Bad Religion (2014)
After two years of radio silence and a breakup that left your heart in stitches, Kim Namjoon is back. Only he isn’t the boy who used to study with you in the library; he’s the man sitting in the front row of the club, watching you work the pole with a dark, possessive hunger that says he never actually let you go.
--- 김남준 x f!reader ⊹ 𖦹 ⚡︎ cw | toxic!namjoon • stripper!reader • college au • explicit content • rough sex • overstimulation • choking • breeding • praise kink • brat tamming • dirty talk • size difference • hair pulling
› word count : 14.9k
[ 📩 ] Hi angels!! This is the big one. I’ve been sitting on this "Toxic Ex" concept for a while and the 2014 college vibes just felt right for Namjoon. This is definitely my longest work yet, so grab a snack and get comfortable because it gets heavy.
Soundtrack: Frank Ocean, The Weeknd (Trilogy era), and 2014-era Hip Hop.
─ 𖦹 ⚡︎ 𖦹 ─
The air in the Blue Velvet was a cocktail of menthol, spilled bourbon, and the electric hum of the 2014 underground scene. You hated it here, but the tuition bills for your senior year didn't care about your dignity.
You gripped the cold brass of the pole, your platform heels clicking against the stage. You were mid-set, the bass of a heavy remix vibrating through your chest, when you saw him.
Kim Namjoon.
He looked entirely out of place and yet completely in control. He was twenty-five now, his frame broader, draped in a black leather jacket that caught the red strobe lights. He wasn't cheering. He wasn't throwing bills. He was just watching. His jaw was set, and when he caught your eye, the lollipop stick between his teeth shifted.
Your heart didn't just skip a beat; it plummeted.
"You’re shaking, baby," the girl next to you hissed under the music.
You tightened your grip, swinging into a layout, but your eyes kept drifting back to him. He looked like a storm cloud in a neon room. Two years ago, he was the man who’d promised you the world before burning your bridge to the ground. Now, he was the man who looked like he wanted to burn the whole club down just for looking at you.
When your set finally ended, you didn't wait for the applause. You bolted for the dressing room, your chest heaving against the tight fabric of your leopard-print bodice.
You slammed the door, locking it. You needed a cigarette. You needed to disappear.
"You always did have a problem with running away when things got hot."
The voice came from the corner of the room. Your heart stopped. Namjoon was leaning against the lockers, his silver hoop earrings glinting in the dim yellow light. He looked exactly like the photos you’d tried to delete—sharp, lethal, and devastatingly handsome.
"How did you get back here?" you snapped, your bratty exterior slamming into place like a shield. "This is for employees only, Joon. Get out."
He didn't move. Instead, he took the lollipop out of his mouth, his eyes raking over your exposed skin, lingering on the butterfly tattoos he used to trace with his tongue.
"I bought the booth, the floor, and ten minutes of your time," he said, his voice dropping to that low, gravelly register that used to make your thighs ache. "Technically, I'm the boss right now."
"You're nothing to me," you spat, stepping toward the vanity to grab your robe.
He was faster. In two strides, he was behind you, his large hand slamming against the mirror, trapping you between his body and the glass. The heat radiating off him was a physical weight. You could smell him—tobacco, expensive cologne, and the familiar scent of him.
"Is that right?" he whispered into the crook of your neck, his breath ghosting over your skin. "Then why is your heart trying to jump out of your chest?"
He reached around, his fingers—calloused and warm—hooking under the strap of your top. He didn't pull it, but the threat was there. The dominant pressure of his chest against your back was a silent command to submit.
"I'm a brat, remember?" you hissed, though your voice lacked its usual bite. "I don't play well with others."
Namjoon chuckled, a dark, vibrating sound that sent a shiver straight down your spine. He gripped the back of your hair, not enough to hurt, but enough to force your head back against his shoulder so you had to look at him in the mirror.
"I didn't come here to play," he growled, his eyes darkening to a shade that promised ruin. "I came here to remind you what happens when you try to walk away from what belongs to me."
─ 𖦹 ⚡︎ 𖦹 ─
The dressing room was too small for the weight of his presence. Every time Namjoon exhaled, the scent of him—something metallic and expensive—erased the last two years of your life. You tried to shove his hand off the mirror, but he didn't budge. He was a mountain of muscle and spite, anchored by the sheer will of a man who had spent seven hundred days plotting this exact moment.
"I’m not yours," you gritted out, looking at his reflection. "You lost that right when you left me in that apartment with nothing but a half-empty bottle of gin and a 'sorry' note."
Namjoon’s grip on your hair tightened just a fraction, tilting your chin up. "I told you I was coming back for you. I just had to make sure I had enough to keep you this time." He leaned down, his nose brushing against your pulse point. "You’ve gotten louder since I’ve been gone. I like it. Makes breaking you that much more satisfying."
─ 𖦹 ⚡︎ 𖦹 ─
The ride to his penthouse was a blur of 2014 Seoul lights and the aggressive bass of a hip-hop track thumping through his car speakers. You sat in the passenger seat of his new black sedan, arms crossed over your chest, still wearing your stage outfit under a trench coat. You were acting like a brat—refusing to speak, huffing every time he took a sharp turn—but the dampness between your thighs told a different story.
The penthouse smelled like expensive wood and lingering smoke, a far cry from the cramped, drafty dorm you’d been surviving in. As the door clicked shut, you didn’t wait for him to speak. You turned, eyes snapping with a fake bravado that only a girl who’d spent years protecting her heart could muster.
"I’m leaving," you stated, reaching for the door handle. "I don't care about the booth you bought. I’m not some prize you can just collect."
Namjoon didn't move. He just stood there, discarding his leather jacket onto a nearby chair. Underneath, his white tank top clung to the broad expanse of his chest, the silver chains around his neck clinking softly. He looked at you—not like an ex, but like a predator who had finally cornered his favorite prey.
"You're going to stay right there," he said, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that skipped across your skin. "And you're going to stop acting like you don't want this as much as I do."
"You wish—"
Before you could finish, he was on you. He moved with a speed that caught you off guard, his large hand wrapping around your waist and hoisting you up. You let out a sharp, indignant yelp, your fists drumming against his back as he carried you toward the mahogany desk in his study.
He sat you down hard on the edge of the wood, the cool surface contrasting sharply with the heat radiating from him. You tried to slide off, but he stepped between your thighs, pinning you in place with the sheer weight of his body.
"Still a brat," he murmured, his hands sliding up your thighs, over the cheetah-print fabric until his thumbs hooked into your waistband. "Still trying to fight me when your body is already betraying you."
He leaned in, his lips hovering just an inch from yours. You could taste the sugar from the lollipop he’d been finished with, mixed with the dark, heavy scent of his desire. When he finally kissed you, it wasn't a request—it was a repossession. It was rough, his tongue sliding against yours with a bruising pressure that forced a muffled moan from your throat.
His hands didn't stay still. One climbed to the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair to hold you steady as he explored every inch of your mouth, while the other dropped to the center of your pleasure, pressing firmly through the thin fabric.
"Joon," you gasped against his lips, your resolve crumbling. "Stop... please."
"Please what?" he growled, pulling back just enough to look into your blown-out pupils. "Please stop? Or please remind you why you never found anyone who could handle you like I do?"
He didn't wait for an answer. He flipped you over, pressing your chest down against the desk. The position was vulnerable, leaving you exposed to him. You felt the cold air hit your skin as he unzipped your top, his large, warm hands immediately finding the curves he’d memorized years ago.
"Look at you," he whispered, his voice dark with praise as he watched your reflection in the darkened window. "So pretty when you finally stop talking and start taking it."
The friction was agonizingly perfect. He was relentless, using his size to keep you pinned, his movements calculated to push you right to the edge of overstimulation. Every time you tried to arch away, he brought you back down with a firm hand on the small of your back, his dirty talk filling your ears until your head was spinning. He knew exactly where to touch, how hard to pull, and when to whisper the things that made you feel like you were the only girl in the world—even as he treated you like his own personal toy.
By the time he finally filled the space between you, the "slight angst" had burned away into a singular, primal focus. It was a symphony of skin on skin, the sound of your frantic breaths echoing off the glass walls.
He was dominant, demanding every ounce of your attention, forcing you to meet his gaze even when you wanted to hide.
"Tell me," he commanded, his pace quickening as he drove you toward a shattering finish. "Tell me who you belong to."
"You," you sobbed out, your fingers digging into the wood of the desk.
"Only you, Joon."
He hit your peak with a low, guttural growl, filling the space between you until you were both shaking, collapsed against one another in the wreckage of a two-year-old fire.
─ 𖦹 ⚡︎ 𖦹 ─
The aftermath was silent, save for the hum of the city and the crackle of the cigarette Namjoon lit as he sat on the edge of the bed. The 2014 Seoul skyline was a blur of hazy lights outside the window, looking exactly like the night he left you the first time.
You lay in the sheets, skin still flushed, watching the smoke curl around his silver earrings. You wanted to believe this was a beginning. You wanted to believe the "I paid your tuition" remark was an anchor that would keep him here.
But as the sun began to bleed a pale, sickly grey over the horizon, the reality of Toxic set in.
Namjoon stood up, dressing in silence. The heavy, possessive warmth from an hour ago had cooled into a familiar, professional distance. He didn't look at you as he buckled his belt, the silver hardware clicking with a finality that made your chest ache.
"I have to move some things today," he said, his voice flat, devoid of the gravelly affection he'd used while pinning you down. "The money is in your account. Don't go back to the club."
"When will I see you?" your voice was small, the 'brat' finally drained out of you, leaving only the girl who still loved him.
He paused at the door, his hand on the handle. He didn't turn around. He couldn't. "Don't wait for me, baby. We both know how this ends."
The click of the lock was the only answer you got. You sat up, pulling the sheets to your chest, staring at the empty space on the desk where he had claimed you.
The money was there. The pleasure was lingering. But the man was a ghost, a habit you couldn't break and a person you could never keep.
You were twenty-two, he was twenty-five, and you were still just a girl in a leopard-print set, crying in a room that smelled like a man who was already halfway gone.
─ 𖦹 ⚡︎ 𖦹 ─
Ugh, my heart broke writing that ending. They are so high-octane together but some fires just burn too bright to last, you know? I wanted to capture that 2014 feeling where everything felt like the end of the world. Let me know if you guys want a Part 2 where they actually try to make it work, or if we should leave them in this toxic cycle. Love you guys, thanks for reading!! 🖤✨
