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riboism · 6 months

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vaya con dios

》 c.s x fem. nun! reader

》 wc: 6.7k

》 plot: a strange visitor takes shelter in your nunnery and challenges your beliefs

》 content: religious guilt, religious themes, first-time, pornographer! san, nun! reader, eventual smut, some angst

Tossing and turning for the nth time that night, you finally found comfort in laying on your side with your hands tucked underneath your pillow. You took a deep breath before shutting your eyes, counting sheep in hopes that it’ll help you fall asleep faster, only for you to reach fifteen before your mind wandered again.

It was impossible to sleep after the strange day that you had. You had a visitor. No one really visited the Nunnery. You often joked with your sisters that the Nunnery was your own world, a place so hidden inside the natural world that no one could ever find it. That was until he started knocking on your front door.

Men are not allowed inside the convent. The only time a man would come into your world was when Father Aaron came to visit from time to time, and even then he’d need permission from Mother Reverend to enter her holy space. You couldn’t understand why she agreed to let him stay the night, let alone even grant him access to our quarters— not until she called you into the kitchen and tasked you with bringing him his evening meal.

“Is he a Priest?” You inquired as you prepared his dinner plate. You heard that Father Aaron was nearing his retirement. Maybe this was his replacement.

“No.” She answered with finality, not adding anything further. You hated it when she did that.

“Then who is he? Why is he here? I thought men weren’t allowed in our convent.”

Mother observed as you placed a few fresh berries into the dessert bowl. She liked to make sure that we weren’t giving others too much or too little. She didn’t like waste. “He isn’t, but I had to make an exception. He’s a traveler and he got lost and stumbled onto our doorstep. With how dark the clouds are and how windy it is outside, I figured it was best for him to rest here for the night before moving on with his journey.”

“But he’s a man.” You emphasized. “What if he’s dangerous? It just doesn’t feel right, him showing up at our door in the middle of the night. Where was he going anyway?”

Growing impatient with your constant questioning, Mother set down a heavy glass, the loud thump startling you into silence. “Mind your manners, child! It does not matter if he is a man. God gave him to us to protect, and that is what we’ll do. Now hurry along, he must be starving and it’s almost time for bed.”

Nodding obediently, you ventured off into the closed-off wing of the Nunnery. The room he was staying in was made for women who were interested in joining the sisterhood and devoting their lives to prayer and servitude. Unfortunately, the Nunnery didn’t get many candidates for the past few years so the rooms remained vacant.

The halls here felt colder. You didn’t like being in this part of the building. The Nunnery itself was old, and with that, the building creaked and bellowed from time to time, especially in this wing. The noises would scare you, especially at night, but your Sisters assured you months ago that the next few donations would be used to help reconstruct the weaker parts of the building. Maybe there were still some renovations left to do.

Upon reaching the visitor’s door, you knocked quietly and waited until a voice called for you to enter. You kept your eyes low as you walked in. “Mother asked me to bring you your supper.” You announced quietly, before placing the tray on the side table.

He was sitting on the bed, looking as if he was waiting for you. Your eyes remained at his feet. He still wore his shoes, which looked expensive and hardly worn. Curiosity got the best of you, and you couldn’t stop your eyes from rising from his feet to his shoulders. His shoulders were wide and broad, the suit jacket he wore ill-fitting as if he grew twice his size overnight and didn’t have time to buy a bigger one. You didn’t dare to look up any further.

After a beat of silence, you awkwardly paced backward to exit through the door, not wishing to be around the stranger any longer than you needed to.

“Wait,” he called, softly.

Your body obeyed before your mind did, and you didn’t move another inch. You waited for him to say something. Perhaps he wanted only tea before bed, or maybe he wanted to ask for some fresh sheets since the room hadn’t been dusted in a while. But he didn’t speak any further after that. Growing ill at ease, you let your gaze drift upwards until you finally met his eyes.

You didn’t expect him to look the way that he did. He was young, maybe around your age. You had never seen a man without graying hair and deep sunken eyes before. Most of the men that came to the Nunnery, whether it was Father Aaron or his acquaintances, always looked weak, gray, and brittle. The visitor looked fresh and radiant in comparison, with his sculpted cheekbones, neat eyebrows, and freshly trimmed dark hair. He was beautiful.

And then there was the way that he looked at you. You felt trapped in his peculiar gaze, your cheeks burning up after every second that passed as you two took each other in. His eyes wandered all over you with hunger and curiosity, but upon meeting your wide eyes, his expression quickly softened, his mouth that was once agape with desire now curled up to a friendly and innocent smile.

“What is your name?” He asked. His voice was soft and pretty. It felt like he was trying to lull you to sleep.

“You may call me Sister ____.”

“Sister” He nodded. “Forgive me, I guess I had taken the wrong route and got lost. I’m eternally grateful to you all for offering me shelter in this unpredictable weather. And for this hot meal.” He beamed. “I hope I haven’t caused you any trouble. I understand it’s very late.”

“No, no trouble at all. We are glad that you are inside and safe instead of out there in the storm.” On queue, a flash of lightning illuminated the walls, and a dull crack of thunder followed shortly. The sounds of crashing thunder and the strangeness of the visitor had you uneasy, and you knew it was best for you to leave the room right away. Mother wouldn’t be too happy to hear that you were lingering in the room alone with him, engaging in mindless conversation at the odd hours of the night. But despite your efforts to bow your head and inch towards the door, the visitor didn’t seem to acknowledge your rush.

“It’s a shame…” He said faintly.

“What is?”

“That you have to hide yourself with all that garb. You’re very pretty.” His eyes lingered over your chest as if he was trying to outline what your figure looked like underneath. Full chest, thick thighs, slender legs, narrow waist, or wide hips, he couldn’t tell, but he liked that he didn’t know. A uniform made to hide the essence of a woman, to protect them from perverted and hungry eyes like his, ended up doing the opposite.

Sensing your offense, the visitor rushed to apologize before you could utter a remark. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you, Sister. I work in entertainment. I go around and meet with decently looking women all the time for photoshoots and whatnot. That’s actually where I was headed now, to meet with a few women about an upcoming fashion magazine shoot. I didn’t mean to be so blunt. I guess nuns and religion and all that stuff…” He peered over to the wall that was decorated with a sole golden cross and then sheepishly looked back at you. “...Make me nervous.”

Part of you felt he wasn’t telling the truth. You weren’t sure how to take him. There was something off about him, how he shifted from kind and unassuming to something that lacked innocence. You had a feeling that he wasn’t telling the truth.

Ignoring his strange comments, you quietly bid him goodnight and then rushed off to your room.

You wished so badly to drift off to sleep and forget about this strange encounter, but the visitor preoccupied your mind. Did he really handpick women for prestigious fashion editorials? Did he mean it when he said you’re pretty?

No one had ever called you pretty and you honestly didn’t know how to take it. Vanity wasn’t something the sisterhood was concerned with. It was blasphemous for him to speak to you in such a manner anyway, but why did you kind of like it?

Pretty. You. Pretty.

Coming from someone who looked like him, it felt like a high honor. He was handsome, there was no doubt about it. He’s probably surrounded by beautiful women all the time. And he called you pretty.

You. Pretty.

God has a lot to say about those who let their vanity get the best of them, so you decided to brush away those thoughts and say a little prayer. Even as you prayed for forgiveness, you couldn’t help but crack a small smile.

―

The skies were even more aggravated the next day. You were a little bummed that the trip to the orphanage was canceled due to strict stay-at-home orders, so you spent the rest of the day knitting gloves and hats for the children.

“Ouch!” You yelped, sucking on your pricked finger. This was the fourth time you pricked yourself tonight. You couldn’t stay focused on your task. Your thoughts were all about him. You had contemplated all day about going over to his room and apologizing for the way you left so abruptly. You didn’t want him to think you were being rude. After all, there’s no harm done with giving compliments, is there?

You wondered what he was doing right now. He was probably bored all alone in his room. Mother took it upon herself to deliver him his morning and afternoon meals, so you didn’t have a reason to see him. She didn’t seem to want the other Sisters to greet the man. Perhaps your initial apprehensiveness had gotten to her and she changed her mind about you going into his room. What if she knew you were in his room for a while? What if she heard you two talking? The sudden heaviness in your stomach made you set aside your knitting needles.

Even so, you had a strong urge to see him one more time. Who knows? Maybe the weather will clear up tomorrow and he’ll leave without you getting a chance to say something about that night. It was giving you a headache, how much you thought about him. Was such a brief conversation, yet he lived in your mind like he owned it. You couldn’t forget about those sharp cheekbones, his sweet talking voice, and that almost sinful way that he looked at you.

The desire to see him again was too hard to ignore, so without hesitation, you sprung up on your feet and headed down to the kitchen to ask Mother Reverend if you could give the visitor his dinner tonight. She was appalled at your sudden initiative, but considering how her knees were bothering her again, she decided it was best if you took the tray up the stairs to his room tonight.

This time when you knocked on his door, it was silent. You knocked again a little louder this time, figuring maybe he didn’t hear you, but to your dismay, there was no answer. Stumped, you lowered the tray. Why he wasn’t answering? Was he asleep? Why would he fall asleep before dinner? Was he sick? Maybe there was no harm in checking in on him, you told yourself as you twisted the door knob and stepped into the room.

He wasn’t here. The bed looked unmade and some of his things were tossed around. The room was littered with cameras and film. He said he worked in the entertainment industry, but he didn’t specify that he was a photographer himself. There were various different types of cameras scattered on the table and some by the windowsill. One of them caught your eye― a gorgeous camera with a wooden frame and a brown leather strap attached, sitting on top of a few magazines. Setting the tray down, you walked over to the windowsill where the pretty camera sat. It looked expensive, decorated with a small graving on the side. C.S. Was that his initials? It hit you that you never got his name.

You noticed some camera film sitting next to the stack of magazines where the camera was placed. You knew it wasn’t right to snoop. It was an invasion of privacy, not to mention that God might be looking down at you and shaking his head. But you couldn’t help it. You wanted to learn more about him, and so you let curiosity get the best of you and now you stood there in the visitor’s room with his film roll in hand. Upon unraveling the roll, you were excited to see beautiful women in next season’s haute couture, but instead, you discovered something completely unexpected.

Suddenly, a voice startled you from behind. “I could get you an advanced copy once it’s printed.”

You gasped, whipping your body around to face the visitor who had just stumbled into his room to a nosey Nun going through his belongings. Your cheeks flamed up, too embarrassed with yourself to even notice that his hair was dripping wet from his shower.

“If you’re interested, that is.” He smiled teasingly. It was clear he didn't mind you snooping around, but you still felt ashamed.

“Oh, no, I-I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean-” In the midst of all the awkwardness, you dropped the roll and it unraveled a few inches until it stopped at the visitor’s feet. He bent down and picked it up, examining his photographs for any scratches or rips as you quivered in place, struggling to find the right words.

“I’m sorry. Are they ruined?” You asked finally.

“They’re okay.” He assured. There was a slight glow on his brow bone and cheeks from the hot shower. The white button-up he wore stuck to his chest, revealing some of his honey skin through its sheer and damp fabric. He noticed you staring. You quickly looked away.

“The women in those pictures…are they-”

“Naked? Yes.”

He spoke as if he had no shame about it. To him, it was as normal as taking photos of a rainbow or a wild deer. You wondered what Mother would think if she found out the man she let sleep in her holy Nunnery took nude photos of women for a pornography magazine. It would give her a heart attack, for sure.

This was hard to take in. You couldn’t explain it, but you felt disappointed. How could someone like him take part in such filthy hobbies? And those women? How could they degrade and humiliate themselves like this? You couldn’t help but pity them, those poor things losing their way and succumbing to promiscuity.

The visitor sensed your disapproval. It wasn’t a surprise, given the circumstances. Still, he felt the need to defend himself.

“I understand you have your beliefs. But I have my own too. You may think it’s ungodly and lustful, but to me, it’s freeing, it’s human…it’s female emancipation.”

“Female emancipation?” You said in disbelief. How are pictures of women with their legs spread open a symbol of female emancipation? Was he mad? From what you saw, it was all sinful desire catered for and by men.

He stepped over to your side of the room, carefully returning the film roll to its case. “Have you ever touched yourself?”

“What?” You held onto the cross that lay on your chest, dumbfounded that he would even think to ask you such a question so bluntly.

He chuckled, “I respect all religions Sister, but there are some parts in the good book that I don’t really agree with.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, what’s the harm in pleasuring ourselves? If we see a beautiful woman or man, why should we feel ashamed for having certain thoughts about them? Humans are sexual beings, why should we feel shame if we are only feeling human emotions and desires? It’s like your God is asking us to not be human, to be something else, and that’s impossible. Isn't this how he created us? That’s why these photos represent freedom. They rip off the chains of sexual repression and free us into our natural state. The women I work with love what they do. They get to let go and embrace their femininity, something your God keeps forcing you to hide.”

He was closer to you now. You could feel his hot breath hitting your forehead. He was riled up now, finally getting all that religious guilt that he’d been holding in for years off of his chest. You stood frozen in place, mouth open but unable to form a reply. He dipped his head down, lips almost brushing against your ear. “Why do we have to feel bad about feeling good, Sister? Do you mean to tell me you never had fantasies? You never wanted to feel another man’s touch so badly that it made you go crazy?”

He had you cornered now. Your breathing got shakier as his eyes locked into yours. He continued. “You’ve had thoughts, haven’t you? Of course, you have. And your God made you feel like there was something wrong with you like you did something unforgivable. Well, that’s just not right. Live so long feeling ashamed, you’re gonna snap.”

That was about all you could take before you pushed him away and took off. Now lying in your bed, you struggled for the second night in a row to go to sleep because your mind was still torturing you with thoughts of the visitor.

His words replayed in your head over and over again. You knew he was wrong. Or maybe, you wanted to believe that he was. You understood his sentiment, but there were some flaws in his beliefs. Shame can be dangerous, yes, but it’s the only thing stopping humans from committing sin. God teaches us restraint, and what he’s doing is completely sacrilegious, running around like a wild animal and giving in to temptations in the name of free will. You wanted to go back, to tell him he was wrong, to alert Mother Reverend of the pornographer currently residing in our quarters so he could be kicked out, but you remained in bed. You prayed tomorrow would be a bright and sunny day so that he may leave and you will never be disturbed by him again.

The clock struck 2, and you turned on your side, still too restless to fall asleep. You remembered the photos that were in your hands. They were so intimate, so close to her body. There was one shot that you couldn’t stop thinking about. She lay topless on a messy and unmade bed, a coy and inviting smile playing on her lips as she held onto her breasts. From the angle, it looked like the photo was taken from on top of her. Your mind raced with images of the visitor straddling over her naked body, hiding his head behind the lenses while she let go of her breasts and unbuckles his pants, never failing to continue smiling for the camera.

The woman looked so happy in the photos, almost as if she felt comfortable around him. What was he like with them? What did he say to get them to put their guard down? Did he touch them after?

Your stomach is crushed with guilt. You shouldn’t be having such lewd thoughts about an ungodly man like this. But why couldn’t you stop? Maybe this is what he meant when he said it was unfair for God to make us feel shame for thinking these things. It’s inevitable. You see it now.

With your will weakened, your mind replayed the moment he cornered you into the wall. The wall felt so cold against your back, but being so close to him made your cheeks scorn. He smelled like fresh pinewood soap. His cheeks were still rosy from the hot shower, and his white shirt was damp and almost translucent. The water from the tips of his strands dripped onto your shoes.

Have you ever touched yourself?

You couldn’t answer him then, but no, you haven’t. You were taught that it was wrong to feel such curiosity about your own body. It was a sin. It’s a sin, you tell yourself as your hands slip into your nightdress. This is wrong, you remind yourself as you start kneading your bare breast, just as the woman in the photos did. Your fingers pinched and pulled at your nipples, the new sensation making you gasp and moan like a wild animal. Out of fear of being heard, you placed a hand over your mouth to mask your sounds. Suddenly, you felt something pooling between your legs. You pressed them shut, feeling a desperate desire for something you’ve never had before. God, what has he done to you?

You were at his door again. Your conscience was screaming at you to go back to your room, to kneel in front of your bed and beg for forgiveness, but you didn’t listen. You were too far gone now. It was a type of craving that you knew wouldn’t go away until you satisfied it. You knocked quietly so as not to wake the others, but loud enough so that he could hear inside. It felt like torture waiting for him to open the door, but once he did, you were met with relief.

He furrowed his brows and whispered, “What are you doing here?”

“I want you to take pictures of me.”

He was stunned by your peculiar request, but even more so at your newfound boldness. “Are you serious? Do you know what you're asking me, Sister?”

He watched you as you freed your hair from its bun, letting your wavy ends hit your shoulders. He studied each wave, his eyes wide like he saw something he wasn’t supposed to see. “I know exactly what I’m asking,” You answered. “Now, can I come in?”

―

You watched him from your spot on the bed as he configured with his camera. His hair was tousled, which you seemed to prefer over his neatly jelled-back hair. His shirt was unbuttoned now, exposing his well-defined chest. His skin looked so soft. You wondered what it would feel like against your fingertips. You prayed he would hurry before you changed your mind.

“Okay. Are you ready?” He asked.

You nodded. “Yes.”

He took a step forward and met you at the end of the bed. “Lay down.”

Your body sunk back into the mattress. He rested one of his knees on the bed, eyes scanning over your body. You felt hot under his gaze.

“Can you unbutton that gown for me, Sister?”

Slowly, you unbuttoned the rest of your gown, exposing to him your bare breasts. He licked his lips, your red and swollen peaks making him weak to the knees. “They’re so swollen…” He cooed, “Were you playing with them earlier?”

You nodded again, a little embarrassed that he could tell what you were up to in your room just moments before.

He smiled approvingly. “Play with them again for me.”

You did as instructed and twisted the sore nubs between your fingers. They were so sensitive and hard now that even the lightest touch made you moan. The look of pleasure on your face was delicious, and he immediately raised his camera lens to snap this moment.

“You’re beautiful,” he said between clicks, “the most beautiful one I’ve had.”

You liked it when he called you pretty. It made you feel so special to have his eyes on you, to be the center of his fixation, to be his muse. You wanted to show him that you could be like the other girls, but better and even more obedient. He was your God now and you wanted to be a worthy disciple.

Once he was satisfied with his shots, he lowered the camera. “Can I see the rest of you?”

You didn’t hesitate to remove your panties and toss them on the floor, but upon realizing his watchful gaze and the intimidating black abyss of the camera lens, you froze up and pressed your thighs shut. You were upset and embarrassed with yourself for not being able to go through with it and follow his directions, but he was more than understanding. He knew that face, he had seen it dozens of times.

“It’s okay.” He said softly. It all felt like a dream. His voice was soothing like a lullaby, and his warm and skilled hands that were rubbing your thighs made you disarm and ease back into the bed, letting him guide them apart to reveal your glistening cunt.

He let out a low whine. “Fuck, that’s the prettiest little pussy I’ve ever seen.”

That sound alone made your lower half feel heavy. You wanted to hear him make that sound again. You’d do anything to hear him make that sound again. He leaned back with his knee still resting on the bed and held up his camera, pointing its lens at your slick center. “Spread them.”

Obediently, you pulled apart your lips with two fingers for him, your slick juices already gushing down as you did. He sighed deeply, a pained expression overwhelming his face. “So tiny,” he breathed after the camera shuttered. He had never seen anything like you before. So virtuous and delicate, yet so sinful and corrupt. You gave him so much, yet he wanted to see more of you.

“Think you can take those pretty little fingers for me?”

It took you a minute to understand what he meant. You were inexperienced regarding things like this, but you wanted to learn. You wanted him to teach you everything.

“I don’t know how…” You mumbled.

A devilish smile crept onto his face and darkened his features. “How cute,” he chuckled, amused by the holy and virtuous nun who had no idea how to make herself feel good. “Come here, I’ll show you.”

He sets aside the camera and pulls you closer to him by your hips. Your heart fluttered at the motion, and you chewed back a whimper as he held your thighs down. He scanned your core with all his attention, examining your small hole that pulsated as you breathed in and out. “You really never touched yourself before?”

You bit one of your fingernails and shook your head no.

“Oh Sister, you’re really missing out.”

Taking your hand, he guided them to your core and adjusted your fingers around your throbbing clit. It felt so foreign to you, so wet and sticky, you almost didn’t believe that this was a part of your body that you were touching. He went on to press a thumb into your inner thigh. “Rub it like this,” he said, massaging small circles into your soft skin. “Nice and gentle for me.”

You shyly followed his directions and gently massaged over your clit. It startled you how sensitive you were to your own touch. It felt so hot as if hell’s fire was creeping over your body, but you loved it. You loved the new sensations, how filthy and impure it all was, and even more, you loved how he watched you so intently. Eyes glued to your shameless center, completely forgetting the camera he was holding and the task at hand. He knew now, that this was for him, and not for the camera.

He had been photographing for years now and learned to hold off temptations until the end of the session, but he was struggling this time, with his cock heavy and aching to be inside of you. He found it charming just how inexperienced you were with your own fingers, and how your sloppy and awkward ministrations still made your body twitch. And those pretty pretty moans, he had never heard anything like it. So angelic, so enchanting, he almost believed you were a siren hiding behind rosaries and veils.

Mustering up his last bit of strength, he swung his other knee over you and buckled his hips on top of you, lifting his camera up one last time. “Make yourself cum.” He demanded in between camera flashes. He absentmindedly rutted his hips against you, the weight of his heavy and clothed cock resting over your slick pussy as you played with your clit for him. His pants seemed tighter now, with the outline of his full and swollen balls peeking through. With his hard cock so close to you like this, you lost your focus and eventually, that high you worked so hard to reach went lost on you. Now feeling numb, you sighed in both exhaustion and disappointment.

“Oh, what’s wrong Sister?” He said in a playful tone, “Too scared of the lord’s wrath to let yourself cum?”

His chuckle dropped once he felt your hand rubbing against his crotch, your eyes so wide and innocent while shamelessly asking for a lick. “Please,” you begged, “need help.”

God, he cursed to himself. Did you even know what you were asking him? Or were you just too needy, too far gone even to understand what you were doing? Even so, he wanted you just as badly as you wanted him, if not more. He never had someone like you before. Someone so pious, so clueless, so pure. The girls he had been with were run through, and most of them had their tricks, but you were just an amateur. Not too long ago you were standing here with your hand on your chest, shocked by the nature of his pornographic career. Fuck, you didn’t even know how to play with yourself, and now you're tracing your fingertips on his zipper fly, begging for him to help you cum?

For the first time in his career, his moral consciousness rang in. What was he doing? As tempting as it sounded, was he really going to defile a God-fearing Nun?

He cupped your jaw, tracing his thumb across your soft cheek. Unbeknownst to him, this was the first time another person had touched you so lovingly. You leaned into the touch, reintroducing yourself to the warmth and fuzziness of his pinewood soap. “Are you sure about this, Sister?”

He searched in your eyes for any signs of hesitation, but all he could see was lust. It was evident that you weren’t so God-fearing anymore. Maybe his words got you, he thought. He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

“Yes. I want you to show me everything.”

―

You watched nervously as he traced his tongue along your slit. His tongue felt so warm and wet, and you could see a few strings of his saliva connecting with your slick each time he lapped against your cunt. Both of your hands were pressed against your mouth to prevent any sound from slipping out, but it was so difficult not to moan and whine while he ate you out to his heart’s content. You had never felt anything like this before. It drove you mad how much of a twitching mess you were while he laid so carefree between your legs, lazily licking and sucking at your clit, oblivious to the heat that was rushing around in your lower belly. At one point, he focused his tongue directly on your clit, and the pressure from his wet muscle alone was enough for you to lose your guard and let a low broken whine escape your lips.

He was so attentive to every reaction your body gave him. He knew you were about to cum even before you did. He held onto your thighs as your hips bucked up and down, letting you make a mess on his mouth and face. When you were done, he held your hips down and feathered a few kisses onto your cunt until you grabbed onto his hair and pushed him away.

He had made you cum a few times like this. Each orgasm was even more intense than the one before. As exhausted as your body was becoming, your craving for him didn’t stop. It only grew stronger.

It had been hours now. He moved so slowly, savoring each and every part of your body, making you cum from his mouth, his fingers, and even just by sucking your nipples alone. The other Sisters would be shocked to see you in your current state, your naked body soaked in cum and sweat, hips moving with a mind of its own. You were filthy but you didn’t want to stop, because if you stopped you would have to deal with the guilt and turmoil of your actions, and you didn’t want to do either. You just wanted to keep going, keep having him use you and use you until you broke. And that feeling― that momentary bliss you felt each time you reached your orgasm was unlike anything you ever felt before, and you were hooked, unable to stop, only interested in feeling like that one more time until you couldn’t stand it anymore.

You were starting to feel feverish and weak, going in and out of consciousness until you felt his warm and heavy cock resting over your stomach.

You peered down your body, gasping at the sheer length of his cock. The tip was so red and wet, already leaking precum and dripping onto your stomach.

“What are you doing?”

He took your hand and guided it to your lower stomach. “You said you wanted me to show you everything. You still want that right?”

He helped you wrap your hands around his cock. It felt even bigger in your hand, your fingers just barely making it around his girth. You pumped him gently, using his precum to help you move up and down. He took that as a yes.

You could hear his breathing go shaky each time you pumped him. “It feels so hard” you whined. Was he going to put this inside of you? How would it even fit? Would it hurt?

“You make me this way.” He sighed as he watched you handle his cock. Fuck, you looked so cute the way you held him with both hands, trying your best to learn in what tempo he liked it. He leaned over, his large body completely covering yours, face just millimeters away. You gasped at the feeling of his hot tip rubbing at your entrance. “It’s San, by the way.”

“I’m sorry?” You paused.

“My name. It’s San.”

San. It suited him. You were about to tell him that his name was pretty, but he had taken the words right out of your mouth. A pressure pushed into you, forcing your eyes to well up in tears and words to clog in your throat.

“San!” You yelped, hands gripping onto his wide shoulders. San leaned in close, leaving gentle kisses on your cheeks, his lips wet with your salty tears. “You’re so beautiful,” He spoke into your skin as he rolled his hips into you. “You feel so good.” You took him so well, your wet walls grasping onto him so tight that he knew he wouldn’t be able to last as long as he usually does.

With each thrust, you sang his name as if it was the only word you knew how to say. His cock hit you so deep now, stretching you out to your limit, and you weren’t sure how much longer you could hold on. You held him tighter and let him find your lips. You both moved with so much passion and hunger as if it was your last night on Earth together. He was all you knew and wanted to know. You didn’t wish for it to end.

You felt a blooming in your stomach and figured San did as well. Your legs wrapped around him tight as you finally let go. Goosebumps prickled all over your body as San pulled out from you, his warm seed dripping onto your stomach. It felt like he marked you, that he had declared you as his for all eternity. You rubbed the sticky white liquid around your stomach, finally grasping at the realization of what you two had done and what it meant. San could sense your alarm and immediately reunited with your lips. He didn’t want you to regret this. He wanted you to look back at this moment and remember him fondly.

The exhaustion weighed in and you drifted off to sleep as he kissed you. When morning came, you were disheartened to see rays of sunshine peeking through the window blinds. San was sitting at the edge of the bed, slipping into his socks. He was wearing the same ill-fitting suit jacket he first came in with that night.

San noticed you stirring around in bed. He looked back and greeted you with a soft smile.

“You’re awake.”

You sat up too quickly and flinched at the sudden pain at your core.

“Easy,” he said as he placed a reassuring hand on your leg.

“You’re leaving already?” You asked, quickly forgetting about the pain.

San pursed his lips. It killed him to leave you after the night you two had, but he had his duties to attend to. And so did you.

He took your hand into his. “Listen, Sister, I don’t know if you still feel the same about last night, but for me…that was incredible. But we both know I can’t stay.”

It was the truth, but the truth hurt like a ton of bricks. Stupid girl, what did you think was going to happen? You broke your vows, and your loyalty to the church, and gave up the one thing you can never take back. You were ruined now, but you still didn’t know how to move forward. Did this mean you didn’t want to be in the convent anymore? Or did you want to stay and act as if you didn’t give in to temptations last night? Would you grab all of your things and run away with him and never look back? Or would you remain and pity yourself for the rest of your life for what you did? It was all unclear, and San knew that. You still had things to think through.

“I know,” You said in a small voice. He couldn’t stay. And you couldn’t ask him to.

“I’ll never stop thinking of you.”

He was looking at you with doting eyes. You traced your thumb on the back of his hand.

“Will I ever see you again?” You had to see him again. You couldn’t bear the thought of not seeing his beautiful face and feeling his soft hands on your skin.

He let go of your hand and fished for something in his pocket. “Here,” He said, handing you a business card. “It’s my office in the city. If you ever change your mind…I’ll be there.”

And with that, he pressed one last kiss on your forehead and took off. You lay there for most of the early morning, fiddling with the business card in your hand, grazing your fingers over the black raised ink. Choi San. Adult Film Photographer.

It was pathetic to admit, but you think you loved him. And it killed you. You were only supposed to have the Lord in your heart, but it seemed you had given it away to a sinner. In such a short visit, he had made you feel things you had never felt before. You had never felt such strong emotions in the convent. The feeling of being desired, of being held, of being loved― it felt real. Tangible. Promising. Exhilarating. Feelings you were promised for years you’d feel each time you prayed, you felt all at once in one night with San. You almost believed that the Lord had robbed you of such pleasures.

But then again, the convent was the only family you knew. They took you in, cared for you, and all you had to do in return was let the Lord into your heart. Serve him, alongside your Sisters, and blessings will come your way.

Your feelings about the church were unclear, but one thing was for certain. In this lifetime or the next, you will see him again.

―

a/n: I have been writing this since March. It's inspired by the 1800s painting "The Sin," and Kali Uchis's Vaya Con Dios. Please don't ask me for a part 2.

#ateez smut #san smut #choi san smut #san x reader #choi san x reader

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riboism · 10 months

Text

『atarashī 』 ; 03

❝ lie by omission ❞ | mlist ｡

student!hongjoong x fem!reader, husband!yeosang x fem!reader — drama, dark romance, mystery, heavy sexual content [4,6k wc] ch cws: smut, talks of pregnancy, trying for a baby, and some of the deeply inherent societal misogyny that can come along with that for women of a certain age (yes, again), deeply inappropriate conversations with this other guy.

In four days’ time, your husband returns home.

Stepping into the foyer of your apartment, Yeosang stands there awaiting you; a large, beautiful bouquet of red roses and an adoring smile pulling his lips ear to ear. You drop your bag to the floor, rush towards him and wrap your arms around his warm body, kisses peppering the top of your head as you rest against his torso.

It feels as though there's been a lifetime that you've been apart from him, the distance feeling so much stronger than it ever has in the past. Every time, you tell yourself that you're becoming more used to it—more accustomed to this part of your life together with him—yet it's times like that that you become so aware of how much that isn't the case, how much you, perhaps, have taken on wishful thinking as far as that is concerned.

If only the time between the two of you could be more manageable, so you can care less, hurt less in the coming and going of it all.

"Hello, my love," he says, voice low and calm but riddled with fondness towards you. "I've missed you terribly."

The kiss shared between you then is so earnest, so full of love and meaning and carries all of the weight of your vows within it. You cannot fathom another life in which Yeosang is not yours to have and to hold.

If only this one offered so much more time to do just that.

"I missed you too," you reply, parting from him. "You should have told me, I'd have brought something to eat."

"I wanted to surprise you, we don't have to do anything special tonight, just spend it between ourselves."

Yeosang captures your lips again, with far more intent behind it now. The flowers once in his hands and now in yours slowly drop from your grip as you're swept up in the feeling of having him here—lightly meeting the floor below—a strong hand coming up to cradle the back of your head and pull you deeper into the intimacy that exists between you. His mouth slowly slips down your jaw, nips at the skin of your neck in way that has your head falling to the opposite side to grant him further access. Melting into his touch, a reminder of just how much you've missed feeling his hands and mouth on your body.

"I was thinking," he whispers against you, warm breath cascading across the wetness left by him that sends shivers across your flesh. "About what we talked about not too long ago."

Mind clouded in arousal, you can hardly follow what it is that he's getting at. Free hand slipping between your legs, applying pressure upward and where they meet, Yeosang's teeth find the shell of your ear—a wanting whimper escaping from you—quick to be snuffed out, however.

"About trying for a baby."

You stiffen where you stand and still very much within his hold, so much so that surely he feels it despite never relenting in his touches upon you. Eyes wide open now and plenty lucid to the words spoken, you make a careful attempt to shimmy from his grasp, which is easily granted to you though accompanied with a rather displeased sigh from the man standing in front of you upon his realization of it.

"What?" he asks, annoyed. "Why not? I thought we were on the same page about children. We talked about it extensively."

"I know, it's not that I don't want to, it's just—"

Yeosang rolls his eyes, cuts you off halfway. "You'll have all of the help you could possibly hope for. We can afford childcare with ease; nannies, babysitters, live-in help, daycares, the best schools. You wouldn't be doing it alone."

"But it wouldn't be with you!"

Your resolve breaks, and it comes out in more of a shout than you would have liked, but your fright has bubbled up and taken hold of you, the ability to quell the worry inside of you no longer something that you can manage and especially when put under the spotlight like this. You watch as Yeosang's eyes widen in surprise, and then his face falls once again—you can't quite place the look, sadness, disappointment, maybe even resentment hiding behind those eyes that once loved you so dearly.

He doesn't speak, though you wish that he would, the silence deafening in a way that makes everything feel just that much heavier, that much worse. Please just say something, tell me you hate me, tell me you want a divorce. Say something.

Yeosang stares at you, no other sounds within the shared living space than the repeated, rhythmic tick of the grandfather clock just out of sight. Your eyes don't fall from him either, because you are unwilling to back down on this. You've learned to pick your battles when it comes to your marriage and the struggles within—this is a fight that you have to take.

His lips part slowly, though no words come out from them immediately. Still thinking through his thoughts before saying something that he might regret; out of hurt, out of anger. You're relatively sure of that.

Inhaling sharply, Yeosang runs a hand through his hair, exasperated by this entire ordeal but seemingly just as unwilling to relent on the topic.

Yes, you had agreed to this, and in a perfect world—a perfect, normal marriage—you'd want nothing more than to have kids with him. Dreaming of days in the future where your husband would be able to live out his fantasy of being the perfect father, something that you very much believe he would be.

If he were to be around to take on the role.

"You say it as if I'm never here at all."

"Not enough to take as active of a role in fatherhood as I'd want you to. I don't want to do this alone, and I don't want to do it with strangers. I want to do it with you."

A beat of silence passes between the two of you before he speaks again, his eyes falling to the floor for just a moment before coming back up to look you dead on.

"I think," he starts, an unnerving calm to his voice that isn't what you would expect given the subject matter at hand, and you're quick to find out precisely why that is as he continues on. "I think you want to carry on living your life just the way it is, however you want. Days spend galavanting with the children playing pretend from the Akademiya, nights spent with your friend doing who knows what, and bankrolled entirely by your loving husband who asks next to nothing from you in return at all."

Silence again, so he takes the opportunity to punctuate the thought even further despite the evident hurt that collects across your features.

"You're thirty, isn't it time that we both grew up."

Except you know that by we both, he really means for you to catch up to him. Face twisting into an ugly look, you can't even find it in you to be angry for his words, the pain of heartbreak overcoming that tenfold.

Yeosang sees it, succumbs to the pressure of his own words almost immediately and closes the space between your bodies to sweep you up and into another embrace. Regret dripping from his whispers as he chants pleads for forgiveness into the hair at the top of your head.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I don't mean that, please don't believe I mean that."

Laid out on your bed and fully undressed, Yeosang climbs up and over your body to nestle his hips between your legs—kisses a trail up your torso the entire way until eventually reaching your mouth and captures your lips with more love than you could ever imagine feeling from anyone else. Your fingers reach up to curl into his hair as his hips press forward and with that, the dull, familiar stretch of him creating space inside of your body for him, and him alone.

"I love you," he whispers into your mouth, drinking down the moan that escapes from you as a result of the feeling of him. "I don't care about anything else, only you."

If that were true, you'd be home more.

Yeosang's hips snap forward harsher, more rhythmically against you as you moan again into the skin of his shoulder. It hasn't been that long since the two of you have been together like this, though each and every time it feels as though it has been. Every day, every hour—more and more space created between your hearts that you'd rather not be there.

Thus, you take what you can get: rare nights like this where your husband comes home, fucks you into the mattress like it's the first and last time he'll ever be able to do so, and then disappearing into the early morning to eventually do it all over again.

Nothing ever changes, part of you wonders if there's any hope that it ever will.

Still, the drag of him inside of you is divine in moments like this; almost feeling as though he's a stranger—not your husband at all—with the frequency in which he is gone. The sex can never tire, can never grow dull. Yeosang will always feel brand new to your body, because he is never around quite enough to become anything different.

"God, I missed you," he hisses out, burying himself harder and deeper into you that has you gasping out and clutching hard into the skin of his back. "Feel so fucking good."

You moan louder, arousal pooling hotter in your gut with each word, each drive of himself inside of you.

"Harder," you request, the words coming out in nothing more than a broken gasp. "Fuck, harder, please."

"Yeah?" he questions, though his curiosity is piqued in a hedonistically sinister way with how a very particular grin takes his lips. "Missed me that much, huh?" he continues on, voice then dropping heavier and more gravely to finish the thought. "Want it that bad?"

Suppose it's everything surrounding your marriage and all of the contention so deeply embedded therein: you can't exactly pinpoint the how or the why either—why you desire him in the way that you do right now, why you need to feel him so roughly, so aggressively—Yeosang reaches a hand down to grip at one of your thighs, holds you open so that he can fuck you precisely how it is that you wish to receive him, and the sound of his hips meeting yours just about does the job of drowning out all of the other thoughts in your head that you'd rather not bother giving any consideration to.

When you come, it's with a choked out whisper of his name, and Yeosang follows suit just after with hips pressed hard and firm against you. For a moment, like this, everything is perfect. It feels like back in college when the two of you had just met and the relationship was brand new—no worries, no fights; only the bliss of a newly budding love between people who cannot fathom a world in which they are ever to tire of one another.

Yeosang's head comes up from its spot nestled at the crook of your neck, kisses you on the mouth lazily and completely void of any further energy to grant you much more than that. You don't require more of him though, and are perfectly happy with things exactly the way that they are.

For now.

Pulling from between your legs and rolling off of you entirely, your husband disappears into the bathroom for a brief moment. The toilet flushes and the sink water runs—he appears again with a wet rag in hand and still fully in the nude—a wide smile still plastered across pleasantly sated lips.

The post-coital joy is to be wildly short-lived.

"Can I ask you something?" he says, though he doesn't bother to give you any time to answer. "If you were to fall pregnant, what would you do?"

You can't help the roll of your eyes, displeased by his insistence to bring this up now of all times—especially after the display from earlier. A heavy sigh falls from your lips, you can't even be bothered to pretend that you're not irritated by his persistence now.

"Do we have to do this again?"

"I'm just asking. I'm not saying we have to try, but we are having sex—maybe there's a part of me that hopes that biology can beat the science, in this particular case."

You flash him a glare. "You know I don't want to get pregnant right now and then you tell me that you hope mybirth control fails?"

Yeosang maintains his distance across the room and in the doorway of the bathroom that sits joined with the bedroom, shrugs his shoulders in such a nonchalant way that one might think the topic of conversation of no such importance at all.

"Is that so wrong?"

Flinging your legs over the edge of the bed, you quickly sort through the pile of clothing that has collected on the ground to find your own. Panties swiftly pulled up your legs and jeans following just as fast, you fail to find your shirt and settle instead for one of the pullovers that rests on a chair just beside the bed.

You glance up at him again, fairly sure it comes across as much of the same glare as before.

"It's a pretty fucked up thing to say, yeah."

All the while, your husband only stands and watches as you frantically make an effort to dress yourself. None put off by it, and perhaps equally regretful of having said it.

He allows the silence to continue on between you until you're fully dressed, like he's well aware of the fact that you have every intention of leaving him to himself for a large portion of the rest of the evening, and when you have socks on, that's when he finally offers you the final parting thought that rests at the tip of his tongue.

"Then I won't say it."

The streets are cold and wet just as they always are—you're underdressed for the weather that awaits you as you exit the main foyer of your apartment building—but suppose anything that should greet you down here better than the vile truth that you know upstairs.

Only a few blocks down the street isn't far enough away, so you hop into a cab and tell the driver to take you closer to where Aurelia is. There's a bottle of rum stashed away in a cabinet inside of your office for particularly stressful evenings such as this one, though being alone in the confines of those walls is far from where you'd like to be.

In the event that someone comes looking for you, you would rather not be somewhere that could make yourself easily found.

Three texts down to Seonghwa from the backseat of the taxi, barely five minutes go by when you finally receive a response from your friend. I'm at work, I can't come right now unless it's an emergency. Do you need me? it reads, and you don't have the heart to tell him that yes, it sort of is. It's not, not really, and there's a part of you that feels a bit of relief in knowing that you'll have the rest of the night to yourself without having to explain the goings on of everything prior to your escape from the prison of your marital home.

The car stops and you pay the man up front, pull yourself from the seat and stand in front of the tall, beautiful building of your theater hall. A single raindrop hits your eyebrow as you gaze up at the architecture, and it serves as a reminder to get to wherever it is that you are intending to go.

Across the street, your eyes catch on a tiny, warmly lit sign that reads 'JAZZ' along it. Jazz lounges aren't really your thing, but maybe that's precisely what you need for a night such as this one. So, you make your way across the asphalt—dodging cars as they honk at you for obstructing their way—and waste no more time pulling the old, wooden handle of the door open and bringing yourself inside.

A woman greets you from the bar cheerfully and you find it within yourself to somehow match her energy. The patronage inside is small, only a handful of people to be seen despite the small interior of the establishment, but it's cozy, and quiet, and kind of exactly what you need to take the edge off from everything you'd had to go through already.

You take a few steps forward and towards the back wall—where the less brightly lit tables sit—and as you clear the corner and look towards your left, your eyes catch on something that feels all too familiar to you.

A large, brightly colored sketchbook.

Your eyes follow the length of the arms that scribble upon it, and as you gaze upon a head of fluffy, brown hair, Hongjoong looks up at you as if expecting you to find him here like this.

"Fancy meeting you here."

He immediately looks back down, continues on with the work in front of him, and you can only continue watching on in awe of it all. What are the chances?

After a few moments pass, Hongjoong glances up at you again. "Are you going to sit down?"

And so you do. Pull out a chair and put in an order with the nice bartender that greeted you when you entered. There's hardly enough space atop the table for Hongjoong's sketchbook alone, much less for an additional glass of anything, but he pulls his things aside as best as he can once the woman comes back with your drink and continues on working as if everything is precisely as it's supposed to be.

"Do you come here often?" you can't help but ask, the tension palpable.

"Somewhat, you don't though."

"No, I certainly don't."

"What makes tonight so special then?" Hongjoong asks, multitasking the conversation whilst his hands remain busy at work with vividly colored chalks and leads.

You laugh at the concept of tonight being anything to consider special. A strange enough reaction that his eyes flutter up briefly from his work to look at you before once again dropping down to the task.

"Oh you know," you start, noncommittal. "The usual things."

"I don't know."

There's a certain level of intrigue that you find comes with this sort of banter with the man across the way. Always a particular back-and-forth, but never irritating—not too much, nor too little—something fun and quick-witted that keeps you interested in what he might say and on your toes in wait for it too.

You know it's unprofessional—spilling the intricacies of your marriage to one of the students of the Akademiya—but Hongjoong sits much older than the majority of the others, and suppose you're just in a bad enough spot right now that you can't really be bothered to care.

"My husband came home from his work trip." You take a long, hard sip of your adult beverage.

"Trouble in paradise then," Hongjoong replies plainly, drawing thick, blue lines with the chalk he only just has picked up.

You huff out a laugh through your nose at the simplicity of it. "You could say that, yeah."

"Affair?"

Hongjoong says it with such casualty, as if it's nothing of concern at all. You gasp at the mere mention of such a thing.

"No! Well, I don't think so—" you take a moment of pause to consider it but quickly toss the thought from your mind. "No, not an affair. He wants to have a baby."

"And you don't?"

Hongjoong administers the questions to you like he's a nurse inside of an office, asking you when the last time you had your period was, or how long it is that your knee has been bothering you. There's no particular interest or emotion behind it—not for himself, at least—and while it feels detached, you can't help but enjoy it for precisely what it is: an openness for you to vent your frustration to non-judgmental ears. Ears that don't care about you or your problems one way or another, in fact.

Another long sip of your drink down, nail tapping lightly against the glass in hand as your eyes idly watch Hongjoong's busy hands work at the canvas below.

"It's not as simple as do I or don't I, I sort of wish it was though." Another sip. "He looks at it like that I think, and it's so easy for him. He wants to have a baby so we should have a baby, just like that, but what he doesn't understand is that he's just not home enough to make having a baby with him feel like—"

"A family." Hongjoong interjects, eyes coming up for a rare glance at you again. You nod. "You've told him that?"

"Explicitly."

He hums in thought, fingers grasping at the red chalk, small circles carved into the white.

You make a sudden decision to divulge information to the student seated ahead of you, though perhaps not your best. Trying times, and all.

An airy laugh escapes from your chest. "He said to me tonight, after we had sex, that he wanted my birth control to fail."

A busy hand stills, Hongjoong looks up at you slowly with eyebrows pressed together inquisitively—as if unsure even himself why it is that you're going this far in divulging the details of your private life to him—but he allows it to roll off of his shoulders in favor of addressing the topic that is quite obviously troubling you instead.

"Weird thing to say."

"That's what I told him."

"And now you're out at a bar having a drink with one of your students, unwise of the man of the house."

You laugh at that, almost too loudly. Look around yourself in embarrassment to see if you've gathered the attention of any onlookers and find comfort in the fact that everyone appears disinterested in this particular corner of the building.

Another sip goes down and you playfully point across the table at him. "You're not my student, I'm not a professor of the Akademiya."

Though he is back at work, Hongjoong looks back up at you for a bit longer than his previous times—cocks his head to the side with a half-smile. "And what does that mean?"

A gaze that feels so strong, unrelenting in ways even when he almost certainly doesn't mean for it to feel as much; Hongjoong turns his attention once again to the project under his hands, not really expecting much of an answer from you in regards to his seemingly pointless question.

Your eyes trace over his hands—perfectly tended to fingernails despite the dusting of chalk that colors them now—sleeves of a blazer pushed up the length of his arms to expose his wrists and forearms, a small, beaded bracelet dangling on one, but you lose interest in the sight of that quickly in favor of the way that his hair dangles in front of his face. How long his eyelashes are, and suppose he must feel the way you watch him, because he turns his attention back up to you, and for the first time ever you take a good, hard look at the man seated across the table.

A strong, sharp jaw. Just a slight upturn to his mouth that's charmingly handsome in he way that it accommodates the rest of his features.

You opt out of assigning any particular word to the way that he looks, merely accepting that it's not difficult to look at him, by any means.

"It doesn't mean anything, really. Just that I'm effectively some random person that owns a theater down the street from where you attend school."

That must amuse him, because a single corner of his lips curves upward once again.

"Right."

"What are you working on?" you ask, nodding towards his sketchbook and choosing to turn the subject elsewhere entirely.

Hongjoong sighs, sits back in a slump finally as if he's been waiting for you to acknowledge the fact so that he can take a break from it. Like he couldn't do so otherwise.

"Third years are doing Romeo and Juliet—because of course they are—one of the girls happened to see my sketches in the halls one day and asked me to do one of her costumes for the stage play."

"That's awfully nice of you," you say, a little charmed by his kindness on display. "She must be cute."

Chin tucked down into his chest, Hongjoong smiles. "You don't have to be jealous, you're still my favorite."

Those words—unexpected and shocking to say the least—send a jolt of something that you are far from proud of down your spine, and you're quick to make an effort to stamp it out, never acknowledge it again to the best of your ability.

"I'm joking," he follows it up. "Doing side projects for the other students sort of helps me get my creative mojo back, so I don't mind lending a hand when I can."

You want to ask if she's pretty, want to ask who it is, which student. Choose not to because the place in which these questions come from is ugly, and underserving of being catered to at all.

Why do you want his attention so badly?

The final sip of your drink goes down heavy and dry in your throat, though you feel somewhat awkward now being the only one kicking back alcohol in the presence of a student—regardless of whether or not he is technically yours to tend to.

"Do you want a drink or something? You don't have anything," you question, already turning to wave down the bartender before Hongjoong replies back.

"I don't really drink that much, to be honest with you, I just come here to get some work done and they don't really seem to mind unless it's a busy night. I think the barkeep thinks I'm cute."

She would be correct.

"Good looks are still the universal currency, aren't they?" you playfully respond, and it brings about a rare, wide and toothy smile from the man.

Hongjoong leans forward, takes a raw piece of lead between his fingers and gets back to work upon the paper. "Got to have something going for me, I suppose. Since this whole school thing isn't really panning out the way I had hoped it would."

"You'll get there this time," you insist, abject positivity lacing your tone. "You'll graduate this year, I believe in you."

It's then that Hongjoong's eyes slowly trace back upwards to meet yours—that sinister look in his eyes that you just know spells nothing but trouble for anyone who dares to let their guard down to it.

And well within that, a level of intrigue: what is it, exactly, that sits behind the unknown. A curious, insistent eagerness now blooming inside of you that has you questioning what else there is to know about him, how much there is that you can find out.

"Maybe," he says, voice low and quieter than before, but his eyes don't fall from you even for a second yet.

"So long as I'm not met with any distractions."

When Seonghwa texts you that he's free from work, you bid Hongjoong farewell for the evening—but you find that the man sticks with you and beneath your skin whether he is seated there with you or not.

a/n: genuinely looking forward to the messages i am going to receive about how much everyone hates yeosang in this gjkhdfjk SORRY. I MIGHT WRITE YOUR FAVE AS A SCUMBAG, fictionally speaking. not indicative of what i think about them ✋🏻 now kiss and make up and let's talk about how sexy and mysterious hongjoong is 🤑 hit me up in the ask box xoxo

#fucking love this so far #yeosang is an unbelievable dick yes but HONGJOONG??#I really like his characterization #like kind of a teasing flirt #but also genuine #can’t wait to continue this!!#this is easily my favorite work rn #hongjoong smut #fic recs ⚡️

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