, but before he could speak—

You felt it snap.

You never spoke in class. Never. You sat in the back row, arms folded, head buried in your notes, invisible by choice. Talking meant attention. Attention meant vulnerability. You’d spent years perfecting silence.

But something about Zandik’s tone that day—that lazy, self-satisfied certainty, like he alone had been brave enough to see the truth—finally made your blood simmer past the point of restraint.

You leaned forward just enough for your voice to carry.

“And you think handing out forbidden power like candy is brave?” Your tone was flat, mildly uninterested, but loud enough to make heads turn. “Khaenri’ah didn’t fall because the gods were jealous. They fell because they treated creation like a game with no rules and no consequences. You sit there romanticising their ambition like it was noble instead of reckless. It wasn’t progress. It was hubris with better tools.”

The room went still.

Zandik stopped spinning the quill. He turned his head slowly, just enough to look at you over his shoulder. Crimson eyes narrowed at you, but the corner of his mouth curved—not quite a smile, more like a predator acknowledging another predator.

“Hubris,” he repeated, tasting the word. “That’s what they call it when the losing side writes the history books. The gods didn’t punish Khaenri’ah for breaking rules. They punished them for proving the rules were never necessary.” He finally turned his whole body toward the back row, leaning one elbow on the back of his chair. “You’re not defending morality. You’re defending the comfort of never having to ask whether the leash you wear is actually for your protection—or theirs.”

The room was pin-drop silent.

Not even professor Sadeghi spoke.

“I’m defending the people who would die if idiots like you handed out god-killing weapons without a single thought for what comes after.” Your voice stayed level, but the edge was unmistakable. “You think destruction is freedom. I think it’s just the easiest way to feel powerful when you’re too scared to build anything that lasts.”

He simply uncrossed his legs and straightened his back against the chair—expression displeased and slightly irritated.

“Then build something,” he said quietly. “Stop hiding behind ‘consequences’ and actually make something that isn’t just another chain. Or are you afraid that if you tried, you’d discover you’re just as dependent on the gods’ approval as everyone else you pretend to look down on?”

“I don’t need the gods’ approval to know that power without restraint isn’t freedom—it’s chaos with better branding. You’re not fighting for liberation. You’re fighting for the right to be the new tyrant. And you hate that everyone can see it.”

Zandik’s smile vanished.

For a second something unguarded flashed in his eyes—not anger exactly, but something colder and sharper.

“Then see this,” he said, voice low enough that only the middle rows could hear clearly. “Every time someone like you decides some knowledge is ‘too dangerous’ to touch, you’re not protecting anyone. You’re just choosing which cage everyone else gets to live in. And you do it with that smug little certainty that makes you feel clean. But clean hands are just hands that never had to get dirty to survive.”

You straightened from the chair, smoothing your clothes as you stood. The chair scraped back as you stepped one row toward him. Every eye in the room followed you. Apparently, the class was getting a free show today.

His eyebrow lifted in amusement and he rose too—unhurried, almost graceful, mirroring your movements. The quill disappeared into his pocket and papers slid off his desk. The space between you had crackled. For one heartbeat you’d thought he might actually cross the room completely and grab you.

Instead he’d smirked—measured but sharp.

“I’d rather have clean hands than blood on them just to prove I’m not afraid,” you said. “You call it cowardice. I call it having something worth protecting. But you wouldn’t understand that. You’ve never had anything you were afraid to lose.”

“Keep telling yourself it’s safer to stay clean. One day you might even believe it.”

“Well, at least I don’t dress up sadism as enlightenment,” you said, voice low and venomous. “You talk about all this like it makes you superior, but all I see is a boy who’s so afraid of facts and failure that he’d rather cross the line than risk having to feel anything real. You’re not enlightened. You’re just broken.”

You closed the last gap—now only one desk stood between you.

He paused—eyes flicking over you as though he were searching for a label he hadn’t bothered to learn yet.

“Broken?” He laughed once. “That’s rich coming from someone who sits in corners pretending silence makes them untouchable. You don’t speak because you’re afraid someone might actually look at you and see nothing underneath. At least I’m honest about what I want. You’re just a coward hiding behind morality because it’s easier than admitting you’re empty.”

The words hit like a physical blow. Your breath caught. For one dangerous second you almost lunged—fingers twitching, wanting to reach toward his collar so bad.

“Please. Keep pretending you’re above it all. Maybe they’ll see nothing underneath, but when someone decides to look past your ice—they will realise there’s something heretical and rotten beneath it.”

“And with all honesty that’s worse than nothing.”

A fractured laugh slipped from you as you held his gaze without blinking.

“Oh wait—maybe they already see it…” You whispered mockingly, nudging your head to the class.

The professor finally moved—stepping closer to you, hands raised, obviously trying to keep his voice respectful.

“Enough! Both of you—sit. Down.”

Zandik didn’t look away from you. Neither did you.

He leaned down and grinned at you like a maniac.

“You heard the professor. You should go back to your little corner—you’re smarter when you’re on a leash.” He spoke again—quieter, only for you.

The professor physically pushed between you, voice rising.

“I said enough!”

Zandik didn’t move at first. He held your stare for another long second—long enough for you to notice the muscle in his jaw flex and the faint pulse beneath his eye.

“Sit down right now! Or you're both getting suspended!”

He was the one who broke first—turning sharply on his heel. He made sure to bump you hard enough with his shoulder as he walked towards the door—the silk of his sleeve brushed against your own robe. He murmured something you couldn’t quite understand.

You just stood there and watched him walk out with his spine straight and steps measured. You felt the familiar cold fury settle in your chest—the quiet rage that always stirred whenever he opened his mouth in lectures like the rest of the room was just delaying the inevitable moment he proved himself right.

He slammed the door shut like a sulking child pretending it was a grand exit.

You hated that part of you that wondered if he was right.

Since that day you were like heavy weapons aimed at each other—locked in a cold, relentless war of wits that played out in every corner of the Akademiya.

He’d claim your usual seat in the reading rooms just to watch you arrive and bristle. You’d “borrow” his meticulously organised notes during group sessions, only to return them later with your corrections scrawled in the same blood-red ink he loved to use on yours—each annotation more cutting than the last: “Lazy inference,” “Intellectually dishonest,” “Try again.”

You traded lethal stares across lecture halls and crowded corridors. He’d catch your eye from the far side of the room, chin tilted in that infuriating way, crimson stare unblinking and venomous.

You’d return it without hesitation—chin high, expression cold and irritated—until the air between you crackled so thickly that one of you finally looked away.

Neither of you would ever admit who blinked first.

Neither of you ever escalated to formal complaints. This was personal—a duel fought with sharp remarks and stolen glances instead of blades.

You hated how his sabotage pushed you to work harder, think darker, cut deeper just to prove you were better. He hated it more—hated how your corrections exposed every weak spot he pretended didn’t exist, hated how he started anticipating your next move like a junkie waiting for the next hit.

Neither of you had ever wasted a single breath on anything that wasn’t designed to wound or humiliate.

Until tonight.

“What the fuck are you doing in my hall, you disgusting freak?”

You dropped your soaked bag with a wet slap against the stone floor. The sound echoed sharply in the small room. Scrolls spilt out in a messy arc, rolling and skidding across the tiles. One bumped against the leg of the desk and stopped.

He stared at you with that same mocking glint. His mouth curved in a faint smirk.

“Your hall?” he drawled, straightening his posture. “I wasn’t aware the sages had deeded you private property. Or is this another charming delusion you tell yourself so you can pretend you own anything at all?”

“I’ve been coming here for months. Alone. Because unlike you, I don’t need an audience of corpses to feel important.” You straightened, shoulders squared, chin tilted up. “Now I walk in and find the Akademiya’s favourite corpse-fucker squatting in my space like he owns the fucking place. Get out before I throw you out on your pathetic ass.”

Zandik paused completely. His quill still hovered above the page for half a second, then he set it down with careful precision—the soft clink of metal against wood cutting through the rain noise. He pushed his chair back slowly. The legs scraped across the stone with a low, grating sound.

He remained behind the desk, looking down at you across the scattered papers. Then he moved—stepping sideways around the corner of the desk. When he stopped, he was no longer separated from you by the wood. He stood directly in front of you, close enough that you had to tilt your chin up to meet his eyes. The lantern light caught the sharp line of his jaw and the faint sheen along his temple.

He tilted his head just slightly, sharp eyes narrowing as they locked onto yours. A dangerous smile curled one corner of his mouth again.

“Hm… corpse-fucker.” He let the word roll off his tongue, tasting it as if he were trying to mock you for trying so hard. “That’s a new one… creative tonight, aren’t we?” He shifted his weight forward a fraction, one hand resting lightly on the edge of the desk beside him—fingers splayed, knuckles brushing the torn edge of a diagram.

“Careful—someone might think you’ve been thinking about me.”

You crossed the remaining distance in three sharp strides. Your wet shoes clicked against the stone. You stopped directly in front of him, so close that the front of your soaked shirt almost brushed his chest. Zandik was slightly taller—enough that you had to angle your head back to keep eye contact. Your hands stayed loose at your sides, fingers flexing once, twice.

“Thinking about you?” you hissed, voice low and venomous. “I have better things to do than poisoning my brain with such thoughts.”

You took another half a step closer—forcing him either to retreat or to hold his ground. He didn’t move back—technically there was nowhere to move. His shoulders squared instead, spine straightening, making the height difference more pronounced. The lantern light flickered across his face, catching the faint tension at the corner of his mouth and forehead.

“You’re a walking plague, Zandik.” You leaned in until your face was inches from his, voice dropping to a cutting whisper. “The kind of heretic they’ll burn in the desert once the sages finally get tired of your little games. And I’ll be there watching, laughing.”

Then you paused, letting the silence stretch between your faces for a moment.

“Anyways, they say a bunch of stuff about you around here. I’m surprised you haven’t heard that one yet.”

His smile withered, the edges sharpening into disdain. Halflidded eyes flicked down to your mouth for a fraction of a second—almost unnoticeable—before returning to yours. He exhaled through his nose, the sound subdued but deliberate. His free hand lifted halfway, then stopped—fingers curling loosely in the air between you before dropping back to his side.

He leaned down very slightly, bringing his face closer until you could feel the warmth of his breath against your cheek.

“Oh, I’ve heard them all,” he murmured. His voice was quiet, almost intimate, but every syllable carried a razor’s edge. “The question is… why do you remember them so clearly?”

He didn’t move any closer. He simply stood there—tall and unblinking—letting the words hang in the narrow space between your mouths while rain hammered the windows behind you both.

For the first time, you said nothing. You were already bored with his pathetic attempts to humiliate you. He clicked his tongue once, clearly displeased by your silence.

“I used to think your silence was arrogance. Now I realise it’s just cowardice with better posture. You don’t speak because you’re afraid the moment you open your mouth, everyone will realise how pathetic you actually are.”

Zandik’s words hung in the air for half a second, smug and stabbing, as he’d just dropped the winning move on a chessboard.

”You don’t even have anything smart to say.”

You didn’t flinch or even blink. You’d heard these insults more than enough.

You just looked at him—long enough for the silence to turn uncomfortable—and then spoke, voice flat it almost sounded bored.

“Zandik.”

You said his name like it tasted bad.

“I really don’t want to look at your dumb face right now. Or hear any more of your bullshit.” You tilted your head slightly, eyes narrowing just enough to make the dismissal sting. “Can you just leave me alone and get the fuck out of here?”

You didn’t raise your voice. You didn’t really need to.

The words landed just right, but of course, he had to keep going.

“If I’m as awful as you say…”

He paused for a moment, gaze flickering over your face like he’s reading notes.

“…then we’re identical.”

“You were thrown away first.”

His words carried clinical boredom.

“At least I don’t pretend it didn’t shape me.”

Zandik stared straight at you, eyes unblinking, lips threatening to curve in a sour smirk. He knew precisely where to aim—exploiting every weak spot like he'd rehearsed this moment in his head.

The only sound in the tiny room was the rain hitting the windows, and the faint wet drip from your soaked clothes onto the stone floor. His jaw was tight, a muscle ticking once under the skin. He didn’t blink. He didn’t say anything else. He simply watched you—intently, almost predatorily—like he was waiting to see which way you would break.

The words hit you like a rough slap—sharp enough to sting, but not enough to make you break.

You pushed him back before you could think better of it.

Both hands slammed into his chest with all the force you could muster. The impact jolted him backwards. He staggered one step, hip clipping the edge of the desk with a dull thud. Papers scattered in a frantic cascade—some fluttering to the floor, others catching under his weight and tearing with dry, ripping sounds. His fingers splayed wide against the scarred wood, catching himself just before he went down completely. A bottle of tar-black ink tipped, dark liquid spilling across the edge of the surface in a slow, spreading stain that dripped onto the stone tiles below.

The room was completely still except for the rain and the faint wet plink of ink meeting the floor.

He stayed braced there for a heartbeat—chest heaving once, twice—then leisurely straightened, his eyes never leaving yours.

Before you could pull your hands back, his reflexes snapped. His slim hands shot out—fast and precise—closing around both your thin wrists in an iron grip. His fingers wrapped completely around the slender bones, thumbs pressing hard into the soft undersides. The hold was bruising, deliberate, digging in deep enough that you felt the ache bloom instantly under the skin. He yanked your arms forward slightly, forcing your body to follow the motion so you stayed close, chests almost touching.

You tried to wrench yourself free. Zandik was stronger—solid and unyielding—but you didn’t fight him head-on. Instead, you twisted your arms sharply, jerking your left shoulder back while rotating your wrist inward. The sudden torque forced his grip to shift. His fingers tightened instinctively, then slipped for just a second—long enough for you to tear your right hand free.

In that split second, you swung. Your free hand cracked across his stupid face—open palm, full force, absolutely no hesitation.

The slap rang out like a gunshot, the sound bouncing off the stone walls and ceiling in a bright, echoing crack.

Zandik’s head snapped sideways. The motion was violent—curled strands of hair whipped across his face and fell into his bright eyes. A vivid red handprint instantly bloomed across the pale skin of his cheek—bright, angry, the edges already swelling. His lips parted on a sharp, involuntary inhale.

For a second he just stood there. You couldn’t quite read his expression.

He breathed hard—chest heaving tremulously—hair hanging in his face as per usual, obscuring half his expression. The dim lantern light caught the sheen of sweat along his brow and the faint tremor in the hand that still lazily gripped your other wrist. His head stayed turned to the side for a long, dragging moment, as though he were tasting the sting, cataloguing it.

Then—very slowly—he turned his face back toward you.

The handprint stood out starkly against his delicate skin. When his eyes met yours again, they were far darker than before—a hint of hesitation and uncertainty flickering in them as they bore daggers into your own.

He still didn’t let go of your wrist.

You analysed him for a few long, suspended moments. The lantern caught every small betrayal on his face. Colour had flooded his cheeks in uneven patches—first a faint pink at the apples, then a deeper, angrier red that crept upward like spilt wine. It climbed his throat, staining the pale skin there until the tendons stood out in sharp relief against the flush.

His lips had parted on an aborted breath—only slightly, just enough to show a thin sliver of his sharp teeth and the wet glint of his tongue behind them.

The stunned look in his eyes was unmistakable—wide, unfocused for the first time since you’d known him. His pupils had swallowed almost all of the red iris, leaving only a thin, trembling ring of dark colour. They flickered a few times, as though he were trying to refocus on your face but couldn’t quite manage it.

His chest rose and fell too fast—shallow, erratic pulls of air that made the tightly closed collar of his messy, cotton shirt flutter faintly with each inhale. His shoulders were rigid, arm still half-raised from holding your wrist, fingers now loose and spasming around it.

He looked dazed. Almost fragile in his shock—like something inside him had short-circuited and he didn’t know how to restart it.

And still he said nothing.

Not a word. Not a sound. Not even the low, mocking drawl he usually wielded like a blade. His throat worked once—a hard, visible swallow—but no sound came out.

For once, Zandik had nothing to say.

The silence was louder than any of his usual venom.

You don’t know why, but your gaze dropped—curious, lingering, almost trying to swallow him whole in the awkwardness of the moment.

It really only made things worse for both of you.

The front of his neat pants was visibly tented—painfully, shamelessly hard. The dark fabric pulled taut across the swollen length of him like it was trying to tear free. A small, but visible damp spot had already bloomed on the fabric, darkening the material in a slow, spreading stain that caught the lantern light and made it glisten.

Something dark and vile surged through you, a viciously gentle, molten heat that poured down your spine and coiled tight in your belly until it throbbed there like a second heartbeat. Your mouth turned bone-dry in an instant, tongue sticking to the roof as though all moisture had been stolen, while your pulse hammered so fiercely behind your eyes that it blurred the edges of the faint light and made every shadow flicker in time with your blood.

And there he was—arrogant, brilliant, untouchable Zandik—now reduced to this: lips parted on helpless pants, the bright handprint you left glowing angrily across his pale skin… the front of his pants strained shamelessly, the thick, swollen outline of his cock pressing upward with every rough breath, the head so engorged it bulged against the seam.

Your thighs clenched together hard.

You hated it—hated how badly you wanted to ruin him, to grind him down until that sharp tongue could only whimper your name, until those clever eyes rolled back and nothing remained but this helpless need. And you hated even more that you wanted to be the one who did it, the only one, the first and the last.

But beneath all the heat and the hate, confusion clawed at you. You hated him. He hated you. That had always been the only truth you allowed between you—cutting words, cold glares, mutual contempt sharpened to a blade. So why was he hard right now? Why was the guy who dissected your every argument and mocked every single one of your hypotheses standing here with his cock throbbing in front of you? Was this real, or just another cruel way to humiliate you by making you want something you could never truly have?

Your mind spun, caught between the urge to shove him away forever, run away and never see him again—and the darker, louder impulse to push him further, to see how much more that trembling need could bend before it broke completely.

You didn’t know what you should do or what was the right thing to do.

You only knew that walking away now felt impossible.

And you hated that most of all.

Eventually, your gaze dragged itself back up to his face.

He was still, the composure he'd worn like armor was long gone. His eyes were fixed on you—half-lidded, the usual sharp calculation was replaced by something raw and unsteady, like he'd been caught mid-thought and couldn't quite reassemble the mask. The embarrassment had probably deepened as you were staring at his erection, uneven scarlet that betrayed every effort he was making to stay calm.

He didn't move to cover himself, didn't drop his hand to adjust or hide. Instead, his fingers still wrapped around your other wrist tightened—just a fraction—enough to keep you anchored in place without bruising, thumb pressing absently against the tender spot where your pulse hammered fastest. The hold felt almost desperate, like he needed the contact to steady himself more than to control you.

A single bead of sweat traced a dragging path from his temple down the side of his face, catching the dim glow before disappearing into the damp collar of his shirt. He swallowed once—visibly, throat working—and his lips parted as though he meant to speak, but nothing came out except another jagged exhale.

He looked caught.

Exposed in a way that had nothing to do with his body and everything to do with the fact that he'd let you see this—let you see him wanting, vulnerable, without a single barbed word left to hide behind.

His thumb moved once—unhurried, almost unconscious—tracing a small circle over the racing pulse at your wrist, as though reminding himself you were still real, still here, and still not pulling away.

You just exhaled sharply before finally grabbing the front of his shirt with both fists and yanking him down toward you.

Your clumsy mouths crashed together roughly.

It was teeth, fury and months of swallowed words finally exploding outward. You bit his plush lower lip hard enough to taste copper—he flinched at first, then didn’t hesitate—quickly responding by forcing your mouth open wider, tongue pushing past your teeth like he was trying to claim territory. You tasted black coffee and the faint metallic edge of blood on his sharp tongue.

His hands flew to the back of your head, fingers tangling painfully in your wet hair, angling you exactly how he wanted. You pushed back just as hard, tongue sliding against his, fighting for dominance, swallowing every lewd sound he tried to muffle. The kiss was wet, messy, and desperate. Your noses bumped,and your breath hitched as your lips bruised against each other.

Neither of you knew how to stop.

And it seemed like neither of you wanted to.

When you finally broke apart it was only because air had become a necessity. Both of you were gasping, foreheads pressed together, spit-slick mouths inches apart.

You stood still for a precious moment, breathing in each other’s ragged exhales.

Once you realised what just happened you lowered your hands from his chest, pads of your fingers trailing reluctantly down the soft cotton until they fell away completely. A tiny, unwelcome flicker of insecurity washed over you—small but sharp enough to make your stomach twist and your next breath come out uneven. You took a half-step backward, trying to create even a sliver of space to think, to regain control.

But he didn’t want to let you go so soon.

His grip dropped and locked on your hips—firm, almost possessive—fingers digging into the wet fabric like he was anchoring himself to you. The moment you shifted your weight to retreat once more, he reacted.

Fast and forceful.

His hands tightened against the material of your shorts, knuckles blanching white against the dark. With a sudden, powerful twist of his lean torso he tried to spin you around—intent clear: reverse your positions, shove you back, slam you down against the desk so he could pin you beneath him instead. His breath came in short, hot bursts against the side of your neck, the heat of his body pressing closer as he leaned in with the motion. You could feel the frantic thud of his heart through his chest, the slight tremor in his fingers that betrayed how tightly he was holding himself together.

The air between you felt suffocating, too thick.

You were both breathing too hard for the quiet room.

However, his actions only encouraged your previous lewd ideas.

Your right leg snapped back, hooking behind his knee with precise, ruthless speed. You yanked hard—heel catching the back of his joint—and at the same moment shoved forward with both hands flat against his chest. The sudden counterweight threw off his balance completely.

Zandik’s unfocused eyes widened for a fraction of a second.

Then he went down.

Hard.

His back hit the wooden desk with a solid, jarring thud that rattled the wood and sent the lantern wobbling violently—the flame flared bright for an instant before settling. The remaining papers scattered in every direction—some fluttering to the floor to meet the rest, others tearing with sharp, dry rips beneath his shoulders and spine. The impact forced a short, choked grunt from his dry throat, his head snapping back against the surface before he caught himself.

Maybe a solid crack to the skull would do him some good. Maybe then he’d stop being such an unrelenting asshole.

Before he could recover—before he could even draw a full breath—you moved.

You planted one knee on the edge of the desk for leverage, swung your other leg over his hips in a swift, decisive arc, and dropped your full weight down onto him. Your trembling thighs clamped tight around his lower waist, knees digging into the wood on either side of his hips. You braced both palms flat against his chest, fingers splaying over smooth cotton and racing heartbeat, pinning him firmly beneath you.

If you were completely honest—you had no idea what you were doing, but it seemed to work anyway.

He bucked once—instinctive, reflexive—hips raising upward in a futile attempt to dislodge you. The motion only ground him harder against you, the thick, straining heat of him trapped between your bodies through soaked layers of clothing. His hands flew to your thighs, shuddering fingers clamping down in a bruising grip, but he didn’t push you off—he pulled, almost involuntarily, anchoring you tighter against him.

You leaned forward slowly, letting more of your weight settle onto his pelvis until every inch of him was pressed flush against your core. Your hair—still dripping from the rain—fell forward in wet strands, brushing his flushed cheeks and the vivid red handprint that still burned across his ethereal face.

He searched your face, lips swollen and parted.

For a few seconds you just looked at each other, repeating that same action for the millionth time tonight as if desperately trying to say something without words.

Only the rain hammering the windows and the frantic thud of his heart against your palms filled the silence.

Until his eyes narrowed and his sharp but strained voice echoed in the dim room.

“Get off me,” he gasped immediately, voice cracking, and hands gripping your thighs tighter. However, he didn't push you away, instead he gripped harder, fingers digging into the muscle like he was afraid you’d disappear. “Get the fuck off me, you insane—”

You stayed still for a few moments—taken aback—searching his expression, trying to decide if he really meant what he’d just said.

After you realized he was just a stubborn mess, you shifted—grounded down—painfully slow, dragging the soaked heat of your core along the hard bulge through layers and layers of fabric. The friction was obscene. His hips jerked up involuntarily again, chasing the pressure even as he kept pathetically snarling.

“Get off—ah—fuck—get off me—”

You did it again, undulating your hips in filthy circles. The wooden desk creaked. His precise fingers kept digging in the flesh of your thighs, pulling you down harder against him and directing your hips just the right way even while his mouth kept lying to both of you.

“I said—”

You leaned down, letting more strands of your hair brush across his flushed cheek as your mouth found the side of his neck. Your lips grazed the smooth skin first—soft, almost teasing—then your sharp teeth sank in, not gently, but hard enough to bruise. You sucked, drawing the tender flesh between your lips, tasting salt, rain and the faint metallic edge of his pulse. A dark, blooming mark formed almost instantly under your mouth.

Zandik made a sound you’d never heard from him before—a high, helpless whimper that cracked in the middle like glass. His head tipped back against the desk with a dull thud, throat exposed, Adam’s apple bobbing frantically and his slightly curled cyan-blue hair spilled on the flat wooden surface.

You could feel everything.

Every desperate twitch. Every frantic pulse. The blunt head of him catching on the seam of your own bottoms, nudging your clit through the fabric with each sloppy roll until your breath hitched and your thighs trembled around his hips. Neither of you had ever done this before—never touched anyone like this, never been touched—and the raw newness of it made every sensation burn brighter.

You didn’t want to dwell on the fact that Zandik was underneath you—on the wooden table. In the lecture room… that the two of you were engaged in something so undeniably lewd—especially with someone you’d convinced yourself you despise.

You were both clumsy in the best way—too eager, too sensitive, too overwhelmed to find any kind of rhythm that wasn’t pure instinct.

You kept moving.

The fabric between you grew hotter, clinging obscenely—his pre-cum soaking through in steady pulses, mixing with your own arousal until the material was dark and plastered to both of you. Every roll pulled another fractured sound from his throat—soft, shattered whimpers that climbed higher each time, gasps that broke into your name like a curse and a prayer, little choked sobs he couldn’t swallow back.

His eyes were glassy and half-lidded, lashes clumped with moisture, and sweat beaded along his hairline. His lips stayed parted, breath coming in quick, ragged pants that matched the frantic thrust of his hips whenever you ground down particularly hard.

Oh how you’ll tease him for this—he won’t live through it.

“I hate you,” he gasped, voice cracking. “I hate how much I—”

You cut him off with another sharp, erratic move, watching him close his eyes shut..

“Come on,” you whispered against his ear, voice cruel and sweet at once. “Come in your pants like the desperate animal you are. Show me how little control you actually have.”

He was leaking steadily—thick, hot pulses that made the wet spot bloom wider and wider across the front of his pants. You could feel the head of him swelling even more, throbbing against you with every pass, so sensitive that even the drag of wet cotton was almost too much.

When he came it was sudden and devastating.

A choked, animal sob tore out of his throat—raw and higher than you’d ever imagined he could sound. His whole body arched violently off the desk, spine bowing and head thrown back. His hips chased in erratic, helpless spasms, canting up into you as warmth flooded the front of his bottoms in thick, pulsing waves. You felt every spurt—hot, heavy, soaking through the fabric in rhythmic gushes that seeped against your own core, the heat of it searing through your clothes and making your own untouched body clench hard in response.

You didn’t stop.

You kept circling your hips—slower now, more deliberate—milking every last pulse and every shudder, until his quivering hips stuttered to a halt and he collapsed beneath you, chest heaving violently, ribs punching against your palms. Hot tears slipped silently from the corners of his eyes, tracking down his temples and disappearing into his sweaty hair. His hands—still clamped on your thighs—flexed once, twice, then went limp, fingers trembling against your skin. His slender fingers just rested on top of your thighs—not digging and grabbing like sharp daggers anymore. They’d left visible marks on your pale skin, threatening to bruise.

He lay there panting, wrecked, and flushed to the roots of his silky cyan-blue hair, cock still twitching weakly beneath the soaked mess of his ruined pants.

Your hand drifted from the steady rise of his heavy chest, fingers shaking slightly as they reached his face. You brushed your thumb along his wet cheek, wiping away the glistening tears clinging to his smooth skin, one glacial stroke at a time. Your hand was cold, a sharp contrast to the heat still rolling off him, and for a moment you waited—half-expecting him to pull away.

Surprisingly, he didn't. He stayed still beneath your touch, inhaling desperately, jaw tight—as if he didn’t know how to react or what to do with this either.

You stayed perfectly still and looked at him for a few minutes, breathing just as hard, feeling the aftershocks ripple through both of you while your hand lingered hesitantly on his cheek.

The rain kept pounding relentlessly against the windows. If you weren’t so busy watching Zandik fall apart beneath you, you might have wondered how you’d get back home.

Neither of you dared to speak.

Not yet.

You just watched the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the way his flushed face slowly began to lose some of its frantic crimson colour. Your own thighs trembled from the effort, core aching fiercely.

When he finally came back to his senses—when the last aftershock had rolled through his body and his spine unhurriedly settled completely back down against the scarred surface of the desk—you shifted your weight back slightly, not lifting off him completely but easing away just enough to break the full, unrelenting press of your core against his soaked lap. The sudden loss of contact made him suck in a breath through clenched teeth.

You braced both hands firmly on his knees for balance, fingers curling deeply into the tense, rippling muscle there. Then—patiently and carefully—you pushed his legs apart, feeling the initial resistance of his thighs for half a heartbeat before they gave way beneath your palms and parted wider. His knees fell open until you could slide down to sit between them. Your hips now cradled intimately in the open V of his spread legs. The position forced his knees to bend slightly and kept his feet planted flat against the edge of the desk.

Zandik propped himself up on his elbows, the movement stiff and careful as though every muscle in his body still ached from the overwhelming intensity that had just torn through him. His head tilted back just enough to keep his dark, heavy-lidded eyes locked on yours without interruption, curiosity spilling from his gaze. Strands of sweat-damp hair still clung stubbornly to his forehead and temples, and his chest heaved in ragged, audible surges, ribs pressing visibly against the thin fabric of his shirt with every shallow tug.

He didn’t speak—didn’t even try to close his legs. He simply watched you.

And waited patiently.

You held his gaze steadily, never once looking away, and then—without breaking eye contact—you slid one hand forward until your palm settled warmly over the front of his trousers, right where the thick, still-hard length of him strained painfully against the ruined fabric. Even through the soaked layers you could feel the relentless heat pouring off him, the stubborn, insistent pulse that hadn’t faded in the slightest, the material clinging so tightly to every ridge and curve that your fingers could trace the exact shape of him without effort.

You didn’t move your hand yet. You simply rested it there—warm, steady, measured pressure—watching his face the entire time, searching every flicker of expression for the smallest sign of withdrawal, any hint that he wanted you to stop. His eyes fluttered once, and then a sharp, shaky exhale punched out of him—half groan, half plea—as his hips gave a tiny, helpless twitch upward into your palm before he could stop himself. His lashes lowered for a fleeting second before lifting again, eyes locking back onto yours with an intensity that felt almost desperate.

Still, no words passed between you. Just the uneven pulls of air, the subtle tremor running through his body, and the way his fingers flexed and curled against the desk as though he were fighting every instinct to reach for you.

Consent—silent, unmistakable, given entirely through the way he held your gaze and let you stay.

Your other hand joined the first, moving with careful intent to the fastenings of his bottoms. The ties were already half-undone from earlier frantic moments, and you loosened them fully with slow, deliberate pulls, the wet cord sliding slickly through your fingers. The fabric was sticky and warm, clinging stubbornly to his skin in dark, obscene patches where his release had soaked through completely. You peeled the ruined material down his thighs inch by careful inch—watching the way the waistband dragged over the sharp jut of his hips and caught briefly on the swollen, flushed head of his cock, forcing you to tug a little harder until the elastic of his undergarments finally slipped past the sensitive tip.

His cock sprang free with a wet, unmistakable slap against his lower stomach—flushed an angry dark pink at the base and deepening at the engorged head, the entire shaft glistening thickly with his own release. Pearly streaks of cum painted long, uneven lines along the length, highlighting a few wider veins and pooling in the slit where a fresh bead was already welling up and sliding down the sensitive underside. The skin looked exquisitely hypersensitive—shiny, twitching with every heartbeat—and when the cool air of the room finally hit him, he hissed sharply through clenched teeth, his faint abs contracted hard beneath sweat-slick skin, the ripple of muscle clearly visible under the hem of his shirt.

Zandik was breathing through his mouth now—short, ragged pulls that never failed to fill the silence between you. His eyes never once left yours, shadowed and pleading in a way you had never seen before, utterly unguarded and raw.

You stayed perfectly still for a heartbeat, letting your palm hover just above him, allowing him to feel the radiant heat of your hand without any actual contact, giving him one final moment to pull back if he needed to.

Then you lowered it until your fingers wrapped loosely around the thick base. You dragged your thumb lazily over the sensitive head, smearing the sticky mixture of cum and pre-cum in a lazy circle. His whole body jolted—a strangled, short sound catching in his throat as the sensation hit him all at once.

“Too much?” you asked—whispered with a faint smirk growing on your face, voice raspy, almost mocking.

He couldn’t answer—only shook his head frantically.

You did it again—slow, dragging swipes over the slit, watching every jitter of his hips and every flutter of his long lashes.

His hands—still unsteady—reached to your thighs, then slid up your hips again, hesitating at the hem of your shirt.

“Can I…?” His voice wavered. “Can I take this off? I want to see you.”

You didn’t speak, as shock and a tiny bit of shyness flashed over you. You simply lifted your arms a fraction, hand leaving his sticky and pulsating cock. A rough, unsteady huff punched past his plump lips at the loss of friction.

His fingers gathered the hem of your shirt first—still damp from rain and sweat—and began to lift it with agonizing slowness. The fabric dragged over your stomach, cool air kissing newly exposed skin. Zandik watched every inch reveal like it was sacred—the dip of your navel, the soft curve beneath your ribs, the way your breasts lifted slightly as you breathed.

The man loved your anatomy.

You could see it in his eyes.

When the shirt reached your shoulders he paused—thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts through the lacy bra—before finally pulling it over your head. Your hair tumbled messily free and he let the shirt drop somewhere behind you.

His hands returned immediately.

He traced the straps of your bra with reverent fingertips—first one, then the other—before sliding them down your slim shoulders. His breathing was loud in the hushed room. He reached behind you, fingers fumbling for a moment with the clasp—you almost laughed at his clumsy hands. When it finally gave out, the bra loosened. He didn’t yank it away, instead he drew the cups down slowly, baring you inch by inch. He put the bra carefully aside, not wanting to ruin something that fit you so perfectly.

Your nipples hardened instantly in the cool air. Zandik stared—openly, then brushed the soft pad of one thumb over the sensitive peak, so lightly it was almost torture. Air flooded your lungs in a single, unsteady surge. He did it again—in no hurry, watching your face the entire time.

Next came your shorts.

He undid the zipper and hooked his fingers into the waistband, thumbs brushing the sensitive skin just above your hip bones. He tugged downward with punishing restraint—watching the way the fabric clung briefly to your damp thighs before sliding free. He peeled them down your legs, past your knees, until they dropped off the edge of the desk.

Only your panties remained.

They were soaked through—dark, clinging to every fold. His hands shook harder now. He traced the lacy waistband first—fingertips sliding beneath the elastic, not pulling yet, just feeling. Then he hooked his fingers under the sides and began to drag them down. The fabric peeled away from your skin with a silken, wet sound. Cool air hit your slick folds and you shivered.

You were bare above him now.

His curious gaze devoured you—every curve, every tremble, the glistening evidence of your arousal between your thighs. He was amazed, but couldn’t find the right words or courage to say it out loud.

He tilted his head back to stare up at you, dazed, leaning in for a kiss. It was gentler than before, but the silent contest between you lingered in every touch. His hands slid back to grip your hips, thumbs tracing the soft crease at the top of your thighs.

Once he pulled away from the sloppy kiss, he shifted.

Two fingers traced the silky outer folds first—gathering wetness, learning the shape of you by feel. You hissed at the contact which made him freeze.

“Hm, already too much?” he mimicked your question from before, voice hoarse, barely above a whisper.

“No.” You shook your head, hips canting forward instinctively.

He swallowed hard. Then he pressed again—firmer this time—sliding one long slim finger inside you slowly, watching your face the entire time. The stretch made you gasp. He paused, letting you adjust, letting your walls flutter and grip around the intrusion. He searched for your clit for a few moments. That stupid erotic book—labeled as “human anatomy”—that he’d read by accident finally came in handy. His thumb found your clit after a few fumbling passes, circling tentatively at first, then with more confidence when your hips grinded against his hand and a soft, involuntary sound escaped you.

“Like this?” he murmured, curling the finger inside you experimentally, searching.

You wouldn't have been surprised if he started taking actual notes in the middle of it.

“Y-yeah…” your voice stuttered, breaking your precious pride.

When the pad of his finger finally brushed that perfect spot inside you, your whole body jolted—spine arching slightly, a choked moan tearing from your throat as electric pleasure lanced straight through your core. His eyes widened slightly, dark pupils flaring with sudden fascination, like he’d just discovered a hidden mechanism in one of his machines. He watched your face, cataloguing every micro-twitch of your expression—then did the motion again, deliberate and drawn-out, curling his finger with careful precision to stroke that same place over and over.

The wet sounds were loud in the still room—obscene, slick, unmistakable—your arousal coating his knuckles, dripping down the inside of your thighs. His inexperience showed in the slight hesitation between movements, the way he kept glancing up at your face to read every flutter of your lashes, every hitch in your breathing, every tiny shift of your hips.

However, Zandik learned fast.

He added a second finger, stretching you further, the slow burn of it making your walls flutter and grip around him greedily. He crooked both fingers continuously, dragging against that spot with steady, relentless pressure while his thumb went back to your clit. He continued pressing it and circling firmly—occasionally dipping lower to gather more of your slick and spread it in deliberate, slippery passes over the swollen bud. In return, your thigh quivered uncontrollably around his other hand that held you steady.

Your delicate, slick walls clenched hard around his fingers the second he started thrusting faster.

“Fuck—fuck, it’s so tight,” he rasped, voice wrecked and shaking. “Shit, I can feel you squeezing my fingers—gods, do that again—”

You rolled your eyes, the sudden urge to slap him again flashing through your mind. But you were smarter than that—you had a better idea.

Your sly hand slid down between your bodies and wrapped around his almost forgotten cock again—hot, velvet-slick with his earlier release, throbbing angrily against your palm. He’d interrupt you earlier and now was just the right time to continue. You started stroking—savoring every inch, firm pulls from base to tip, letting your palm coaxed along the full length while your thumb swiped over the flushed, oversensitive head on every upstroke, spreading the fresh bead of pre-cum that welled up immediately and making the slick glide even wetter.

Zandik convulsed once, violently, a high, choked curse ripping out of him. You really enjoyed how vocal he was.

“W-wait—too much, too much—” his hips lurched upward into your fist before he could stop himself, thighs jittering uncontrollably on either side of you as the sudden stimulation crashed through his already oversensitive nerves.

He was so raw-nerved that even the lightest drag of your fingers along his shaft made him groan—soft, helpless sounds that climbed higher and more desperate with every agonizing stroke. His light abs contracted hard, visible ripples rolling under sweat-slick skin, and his free hand dug into your plush thigh, nails scraping your skin.

“Oh gods—fuck—”

Still, Zandik made sure to curl his fingers again and again. Your thighs continued hitching uncontrollably around his wrist, muscles jumping and shaking with every precise stroke, and you rocked your hips down onto his hand harder, chasing that rising heat. Your nails dug deep into his shoulders—in order to hold yourself steady—until you felt your nails press sharply into the muscle beneath the soft fabric.

“Your hand—it’s so good—ah—” He kept pumping his fingers into you even as his voice fractured into desperate, ragged fragments, cursing between every uneven breath. “Keep going, please—please—gods—”

You didn’t speed up. You kept the rhythm languid and merciless—long, firm strokes that let your palm glide along every throbbing inch of him, letting him feel every ridge of your fingers, every painful twist of your wrist at the tip where he was most tender. His hips jerked up into your hand like he couldn’t decide whether to chase the pleasure or escape the overwhelming, almost painful sensitivity.

His eyes stayed locked on yours the entire time—stunned and glistening at the corners with unshed tears that clung heavily to his dark lashes again. He looked utterly undone. The sharp, brilliant mind that used to glare at you in the hallways, as if plotting how to murder you and cut you into pieces, was gone. Every argument, every defense, reduced to nothing but brutal sensation and desperate need.

When you came it was sudden and overwhelming—your silky walls clenching hard around his fingers in tight, rhythmic spasms as a broken moan tore from your throat, and you leaned forward to hold yourself up with one hand onto his chest. You continued stroking him, as your forehead pressed into the crook of his neck, breath hot and uneven against his skin, voice cracking on his name.

“Z—Zandik—”

The sound of you saying his name—frayed, needy, unguarded—snapped something inside him.

He groaned your name in return—low, shattered, almost a sob—and then his hips rutted pleadingly upward into your slowing hand as his own release crashed through him at the exact same moment yours still rippled through your body. His cock pulsed violently in your grip, thick spurts of cum spilling hot and heavy over your fingers and onto his stomach in erratic, uncontrollable waves. His whole body bowed beneath you—spine arching off the desk, a high, wrecked moan escaped him, the kind of sound he would never forgive himself for making later.

He didn’t pull his fingers out immediately. He kept them inside you through the aftershocks, moving cautiously, gently, letting you ride the fading waves until your breathing gradually steadied, and your walls stopped fluttering so desperately.

Instinctively, desperately, he buried his face in the side of your neck—nose pressing hard against your pulse point, lips parting against your skin as he tried to muffle the pathetic, trembling noises spilling out of him. He started kissing there—open-mouthed, frantic little presses at first, then sharper, teeth grazing the tender skin before he bit down—not hard enough to bruise, just enough to give himself something to focus on besides the humiliating sounds he couldn’t stop making as he came apart again.

He knew—gods, he knew—you would tease him mercilessly for this later. For the whimpers, for the way his voice cracked on your name, for the way he shook and spilled like he had absolutely no control left at all. So he hid his face deeper in the curve of your neck, biting again—gentler this time, almost pleading—lips brushing over the faint marks he left as if he could erase the evidence of how completely you’d unraveled him.

You felt every pulse of him against your palm, and every hot, wet stripe of his release coating your fingers and dripping down your wrist. When your hand slipped free, you just… stared. The warm, sticky mess covering your palm left you frozen, unsure what to do with it.

You just stayed exactly where you were—pressing your forehead to the crook of his neck, his face still buried against the side of yours. Neither of you moved to separate. The only sounds were the rain and the ragged, shared rhythm of your breathing.

Something shifted in the tension.

His arms—still faltering—slid up your back. Slowly at first, almost hesitant, palms spreading wide over your spine like he was afraid you’d vanish if he moved too fast. You felt the same urge at the same moment—your own arms wrapped around his shuddering shoulders, pulling him in tighter, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt and the warm skin underneath. The hug wasn’t gentle. It was desperate—chests crushed together, hearts hammering against each other, his face still hidden in the curve of your neck and yours in his. You clung to him like he was the only solid thing left in the world, and he clung back just as hard.

It felt like surrender.

It felt like war.

But the hug didn’t loosen.

If anything, it deepened.

His warm cheek slid along yours, stubble catching faintly on your skin. Your nose brushed the smooth spot beneath his ear.

You could feel the way his fingers flexed and unflexed against your back like he was trying to memorize the texture of your spine—petal-soft pads dragging slow circles along the skin. Your own hands had slid up to cradle the nape of his neck, thumb resting in the dip where skull met spine, feeling the fine tremor that ran through him every time he exhaled against your throat.

Minutes passed like that.

The lantern flame flickered lower, casting long, wavering shadows across scattered papers and torn notes.

Eventually one of his hands moved.

It drifted upward—achingly gentle, almost reverent—until his fingertips ghosted along the line of your jaw, tracing the curve without quite touching. You felt the question in the hesitation of his fingers, in the way his breath hitched when you turned your face just enough to let his thumb brush the corner of your mouth.

You answered by tilting your head and closing the last fraction of distance.

The kiss was nothing like the earlier ones.

No teeth or violence. Just lips meeting—gentle, measured, almost frightened. You tasted salt—his tears and your sweat. Neither of you pushed for more. You simply stayed there, lips brushing and letting the contact speak when words were still too dangerous.

His hand slid into your hair—gently—fingers threading through damp strands until his palm cradled the back of your skull. Yours mirrored the motion, cupping the side of his face, thumb resting along the sharp line of his cheekbone. The handprint you’d left earlier was still warm under your touch, slightly swollen. You brushed over it gently, almost apologetically, and felt him shiver.

When the kiss finally parted it was only far enough for foreheads to rest together again.

His voice came out barely above a whisper, fragile and unsteady. “I don’t… know what we’re doing.”

You swallowed. Your own voice wasn’t much steadier. “Me neither.”

A long silence.

Then—hesitant, like he was testing the weight of the words—he murmured against your lips.

“I don’t want to stop.”

You felt the truth of it in the way his fingers tightened in your hair, and in the way his hips shifted—just slightly—enough to show you that he was hard again against your thigh, that your own body was still aching.

You exhaled shakily.

“Neither do I.”

Lightning flickered once—pale violet through the narrow panes—throwing jagged shadows across his bare shoulders and the scattered notebooks beneath you both. Thunder followed seconds later, low and rolling, vibrating the stone floor under the desk.

Without a word, your hands slid downward—slow, deliberate—until your fingertips found the first button at his throat. You popped it open. The tiny sound was startlingly clear in the quiet between thunderclaps.

“You’re still wearing too much,” you murmured against the corner of his mouth, voice low, almost teasing but undercut with something softer.

“Feels unfair.” The second button slipped free.

He let out a breathy, ragged laugh that vibrated through his ribs into yours. “Unfair?” His hands flexed on your waist. “You’ve already stripped me of everything else tonight. Dignity included.”

“True…” You answered, popping another button, then the next. The fabric parted, revealing the sharp hollow at the base of his throat.

He didn’t pull away, just watched you through half-lowered lashes.

You dragged your knuckles down the newly exposed skin—warm, slightly tacky with drying sweat. “You smell like ink, rain and sweat. Oh… and coffee. Always coffee.”

He huffed another half-swallowed laugh.“You’ve catalogued me that thoroughly?”

“Hard not to when you’re always leaning too close during seminars.” You popped open the remaining buttons. The shirt fell open completely. Pale skin gleamed under the dim light, dusted with faint freckles across his collarbones like scattered ink drops. You pushed the sleeves off his shoulders. He shrugged once, letting the cotton slide down his arms in a whisper. It landed somewhere behind him with a muffled crumple.

Now he was completely bare, lean and sharply defined. A thin silver scar curved under his left pectoral, old and faded. You brushed your thumb over it.

“What’s this?” you said soothingly.

“Old mistake,” he replied, voice fainter now. “Don’t ask.”

Now nothing separated your chests but air and shared heat.

“You’re staring too much,” he murmured, voice still cracked from earlier, but quieter now—almost careful.

“So are you.” Your thumb brushed the edge of one nipple—it pebbled instantly under the touch. “You’ve been staring since the moment I walked in tonight.”

A ghost of his usual smirk flickered, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Guilty.”

You met his eyes again—still dark-rimmed, still searching—and lifted your hips just enough to guide him. The head of him pressed against you, hot and insistent, slick from before. You sank down with agonizing patience, inch by careful inch, the stretch blooming into a deep, aching fullness that made your breath catch.

“A-ah… shit…” you yelped at the size and his hands rose to steady you, palms warm against your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts in unsteady and unconscious arcs.

“Wait…slow…” The word came out rough, almost pleading. His fingers flexed against your skin. “Slow. Please… I’ve never… I want you to… feel and enjoy every second of this.”

You paused, suspended above him, searching his face. The usual sharpness was gone. What remained was something delicate, unguarded. You nodded once—small, certain—and eased down another painful inch. His head tipped back against the desk edge, throat working on a swallow as you took him deeper until your hips finally met his and he was seated fully inside you.

A long, shared exhale.

For several seconds neither of you moved.

His hands roamed your lower back in slow, reverent strokes, palms mapping the knobs of your spine, the dip above your tailbone. You leaned forward and kissed him—soft, unhurried presses of lips that tasted like the faint copper ghost of earlier bites.

“Gods,” he whispered once you pulled away, eyes closing for a second. “You’re so warm inside. So tight… I can feel every little twitch.”

“So can I,” you breathed, circled once—lazyly and experimentally. “You’re throbbing—” You clenched around him.

He groaned, long and low. “Don’t do that again unless you want this over in twenty seconds.”

You smiled against his neck. “Tempting. But I want to feel you longer.”

When you finally started to move correctly, it was gentle at first—small lifts and lowers that dragged him along every inner ridge, drawing quiet, involuntary sounds from deep in his chest. His thumbs circled the jut of your hip bones in encouragement.

“Like this?” you whispered teasingly.

“Yes...” His voice was wrecked velvet. “Don’t stop.”

You didn’t. The rhythm built gradually—deeper rolls, a slight grind at the bottom of each descent that made his breath hitch every time your clit brushed the base of him. Lightning flashed again. For a split second the room turned stark white, illuminating the sweat beading along his temples, the way his lashes fluttered against flushed cheeks.

He was majestic and the only thing you wanted to focus on.

You twisted your hips in a teasing, filthy rhythm, pressing down just enough to make him feel every inch.

At first your own pleasure barely registered—all that mattered was him, especially the keening sound he tried to choke back when you tilted just right and dragged along him.

This wasn’t about you.

You wanted to ruin him.

You wanted to prove you could break him more thoroughly than he could ever break you—every controlled roll was a muted, vicious claim.

However, the longer you kept going, the harder it became to ignore the heat building low in your own belly.

From the way your own control was fraying in small, traitorous ways, he sensed it wouldn’t last.

Your thighs began to burn from holding the pace. You quickened instinctively, chasing the coil tightening low in your belly, but the sheer size of him made every downward motion overwhelming. Your movements turned uneven—sloppy little bounces that lacked precision, hips stuttering as pleasure short-circuited coordination.

“H-hah… Zandik—” His name came out half-breath, half-plea.

Something shifted in his expression—dark, decisive.

In one fluid motion he sat up straighter, arms banding around your waist. Then he twisted—strong, controlled—and flipped you beneath him. Your back hit the desk with a soft thud—papers crinkled and slid. The lantern wobbled violently, flame flaring bright before settling—you really didn’t know how it still stayed on the table. Zandik followed immediately, knees bracketing your hips, caging you in with his body while staying buried deep.

You stared up at him like a lost deer—eyes stunned and wide, but you let it slide just this time. His cock made it really hard for you to think… and move.

For a heartbeat he simply looked back at you—searching, waiting.

“You’re… infuriatingly pretty.” he said, voice low and edged with something close to resentment.

“S-shut up—” you tried to snap back before you looked away fast, cheeks burning hotter. Your swollen walls simply squeezed around his thick length, begging for friction—begging for him to move. From the corner of your eye you could see it clearly: he wasn’t going to keep fucking you until he got what he wanted. Of course—for a stupid moment you’d forgotten this was the same asshole you’d been bickering with for months nonstop.

He knew you’d give in—he could feel it. So without wasting another precious second, you rolled your eyes and let your stare settle on him again.

You reassured him by sliding your hands up his arms, nails lightly grazing skin, and pulling him down. “Please Zandik…” your voice echoed in his ears.

A low, almost feral sound rumbled in his chest.

He withdrew almost fully—slow enough that you felt every ridge—then drove back in with one deep, deliberate thrust. The new angle hit harder, deeper—your spine arched off the wood on instinct. He set a rhythm that was measured but relentless—long strokes that went over every sensitive place inside you, building heat without rushing the fall.

His mouth found your shoulder. Teeth grazed first—testing—then sank in with firm pressure. You gasped and he soothed the bite immediately with wet laps of his tongue.

“Mine,” he mumbled, voice wrecked and possessive. “Say it.”

“Yours,” you gasped, fingers tangling in his hair and yanking his head back.

“And you’re mine, Zandik. Don’t you dare forget it.”

That was how the two of you worked—every move one of you made, the other tried to escalate.

You held his gaze as you leaned in slowly, sucking until another purple bruise bloomed under your lips. He hissed, hips snapping forward harder in response, the desk creaking ominously. He pulled you away from his neck by a firm grip in your hair—fingers twisting just enough to sting without truly hurting—and you shot him an annoyed glare, lips parting to snap something sharp. Before a single word could escape, he thrust into you—rough, deep, deliberate—stealing your breath and scattering every half-formed retort into static.

He laughed—breathlessly, the sound vibrating between you—then captured your lips in a bruising kiss. It was messy at first, desperate—tongues sliding, teeth clashing once in a flash of heat before the rhythm settled into something fiercer yet tender, like he was trying to devour you and cradle you at the same time.

One hand caught the back of your thigh, hitching it high around his waist—opening you wider, forcing you to take him even deeper. The new angle made your spine arch off the desk. His other hand slid between your bodies without breaking the kiss—thumb finding your clit. He pressed firm, unyielding circles, the pressure steady and merciless, each pass sending sparks racing up your spine until your vision flickered white at the edges.

You moaned into his mouth—helpless, broken—and he swallowed the sound like it belonged to him.

“You like that?” he murmured once he pulled away from your summoning lips, looking down at your neck covered in perfect love bites. His voice was wrecked and sharp teeth threatened to bite again. “Like knowing everyone will see what I finally did to you?”

You grabbed him—nails raking down his scalp, tugging cyan strands so he can’t bury his head in your neck again.

Even if it burned to admit—yes, you absolutely loved it.

“Don’t. You had your fun.” You started, voice threatening to break “I c-can’t walk around the a—ah… Akademiya like that—”

Zandik looked at you with playful annoyance and his hand cupped your breast, rolling the peak between thumb and forefinger until you keened. You hooked your free leg around his lower back, heel digging into the dip above his ass, urging him impossibly deeper.

“Tell me—” His voice faltered mid-thrust. “Tell me this isn’t just hate.”

You met his gaze—eyes tearing up from the pleasure.

“It stopped being just hate the second you didn’t push me away after I slapped you.”

A raspy laugh escaped him, half-groan. “Gods, you’re impossible.”

“And you’re still inside me.”

He kissed your tear-stained cheek, then lifted again, forehead pressing to yours.

“I don’t want to be anywhere else.”

The confession cracked something open.

The pace quickened—still controlled, but edged with urgency now. Every thrust drove the air from your lungs, every touch and grab of his hand sent lightning up your spine. You clenched around him involuntarily. Zandik cursed under his breath in response, rhythm faltering for the first time.

When you came it was sudden and shattering—walls clenching hard around him, thighs locking tight, a helpless moan tearing free as you arched beneath him. He followed almost immediately—deep, erratic pulses as his hot seed spilled inside you, hips twitching, a low, guttural moan escaped his lips.

He didn’t pull out.

Instead he collapsed forward—careful not to crush you—forehead resting between your soft breasts, arms sliding under your back to hold you close. You wrapped around him in return—legs still hooked, fingers carding slowly through sweat-damp hair again.

Rain drummed softer now. The lantern flame steadied.

After long minutes he tilted his head just enough to meet your eyes and stared.

“What?”

The word slipped out of you before you could stop it—soft, almost hesitant, hanging in the humid air between your faces. Your voice ripped apart just a little at the end, raw from everything. He lifted his head tentatively from between your breasts, forearms braced on either side of you so he could actually look. Cyan strands stuck to his forehead in damp curls. The dim light caught the faint sheen of sweat still clinging to his temples and the sharp line of his jaw. He looked utterly beautiful like this.

For a long second he just drank you in—searching your face like he was trying to read something written in invisible ink across your cheekbones.

“What?” he echoed back, quieter, almost careful. One corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a smirk, more like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to smile yet.

“You’re heavy,” you said, poking his very visible ribs lightly. “And sticky.”

He huffed—half amusement, half embarrassment.

“You’re the one with your legs locked around me like a vice. I’m not going anywhere unless you let go first.”

“Then don’t.” Your voice softened without meaning to. Fingers traced the shell of his ear, then down the nape of his neck where sweat still clung. “Stay. Just like this. I like how you feel when you’re not trying to win.”

His arms tightened around you—almost reflexively.

“I wasn’t trying to win,” he murmured. “And why are you staring at me like I grew a second head?”

You let out a small, breathless laugh that turned into a shaky exhale. Your fingers tangled in his hair again. You tugged once—light, playful—to ground yourself.

“I’m staring because…” You trailed off, suddenly aware of how exposed the words felt. How close they were to something dangerous. Your thumb brushed the fading redness on his cheek. “Because you look… different. Like this.”

His brows drew together faintly. He shifted his weight—still buried inside you, the faint fullness making you both suck in a stifled breath at the same time—and leaned in until his forehead almost rested against yours again. Close enough that his lashes brushed yours when he blinked.

“Different how?” he asked—low and careful, like he was afraid the answer might cut.

You swallowed. The rain outside had completely faded away now—only other sounds were the slow, shared rhythm of your breathing and the occasional creak of the old desk beneath you.

“Like you’re not hiding,” you said finally. Your free hand slid up to cup the side of his face and he leaned into it instantly without thinking “I’ve spent months hating how untouchable you seemed. And now you’re letting me touch you. Holding on like you’re scared I’ll disappear if you let go.”

He closed his eyes for a heartbeat—long enough that you felt the faint tremor run through him again.

“I am,” he admitted, so quiet it was almost lost against your skin. “Scared, I mean.”

The confession landed like a stone in still water. Ripples spread through your chest.

You tightened your legs around his hips instinctively, keeping him close.

“Why?”

He exhaled through his nose—a shaky sound. When he opened his eyes again they were darker, wet at the corners in a way that made your throat close.

“I don’t know how to be without the armor… or how to do this.”

Your heart squeezed so hard it hurt.

You pulled him down until his full weight settled over you again—warm, solid, grounding. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders—fingers splayed wide across his back, feeling the faint ridges of old scars and the rapid thud of his heart against your own.

“I also don’t know.” you whispered into his hair.

He made a small, cracked sound against your neck—half laugh, half sob—and buried his face deeper, arms sliding under you to crush you closer. His hips gave a tiny, involuntary roll—you both hissed at the overstimulation, but neither of you moved to separate.

After a long minute he lifted his head just enough to brush his lips against yours—not a real kiss, just a graze. A question.

“Will you still hate me tomorrow?” he murmured against your mouth.

You smiled—small, real—against his lips.

“I’ll hate you tomorrow if you give me a reason,” you said. “But right now? I think I’m too busy loving you to bother with hate.”

His laugh was surprised and relieved. He kissed you properly then—deep and achingly tender—like he was memorizing the shape of your mouth all over again.

“Good,” he whispered once you pulled away for air.

“Because I’m not done loving you either.”

You stayed like that for a long moment—until your curious gaze drifted downward.

The scarred desk beneath you was a ruin.

His notebooks—those meticulously organized pages of equations, diagrams, and razor-sharp annotations—lay scattered and crumpled under your combined weight. Ink had already bled from the earlier spill, dark veins spreading across the paper, but now there was something else. The unmistakable slick sheen of your mingled fluids, dripping from where your bodies were still joined, pooling in small, obscene patches across his work. One page had torn at the corner, another was plastered to the wood, the elegant slanted handwriting now smeared and illegible beneath the glossy evidence of what you'd just done.

You let out a breathless laugh that pulled his attention back.

“Look at what you did,” you whispered, voice low and teasing as you tilted your head to meet his eyes again. “You ruined your precious notes. All that genius… drowned in us.”

Zandik followed your eyes. For a heartbeat his expression froze—pupils widening just a fraction as he took in the wreckage—the smeared ink, the wet trails glistening across his own handwriting.

Then—slowly—his lips curved.

Not the sharp, mocking smirk you were used to. Something softer, almost rueful, edged with a dark sort of pride.

He exhaled through his nose, a raspy huff that might have been a laugh.

“Worth it,” he said simply, voice sore. His thumb brushed the curve of your hip in a lazy, possessive arc. “I’ll rewrite them. Better this time.”

You raised an eyebrow, still smiling against his mouth.

“Bold of you to think you can focus long enough to rewrite anything after that.” You glanced back down at the mess, then up at him again, voice dropping to a wicked whisper. “All because you couldn’t keep your dick in your pants.”

His laugh was low, surprised, almost choked. He leaned in until his lips brushed the shell of your ear.

“Are you actually gonna attack me again—” he started, the word vibrating against your skin.

“Nevermind… I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

You laughed again, quietly and let your head fall back against the table. He smiled at you and leaned to kiss your forehead gently.

The lantern flickered lower.

The remaining, faint raindrops slid down the windows—slowly, almost soothing.

And for the first time in a long time, the silence between you didn’t feel like a weapon.

It felt like a promise.

Thank you for reading. This is very rushed and honestly I kept forgetting what I wrote after every 2nd sentence lol. Well, there’s first time for everything, hopefully I’ll improve my writing soon.

The flickering blue light of your laptop was the only illumination in your bedroom, casting a secretive glow on your face. You bit your lip, rereading the last paragraph of your fanfiction, a slow flush rising on your cheeks. It wasn’t explicit, not really, but the underlying tension you’d crafted between Wooyoung’s stage persona and his vulnerable self was palpable, especially to you. You’d posted it under a (your username), of course, but the twisted details, the deep dive into his personality, felt almost dangerous. You were in the throes of editing when your phone buzzed—a new notification from the social media platform. Someone had quoted your post, speculating fiercely about its uncanny accuracy. You smiled, a thrill running through you.

Meanwhile, Wooyoung was seething. He’d stumbled upon the post almost by accident, a fan’s excited tweet about an uncomfortably accurate portrayal of his dual nature. As he read, his initial annoyance morphed into a burning curiosity, then a volatile mix of fascination and a strange, undeniable arousal. The writer clearly saw him in ways even his closest friends didn’t. The details were too specific, too intimate to be mere guesswork. The growing suspicion that it might be you—his friend, the one who saw him after messy practices, the one he let his guard down around—was electrifying. It was an invasion, yes, but one that made his blood hum with a dangerous heat. He needed to confront you. He needed to know.

He burst through your apartment door, not bothering to knock, his heart hammering against his ribs. He stalked down the short hallway, ready to demand answers, the words already forming on his tongue. But then he stopped dead in the doorway of your bedroom, the carefully constructed righteous anger dissolving into pure, unadulterated shock.

You weren’t alone.

You were sitting up in bed, wrapped in a silken robe, your hair slightly disheveled, and beside you, looking entirely too comfortable and far too possessive, was Seonghwa. He was leaning back against the headboard, a book resting open on his lap, his usual composed demeanor amplified by the domestic intimacy of the scene. Wooyoung let out a choked sound, his face draining of color. He spun around so fast he almost tripped, his back to the room, his breath coming in ragged gasps. This wasn’t happening. Not like this.

“Wooyoung,” Seonghwa’s voice cut through the stunned silence, calm and deliberate, a velvet-covered steel. “Don’t be rude. We have a guest.”

Wooyoung froze, his shoulders hunched. He heard the rustle of sheets as you shifted. He knew he was caught. He took a shaky breath and slowly, hesitantly, turned back around. Seonghwa was now sitting on the edge of the bed, his arm casually draped over your thigh. He gestured towards the floor at the foot of the bed.

“Come here.”

The command was absolute. Wooyoung, flushed and mortified, found himself obeying without question. His mind was still reeling from the unexpected sight, from the sheer audacity of Seonghwa’s presence, but his body moved on its own. He dropped to his knees on the carpet, his gaze fixed on the floor.

“Look at her,” Seonghwa instructed, his voice low, a silken thread of authority.

Wooyoung’s eyes flickered up, meeting yours. Your expression was unreadable—a mix of surprise, a hint of amusement, and an undeniable, powerful dominance that made his stomach clench.

“She has something you want, doesn’t she?” Seonghwa continued, his hand slowly, deliberately, stroking your thigh. “I can see it in your eyes, Wooyoung. You’ve been wanting to taste her. To know her. Go on.” He gestured towards you, his eyes gleaming with a predatory amusement.

“Eat her out.”

Wooyoung’s breath hitched. Humiliation warred with an unexpected, burning arousal. The thought of consuming your most intimate self, here, in front of Seonghwa, was almost too much. But the command was clear. He was being tested. He was being tamed. He leaned forward, his hands trembling as he parted your robe, exposing the delicate skin between your legs. He lowered his head, his tongue hesitantly, then hungrily, finding your wetness. Seonghwa, meanwhile, had moved. He settled into the armchair beside the bed, crossing one leg over the other. With a practiced ease, he tugged down his sweatpants, freeing his already hard cock. He settled back, watching the scene unfold with an intense, unblinking gaze, his hand slowly beginning to work his own pleasure. He offered no encouragement, no soft words. Only a silent, powerful presence, observing, leading, taking the reins of Wooyoung’s pleasure and submission, making it absolutely clear who was in charge. Wooyoung groaned, his muffled sounds of pleasure mixing with the soft, deliberate thwack of Seonghwa’s hand against his cock. This was not going to be easy. Wooyoung’s breath hitched, the scent and taste of you a dizzying distraction from the impossible scenario unfolding around him. The sound of Seonghwa’s rhythmic hand against his cock was a constant, loud reminder of the audience, the power, and the danger he was in. He was lost in the immediacy of your pleasure, trying desperately to drive you toward release, when Seonghwa’s voice cut through the haze.

“Jung Wooyoung,” Seonghwa commanded, his voice sharp and low, the formal name hitting Wooyoung like a physical blow. Wooyoung flinched, pausing instantly. He didn’t dare lift his head.

“Did you think it was acceptable to burst into her home like a madman?” Seonghwa continued, his tone laced with cold disappointment. “Did you forget your manners? Did you forget boundaries?”

Wooyoung squeezed his eyes shut, shame burning hotter than arousal. He knew he’d messed up, and the humiliation of being reprimanded while in the midst of such an intimate act was absolute.

“No, hyung. I didn’t think,” Wooyoung confessed, the words muffled and thick with need. “I apologize. I was out of line.”

“Good. Now you remember,” Seonghwa stated, and the thwack-thwack-thwack of his own hand against his cock intensified sharply, setting a demanding new tempo.

“You will earn your place here, Wooyoung. You will not stop until she begs you to. And you will move only as fast as I dictate.”

Wooyoung immediately obeyed, the command acting as a switch. He began to devour you with a fierce, punishing intensity, translating his shame and fear into pure, focused pleasure for you, and forgetting the reason why he came to your house. He could feel the tension vibrating off Seonghwa, and he matched the rhythm of his friend’s hand, ensuring his own pace was rigorous, relentless, and entirely controlled by the man watching them. You cried out, your fingers immediately lacing into Wooyoung’s damp hair, urging him deeper. The intense sound of your pleasure only fueled Wooyoung’s submissive need to satisfy you under command. He drove his tongue against your core, his hips grinding lightly against the carpet, his submission absolute.

“That’s right, Wooyoung,” Seonghwa praised, his voice softening with satisfaction. “Show your mommy how desperately you regret your lack of manners. Make her beg.”

Wooyoung heard the change in title, the subtle but profound shift in ownership, and the hot wave of submission that crashed over him was overwhelming. He plunged into a deeper, more consuming rhythm, his entire existence centered on the pleasure he was compelled to create. The room filled with your gasps, Wooyoung’s ragged breathing, and the rhythmic, demanding pulse of Seonghwa’s self-pleasure, guiding them both to the absolute limit. The pressure built, tightening in your core until it was a blinding, desperate need. The discipline and the commands faded into a raw, singular instinct. You reached down, your fingers tangling fiercely into Wooyoung’s damp hair, pulling his head towards you, forcing his mouth into the exact, desperate angle you needed for relief. The action was immediate and absolute. Wooyoung groaned, a muffled sound of pain and instant surrender, obeying the physical command that replaced even Seonghwa’s voice. He drove his tongue against you with a renewed, urgent fury, catering to the exact spot your fingers demanded. You cried out, a long, high sound that shattered the room’s tense silence. Your body arched violently against the sheets, the powerful, wrenching climax flooding your system. You came completely undone, the intensity of the sensation overwhelming your muscles until they shook uncontrollably around Wooyoung’s devoted mouth. The moment your cries subsided into breathless pants, Seonghwa’s rhythm immediately stopped. His silence was even more commanding than his touch.

“You may stop now, Wooyoung,” Seonghwa commanded, his voice utterly steady, in need of his own recent exertion.

Seonghwa looked down at his own arousal, now slick and heavy in his hand, before letting it fall to rest. Wooyoung lifted his head, his face flushed and slick with your arousal, his chest heaving. He was exhausted, intoxicated, and utterly defeated. He looked like a man pulled from drowning, his eyes wide and dark with lingering pleasure and total obedience. Seonghwa leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his intense gaze fixed on Wooyoung.

“You delivered, but it took a physical demand from her to complete the job,” he stated, his tone critical, yet satisfied. “Do you understand why you still have work to do?”

Wooyoung nodded once, his breath still catching. “Yes, hyung. I understand. I was selfish.”

“Good. Now,” Seonghwa continued, his hand slowly reaching out and cupping Wooyoung’s jaw, forcing him to look up. “Look at her. She’s satisfied. You earned her peace. Now tell me what you want to do with your hands, Wooyoung.”

Wooyoung, still breathless and compliant, instinctively leaned forward, his hand moving tentatively toward Seonghwa’s waiting cock, a simple, reflexive offer of service. Before his fingers could even brush the skin, Seonghwa’s voice lashed out, sharp and demanding.

“You don’t get to touch me, you brat. Who said you can?”

Wooyoung froze instantly, his hand hovering in the air. The harsh reprimand, coupled with the sudden shift in focus, sent a fresh wave of humiliation crashing over him. Seonghwa’s eyes, dark and assessing, held a terrifying intensity. He lifted one foot, his toes already free from his house slippers, and brought it down expertly, applying focused, subtle pressure right onto the sensitive clothed head of Wooyoung’s cock. The shock of the contact, the raw physical control, made Wooyoung gasp.

“Put your hands on your back.” Seonghwa commanded, his voice a low, unwavering force. “No touching; you cannot get to touch me. You hear me?”

Wooyoung instantly locked his hands behind his spine, bowing his head in absolute obedience. The subtle pressure of Seonghwa’s toes was exquisite torment—a demanding, insistent weight that threatened to push him over the edge while simultaneously denying him the relief of his own hands. He was utterly exposed, his pleasure and his suffering entirely controlled by the foot currently resting on him. You watched from the bed, a thrill of shock running through you. Wooyoung was trembling, his control rapidly dissolving into whimpers. The humiliation was palpable, yet his eyes, when they darted up to Seonghwa’s, were burning with a desperate, submissive devotion. Seonghwa leaned back in the chair, a slow, satisfied smile curling his lips. He crossed his arms over his chest, settling in to enjoy the perfect, controlled agony he had orchestrated. He wasn’t even touching himself anymore; the sight of Wooyoung’s intense, contained suffering was enough.

“Good. Now, Wooyoung,” Seonghwa purred, his voice thick with satisfied dominance. “Look at her. Remember why you were punished. And remember who owns your pleasure.”

Wooyoung squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, letting out a frustrated, low groan before he opened them and fixed his gaze entirely on you, his silent suffering a profound expression of his obedience to both of you. The scene was complete: the obedient supplicant, the satisfied mommy, and the ultimate judge. The pressure of Seonghwa’s toes was becoming unbearable. Wooyoung trembled violently, his breath coming in short, choked gasps. The veins stood out in his neck, and his shoulders shook as he struggled to hold his hands locked behind his back, fighting the primal urge to reach down and ease down the torturous tension that Seonghwa was so expertly directing. He couldn’t move; he could only suffer and obey, his eyes fixed desperately on your face, a silent plea for release.

Seonghwa saw the exact moment Wooyoung hit his breaking point—the moment his control evaporated. Instead of easing the pressure, he executed a tiny, precise rotation with his foot, grazing the most sensitive spot. Wooyoung cried out, a raw, strangled sound of pure, helpless agony. Tears of frustration and unbearable arousal leaked from the corners of his eyes, his entire body convulsing. You watched the scene, feeling the intense pressure of the atmosphere. The sight of Wooyoung’s utter defeat and reliance on your mercy was a powerful surge of dominance. You were the only one who could stop this. You lifted your hand from the sheets, your voice cutting through the heavy silence with a clear, calm authority.

“That’s enough, Seonghwa,” you commanded, your gaze unwavering as you met the judging eyes of the man in the armchair. “He’s learned his lesson. He remembered his place.”

Seonghwa’s mouth curved into a slow, satisfied smirk. He knew you were right; Wooyoung was utterly broken and compliant. The power structure had been cemented.

“Very well,” Seonghwa agreed, his voice acknowledging your ultimate dominance. He gently lifted his foot from Wooyoung’s throbbing length, the sudden absence of pressure feeling like a shock in itself.

“You may rise, Wooyoung,” Seonghwa instructed. “Go to her now. You have earned the right to be near her, but you will not touch her yet.” He looked at you, a challenge in his eyes. “She will decide what you earn next.”

Wooyoung pushed himself up clumsily, scrambling off the floor and crawling onto the bed. He didn’t presume to move past your feet. He collapsed onto the mattress next to your legs, resting his head against your thigh, his body still trembling violently from the exertion and denial. Seonghwa watched the entire transfer, a final smirk on his face. He leaned forward in the armchair, his eyes gleaming.

“Now, Wooyoung, sit up. You’re going to watch me enjoy the reward you worked so hard for.”

The silence after the command was broken only by Wooyoung’s ragged breathing and the soft rustle of fabric. Wooyoung, his eyes still shining with fresh tears and overwhelming compliance, immediately understood. He scrambled to his feet, pulling off his sweatpants and boxers with fumbling haste, tossing them aside. He returned to his position, kneeling between your legs on the bed, his arousal heavy and pulsing with anticipation.

“Turn,” you ordered softly, and he swiveled.

You adjusted your position on the bed, facing Seonghwa, who watched from the armchair with intense, unmoving focus. You pulled Wooyoung back against your chest, straddling him loosely. He was now seated firmly between your thighs, his back flush against your silken robe, his exposed cock jutting out proudly, aimed directly at Seonghwa. You didn’t need to speak to the man in the chair. You fixed your gaze on Seonghwa, a slow, predatory smile touching your lips. Your eyes dropped pointedly to the rigid bulge straining against his sweatpants. Seonghwa understood. His eyes darkened, a flash of recognition and submission passing between you. Without a word, he reached down. His hand disappeared inside the sweatpants, beginning a slow, steady rhythm against his forgotten erection, his gaze never leaving yours. With Seonghwa now actively involved, you focused entirely on the trembling man in your lap. You reached forward, your hands closing around Wooyoung’s cock. The heat was immediate, the texture velvety and demanding.

“You like this attention, don’t you, Wooyoung?” You murmured into his ear, your hands beginning a masterful, smooth stroke that started a low groan vibrating through his chest.

“You like being seen, being commanded.”

Wooyoung gasped, leaning back heavily into your embrace. “Y-yes. I like it. I like that you’re doing this, Mommy.”

You kissed the sensitive skin behind his ear, then opened your mouth and gently bit down on the column of his neck. Wooyoung whimpered, a pained, desperate sound that pleased you immensely.

“Ah—! Don’t bite, please!”

You ignored the plea, instead tightening your hand’s grip and speeding up the pace. Your eyes stayed locked on Seonghwa, who was watching the exchange, his jaw tight, his own rhythm syncing involuntarily with the rising speed of your hand.

“Look at him, Seonghwa,” you commanded, your voice steady despite the intense rhythm. “See how he whimpers for me? See what I make him feel?”

Seonghwa merely nodded once, his eyes burning with desire and acknowledgment. “I see, my love. Don’t stop.”

You slowed the pace momentarily, moving your hands lower, teasing the sensitive skin beneath the head of his cock. Wooyoung cried out, his hips trying to thrust back against your hands, desperately seeking the rhythm you had stolen.

“You need to ask for it, Wooyoung,” you commanded, simultaneously biting his shoulder hard enough to elicit another sharp whimper.

“Please!” he choked out. “Mommy, please! I need to come. I need to feel… your hands. H-hah…”

You immediately rewarded the plea, driving your hands up and down his length with punishing, sensual speed. The wave hit him instantly. He cried out, his back arching against your chest, his body convulsing in a powerful, blinding first orgasm. You didn’t pause. Even as the fluid slicked your hands, you maintained the powerful, deliberate stroke, ignoring his ragged, post-climax shuddering.

“I am not stopping,” you demanded, pressing a possessive kiss to the damp skin of his temple. “You belong to us now. You will come again for us, do you understand?”

The combination of the continuous stroking, the intense visual focus from Seonghwa, and the physical exhaustion proved too much for him to resist. The residual arousal was immediately rekindled, driven by your merciless command. Within seconds, his whimpers turned into a desperate, renewed plea. Seonghwa groaned, the deep sound vibrating across the room, his own hand working furiously to keep pace with your performance. Wooyoung erupted again, a more desperate, shattering second orgasm that left him utterly spent, collapsing heavily against your chest. You looked directly at Seonghwa, your eyes challenging his control. He met your gaze, his own hand stalling for just a beat too long, before he too, with a final, ragged gasp, found his own shattering release, his body shuddering in the armchair. You held Wooyoung tightly, slowly easing the frantic pace of your hands until they rested softly on his tired thighs.

“Now,” you murmured into Wooyoung’s ear, adjusting him slightly. “That’s what happens when you forget your place, pretty boy.”

You held Wooyoung tightly against you, feeling the faint, lingering tremors of his exhaustion. You looked up, lifting your hands—slick and gleaming with the fresh evidence of Wooyoung’s multiple releases—and fixed your gaze on Seonghwa, who was still regaining his breath in the armchair. Your voice was low, absolutely unwavering, a command that bypassed his ears and went straight to his core.

“Lick it, Seonghwa.”

The command was simple, devastating, and entirely non-negotiable. You didn’t just ask; you willed him, staring straight into his soul, demanding he acknowledge the intimacy you had shared with Wooyoung by consuming the physical proof of it. Seonghwa’s breath hitched. His eyes, still dark from his own recent climax, widened for a fleeting moment of shock before they softened into profound submission. He understood the ritual, the honor, and the absolute power being conferred upon you. He was being asked to clean the hands that commanded their pleasure. He pushed himself out of the armchair, moving with a reverence that belied his recent intensity. He dropped to his knees before the bed, positioning himself directly between your legs. He took your right hand first, lifting it slowly to his mouth. He didn’t hesitate. His tongue, warm and firm, swept across your fingers, meticulously cleaning away the slick remnants of Wooyoung’s arousal. His eyes, fixed on yours, were intense, accepting the intimate flavor as a sacrifice and a blessing. The sensation was raw and deeply sensual, turning a simple act of cleaning into a profound, shared claim. Wooyoung, leaning back in your lap, let out a soft, choked whimper as he watched. He buried his face in your neck, his awe and gratitude palpable—this was a level of intimacy reserved for the one who ruled them both. Seonghwa finished with the first hand, then gently took the second, performing the same deliberate act of reverence. When he was done, he pressed a soft kiss to your clean palm.

“Thank you, my love,” he murmured, his voice husky, his submission absolute.

He rose then, his earlier punishment and the chaos of the afternoon entirely resolved. He reached down, pulling Wooyoung gently off your lap and onto the bed.

“Can you move over, Woo?” He asked softly, the earlier harshness now replaced by exhausted affection.

Seonghwa settled down beside you, immediately pulling you against his chest, tucking you securely under his arm. He didn’t ask; he claimed his place. Wooyoung, utterly compliant, nestled on your other side, his head resting against your hip. The exhaustion of the day, the shock of the afternoon, and the intense passion of the last hour collapsed into a profound, comfortable stillness.

You were surrounded, protected, and utterly cherished by both men.

The auction was hidden beneath the illusion of extravagance. Above ground, it was a high-profile Gotham fashion event—glittering with elite influencers, foreign investors, and too many champagne flutes balanced on too-thin fingers.

But below the stage, behind mirrored walls and beneath silken drapes, was the truth: a rotating selection of stolen tech, rare weapons, smuggled magic, and “exclusive clientele” that were, apparently, too powerful to touch. And right at the center of it all was you and Dick Grayson. You and him. And the walk that would undo everything.

The first time you saw Dick again after months of silence… He was ten minutes late, annoyingly calm, and wearing the wrong pants.

"Let me guess," you said, not even glancing up from the rack of hand-stitched blazers. "You stopped to rescue a cat from a burning building. Or flirt with a barista. Or maybe both?"

He laughed, that familiar sound that used to rattle your self-control. “You forgot ‘stop a black-market weapons deal in the Diamond District,’” he said, easing into the dressing area with the kind of grace that should’ve been illegal. “But yeah, the cat was cuter.”

You finally turned to look at him. Mistake number one. His shirt was half-unbuttoned, probably on purpose, and his smile had that particular tilt to it: a mix of charm and apology. And those damn eyes. Ocean-blue and too damn knowing. They flicked to your hands, your mouth, your outfit—absorbing everything like he always did.

“What?” you snapped, folding your arms. “Forget what I look like when I’m not yelling at you?”

“No,” he said, stepping closer. “That’s actually my favorite version.” You held his stare for two seconds longer than you meant to. Then you turned back to the rack. “You’re here to play runway model, not walk memory lane. Get your ass into the fitted pants before I change my mind.” He whistled low. “Still mad I ghosted, huh?”

“I’m not mad,” you said sweetly. “I just find it fascinating how a grown man can leap across rooftops, dodge bullets, and still somehow be deathly allergic to returning a text.” He winced slightly. Not enough to satisfy you, but enough to keep the fire burning.

"Look, I didn’t want to drag you into the mess," he said, softer now. "There were things I couldn’t explain, and I figured it was safer—" You cut him off with a wave. “Don’t care. Don’t want to hear it. You walked away, remember? Just like you always do.”

His smile faltered, then faded entirely. “…You always watch me leave,” he said, almost under his breath. You hated that it hit you. Right where he knew it would. And then he smirked again—pivoting, as always, from vulnerability back to charm. “So what do you think?” he asked, striking a pose in his current pants — the wrong pants, mind you. “Do I pull these off?”

“Not even a little,” you said flatly, snatching the correct pair from the hanger. “Put these on. And try not to break Gotham’s collective brain when you hit that runway.” He took the pants, brushed your fingers on purpose, and leaned just a little closer. “If I do,” he murmured, “you’ll take the credit, right? Since you’re the one dressing me to kill.”

You pretended his words didn't make you shiver, but now wasn't the time.

You stood at the edge of the bustling prep area, clipboard in hand, headset buzzing with last-minute changes. But none of it mattered. Because when Dick Grayson stepped onto that runway, tailored midnight-blue suit hugging every line, eyes cutting through the crowd like headlights, the world paused. It was straight out of a movie.

He moved like he owned the moment. Like the spotlight was just another streetlight to dance under. Nothing in your training prepared you for the sight of him. Every step is fluid, lethal, and smooth as silk. He wasn’t a model; he was a weapon, and he was wearing your design.

You swallowed hard. Goddamn him…

It was a slow burn of motion and magnetism, his body sculpted by shadow and spotlight. The suit— your suit—fits like sin itself. It's a dark navy with obsidian threading, subtle enough for the naked eye but glimmering under a flash. Cut low at the chest, hugging the lines of his torso, a whisper of rebellion against traditional formality. And he’s looking at you. Not the crowd, not the buyers, not the high rollers holding hidden paddles for illegal bids. But you.

As he walks—no, prowls—down the runway, his gaze never strays. Every step was a conversation: Do you see me now? Did you miss this? Are you still pretending you don’t want it?

Your breath catches, your heart racing as if going into a heart attack. The world blurs around the edges. That was until—chaos struck. Just as he reaches the end of the walk, the lights flicker once. A coded signal. You know it immediately; the auction is beginning.

“You didn’t tell me they were selling an energy core designed by WayneTech,” you hiss, dragging him into a side hallway behind a curtain of velvet. His back hits the wall. You’re close, too close, but you don’t back off, rather inching in. He exhales, lips twitching. “Was gonna tell you after the encore.”

“Dick.”

“Hey,” he says, voice lowering. “It’s not like I planned for them to use a fashion show as a front. But now that I’m here… we improvise.” You glare at him in silence. He doesn’t flinch; his eyes slowly flick to your lips. “I saw you watching me,” he says softly. You scoff, but your voice wavers with little confidence. “You were strutting like a damn peacock.”

“And you liked it.”

“…Shut up.”

His smile turns devilish. “You always get like this when you’re turned on and mad at me.” You shove his chest, not hard, but enough to let him know you're not playing. Except your hands don’t leave his suit, and his don’t leave your waist. For a moment, everything stills. Again. What is up with this? Then he leans in, mouth brushing your ear.

“I only have a few minutes before I have to intercept a buyer in the west wing,” he murmurs. “But if you don’t want to wait anymore…”

You inhale sharply. "Don't tease me," you whisper. "Not unless you mean it." His voice drops. The flirty edge disappears, and what replaces it? A raw and unfiltered longing. “I’ve always meant it,” he says. “You just never let me prove it.”

His hands slowly slide around your waist until your back hits the wall, too. There’s no air between you now. Only months of missed calls and unspoken confessions, but you want to kiss those pink lips. You want to take his damn suit off piece by piece— you designed it, after all.

He leans in again, mouth brushing yours, and stops. “Say the word,” he murmurs. “And I’ll forget the mission for one night. Just one.” Your hand's fist is in his lapels. You hate him, but, god, you need him.

BZZZZZT.

His earpiece crackles. Oracle’s voice, cutting in sharply. “Nightwing, buyers’s on the move. You have sixty seconds.” His forehead drops to yours. Frustrated and desperate. “Damn it,” he sighs.

You close your eyes. Try to calm the fire in your blood and the thrill that sent a heartbeat to your core. “…Go,” you whisper. “But you better come back.” His fingers skim your cheek. “Always,” he promises. And just like always, he walks away. But this time? You follow him with your eyes. And when he turns back, just before vanishing into the dark… He’s still watching you.

…

There are exactly twenty minutes until you're supposed to walk onstage and take your bow as the head designer. Which makes this —him— the worst idea. But when Dick Grayson slams the dressing room door behind him and shoves his earpiece deep into his jacket pocket, you know the decision's already been made. He’s out of breath with his cheeks flushed and hair tousled. “That’s it,” he pants. “I’m done pretending I can focus on anything else tonight.”

“You intercepted the buyer?” you ask, stepping back just enough so he couldn't hear your heart rattling within your chest. “Yeah,” he nods. “Swapped the intel. Knocked out two guards. Didn’t get shot. High score.”

“And your reward is barging into my dressing room?”

His smirk goes crooked, and his head tilts. “No. My reward is you looking at me like you’re two seconds from tearing this suit off with your teeth.” You blink and then scoff. “You’re delusional.” He closes the space between you in three long strides. “Then make me hallucinate harder.”

It's exciting, hands in hair, mouths crashing excitedly together. The heat between you is like fabric and friction and fire. His suit jacket—your suit jacket— rustles under your fingers, the tailored lines warping as you grab him and pull. “You're wrinkling my masterpiece,” you mutter against his mouth with a hiss. “Good,” he growls. “Maybe you'll have to make me another one.”

His hands are everywhere. Gliding under your shirt, gripping your waist, then up to your throat, not choking, just holding—possessive, reverent, but lost. When he backs you into the mirror, you gasp, and he drinks in the sound of oxygen. But the moment he reaches behind his neck and tugs hard at something hidden under the collar, you pull back.

And immediately burst into laughter. Because under the elegant suit? The Nightwing suit… is still on. “Tactical layering?” you snort, head dropping. “Seriously?” He groans. “I didn’t have time to take it off.”

“You never have time, Dick. Not to call, not to stay, and apparently not to remove your ridiculous birdsuit.”

“Hey,” he says, mock-offended, breath still shallow. “This is iconic.”

“It’s clingy.”

“So are you.”

“Oh, shut up.”

You hook your fingers under the utility belt and drag it down, peeling the skintight suit from underneath the runway outfit. It's an awkward, tangled mess of Kevlar, spandex, and silk lining. “God, there are too many zippers,” you mutter, shoving one sleeve down.

“Bet you say that to all the vigilantes.”

“Only the hot ones.”

He huffs out a laugh, and then you're both quiet, staring at each other, the tension thick with want and everything unspoken. His voice drops. “You don’t have to pretend this is just a quickie, y'know.”

“Then stop acting like it has to be.”

He kisses you again, but slower this time, a little deeper. His fingers trail up your sides, under your shirt, sliding fabric away from your skin. “I want all of you,” he whispers against your jaw. “Not just this. Not just tonight.”

“Then prove it,” you breathe, undoing his suit pants. “Right now. Before they call my name.” He pauses for a moment before flashing a toothy grin.

“Oh. So this is what it's like to date a designer.”

“I’m not dating you.”

“You’re definitely about to fuck me.”

“Semantics.”

The next five minutes are a blur of kisses too hot to be gentle, fingers fumbling with fabric, and you swearing every time a perfectly placed seam rips. His mouth is everywhere—throat, collarbones, behind your ear, whispering things that should not be this tender when he's pressed between your thighs like a man possessed.

“I knew this suit was dangerous,” you pant, rolling your hips against him. “You designed a weapon,” he groans, breath-catching. “I’m just… following instructions,” an excuse hidden behind smiling cheeks.

The desk creaks, another light flickers, and your hair is a mess. His gloves are somewhere on the floor. And through it all, the two of you move together like this has been coming for years. Because it has. This isn’t just a release; it's a reunion of sorts. It's: You left. It's: I still waited. It's: This isn’t over when the zipper comes up.

"How fast can you come?" he mutters, breath hot against your collarbone, as he hikes your leg up onto his hip. You arch toward him. “You offering to set a record?” He grins something sharp and teasing, but there’s heat in his eyes. Not just lust, but aching… and maybe yearning.

His hands slide over your thighs, palms rough from training but gentle now. His fingers barely brush the seam of your panties, and you jolt with just the slightest twitch of your hips. He smiles against your throat—a wicked, reverent thing. "There it is," he murmurs. "Still know every little switch that flips you." Your panties are pushed aside, and he exhales sharply as his fingers stroke over your puffy, slick folds—almost in awe. As if golden gates had just parted for him, and all his desires lay in his wake. “Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re soaked.”

"You're late," you hiss before getting cut off with a kiss. Your teeth clash as tongues tangle in slippery heat. He slides two digits inside you without warning, and your breath stutters against his mouth. You can feel the desperation in his touch and the urgency in his movements.

His fingers slide inside you, curling to hit that spot deep within that makes you see stars. You moan, your hips bucking against his hand. His hand almost went numb as it basked in the silken warmth of your cunt as its nectar coated his palm. His forearm shifted beneath your weight, every stroke caressing a new inch. Every few pumps—his fingers take a new shape to stretch you out. Every second is being savored. "You gonna let me fuck you on this desk?" he says, voice thick. "Or should I put you on your knees first?" You bite his lower lip. “I’ll decide,” you whisper, pulling him in by the lapels.

He’s thick and hot in your hand when you reach for him. His cock is heavy, flushed, and already leaking at the tip. There's a slight purple hue, like his balls would bust if he didn't have you here and now. He groans low when you stroke him, your thumb circling his head, dragging down the length. His hips twitch against your touch. He chuckles—almost instinctively —as his nerves short-circuit, his eyes twitching. “Bossy,” he murmurs. “Always had a thing for your hands.”

“You're not exactly subtle yourself,” you smirk, squeezing a little harder. Causing him to suck in a breath. His hand tightens around your thigh. His thumb circles your clit, his fingers pumping in and out of you in a rhythm that’s driving you wild. You can feel the orgasm building, the pressure coiling tight in your abdomen. Shivers scale your spine, your head slamming back against the mirror as hushed, yet pornographic moans crawl from your lips.

"You gonna sit up here and look pretty, then?" he rasps, stepping between your legs and lining himself up against your entrance. The head of his cock teases at your slick, not yet pushing in—just pressing, waiting. You glance at the clock, and there's seven minutes ‘til curtain. “Hurry,” you breathe.

“You don’t tell me twice.”

He rasps, sinking into you slowly enough to make you claw at the desk, his hips grinding against yours, messy and hungry. There's a slight pop from the ring of muscle, blanketing him in a new warmth. It's thick and deep, stretching you full. You both groan at once. Your hands scramble for purchase at the edge of the desk, the lapels of his suit jacket—anything as he buries himself to the hilt. Makeup products clatter loudly on the floor, yet fall silent between the labored gasps you share. His hands are everywhere. Gripping your thighs, shoving fabric aside, palming your ass hard enough to leave bruises, desperately parting anything in his way.

“Oh my god—” you gasp, causing him to still with his cock pulsing inside you. “Too much?” he murmurs, voice hoarse, lips brushing your cheek with a gentleness. “No,” you breathe, digging your nails into his back. “Move.” He obeys. The pace starts rough and frantic, almost the kind of thrust born from months of unresolved tension. The desk rattles beneath you, your back arching with each push. His hands grip your hips, then your waist, and then one rises to cradle the back of your head as he leans in to kiss you through it. It's like he doesn't know what to do, yet he does it all so well at once. The silk lining of his jacket burns against your bare skin, sliding rough where your body’s slick and trembling.

“You feel so fucking good,” he growls against your mouth. You moan, dragging your nails down his spine. “Bet you say that to all your stylists.”

“Only the ones who fuck me like they own me.” You clench around him—hard, juices sputtering—and he gasps. “Shit. Don’t do that or I’ll—”

“Already close?” You tease, sweat beading at your temples. “Grayson, I expected better.”

He pulls out almost completely, letting the tip of his cock rest against the rim, then slams back in hard enough to jolt a moan from your throat. “Keep talking,” he pants, “and I’ll bend you over the chair next.” His thrusts are slow and deep, just to tease, but hungry. His lips find your throat, ghosting over your pulse. Your chest, where one hand cups your breast, mouth latching to a nipple as he rolls his hips against you, every movement built to ruin you. You groan, clinging to one another. “Say it,” he whispers. “Tell me you still want me.”

“Fuck, Dick—”

“Say it.”

You kiss him instead—all teeth and tongue and breathless confession. “I wanted this every night you left.”

His forehead drops to yours. “Never again.” You’re so close. And he knows it. He can feel it in the way your legs lock around him. The way your velvety ridges contract around his cock. The way your pussy kisses every vein, caressing him like he never left. His jaw tightened, truly trying his best to remain quiet.

Yet, the desk thuds against the wall with every frantic thrust, papers scattering, a mug crashing to the floor. It's a riot of noise. Panting, gasping, the cascading sound of skin colliding—and Dick’s voice, low and rough in your ear: "You gonna come for me right here, baby? Gonna soak my cock while half of Gotham waits for your big debut?" At this point, you're driven back against the mirror with each pummel of his pelvis. There was a tension and risk bleeding in every frantic breath that made it impossible to think. The door rattled once, perhaps someone brushing past or trying to enter. You stiffened upon instinct, but Dick's pearly whites beamed against your neck. "You make the prettiest fucking mess, y'know that?" Oh, this fucker. He's trying to embarrass you.

The rhythmic rocking of his hips begins to take a new shape, purely focusing on making you cum. Wet strings of arousal strung to his pelvis, his cock absolutely smothered in combined juices. He could practically taste it. He wished he could take his time with you—spread you open and suck on that clit ‘til you’re limp and shaking, pleading and praising him. But none of that mattered, not as he watched his dick disappear and return wetter than the last.

Just as your orgasm builds and tenses, he reaches between you, rubbing your clit in tight, expert circles. “Come for me,” he breathes. “I want to feel you lose it. Right here. Right now.” He grows frantic as his hips stutter when slamming into yours with desperate but bruising force, and you cling to him, your legs trembling, your climax burning so close you can't form words. Dick buries his face in your shoulder, "Cum for me. Fuck, please — let go — I need to feel you lose it on me," He says, voice ragged.

That mind-numbing restraint snaps within. A sudden heat unfurls within as your body lurches forward into him. Your guttural groan is muffled by his shoulder as you cling to him—pulsing around his cock. He follows with a broken sound, knees nearly buckling and hips still rolling as he spills into you. He purposefully nuzzled himself—hoping he could view it drip out later. His dick felt raw.

Now, it's just silence and sweat and eyes boring deeply into one another. You slide your fingers through his hair, still trying to come down. “…You ruined my underwear,” you whisper. He smiles against your skin. “You ruined me.”

A knock. “Designer to the stage in three minutes!” You both groan. His head drops against your shoulder, and you bite back a laugh. “I have to go,” you whisper. He pulls back just far enough to meet your eyes. “Can I see you after?”

“Not this time.” He presses one more kiss, softer than all the rest—to the corner of your mouth. “Break a leg,” he murmurs. You adjust your shirt, and he zips up before you toss him his wrinkled suit jacket. He catches it midair, grinning as he helps you fix your clothes, pressing soft kisses to your jaw as he zips you up and tucks himself back into the damn suit.

You both look wrecked. Perfect. And as he slips out the back door—one last look over his shoulder, he says, “You're still the best thing I’ve ever worn.” You smile, smitten, before calling out to him. "I know you'll be watching, and you better stay close. Because next time? I'm on top."

A/N: Feel free to leave comments and suggestions! This is my first DC related post.... woooo Dick Grayson the man you are.