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obligatoryidolblog · 11 months

Text

Pilgrimage

Genre: Smut? Weird? I’m not even sure what to call this

Pairing: Seonghwa/reader

Warnings: unprotected sex, lots of references to mental instability, lots of religious references?

Summary: When your midlife crisis comes a few decades too early, you run away from home and into a man who steals the last bits of your sanity.

A/N: This is a complete rewrite and rework of a blurb I wrote before.

Masterlist

Audiobook version above.

Steam wafts up from your coffee mug. You have no idea where the hell you are. That should worry you. Normally it would worry you. But tonight is anything but normal.

You think people can tell. Or it could just be that you are alone, doing nothing but drinking coffee and scribbling on a piece of shitty scrap paper from the bottom of your bag. You swear you’re not looking to be ‘picked up,’ man down the way. You’re just here because here is where you’re at. And no, young ladies next to you, you are not crazy, a prostitute, or an addict.

Well, to be honest, the crazy part is debatable. Like, you’re in your early twenties and you just ran away from home. Guess your midlife crisis came early. But let’s not think about that. Let’s think about the waitress.

Probably your age, but she looks tired, old. Cute, bobbed hair of a flat color obviously obtained from a box, a neat row of short bangs brushing her brows. She looks like a throwback to another era, her precise black eyeliner speaking to the mid twentieth century.

You want to talk to her, but she’s busy. That’s what you tell yourself, anyways. You could never actually strike up a conversation with her. ‘Painfully shy’ has never been a more apt description of a person. So here you sit, watching the waitress through the curtain of your hair, her plump frame hazed by lank strands.

She has an odd, almost imperceptible rhythm to her movements behind the long bar you are seated at. Water dispensing, coffee, check the window to the kitchen, take a breath, hitch her smile back up and do it all again. It’s hypnotizing. You want her to stop and just… scream. You can see it there, in her eyes. She wants out.

You want to tell her that you understand. You wanted out, too. You’d take her with you. Ride off into the sunset. Hit the dusty trail. Thelma and Louise, reborn. But things like that don’t happen in your life. You are having your breakdown, but that doesn’t mean she is, too. Maybe she is perfectly happy working the bar at this diner. Maybe you’re just trying to find some connection.

Your rational side is trying to emerge again. Can’t have that. This is your break from reality, and you won’t have sanity infringe upon it. If you stop and think, then all the running is lost. You have to keep moving, keep looking ahead, don’t stop, don’t think, don’t let feelings sneak up on you. Watch the waitress and dream. Everything else is behind you.

Yeah, that’ll work.

As you sweep your eyes over her stained uniform once more, you hear the ding of the door. You don’t turn, don’t look, lost in your wandering imagination. But you’re dragged from your downward spiral by the form that slides to the stool next to you. Glancing over, you find a sharp profile and incredibly soft looking hair framing it. This creature almost seems to glow with ethereal light. His eyes swing over to you for a moment and in that moment you feel… salvation.

He gives you a brief smile, then turns back to order a coffee from the now-forgotten waitress. You study him, no part of your sanity remaining to remind you not to stare at some stranger in a diner in the middle of nowhere like some kind of freak. Thankful to whatever god had sent him your way, he doesn’t seem to notice your intense stare.

His lips are full, softly flushed. You bet they’re soft. You bet all of him is soft. You bet he’d laugh at you if you hit on him. Hell, you’d laugh at you. Why are you so awkward? You have no clue how to even smile at him without looking scared. Dammit, you want to smile at him. You want to pull his glorious attention back to you and ask him question after question until you know everything about him. You want to touch him and see if his skin is as soft as it looks. You want to kiss him. You want to be bold.

But you’re still sitting there, mentally stripping him and running your tongue over his skin as he sips his coffee and looks at his phone, unaware. Good job. Even in the midst of your early midlife crisis you’re a pussy. You wish you could say you’re surprised by your cowardice, but it’s nothing new. This escape to the unknown is the biggest step you’ve taken in a long time, and even now you’re barely an hour from home.

You are apparently bad at having a breakdown, even. Again, no big shock. Your life has been one big string of failure and you suppose you can’t break that lovely streak. You guess that’s one thing you didn’t fail at. Should that be comforting? It really isn’t. Time to stop dwelling on this and focus on the matter at hand.

The man. He’s looking at you.

“Yes?” you rasp out, wincing mentally at the curtness your nervousness created.

“Can you pass the sugar?” he asks, his deep voice soft, just as velvet as you imagine his body to be.

“Oh… yeah,” you mumble, feeling your face deepen in color as you slide the container to him.

You have to get a grip on yourself.

Ha. As if.

Taking a long swallow of your own cold coffee, you set your eyes back on the waitress, trying to grasp the remaining frayed ends of your decorum, and fail immediately upon setting the cup back down, turning once more to the magnetic draw of the man beside you. You choke slightly as you find him still looking at you, his eyes catching yours and that feeling of ease washing over you again at the genuine interest in his dark eyes.

Don’t be weird. Don’t be weird. Just smile at him.

A shaky smile curls your lips, and you raise a hand to wave lamely. Good job, fantastic, not weird at all. You feel the inward cringe only distantly, though, as the heavenly man leans closer with a chuckle, and your insides go to mush just as much as your brain has been. He waves gently in return and you feel your mental state topple sideways. No one should be that pretty, it simply isn’t fair.

“Are you okay?” he asks hesitantly, his brow wrinkling slightly, glancing at your bag.

Dragging your eyes away from him is way harder than it should be but you manage it. Oh. Oh yeah. Your bag was overflowing with the clothes you’d stuffed in it in your haste to get away. From what you still hadn’t determined. You had a nagging sensation that what you were trying to get away from was yourself, but you weren’t going to unpack that.

Instead you turn an embarrassed smile to him again and shrug, realizing that you’ve been staring at your bag for what must be a good thirty seconds. He must think you’re absolutely batshit. Which you couldn’t blame him for since you were pretty much coming to the same conclusion yourself. His voice and his eyes go even more soft and compassionate and boy, does that do a number on your heart rate.

“I’m… I guess?” you finally stutter out, “Are-… are you?”

A wide smile bursts across his face at your complete buffoonery, and the breath is knocked from your lungs. That perfect face, meant to be canonized in every holy work, cracks into something pained, his bright teeth shining as his eyes crumple. A glimpse of humanity infuses this divine being, and you weren’t sure what was worse - being in the presence of an earth-bound god or the knowledge that such sublimity could be contained in truly mortal flesh. Time slows, the frame rate of the universe moving at the pace of your broken, idiot brain as you simply bask in the mushroom cloud glow of this angelic man’s laugh.

Record scratch halt, the moment is fractured, and that mesmerizing smile ends as the waitress leans in to refill his cup. He flashes a small semblance of the world-stopping smile at her and you are momentarily numb, reminded that this celestial being doesn’t reserve its smiles for you.

He’s a stranger, you freak. Calm down. He could be an axe murderer for all you know.

His gentle, graceful eyes turn back to you, and all thoughts flee as he lifts his mug to you in mock salute and finally replies, “No. I’m pretty sure I’m not okay.”

White noise overtakes your consciousness for a moment, the thought that he just so brazenly told you, a complete stranger who was (you were pretty sure) clearly going through Some Shit, that he wasn’t okay… the bravery. The honesty. The pure terror of how to respond without letting him know that you are currently completely off your rocker.

“Er?”

Well that certainly didn’t do the job.

His smile widens back into that lovely grimace and you quickly look down, lest you lose your goddamn marbles again at the vision.

“Sorry, I’m being weird,” he says, embarrassment leaking into his husky voice, and this draws your amazed eyes back to his.

“Weird is kinda my thing right now,” you shakily reply, your own lips curling into what you hoped to god was a normal smile.

Turning fully to face you, he holds his graceful hand out to you, and feeling like an alien doing this for the first time ever, you reach out to shake it as he says, “I’m Seonghwa.”

“_____,” you reply, dimly aware that giving your real name to some rando in the middle of the night probably isn’t wise, but the ability to care is somehow lost to you, so you throw all caution to the wind. “Are you running away as well?”

He raises a sharp eyebrow and you can practically feel little cartoon hearts popping up and circling your head. The flash of his teeth as he smiles is doing a number on your pulse, and you can feel the first genuine smile in months stretch your lips in return.

“I’m not running away from anything,” he leans in and whispers confidentially, making your pupils blow wide and your pulse thrum in your ears. “I’m looking for something.”

Meeting his eyes much closer to yours, you are pretty sure you’re either falling in immediate, deranged love with this guy or you’re about to have a stroke. Odd how often those feel the same.

“Scavenger hunt?” your entirely cockeyed brain manages to force from your lips, and you’re simply glad you’re able to form words when the mere fact that he moved slightly closer to you sent the last few of your firing neurons into a frenzy.

With a cocked brow that could hold up the heavens, he pauses a beat, likely reevaluating the choice of speaking to someone clearly completely out of marbles to lose, he then replies, “Of sorts. If the scavenger hunt list consists of pieces of myself.”

And with that the last bits of your wits scatter like the dandelion fluff that currently seemed to have taken the place of your brain. His reality-altering smile breaks again and you have fallen so deep into the well of his starlit eyes that you can’t tug your gaze away to reduce the psychic damage taken by viewing such human artistry full on.

Shit. Here comes that love/stroke feeling again.

“Maybe you could help me,” he slyly adds, as if he hadn’t just slithered into your crisis of self like the serpent into the Garden of Eden.

“Uh,” you feel your lips fumble out, unable to even muster embarrassment at being struck dumb by this brash demon or angel or whatever the hell this man was; certainly not mortal, no matter what his deviously human smile indicates.

He had to stop looking at you like that, you simply wouldn’t survive it. With a devastating narrow of his eyes, the cunningness of Lucifer himself imbues this being, this self proclaimed Seonghwa, and your soul turns fully from any god ever worshiped. This man, if he could be demeaned to be reduced to such a lowly state as human, could require any act of you and you’d acquiesce with the devotion only known by the truly devout, or the fully deranged. Either of which could now be true of you, if the hallelujah chorus in your brain was any indication.

“I… yes?” you stammer, completely unable to give anything but full consent to the compelling creature, not even needing the quite possibly very important details of what he requested of you.

Seeing your immediate and unhinged acquiescence, Seonghwa’s face softens once more, and you feel absolutely none of the self consciousness that you should at his concern for your lack of self preservation. Who were you to preserve your lowly self from such a blessed being?

After a moment’s perusal, which felt like an eternity to your fractured mind, he leans closer to ask in a confessional booth whisper, “Do you know what it’s like to live solely for other people?”

His words flow over you like the preface to a homily that would drag you to your knees for eventual communion. Happily, devotedly, zealously would you live your life solely for him. But no, this was not his intent, and he continued on in his liturgy.

“For years now, I have given every part of me to other people. I’ve sacrificed myself for everyone else in my life, and where has it got me?” he clarifies, looking down into the depth of his shitty, overly sweet coffee. You could practically see the wreath of thorns adorning his crown, wanting to ask to see his palms, to view his personal marks of stigmata. Not in doubt, as Thomas had, but to kiss his wounds, to bathe them in tears as Mary Magdalene had washed the feet of her savior.

Raising his eyes once more to meet yours, the hymns of gloria return and you struggle to hear his low voice as he asks again, “Do you know what that feels like?”

Unable to defy his words, you hear the confession slip from your lips, “I’m not sure I know what it feels like to live at all. For myself, or anyone else.”

Rocked with the realization of what you’d just avowed, you still your breath, waiting for your penance for interrupting his gospel. But instead, his hand slides over to grasp your own, a benediction for your transgression against him.

“That’s the same though, isn’t it?” he asks, his canon hard to follow through your crumbling sanity but you listen on as this prophet gives his revelation, “You aren’t living for yourself. Is it so bad to want to be selfish from time to time?”

The cardinal sin of greed could never touch this seraph, you were certain of that, so with a shake of your head you denounce the mere idea, “Of course not.”

The martyr smile breaks over his face once more, and you’re convinced that the flickering fluorescent diner light behind him is now a halo, enwreathing his pained visage. How did this radiant being come to find you in this dump of a pitstop on a side road of perdition? How did you, your piteous, splintered self come to be so blessed? Was it blasphemy to question such a consecration? How long have you been staring at him in adoration, like some sort of lunatic?

The agonized smile had fallen from the grace of Seonghwa’s face, and he now looked almost hesitant, his beatific lips twisting to the side before forming yet another question, “Do you have somewhere to be? Where are you running to?”

The question of the night, surely. The hymns fall to silence in your mind as you are reminded of your own trials. A manic giggle nearly bubbles up inside you as you weigh his words. Running to somewhere? Certainly not. Only away. Always away. The burning itch to escape chokes you once again, panic nearly closing your throat. You meet his eyes, and you know that he sees the answer before you can speak.

“I’m just… I had to get away. I don’t… I don’t know,” you mumbled out, unable to order your disorderly thoughts, but of course he divined your meaning clearly. Of course this Seonghwa could look directly into your soul, know your inner workings before you know them yourself.

A tilt of his head dims the harsh glow of the light behind him, his halo diminishing to something less holy, something less angelic as he takes you in for a moment. You want to curl in on yourself, realizing that you had rushed from your house in naught but sweatpants and a stained tank top, no thought of a bra or underwear even. Great, just like you to meet divinity in your fucking pajamas, your hair a mess, the sweat of the dread of eternity in your own skin still drying on you.

“Then…” he slowly begins, the wily glint taking hold in his eyes once more, his purity darkening with infernal intent, “would you join me? I have a room. Allow… allow me to be selfish. Just this once. Perhaps even allow yourself to be selfish.”

As if taking off in the middle of the night wasn’t already your foray into the selfish, but that's beside the point when Seonghwa’s long fingers were now slipping over your wrist, trailing with promise of joyful sin, his now devilish eyes sliding down to the gleaming, damp meeting of your breasts peeking over the top of your soiled tank top. Oh. Oh, that’s what he wants. Again, the familiar sense of logic tries to take hold of your brain. Are you really going to go to a hotel room with some dude you just met and had a weird bonding moment with for like five minutes in a dilapidated diner in some podunk nowhere town? Is this what you’ve come to? Have you finally really gone around that particular bend? Is your rationality truly completely obliterated?

More importantly, do you give even the slightest damn? Because truth be told, you already knew the answer. Yes, you were going to go with Seonghwa to this chapel he so graciously invited you into. Sanity be damned, long forgotten consequences be damned. The burning trail of his fingers over your wrist brings a doxology roaring through your mind that silences the voice of reason. This being could do as he pleased with you and you would give an acclamation to his hallowed self in response. So in your ecstatic trance, you feel your head nod.

Seonghwa stands, and your center of gravity follows the pull of his orbit, nearly tugging you off your seat. As if immune to your complete ridiculousness ever since he entered stage left and stole the scene of your mental breakdown soliloquy, he ignores your wobble, and holds his hand out again. The alien motoring your brain once more takes the controls as you stare at his outstretched hand in confusion, flabbergasted in your stupor to the fact that he clearly wants you to take it in your own. Levers finally pull, and your arm reaches out like a ventriloquist dummy hand, puppeted with a stick by the last shard of lucidity in your stupefied psyche.

The angel choir roars to a crescendo again at the returned touch of his skin on yours, and then falls immediately silent as you meet his eyes. Supernova consumes your body, and you are pretty sure he has to feel the way your body rocks with the sensation of acceptance of your fate, but he has the continued grace to not point out your overt strangeness tonight. What a guy. What a man. You could fling yourself into the sun, immolating yourself from either embarrassment or sheer manic joy, you can’t decide which. But for now, you settle for letting him lead you from the diner, your haphazardly packed bag left orphaned and forgotten by your seat, now a shrine to the moment of your newfound zealotry.

With the blind faith of a new convert, you allow Seonghwa to lead you out the door and towards the shitty motel in the next parking lot over. Thoughts of axe murders and caution now wiped clean from your stricken brain, you find no place for doubt in this creature as he leads your form behind him, stumbling with scarecrow grace to a hotel room door. Like a cartoon character trailing toes along the floor, carried aloft by the scent of a delicious meal, you inhale the mere presence of Seonghwa as he unlocks and opens the door and leads you in.

It is at the same time not your finest moment and the best second of your entire existence.

The door closes with a finality that resounds with every decision that had led you to be sitting in that shitty diner tonight. You, like Seonghwa, had not been running from something; fate had driven you with the crack of a whip made of panic, out of your room, out of your house, into your car, and to the exact place that would bring you into the same realm as this divine man. Hazily, you decide to check later if that diner was somehow a holy site, drawing unknowing pilgrims.

But this thought is blown completely from your brain along with any other semblance of lucidity when Seonghwa’s hands grip your hips and his full, rose petal lips touch yours. This sensation is what turns sinners into saints, what razes mountains to the ground, what made the prehistoric seas boil and churn until life emerged.

The stroke of his fingers are the brush of a divinely inspired artist on the canvas of your skin. His palms press into your waist as in prayer, rucking up the hastily thrown on tank top in their quest. A soft sigh escapes your afflicted lips as he removes his own, looking down to once again meet your gaze. A flicker of doubt passes across his eyes and you repent for causing such a man any duress. Trailing your hands up his chest, over his neck, and tangling your fingers into his hair, you give a Mother Mary smile.

“Please Seonghwa, continue,” your absolution dissolving the confessional screen that hazed his eyes, “be selfish.”

A soft grunt escapes his flushed lips as you tug gently on the hair entwined in your fingers, pulling him back into the joining of lips, his tongue now sweeping through your mouth as the sense of exaltation returns. His legs step forward, driving you back to press against the door, fervor now taking him as he licks into your mouth, one hand slamming to press against the door beside your head as the other tightens on your waist, his nails digging penitent crescent marks into the plush of your skin. The flames of hell itself consume you as you press your body fully against him, returning his kiss with full devotion.

His lips slip from yours, beginning a pilgrimage down your jaw to the crux of your neck. Turning your head to allow him more room, you distantly see the hand by your head has balled into a fist, dragging a moan from your lips as he spreads a burning need throughout your body, sucking a deep bruise into your skin. More, you want more of the proof of his presence left on your body, evidence of this miracle to profess to the world. Your grip on his tresses tightens and a guttural groan vibrates from him to you. Seonghwa’s hips press forward, the length straining at his zipper rocking against your hip. One of your hands tugs at his hair harder, the other traversing down, wriggling between the flush of your bodies together to slide over Seonghwa’s twitching, confined cock.

His teeth sink into the bruised skin between them in response, and you cry out, a sharp jolt of pleasure rocketing to your core at the sensation. He quickly pulls himself away from you, and you pant, forsaken, turning pleading eyes to him as he stands staring at your trembling form, begging for him to return his grace to your body. Heavy breaths escape him as he appears to attempt to gain control of himself, to seek for the return of self sacrifice and restraint, to return to sanctity.

Oh no, that won’t do. You will not allow Seonghwa to nail himself to a cross for your sins. Stepping forward, you pull the ugly, filthy tank top over your head, baring yourself to him. His gaze drinks in the bared skin, his fear for his mortal soul wavering as you take his hand and bring it up to cup the weight of your breast.

“Stop thinking, Seonghwa,” you murmur, running the fingers of your free hand under his t-shirt, savoring the smooth skin hidden beneath, “Take my offering.”

If your strange verbiage caught his attention he did not show it, though you guess it was no more strange than anything else you’ve said tonight. Instead, he makes a pained sound in the back of his throat, then drops his mouth to the peak in his hand. You suck in a sharp breath as he laves his tongue over your nipple, his hands once more placing a firm hold on your hips as you wind your fingers into his hair again. Your head tips backwards, cries of pleasure leaving you as he pulls your pearled nipple between his lips and sucks. Dampness collects in your folds, slipping down to sully the sweatpants that you had tugged on merely hours earlier in your fervent haste to run.

“Heavenly,” Seonghwa mumbles around your flesh, “You taste like heaven.”

And he would know, wouldn’t he? Your soul soars at his words, and you tug his head away, your hands now at busy work pulling at his shirt, desperate to remove it and see the skin cassocked away from your sight. He quickly divests himself, and you are unable to refrain from darting forward to run your tongue over his collarbone. He hisses in a breath between clenched teeth, and you have a vision of his head tipped back, gleaming teeth bared as his eyes tense shut when you glance up from taking in the planes of his chest as you run your mouth over every inch you can reach. Pressing your breasts against him, you nip along his neck, putting your wandering hands to work now on the opening of his jeans.

“Wait,” he pants out, a rough grip on your wrists now, “wait.”

You look up, frozen at his sudden return of repentance. But instead of a look of contrition or doubt, you find him tilting his lips into a devilish smile, his hands on your hips maneuvering you to stand before the bed as he drops to his knees before you.

“Your turn,” he says, his tone now the reverent one, his eyes shining with wicked idolatry, “I want you to be selfish too.”

As he begins to slide your sweatpants down your hips, you feel a rush of sanctity infuse you, no longer the acolyte, but now the priestess in this mass. His covetous gaze follows the descent of your ratty sweatpants, as if watching the wonders of the creation, eyes locking on the glistening folds he uncovers and the slide of honeyed dampness coating your inner thighs. When you step out of the sweatpants, he leans in and presses a kiss to your thigh, then pushes your hips backwards.

“Lay down,” he says, looking up at you with carnal intent, and who are you to deny him?

Placing yourself slowly on the scratchy, cum-stained comforter topping the stiff bed in this dusty motel room shouldn’t feel like laying a cloth atop an altar, but should and shouldn’t have no place in your fractured mind tonight. Draping yourself back, Seonghwa moves to the bed, spreading your legs with a smoothing of his palm over your sticky thighs and settles himself between them. Normal you, sane you, would be mortified to have a gorgeous stranger raking eyes over your bare cunt like this, but you are not that person now. You are Seonghwa’s version of you. God help you, you hope to never return to normal if this is what madness brings.

“So ready to do anything I ask,” Seonghwa says, still gliding his hands up and down your inner thighs as his eyes drink in your form, “What if I were to hurt you? What if I wanted to do evil things to you?”

There’s a moral quandary in there, still tickling the back of his saintly mind, but honestly you are positive that in your current state you would acquiesce readily, no matter. Coherent thought had long fled the building, and you were fully immersed in your fallacious worship of this man. Nothing he could do to you could ever be evil, because he himself is wholly divine. He could make a sacrifice of you and it would still be an act of devotion.

“I’m yours to do with as you please. Be greedy, Seonghwa,” you tell him as much, watching the racing emotions over his face at your words, first shock, then a deep seated hunger.

“Be careful with your words, lovely,” he growls, leaning over you to prop himself on a hand, his lips over yours, “I’m likely to believe them tonight.”

You meet his intense gaze steadily, firm in your faith in him, and reply, “Take whatever you want, Hwa. I’m your disciple tonight.”

His lack of comment on your endless oddity continues as his eyes blaze and he drops to press a hot, spit slicked kiss to your hungry mouth. You return it with ardent devotion, and gasp in a lungful of musty motel air when he begins to work his mouth down your body, his destination clear as he makes quick work of devouring the skin of your neck, your chest, your stomach. He pauses when he reaches the juncture of your thighs, trailing his nose over your mound, inhaling deeply, bringing a shudder up your body and your fingers back to his hair.

The licking flame of his tongue between your legs is a pyre built to consume every wicked woman known to man. It slips between your folds, dragging over your clit as your back arches and a cry escapes you. His arms slide under your thighs, his hands wrapping up over them to hold them open as he delves his tongue into your hole, and a trembling takes over your body, yanking wildly at his sweat-damped strands. As he fucks his tongue into you, licking out the wet that is now gathering even quicker in your core, you chanted to the heavens, both curses and prayers, a creed of your worship of the tongue driving you to ecstasy.

Moving to draw your clit between his lips, he gives a hard suck and the breath is driven from your lungs. Your walls clench around the lack of his tongue, and you gasp out a silent plea, looking down to find his eyes closed in avaricious joy as he flicks his tongue over the nub he is still suckling at. Writhing, you finally draw air back into your lungs, and cry his name out, pulling a moan from him that vibrates through your clit and sends shocks up your spine. An ache forms in your walls, yearning to be filled, to clamp down on more than your own juices.

“Please,” you beg, caught in limbo and viewing heaven from afar, “please Hwa, I need more!”

He growls, pulling away with another long lick over your hole to your clit, then sitting up to yank open his jeans.

“That’s right, want it all, don’t you?” he questions, shoving at the waist of his jeans and boxers at once, revealing a quivering cock, red at the tip and anointed with glimmering precum, tumescent in the low light of the hideous lamp on the dingy bedside table, “My impatient little plaything.”

The covetous note in his voice is matched by the way you eye his cock with eager desire. You want nothing more than to shove him back and lay his dick on your tongue like the eucharist, to take the communion of his heavenly body and worship him fully. But he clearly has other ideas, as he tucks his bottom lip between his teeth and grips the base of his cock and drags the tip over your folds. This draws a long moan from your lips, and you drop your eyes closed at the heat of his precum mingling with yours on your folds.

“So wet, so ready for me to take and take and take,” he releases on a deep breath, tipping his head back and screwing his eyes shut again as he coats the head of his dick with your juices, “All for me, right?”

His eyes dart back down to yours, commanding your response, which you readily give, “All yours, Seonghwa, anything for you.”

His moral dilemma seems to have ended as he gives you a look of fierce infatuation, all doubt gone, and you drink in the lust pouring off of him. He leans over you once more, planting a hand by your head as he positions himself at your entrance, leaning down to feather his lips over your jawline.

“I told you to be careful with those words,” he mumbles into your neck, “Anything?”

You are resolute in your conviction as you breathe out, “Anything. Make me yours.”

You gasp in a deep cry as Seonghwa pushes his way into you, moaning against your shoulder, “And if I want to cum in you?”

“Give me every drop,” you cry out, palms finding his back and your nails turning in to rake marks down his shoulders.

“Fuck, lovely,” he shudders out, drawing his hips back to drive into your heat with force driven by maddening desire, “Say it again.”

The thrust of his cock is a divining rod directly drawing every drop of essence from your core. He sets a fervent pace, the sound of your wet folds slapping against his base filling the room. He grunts with the effort of his passion, and you repeat a catechism of need for him, for his seed to fill you to overflowing, to be possessed fully by him and only him. The heavy stroke of his thick cock stretches the limits of your neglected pussy, and the fire building in your loins is only fueled by the thickly slurred whisper of his desires and passion in your ear, a rosary prayer that would serve as penance for Satan himself.

“God, beautiful, you’re so tight, so hot around my cock,” his words flood your senses, driving you nearer and nearer your peak, “My own little toy to fill with cum, going to fuck it into you so deep…”

He trails off into soft moans, pressing blazing open-mouthed kisses across your shoulders as you drag your nails down his back harder, arching your hips as much as you can to meet his rough thrusts, so close to paradise, but just out of reach. You cry out, begging him once again for more, and he pushes himself up, hooking an arm under one of your knees, the new angle making his harsh thrusts now batter that spot inside you that stole the breath from your lungs. As a final blessing, he brings his other hand down to press his thumb to your clit, rubbing circles on it, the fires of damnation in his eyes as they met yours.

“Fuck, cum for me, please cum for me,” he grits out between his beautiful teeth, his hips stuttering as he twitched inside you with each snap of his hips, “Squeeze me while I fill you up, beautiful.”

The last clear thought you have, as Seonghwa imbues you with his gracious self, suffuses your mind and body with every bit of himself, fills you to overflowing both literally and metaphorically, is “this must be what miracles are made of.” And the consummation, the sparkling moment of orgasm, your trembling body drinking in the baptismal font of his seed, is the purest form of communion. You quake with your release, clamping down around him as you buck and cry out to the heavens you have now reached. He jerks his hips against you, teeth clenched as his cum streams into you in hot torrents.

The sacrament of your joining overflows, and he collapses against you, still deep in your leaking cunt as you both catch your breath. Your once flagellating hands now sooth over his rent skin, and he draws in a deep breath then rolls off of you, bringing a sigh to your lips as you feel him slip out of you and his cum begin to flow out onto the filthy comforter below you. His head turns to look at you, and you see the same satisfaction you feel matched on his face.

“Are you… was that okay?” he asks, propping himself up on an elbow and cupping your face in his palm.

A laugh bubbles up from your chest and you pull him into a kiss. How do you explain that “okay” is not even close to what “that” was? You were born again, baptized and given new life by this man.

Feeling him settle against you, pulling you close, you close your eyes and whisper, “That was glorious, Seonghwa.”

But this transcendence can’t ever last forever, can it? Certainly not for a half-crazed dumbass like yourself, letting a crack in your sanity widen to the point of idolatry. The early morning light streaming through the ratty curtains of this shitty hotel room wakes you to find an empty bed, the deity you had gifted your entire soul to the night before gone. No note. No traces of him to prove he existed aside from the marks on your body.

Figures, right?

Stumbling your way into your clothes, you try to be angry. With him or yourself, either would do. But mostly, you feel renewed, as if his cum drying on your thighs had glued back together the shattered pieces of yourself. Exiting the chapel of a ratty flophouse room, you see the waitress from last night exiting the diner across the parking lot. She glances over then waves at you, and dimly you are aware of the pity in her eyes. It would bother the you from last night, but this morning you simply smile and jog over, this new you absolved of the sin of shame.

“Hey,” she says as you approach, “I set your stuff behind the counter for you. Are you okay?”

You consider her well-intentioned question for a moment, then reply with the beatific smile of the resurrected in spirit, “Never better.”

#park seonghwa smut #seonghwa smut #ateez smut #ateez fic #seonghwa fanfic #seonghwa x reader #seonghwa x you #seonghwa x y/n #ateez x reader #my writing #under 50 notes lmaooo y’all really hated this one #but it’s my pride and joy #gonna go sit in the corner and cry a little lol #SoundCloud

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