dorkszn - Tumblr blog

dorkszn · 12 days ago

Text

Wrong Name

✦ oneshot

Reader x Nam-gyu | 18+ MDNI

cw: enemies-to-fuckers tension, sharp knifeplay, gunplay, bratty reader, bratty Namgyu, threats, wall pinning, mutual hatred/attraction, knife to throat, gun to crotch, explicit smut (aggressive), blood kink (light cut), dangerous power play, hatefucking, choking, semi-public tension, semi-con roleplay

⸻

You and Namgyu are not players.

You’re dressed like one, sure.

Patched up with the same numbered tracksuit, same fake fear, same mandatory trembling before cameras—but you’re not like the rest of them. Neither is he.

Both of you are inside for one reason only: to sniff out traitors for the Front Man. You’re informants. Wolves in polyester.

Too bad you hate his guts.

“Didn’t think Namsu was such a morning person,” you drawl as you walk past him in the corridor, your voice low, mocking, venom-laced and smug.

You don’t even turn around—you don’t have to. You feel him go still behind you, like a dog leashed too tight. Like a match waiting for friction.

He’s been snapping for days now. Ever since the guards planted you as a pair and told you to “cooperate.”

Namgyu doesn’t cooperate. He controls.

You exist to fuck that up.

You find an isolated corner in the back of the facility. Metal beams. Cold tile. No one passing through for hours. And you lean against the wall, waiting for him like it’s your game.

He finds you with fury in his eyes and blood already in his mouth.

“You call me that name one more fucking time,” he warns through clenched teeth, “and I swear to God—”

“What?” you coo. “Namsu? What will you do, stab me?”

He doesn’t give you time to grin.

He lunges.

One second you’re standing—next thing, your spine cracks against the wall, knocked back by the weight of his chest and the press of his forearm pinning you by the throat. His other hand is already up, knife drawn, blade so close you feel the sting of its edge at your skin.

“Say it again,” he growls. “See how much I fucking care about the Front Man watching.”

Blood beads at your neck. You don’t flinch.

Your hand slips into your waistband and pulls.

Small click.

The barrel of your pistol presses up, right under his zipper.

“Think twice, boy,” you purr, chin tilted up, lips brushing his. “Or I shoot your dick off.”

He laughs a low, broken thing, because you both know neither of you are bluffing. The tension between your thighs is unbearable now. This is your game.

“I fucking knew it,” you whisper, cocking your pistol, just enough pressure to feel him twitch under it. “I knew you get off on this.”

He growls, knife digging just a little more into your skin. “You think holding a gun to my cock makes you tough, princess?”

“I think it makes you hard.”

You’re both breathing like animals.

You feel him shift—lower—closer. And then he kisses you.

Not sweet. Not even angry. It’s violent—all teeth, spit, and dominance as his tongue pushes into your mouth, forcing a whimper out of your throat as his thigh wedges between your legs.

The knife drops to the floor.

His hand grabs your jaw. Forces your face up. The other yanks your pants down like he’s not even thinking—just moving on instinct, as if hating you was just foreplay for how badly he wants to fuck you.

“You think I won’t do it right here?” he hisses into your ear. “You think I care if the cameras see?”

“You care if I scream the wrong name while you’re inside me?”

He growls again, slaps your ass, then shoves your panties aside and pushes two fingers in, wet, hot and mean. You gasp, back arching into the wall, gun still tight in your hand against his cock.

He pulls them out and smears the slick on your lips.

“Taste how badly you want it, brat.”

„Delicious.“ you whisper.

He doesn’t fuck you gently.

He takes you with teeth gritted, his hand over your mouth so you don’t blow the whole op with how loud you’re moaning for him—how you bite his shoulder, how you claw at his back, how you still, still, have the gun to his cock as you clench around him.

“Say it,” he pants into your throat. “Say my fucking name.”

“Namsu—” you laugh.

He chokes you. You come. So does he.

Fucking mess of it. Raw. Wild. Too far gone to stop now.

After a long moment of panting silence, still inside you, he chuckles low against your skin.

“You ever call me that again,” he says, “I’ll fuck you with the knife in next time.”

You slide the gun up his torso slowly.

And smirk. “…Can’t wait.”

At night the guards yank you and Namgyu out of the sleeping hall in the middle of the night. No words. Just that silent, gloved grip on your arms, guiding you through dim corridors with rifles slung low and tension thick enough to suffocate on.

You don’t ask where you’re going. You know.

Namgyu’s behind you. You can feel his smug heat against your back.

The office doors open.

The room is sterile. Cold metal. Screens lit with quiet surveillance feeds. The Front Man stands like a monolith in front of one monitor, hands clasped behind his back like a judge before sentencing.

“I want to show you something.”

Your stomach flips. You grin anyway.

He hits play. And there you are. Both of you.

Pinned against a wall. Pistol to crotch. Knife to throat. Grinding. Groaning. Fucking.

In grainy black and white, full view.

Your own moan echoes faintly from the speakers.

Namgyu hums behind you, pleased. The smug little shit is grinning. You cough into your sleeve to hide your laugh.

The Front Man turns. Slowly.

“Spicy,” he says flatly. “Very spicy. Pornhub would pay a decent cut.”

You snort into your jacket sleeve.

He takes a single step closer. “But you’re not here to fuck.”

The laughter dies.

“You’re not here to play games with each other. You’re not here to get your rocks off, or test whose weapon is bigger—”

He flicks a sharp glance at your waistband. “—or harder.”

Namgyu’s grin gets wider.

“You were brought here because you’re two of the best kill-machines we’ve got. Reliable. Disposable. Efficient.”

A pause. “Not fucking pornstars.”

Silence. His voice drops. Disappointment laced with steel.

“Do you know what happens when the wolves start fucking in front of the sheep?”

No one answers.

“They stop being afraid.”

Another pause. You glance at Namgyu. He winks at you.

The Front Man turns back to the screen, presses a button, and the feed cuts to black. He breathes in deep through the mask, and when he speaks again, it’s the final word:

“Hide and seek. Tomorrow. Room 23 to sublevel 3. No witnesses. No mercy. I want blood.”

Your pulse skips.

Namgyu’s already cracking his knuckles. “Can I still fuck her if I win?”

You elbow him, hard. “Can I fuck him if I win?”

The Front Man doesn’t react. He just walks past you, slow and cold and dismissive, like you’re already corpses.

“Dismissed.”

You both leave grinning.

You walk in silence for a while. Without anyone, because you already know the way.

Fluorescent lights buzz overhead. The halls echo with your steps, everything too sterile, too controlled—except for the heat still simmering under your skin from being exposed. Watched. Shamed. Ordered to bleed each other out tomorrow like it’s just another training drill.

Namgyu whistles low, casual like the bastard he is, hands in his pockets.

You stop walking. “Namsu.”

He halts like someone just yanked his collar, then turns with the slowest, most exaggerated eye-roll you’ve ever seen.

“Are you actually trying to die tonight?”

You smirk. Step back into the shadow of a doorway—the one marked TOILET in fading red paint. Lean against it like it’s your throne.

“Wait for me.”

He stares for a second too long. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

He smirks back. Doesn’t say yes. Doesn’t say no.

He just leans against the opposite wall like he owns the place, crosses his arms, legs casually propped, and lets his eyes drag up and down your body.

“I’ll wait,” he says finally. “Better hurry, princess. Might get bored and start fingering my knife again.”

You step inside, grinning. You both know this war isn’t over. Tomorrow’s hide and seek might end with a body bag. Might end with another round against a cold wall.

Might end with both. And the worst part? You’d enjoy either.

You rinse your hands slowly, eyes locked on the warped mirror, smirking at your own reflection. Your throat still has a faint mark from the knife. It’s already clotting. Already fading.

Just like your patience.

You step out of the bathroom, quiet, casual—then flick a few cold drops of water right into Namgyu’s face as you pass.

He flinches. Blinks. “Did you just—?”

You’re already walking, chuckling under your breath.

He doesn’t call your name. Doesn’t threaten. Doesn’t warn.

He just moves.

Before you reach the hallway door, his hand grabs your shoulder and slams you into the nearest wall. Your back hits hard, sharp gasp punched from your lungs—his body flush against yours again in seconds.

“You fucking little menace,” he growls against your mouth, breath hot, chest heaving, eyes wild. “You can’t help yourself, can you?”

You grin, panting.

“Yeah?”

You tilt your chin up, teeth bared. “Stop then.”

He doesn’t.

His lips crash into yours like he’s punishing you for breathing. Tongue pushing past your teeth, one hand gripping your jaw, the other already sliding under your waistband like he’s claiming territory. You moan into his mouth, open wide and shameless, fingers tangling in his hair.

There’s nothing gentle about it.

He bites your bottom lip. You tug his zipper. It’s a standoff disguised as a kiss, all teeth and tongue and fury you never learned how to aim properly.

You grind your hips up against his thigh.

“You gonna fuck me again before the murder game or after?”

He breaks the kiss just to press his forehead to yours, panting.

“…During.”

Your laugh stutters out of you. He kisses it away. You both know this ends badly. But for now It tastes so good.

The lights dimmed hours ago, but you’re still awake, curled into the farthest corner of Namgyu’s bed where the camera doesn’t quite reach. His arm is slung lazily over your waist, face half-buried in your hair like he’s not the same guy who almost slit your throat two nights ago.

He’s breathing steady. Warm.

You whisper into the dark, smugly: “Night, Namsu.”

His fingers twitch at your wrist.

Tighten.

“Stop that.” It’s not growled. It’s muttered, sleep-heavy, like he can’t be bothered to sound threatening—but you feel it. The warning curled in the softness.

You smile into his chest anyway and fall asleep.

The next morning, the overhead lights explode to life with a mechanical buzz.

Namgyu groans.

And you, wide awake and grinning like the menace you are, kick him.

Right out of the bed.

“Oh my god—fuck you—” he snarls, tangled in his blanket like a strangled cat, one leg still half on the mattress.

You hum, bouncing to your feet and skipping off to the center of the hall where the other players are gathering like groggy cattle. “You’re welcome for the wake-up, Namsu~”

He spits your name like a curse under his breath.

When the color assignments appear on the screen—two teams: red and blue—you’re marked red instantly.

Namgyu? He’s blue.

You smirk, smug as ever. Until he shows up behind you two minutes later, blue tag already swapped for red, standing way too close.

You don’t even turn your head.

“You didn’t need to trade, little bitch,” you mutter, voice low, sweet, venom-laced.

His breath hits your ear. His voice drops.

“I’ll fuck you either way. Blue or red doesn’t matter, baby.”

You don’t answer. You just kick backward. Hard. Right into his shin.

He chokes. “Fuck—!”

You turn, eyes fluttering innocently. “Oops. Reflex.”

He’s clutching his leg, laughing through the pain like he wants to wring your neck and bend you over at the same time.

The guards blow the whistle.

It’s Hide and Seek time.

And you already know—only one of you’s walking away from this game without limp, bruises, or bite marks.

But neither of you plan on backing down.

The game is fucking wild.

Screams echo through the metal halls. The timer’s ticking loud as a heartbeat. Red team hunts blue team. Blue team hunts red.

You and Namgyu split paths early. Neither of you needs backup. You’re not partners—you’re killers on a leash. And today, the leash is off.

You’re fast. Precise. Ruthless.

Bullet to the jaw. Knife to the ribs. Choke. Snap. Wipe your blade. Move on.

One player begs. Another tries to strike a deal. You end both with the same cold indifference.

Namgyu, though?

He’s laughing. Like a man dancing through hell. Blood on his hands, on his face, shirt ripped open. He kills with joy. With flare. With style.

And then you cross paths.

Same hallway. Same target. You’ve just slit someone’s throat when he turns the corner, panting, knife dripping.

He whistles low, eyes dragging over you like you’re not soaked in gore.

“Heeellooo,” he grins in a really high pitched voice. “You look so good when you’re full of other people’s blood.”

You smear red off your cheek with the back of your hand, expression blank—except for the heat in your eyes.

“Yeah, I can tell.”

His cock’s already hard. You can see it through the fabric. Bloodlust and arousal mixed into one sick, hungry thing.

You mutter, low and dark: “You are such a sick bastard. Goddamn.”

He just licks his lips. You ignore him—for now.

You stalk forward into the next room, boots tracking bloody footprints. There’s someone hiding behind a crate.

Not for long. You grab him from behind—twist—crack. Dead before he hits the ground. Namgyu stares, eyes wide, stunned.

“Holy shit. I didn’t know you could do that.”

You stand over the body, slow, calm. Then turn. And back him into the wall.

“You know what else I can do?” you purr, hand already sliding down, fingers curling right around his cock through his pants—hot, hard, twitching against your palm.

You squeeze. “Make your mind explode.”

He lets out this broken, fucked-up chuckle, head tipping back, fully getting off on the violence, on you, on this sick cocktail of death and lust.

Then— The speaker crackles to life above you.

Your name. Sharp. Cold. Familiar.

The Front Man’s voice, again, like a disappointed fucking dad.

“[Y/N].”

You sigh. Roll your eyes.

Turn to the camera slowly, fingers still wrapped around Namgyu’s dick.

Then you smirk, lips parted.

“I can also suck him off, if you’d like that better.”

Silence from the speaker.

Namgyu wheezes out a laugh, forehead hitting your shoulder.

Another body stumbles into the room—bad timing, worse luck.

Namgyu doesn’t even blink. He launches. Stabs once. Twice. Keeps going. Straddling the corpse, soaked in blood, laughing like he’s high on it.

You stare, unimpressed. “Namgyu. You can stop. He’s already dead.”

He looks up, eyes wild and glittering. Then—he freezes. Staring at you. “You… you said it right.”

You blink. He grins.

“…You totally wanna suck me off.”

You kick his leg. “Shut up.”

And he laughs, mouth full of blood, chest heaving.

You don’t know what’s worse—

The fact that he’s insane. Or that you’re into it.

Namgyu’s still straddling the twitching corpse like it’s a goddamn throne, red slicking down his arms, breath coming in short bursts—giddy, insane, hard. He drags his fingers through the blood pooled beneath the man’s chest and wipes it lazily on his pants, like it’s war paint.

You’re standing over him, hand still damp from where you just touched him, chest rising and falling with unspent adrenaline and sickening arousal.

“You said my name,” he mutters again, like it’s the only thing that matters. You roll your eyes. “Yeah, and I regret it now. Go back to Namsu, freak.”

He laughs—a full-body laugh, spine curling like you just flirted with him instead of insulted him.

Then, in one stupid, fluid motion, he stands, towering over you again, chest to chest, body thrumming with blood and something way darker. He leans down, knife still in one hand.

“You know what your voice did to me when you said it?” he murmurs, brushing his lips over your jaw. “Could’ve come right there.”

You scoff, but your body shudders at how close he is.

He’s fucking feral.

“I could gut you right now,” he hums, sliding the flat of the blade across your stomach, not cutting—yet—but enough to make your whole body tighten. “Then fuck your mouth with my dying breath.”

You let out a sharp breath—half a laugh, half a warning. “You are so fucked in the head.”

You grab his jaw. Push his face back with your palm, but your thumb brushes the corner of his mouth, smearing blood into it—and his tongue comes out, licking it off like it’s candy.

You’re soaked. You hate him. You want him. You want to ruin him. You want to slice his throat.

“You’re obsessed with me,” you mutter, stepping back—just to keep from throwing yourself at him. “You’d die if I stopped looking at you.”

“Babe,” he growls, following you like a shadow, “I’d kill everyone else just to keep your eyes on me.”

Then the buzzer blasts through the room—sharp, mechanical.

A voice: “Final five minutes. Clean up. Prepare for next phase.”

Namgyu’s nose brushes yours, breath thick and hot. “You gonna suck me off or make me bleed?” he asks, like either is fine with him.

You smile. “…Why not both?”

You walk out, leaving a trail of blood and tension behind you. He follows. Of course he does. Like a killer dog with a hard-on and your name in his mouth.

You’re halfway out the door when you hear the grunt behind you.

Not Namgyu’s usual cocky breathless laughter. Not a stupid comment. Not a whistle.

A sound you’ve never heard from him before.

Pain. You spin around.

He’s clutching his side, body twisting, eyes wide as blood spills hot between his fingers. A jagged piece of metal’s sticking out from just under his ribs. Some asshole behind him—desperate, stupid, too late—thought he’d earn a second chance.

But Namgyu’s not the one they should’ve feared.

You don’t hesitate. Not even for a second.

You draw your pistol. Silencer. One clean bullet to the skull.

The attacker drops mid-motion. Crumples like garbage.

Namgyu blinks, slumps to the floor with a pained exhale, fingers still pressed to the gash.

“Damn,” you mutter, approaching calmly, gun already holstered. “That’s what I call karma, Namsu.”

He groans through gritted teeth, one eye squeezed shut. “Fuck you.”

You crouch beside him and grab the hem of your shirt.

Without a word, you rip it—dragging it up over your stomach, letting the cold air bite at your skin, then tearing a long strip clean from the fabric.

“Let me see.”

He moves his hand with a wince. The gash is deep. Ugly. Bleeding too fast. You wrap the cloth tight around him, fast and practiced, pressing in.

His eyes flick up to your bare stomach as your hands work. Despite the agony, his mouth tugs into a weak grin.

“You look so hot right now.”

You snort. Shake your head. “Yeah?”

His lids flutter. Pupils start to slide. Too much blood.

You smile sweetly—then SLAP the absolute shit out of him.

His head snaps to the side.

“FUCK—!” he wheezes. “What the—”

“Stay with me,” you bark. “I’m not dragging your sexy, unstable ass to the exit.”

He stares at you, dazed, breathing hard—but awake now.

You loop his arm over your shoulders and haul him up, steadying him even as he groans through clenched teeth.

“Jesus,” he mutters, limping beside you, “you really like hitting me.”

“You really like getting stabbed. So I think we’re even.”

You guide him through the lower exit corridor—underground, where the guards wait to extract injured “players” for treatment. One of the elite perks of being Front Man’s favorite little psychopaths.

You get to the gate. You shove him toward the medics, still holding pressure on the wound. He grabs your wrist before they pull him away. Blood’s on his lips now, but he still grins.

“You’re fucking mine when I get out.”

You lean down, brush your mouth against his ear.

“You’re gonna have to catch me first, baby.”

They pull him in. You turn. Grab your gun. And walk straight back into the halls.

Three red-team members. Two guards. One traitor.

You kill them all. Effortless. Efficient. Smile still on your lips. Because Namgyu bleeding out wasn’t a weakness.

It was a promise. And you always keep yours.

“Player 124 eliminated.”

The mechanical voice rings out through the facility. Unbothered. Cold.

You stare at the empty hallway.

“Great,” you mutter, still catching your breath, blood dripping from your elbow. “Now he’s not even a Player anymore.”

You’re soaked. Filthy. Bits of someone else’s flesh dried under your nails.

But no one stops you as you stagger back into the main dormitory. They all move away, eyes wide, whispers crawling behind your steps.

You don’t speak.

You climb into your bunk—alone now, the one beside it empty—and pass out, still smeared with blood and a smile tugging at your mouth.

Two days later. Morning.

You’re sitting at the table, barely awake, idly spinning your spoon. The air feels heavier today. The tension, strange.

Heavy boots. Guards entering. Four of them. Two flank the wall.

One walks straight toward you.

You don’t look up. You already know who that bastard is.

Something about the walk. The height. The aura of smug instability in every step. That little sway of the hips, like he wants to be touched or punched.

He comes up behind you and shoves you forward, just enough to knock your tray. Your hand catches the edge. You don’t flinch.

You whisper, dry and dangerous:

“I will gut you with this fork.”

A pause. Voice low under the mask.

“Try me then.”

You lunge. Fork raised. Motion fluid. Not even pretending to aim for anything safe.

None of the other guards move. No warnings. No shouts.

Because they know. They know it’s you. They know it’s him.

He grabs your arm mid-air. Twists. Slams your back to the floor in one smooth move, straddling your hips like a handler breaking a wild dog.

The mask leans down. “You come with me.”

You pant beneath him, smile curling slow on your face.

You don’t fight back.

You just breathe out, almost a purr: “…Took you long enough, Namsu.”

His fingers tighten around your wrist.

You’re not afraid. You’re awake. And everyone in that room knows—when he drags you out of there?

It’s not punishment.

It’s foreplay.

He doesn’t take you to a cell. Or a locked room. Or anywhere reasonable.

He drags you through the back corridors like you’re a sack of sin he can’t wait to rip open. You’re still in your uniform—filthy, bloodstained, hair wild from the floor scuffle. He walks like he’s restraining himself by seconds.

You stumble once.

He yanks you back upright, hand gripping your wrist too tight—you feel your pulse slam against bone.

“Getting tired already?” he growls behind the mask.

You smirk, not missing a beat.

“Just hoping you’ll trip and fall face first into my pussy.”

He makes a sound—deep and broken and animal.

The second the last corner turns, he throws you against the wall. Metal slams against your spine, and his body cages you in. The mask stays on, but you feel his mouth against your jaw, panting. Tasting you through it.

“You little fucking menace,” he hisses, pulling the mask up just enough to bare his teeth, lips dragging over your throat.

You reach down and palm his cock through the uniform. Already hard. Already twitching.

“You came to breakfast like this?” you whisper. “What, couldn’t stop thinking about how I looked killing for you?”

He grabs your jaw. Forces your head back. Bites at your throat with his teeth just shy of breaking skin.

“You belong on your knees,” he snarls.

“Then put me there.”

He does. Hard. You drop like he summoned you, knees bruising on the metal floor, hands already clawing at his belt. He pulls the mask off completely now, throws it, like it’s in the way. You look up, eyes wide, lips parted.

“You’re fucking mine,” he growls.

You take him into your mouth without mercy. Sloppy. No teasing. Just need and rage and filthy fucking devotion.

His hand curls in your hair, forces your head down, and you gag beautifully around him—eyes watering, drool dripping, nose brushing his pelvis as he moans like he’s choking on his own ego.

You come up for air, gasping, spit shining your chin.

He pulls you up roughly by your collar.

You’re laughing—unhinged.

He shoves your pants down. Fingers between your legs. Two go in, fast and deep. You cry out, slapping your hand against the wall to brace yourself.

“So wet already.”

“Maybe I get off on violence,” you pant.

He pulls his fingers out and licks them.

“I know you do.”

Then he spins you around—shoves your chest to the wall, one hand on your neck, cock dragging through your folds until you scream through your teeth.

“Beg.”

You spit on the floor. He slams into you.

You shout his name. The right one this time. Over and over. His hand comes up and chokes you while he pounds you into the wall like he’s trying to break something. Your spine arches. Legs shake. Every thrust makes the wall rattle.

You can feel how wrecked you are—how soaked. How loud the sounds are in the empty corridor.

“You gonna cry for me, baby?” he pants. “You gonna scream loud enough for the cameras?”

“I’m gonna fucking bite you,” you gasp.

He laughs like a man who’s already lost his mind.

“Then do it.”

You twist back sink your teeth into his shoulder, dragging a scream from his mouth as he fucks you harder, deeper, like he wants to bury himself in you. He reaches around, rubbing your clit in fast, rough circles.

You break apart on him like an explosion.

He comes after you—spilling deep, moaning your name like a curse.

You both stay like that. Shaking. Shuddering. Smeared in blood and sweat.

His lips brush your ear.

“…You’re not sleeping alone tonight.”

You grin through your panting. “Damn right I’m not.”

The hallway reeks of blood and sweat and sex.

You’re both still half-dressed, panting against each other like you’ve just survived a war—because you have. You are the war.

Namgyu tugs your pants back up with one hand, the other still slick from touching you. His cock’s still out, twitching, and the knife? It never left his waistband. Still snug against his hip like a second cock he could pull at any moment.

“Shower,” he mutters, breath still ragged. “Now.”

“Why?” you tease, voice raspy, smirking. “You trying to get sweet on me?”

He grabs your arm. Pulls you with him. “No,” he says, then adds with a filthy little grin, “Trying to get round two.”

The staff showers are cold steel and concrete. Empty at this hour. You don’t even look around. He shoves you into the tiled wall the second the door closes behind him.

You start to peel off your shirt—what’s left of it—but he beats you to it. Grabs the collar and rips, exposing your chest, your throat, the marks he’s already left like badges.

He kisses down your collarbone. Hard. Sucking bruises like a bastard starved.

“Fucking look at you,” he breathes against your skin. “You’re disgusting. You’re perfect.”

Your nails scrape down his back.

“You still have your fucking knife in your pants.”

He groans, forehead against yours. “Don’t worry. I’m not using it. Unless you want me to.”

You yank his waistband, shove it off.

“Just fuck me again.” He doesn’t need more.

The water starts cold. You both gasp. Then it turns hot—steam rising, sweat and blood and dirt pooling around your feet. He washes you with one hand, touches you with the other.

His fingers trail over your ribs, your hips, your thighs.

“Mine,” he mutters, gripping your ass.

You smirk.

“You always say that after you come.”

He flips you around. Shoves his knee between your legs, spreading them.

“You’re gonna say it too,” he growls, rutting against you, cock hard again—already.

You reach behind, stroke him once, then guide him in. He slides in slow this time, but it’s no less brutal. No less deep.

The knife clinks against the tiles as he thrusts. It stays in the waistband of his pants around his thighs. Right where it belongs. His hands grip your hips like handles, dragging you back onto him as the shower pours down your face, your open mouth, your trembling body.

“Say it,” he pants. “Say who you fucking belong to.”

You lean your head back against his shoulder, lips parted, moaning. “Yours.”

He bites your neck. You scream. He fucks you through it, chasing every sound, every tremble, every slick pulse of your body around his cock. It’s dizzying—hot water, hot breath, too much and not enough.

You both finish again. Messier. Needier.

He doesn’t pull out for a long time. Instead, he wraps both arms around you from behind. Still inside you. Still twitching.

You both just stand there. Breathing. Letting the water rinse the filth off your skin—just not the obsession. Never that.

Finally, you speak. Quiet. Close to his ear.

“…So what do we tell the Front Man?”

Namgyu smirks against your soaked shoulder.

“We tell him I slipped.”

You step out of the showers with your hair dripping, Namgyu beside you, still adjusting the towel around his waist like he owns the entire facility. Water clings to both of you—rivulets running down bruises, half-healed cuts, hickeys bitten into skin like war medals.

You’re sore. Satisfied. Still vibrating with the aftershock of round two.

The hallway’s quiet. Too quiet.

And then— There he is.

At the end of the corridor. No mask.

Front Man. Arms crossed. Jaw clenched.

Expression pure dad who just found the kids humping in the garage with gasoline and fireworks.

You stop. Namgyu stops.

Front Man says nothing for a moment. Just stares. Then lifts both hands in utter disbelief.

“Are you two for real?!”

You and Namgyu look at each other— And burst into laughter.

Loud. Broken. Feral. Soaked in steam and shamelessness.

“Stop laughing!” he snaps, pacing closer now, hand raking down his face like he’s going to lose whatever sanity he has left. “You two are the most psychotic liabilities I’ve ever fucking hired.”

You bite your lip, trying to rein it in. Failing. “Boss, there’s like ten people left. I’ll execute them myself.”

Namgyu, towel slung low on his hips, grins like the devil. “Yeah, and then we’ll celebrate with round three in the control room—”

You elbow him directly in the stab wound. Hard.

“FUCK—” he drops to his knees, clutching his side. “I was joking! Holy—what the hell—!”

You crouch beside him, pat his cheek with mock concern. “Yeah, you can fuck with it but stop running your mouth.”

He groans, forehead to the floor, mumbling something about pain and blowjobs and betrayal.

You stand, stretch, smirk.

The Front Man just stands there, arms out like a man begging for divine mercy.

“What the fuck?” he mutters to the air. “Seriously. What the actual fuck?”

You wink. Namgyu wheezes from the floor.

“I swear to god,” Front Man snaps, pointing at you both, “you’re banned from the fucking hall. You sleep in the morgue now. Or hang upside down like the little bloodsucking freaks you are.”

You lean against the wall, dripping wet and completely unbothered.

“Cool. As long as we get to share the body bag.”

Namgyu coughs out a laugh. “Split zipper.”

Front Man walks away muttering to himself, already regretting everything. You don’t move. Namgyu’s still on the floor, smirking through the pain.

You reach out your hand. “Come on, stabby. Let’s go ruin something else.”

He takes it. Of course he does.

The staffroom is dim, the door locked behind you.

It smells like antiseptic, stale ramen, and old smoke—probably from Namgyu. There’s one bed shoved into the corner. A metal shelf. Spare towels. Two shitty pillows.

You both smell like soap now. Your hair’s still damp.

Namgyu’s shirt is clinging to his chest, his bandages stained faint red at the side. He’s clearly not okay. The stab wound is still fresh, still tight, but of course—he won’t stop touching you.

One hand traces up your thigh. Light. Lazy.

His other arm’s tucked beneath his head, eyes half-lidded, lip split from laughing too hard earlier.

You’re lying next to him under the single blanket. Neither of you has said goodnight.

Because neither of you are asleep.

His fingers dip under the hem of your waistband.

You grab his wrist gently, still smirking.

“You’re bleeding through your bandage again, freak.”

He grins, eyes closed. “Adrenaline makes me want to fuck you through the pain.”

You snort, pressing your forehead to his shoulder.

“I thought you got off on pain, Namsu.”

He huffs a broken laugh through his nose.

“Only when you’re in it.”