- Sp@nking, brat taming, pred@tor/pr3y dynamic.
You know better than to poke at him when he’s fresh off a grueling dance practice, his trainers’ nonsense still simmering in his veins.
Minho isn’t cruel—he’s never been—but he’s not one to let things slide either. He’s strict, sharp-edged, with a softness that only shows once he’s tamed the fire you’re so good at stoking.
And tonight, you’re playing with matches.
“Care to explain?” His voice cuts through the dim glow of the bedroom, low and controlled, as he peels off his sweat-dampened shirt.
The faint sheen of perspiration clings to his toned frame, highlighting the lean muscles of his arms and chest. He’s not yelling, but the raised eyebrow and the tight set of his jaw tell you he’s not in the mood for games—except, well, you are.
“Explain what? I just forgot to do it,” you mumble, feigning nonchalance as you scroll through your phone, the screen’s light casting shadows across your face. You’re sprawled on the bed, deliberately ignoring.
Minho’s eyes narrow, his voice dropping an octave. “You’ve been ‘forgetting’ for two weeks straight. Do you think I’m too dumb to notice?”
In one swift motion, he snatches the phone from your hands and tosses it onto the mattress, where it lands with a soft thud.
“Hey!” you protest, reaching for it, but he’s faster. His fingers wrap around your wrist, firm but not painful, pinning you in place with that infuriatingly calm control of his.
“Behave,” he says, his tone a warning.
You scoff, rolling your eyes for maximum effect. “Excuse me? I’m not a pet.”
Oh, you know exactly what you’re doing. The vein pulsing in his forehead is a dead giveaway—you’re pushing all the right buttons.
Minho’s lips twitch, but it’s not a smile. “Don’t be a brat,” he says, tugging you closer until you’re inches from his face, his breath warm against your cheek. “That’s not how you talk to me.”
You tilt your chin defiantly, meeting his gaze. “Or what? You gonna spank me?”
His grin spreads, slow and wicked, all Cheshire cat and predatory intent. “Oh, you’re begging for it now.”
Before you can react, he’s moving—sitting on the edge of the bed and pulling you across his lap in one fluid motion.
You squeak, a mouse caught in the cat’s claws, your back to his chest as your hips settle over his thighs.
The position leaves you vulnerable, exposed, and the heat rushing to your face is only half embarrassment. The other half? Pure, electric anticipation.
The first smack lands on your clothed rear, sharp and deliberate, and you squirm against him, a muffled “Minho!” slipping out before you can stop it.
Even through your pants, the sting is enough to make you flush, the embarrassment. You’ve been craving this—his focus, his control.
“How many?” he asks, his voice low and teasing as his fingers tug at the waistband of your pants, pulling them down just enough to expose more skin.
You pout, knowing he’s watching every expression. “…Ten,” you mutter, voice small but defiant.
He chuckles, dark and rich, his hand resting on the curve of your backside. “Oh, you think you can handle ten?” The question drips with mockery, and you know he’s not going to go easy—not when you’ve pushed him this far.
But Minho’s never cruel. He’ll push you to the edge, make you squirm and whine, but he’ll always catch you when you fall.
Another smack lands, harder this time, and you bite your lip to stifle a gasp. His hand lingers, warm against your stinging skin, and he leans down, his breath hot against your ear. “Count them, brat,” he murmurs, his tone a mix of command and amusement. “Or we start over.”