#switch reader

A Repulsor Pulse feature which uses localised kinetic energy to create sensations instead of a simple vibration.

t's more a focused rhythmic force that mimics a heartbeat - syncing with your own as you approach your climax.

And let's not forget the material. Tony wouldn't use cheap silicone. in fact, he'd develop a self healing, bio compatible smart polymer that adapts its texture and temperature based on your body heat.

Stark "Aura" Rabbit that isn't merely it's own device; it's a sentient extension of your own desire, engineered with the same tech found in the Iron Man suits.

Crafted from a Liquid Metal Smart Alloy, the device's form is entirely fluid which allows the "ears" to morph, expand, or constrict precisely around your clit or tip.

The real game changer is the Neural Link Feedback Loop which uses tiny, non invasive sensors to not only "scan" your reactions, but also aim to communicate with your brain's pleasure centres via electromagnetic pulses.

It anticipates your climax before you even feel it coming.

All devices would have long-lasting battery life, optimised recharging and not on market. Tony knows he could sell it for crazy, but he'd developed his sexual ecosystem just for your pleasure. He doesn't intend on sharing one bit.

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.

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.