Pairing: Namgyu x female reader
Note: English is not my native language, please forgive any mistakes
The neon lights flickered through the worn curtain, dyeing Nam-gyu's skin violet and red, as if the city itself was marking him. The motel was cheap, with a smell of old cigarette and disinfectant, but he didn't need luxury. He needed control. And you, face up, with that pillow under your hips, were his perfect canvas.
His fingers dug into your flesh, leaving red half-moons. Each thrust was a claim. Sweat slid down his temple, dripping onto your chest. He looked at you as if he wanted to etch every detail: the swollen lips, the glassy eyes, the tremor of your thighs when he hit that exact spot.
“Fuck…” he muttered, voice hoarse, almost broken. “So fucking perfect.”
You moaned louder, arching your back. Your hands went up to his nape, pulling his damp hair, forcing him to lower his head. You wanted his mouth, you wanted to bite that arrogance he always wore like armor. But Nam-gyu resisted for a second, smiling with that cruel half-smirk.
“Want more, angel?” he whispered against your ear, biting the lobe. “Ask for it.”
And you did. With a broken gasp, with nails scratching his back. He sped up, losing the calculated rhythm. It was no longer just fucking; it was punishment, it was plea. His hips crashed against yours with a wet, obscene sound that filled the room.
A sudden heat ran through your spine, tensing every muscle. Your walls contracted around him, strong, relentless. The orgasm hit you like a train, tearing a scream from you that muffled against his shoulder. Your legs trembled, your fingers clenched into fists on his skin. You came undone beneath him, completely, without control.
Nam-gyu stayed still for a second. Just one.
Then he pulled away suddenly, coming out of you with a wet sound that echoed too loud. His cock, shiny and hard, throbbed in the air. He looked at you from above, chest rising and falling, dark eyes narrowed.
“Already?” he said, voice low, dangerous. “You finished before me?”
It wasn't a question. It was an accusation.
You propped yourself up on your elbows, still trembling, sweat cooling on your skin. You tried to touch him, but he caught your wrist midway, squeezing just enough for it to hurt a little.
“No, no, no” he growled, pushing you back against the mattress. “This doesn't work like that.”
He knelt between your legs, opening them again roughly. His hands trembled. Not from tiredness. From rage. From need. He leaned in, licking a slow path from your navel to your chest, biting just below your collarbone.
“You don't decide when this ends” he whispered against your skin. “I do.”
And he entered again. In one single thrust, brutal, to the hilt. You screamed, sensitive, on the edge of pain. He didn't stop. His movements were punishing now, fast, deep, as if he wanted to erase your orgasm and replace it with his.
But his eyes… his eyes betrayed him. Glassy, lost. Every time he looked at you, something broke a little more.
“No… don't come again” he ordered, voice broken. “Not until I say so.”
But it was already too late. For both of us.
He snorted, a guttural sound that came from the depths of his chest, and pulled out of you suddenly, as if your body burned him. The emptiness he left was immediate, cold.
“Are you upset?” you murmured, voice soft, unsure, with an edge of shame you couldn't hide.
“No” he answered dryly, without turning. The lie was so obvious it hurt.
“I'm sorry… I… I won't do it again if you don't ask” you lowered your head, fingers clutching the sheet against your chest like a shield. The heat of your orgasm still throbbed between your legs, but now you only felt cold.
Nam-gyu's phone vibrated on the nightstand. He looked at it with contempt, eyes narrowed, but didn't answer. He sat on the edge of the bed, giving you his back, and started dressing with abrupt movements: boxers, pants, t-shirt. Each garment was a barrier he raised again.
You said nothing. The silence was dense, uncomfortable. You watched him from behind: the muscles of his back tensing under the fabric. It hurt to look at him.
“I have to get back to work” he said at last, putting on his leather jacket. He pulled out a wad of crumpled bills from his pocket and let them fall on the sheet, next to your thigh. “I can't be late. You pay for the hours.”
Without more, he stood up. The door closed with a dry slam that echoed like a punch in your chest.
You sighed through your nose, eyes fixed on the bills. You felt dirty. Not from the sex. From him.
The relationship with Nam-gyu was a disaster with its own name. You met him at Club Pentágono, where he worked as a promoter: intimidating, with that wolf smile that gave you a drink without asking for anything in return. Your friends dragged you that night, laughing, saying you needed to “clear your head.” You never would have talked to him; he was too raw, too dangerous. But something in the way he looked at you—like he really saw you—trapped you.
Sometimes it was absolute shit: he ignored you for days, talked to you, fucked you as if he wanted to punish you for existing. But there were also moments… moments when he stayed after, smoking by the window, telling you things no one else knew. Family problems, work, or bad days.
And you kept coming back. Because beneath all that shit, there was a Nam-gyu no one else saw.
And you did… or so you think.
But everything had its limit. That night, with the bills still warm on the sheet, you took the phone, opened the chat and deleted his contact. The icon disappeared with a click that sounded too final. It wasn't the first time he left you like this; it wouldn't be the last if you kept allowing it. You promised yourself that this time yes.
The days passed. Four, five, six. No message, no missed call. The silence was so dense you could almost touch it. Part of you expected him to notice the absence; the other already assumed he didn't care.
It was Saturday night. You were alone in the apartment, wrapped in a blanket, with a romantic comedy you weren't really watching. Your friends had insisted on going out —“Let's go to the Pentágono, one round on me!”—, but you said no with the firmest voice you could. You didn't want to go back to that place. You didn't want to go back to him.
The doorbell rang. You thought it was the food you had ordered —bibimbap and a couple of rolls—, so you got up barefoot, and opened without looking through the peephole.
Your heart flipped, but your body stayed stiff. Before you could articulate a word, he pushed you aside with his shoulder —not rough, but decided— and entered as if the apartment was his. He closed the door with his heel.
“Why didn't you call me?” he asked immediately, voice low, almost accusatory.
He stood in the middle of the living room, leather jacket still on, the smell of tobacco and night stuck to him. He looked at you as if he expected an explanation he already had written.
“I was busy with classes” you said, soft, trying to make it sound firm. Your fingers tangled in the edge of the t-shirt you were wearing.
“Since when is that an impediment?” he narrowed his eyes, taking one step closer.
“I'm in exams” you insisted, lowering your gaze for a second before raising it again. “They're finals. I need to concentrate.”
He let out a short laugh, without humor.
“You always have time to send me a ‘how are you?’ or a fucking emoji. This week, nothing.” He ran his hand through his hair, frustrated. “What's going on?”
Your throat closed a little. You bit your lower lip, that nervous tic you always had when you didn't know how to say the difficult things.
“No… we can't keep seeing each other, Nam-gyu” you whispered at last, voice barely a thread. Your hands pressed against your stomach. “Not like this.”
He stayed still. Just a second. Then he took another step, invading your personal space without touching you.
“What does ‘not like this’ mean?”
You pressed your lips, nervous, heart pounding in your throat.
“I mean what we've been doing these past months” you murmured, barely audible. “I don't feel comfortable anymore.”
There was a brief, dense silence. Then Nam-gyu let out a short, mocking laugh that made you look up with resignation. You already knew something like that would come.
“Stop saying stupid things” he said, voice cutting.
“Are you going to leave me?” he arched his eyebrow, defiant.
“We were never together…”
He snorted, and suddenly his hand closed around your arm, strong, fingers digging into the flesh. A gasp escaped your lips from the pinch of pain.
“Never?” he repeated, getting closer. “Then what was all that? Huh? Or did you just want to have a good time?”
“Let me go, Nam-gyu” you tried to pull away, but his grip was steel.
“You're a slut like I always supposed” he said with a sly, cold smile. “That's why you let yourself get fucked, right?”
You let out a whimper when he squeezed your cheeks with the other hand, forcing you to look at him. His fingers deformed your face, lips forming an involuntary pout.
“We're not ending anything” he whispered close, hot breath against your skin. “Did you hear?”
You couldn't speak. Just blink, with glassy eyes.
One more second and he already had you in your room, the door closing with a kick. He kissed you fiercely, without preamble, teeth clashing, tongue invading. His hands went up under your oversized t-shirt, running over legs, thighs, until pulling it off over your head. You weren't wearing a bra. Just panties. His pupils dilated as if he had consumed something, though he hadn't that day.
He lowered his lips down your chin, neck, collarbones, to the center of your breasts. He took one with his mouth, sucking the nipple hard. A trembling sigh escaped you. You wanted to pull away, protect yourself. But your body betrayed: one hand went up to his nape, drawing him closer.
Nam-gyu liked you. More than he would ever admit. He could have looked for anyone at the club, but he didn't want to. His body only responded to you. His erection pressed against your thigh, hard, insistent. Involuntarily, you lifted your hips a little.
“So impatient?” he released your nipple with a wet pop, looking at you with mockery. “I thought you wanted to get away.”
You blushed, heat rising up your neck. He laughed low, and his hand slipped between your legs, inside the panties. His fingers found your wetness instantly.
“I already knew you didn't mean it” he growled, voice hoarse, loaded.
He stroked your folds with torturous slowness, making the tickle grow. One finger slid inside. Then two. You bit your lip so as not to moan. Three fingers filled you, curling upward, hitting that spot that made you arch your back. A soft moan escaped despite everything. He loved that sound; it was his drug.
“No” he murmured suddenly, withdrawing them abruptly, leaving a cruel emptiness. “Today you don't come. You've been very…” he paused, smiling “bad.”
The emptiness his fingers left was an icy lash that ran down your spine, leaving skin goosebumped and belly trembling. Nam-gyu pulled away just enough for the cold air of the room to hit your exposed wetness, a cruel contrast with the heat that still throbbed between your thighs.
“What?” he whispered, breath brushing your earlobe like a burning feather. “Do you miss it already?”
You shook your head, weak, but your fingers were still tangled in his nape, pulling strands damp with sweat. He let out a low laugh, a growl that vibrated against your collarbone as he yanked off his t-shirt in one pull. The fabric fell to the floor with a dull sound, and the smell of tobacco and hot skin enveloped you like a dense cloud. His chest rose and fell fast; the tattoo on his rib seemed to throb with each inhalation, the black ink contrasting with the skin pearled with sweat.
“Take off my pants” he ordered, voice hoarse, almost a rough whisper that scraped your nape.
Your fingers trembled as you lowered the zipper, the metal cold against your fingertips. The fabric slid down his hips with a soft brush, and his erection sprang free, heavy, the tip already wet and hot brushing your inner thigh. He knelt between your legs, opening them with his hands; you felt the air conditioning hit the sensitive skin, a shiver that made you clench your thighs by instinct.
“Tell me to stop” he said, without moving, his hot breath against your navel. “Tell me you don't want it.”
You swallowed saliva; the metallic taste of fear and excitement mixed on your tongue. Your panties were the only thing left, soaked, stuck to your skin.
“No…” you started, but the word broke in a gasp.
“No what.” He leaned in, licking a slow line from your navel to the edge of the fabric, the rough and hot tongue leaving a wet trail that cooled instantly. “Use words, angel.”
He hooked his fingers in the waistband of your panties and pulled them down in one yank; the elastic brushed your hips with a snap, and the cold air hit you like a lash. His mouth was there instantly, hot, hungry. A long, flat lick from the entrance to the clit, the rough tongue dragging every fold. Your hips rose on their own, the mattress creaking under your weight.
“Fuck” he growled against you, the sound vibrating straight into your clit. “You taste better when you're nervous.”
Another lick. Then he sucked, hard, until you saw stars behind your closed eyelids. Your hands flew to his hair, pulling, but he didn't stop. Two fingers entered again, curling, while his tongue drew cruel circles; you felt the stretch, the liquid heat building in your belly.
“Tell me” he murmured, without pulling his mouth away, voice muffled against your skin: “who makes you feel like this?”
You moaned, unable to form words. He stopped. Completely. The emptiness was worse than pain.
“Who?” he repeated, raising his head. His lips glistened, swollen, red.
“You…” you whispered, ashamed, blush rising up your neck.
Satisfied, he lowered again. But this time it was slower, torturous. Every time you felt the orgasm close —the tickle rising up your thighs, the heat tightening your lower belly—, he pulled back. One finger less. A softer lick. A kiss on the inner thigh that made you gasp.
“No” he said for the third time, when your thighs started trembling uncontrollably. “Not yet.”
He sat up, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, the wet sound echoing in the silence. His cock brushed your entrance, hot, heavy, the vein pulsing against your sensitive skin, but he didn't enter.
“Do you want me to stop?” he asked, voice low, almost serious, eyes fixed on yours.
You shook your head, glassy eyes, tears of frustration stinging the corners.
“Fuck me” you whispered, so low it was almost inaudible, the sound lost in the beat of your own heart.
He smiled. And thrust. In one single push, to the hilt. The stretch was immediate, burning, a pleasurable pain that tore a muffled scream from you against his shoulder. He started moving, slow at first, each thrust a deep brush that made you feel every inch, then faster, deeper. The headboard hit the wall with a brutal rhythm, the sound mixing with the wet slap of skin against skin.
“Are you going to delete me again?” he asked through teeth, one hand on your throat, without squeezing, just there, thumb brushing your racing pulse.
“No…” you moaned, nails digging into his back, leaving red furrows.
“No… I don't know…” you admitted, voice broken by a sob.
Nam-gyu let out a short snort, almost a bitter laugh, and stopped again, completely inside, still. The heat of his body enveloped you, sweat dripping from his temple onto your chest.
“Do you think you can decide for both of us?” he asked, voice low, dangerous, hot breath against your cheek. “That you can turn me off like a fucking switch?”
You moaned, hips rising on their own, seeking friction.
“Just what?” He stopped again, the cruel emptiness. “Did you want me to run after you? To beg you?”
“No” you answered quickly, nails digging deeper. “I just wanted you to… care.”
He stayed still a second. Then he leaned in, his hot breath against your ear, the smell of tobacco and desire enveloping you.
“And you think I don't care?” he whispered, voice hoarse, almost a growl. “That I can fuck anyone and forget you?”
You didn't answer. You couldn't. He started moving again, faster, deeper. Each thrust was a question without answer. Each moan, a confession.
“Tell me” he growled, one hand lowering between your bodies, brushing your clit with his thumb, cruel circles that made you arch your back. “Who else makes you scream like this?”
“Nobody…” you moaned, the pleasure hurt, the pleasure was everything.
He smiled, but it wasn't a happy smile. It was something darker, rawer.
“Then why the fuck are you trying to leave?”
You tried to answer, but he sped up, stealing your breath. The headboard hit the wall with a brutal rhythm. Your nails dug into his back. The pleasure hurt. The pleasure was everything.
“No… don't leave” he said at last, voice broken, almost a plea. “Not this time.”
And he kept fucking you. Harder. More desperate.
The mattress creaked under his weight, a metallic moan that mixed with the wet slap of his hips against yours. Each thrust pushed you higher up the bed, the sheet wrinkling under your shoulder blades. The air smelled of sex, of salty sweat, of the skin of his neck when you buried your face there.
Your eyelids grew heavy, falling like lead curtains. The tickle started at the base of your spine, an electric current that rose, rose, coiled in your belly and exploded in the core. Your walls contracted around him, a hot, tight pulse that made him growl against your ear.
“Fuck…” he hissed, and let go.
You felt the first hot spurt, deep, flooding you. Then another. And another. The heat spread, liquid, thick, marking you inside. Nam-gyu gave three more thrusts, slow, almost lazy, as if he wanted to squeeze out every drop of pleasure, before collapsing on you. His weight crushed you against the mattress, his burning breath on your neck, hearts beating in unison.
They stayed like that, connected, sweat gluing their chests. The silence was dense, only broken by ragged breaths. Then he pulled out slowly; the brush was a soft lash, a gasp that escaped you without permission. The emptiness was immediate, cold, but his semen still hot dripped between your thighs.
He fell to your side with an exhausted sigh. Without getting up, he stretched his arm to the jacket thrown on the floor, took out a cigarette and lit it with a click of the lighter. The smoke rose in lazy spirals, pungent, mixing with the smell of sex.
He stared at the ceiling, the orange glow of the cigarette illuminating his sharp features. Then he turned his head. He observed you in silence: the soft profile, the parted lips swollen from kisses, the long lashes brushing the cheeks, the chest rising and falling with each trembling inhalation.
“Come here” he said, voice hoarse, the cigarette between his teeth.
He took you by the waist with one hand, firm but not rough, and dragged you over him. Your breasts pressed against his torso, the skin still hot and sticky. His free hand traced invisible lines down your back, from the nape to the base of the spine, a slow brush that goosebumped your skin.
“Add me back to your contacts.”
“Now?” you looked at him, eyes curious, voice barely a whisper.
He was going to say yes, but the word got stuck. He wanted to stay.
“Later” he murmured at last, taking the cigarette from his mouth and offering it to you. You shook your head; he shrugged and brought it back to his lips.
The silence settled, comfortable for the first time. You rested your cheek on his shoulder, closed your eyes. You felt the beat of his heart under your ear, the brush of his fingers drawing lazy circles on your back, the smoke rising in wisps that smelled of tobacco and him.
“Don't do stupid things like that again…” he said suddenly, voice low, almost a whisper. “Or I swear I won't have mercy.”
You nodded. He didn't see it, but felt the slight movement of your head against his shoulder.
The phone vibrated somewhere on the floor. A message from the club. He ignored it. For the first time in weeks, he didn't feel like moving.
Tomorrow everything would hurt.
But now, you just wanted to stay there, wrapped in his heat, listening to his breathing calm little by little.
