Hi, I’m cherryberrycheol, you can call me Ellery or El.
28, she/her.
my languages are russian (native) and english
i write exclusively about cheol when it comes to requests or him in poly combo with mingyu
about me | rules | ask box & requests | masterlist | history
requests: [closed]
before requesting please read this
🌸 latest release: insatiable 🆕
in this small nook it’s pretty much everything s.coups imagined.
expect:
꒰⸝⸝ᵕ ༝ ᵕ⸝⸝꒱ exclusively seungcheol-centric stories. periodt. i'm a couprang through and through, he's my ult, i'm spiritually married to the man. he's part of the crew part of the ship atp, can do nothing about it
꒰⸝⸝ᵕ ༝ ᵕ⸝⸝꒱ mostly smut or containing it (therefore Minors DNI !!!)
꒰⸝⸝ᵕ ༝ ᵕ⸝⸝꒱ maybe angsty elements, hopefully only if you squint because I usually can't take writing/reading overly painful stuff about Cheol
꒰⸝⸝ᵕ ༝ ᵕ⸝⸝꒱ other SVT members fics if the brainrot hits esp hard
꒰⸝⸝ᵕ ༝ ᵕ⸝⸝꒱ maybe other groups one day (though l've been stuck on Seungcheol for over two years now, I can't even think of writing anyone else, god help me)
꒰⸝⸝ᵕ ༝ ᵕ⸝⸝꒱ all the stories are fem!reader (i can see some of my fluff works being more gn!reader)
꒰⸝⸝ᵕ ༝ ᵕ⸝⸝꒱ also i want to make it a bit of a personal blog and share thoughts/things from my life here and there, related to kpop and writing or not
tags map:
#cherryberrycheol ✨ —just thoughts and bloggish posts
#cherryberrycheol writes —updates on writing progress
#cherryberrycheol recs 🌸 —I loved it and now I’m sharing
#cherryberrycheol responds📤 —responding to reblogs
#cherryberrycheol 💌🍒 —responding to ask box
as a writer, it’s very important that you know this: whenever you tell yourself “this will only be one-chapter-long” that is a lie. your brain is lying to you. it won’t, in fact, be just a short one-shot
it’s Thu and my energy reserves are on low low. idk how I’m going to hold through today and tomorrow, my productivity stats are dropping already 🫠🫠🫠 can someone please do phone calls for me?😩😩😩
WARNINGS: Mature/Suggestive Scenes (nothing too crazy though but MDNI just to be safe)
WC: 2.2k
SUMMARY: Seungcheol forgot to turn his location off, but it’s not like you turned yours off either.
Seungcheol has left Home.
It’s been six weeks since you broke up with Seungcheol. Which is why you beat yourself up for wondering why he was leaving the apartment you used to share while the rain poured outside.
You wonder if he brought his coat, the one you bought for him that was nearly half your monthly wage. You wonder if he brought the umbrella you always insisted he take with him in case it rained. You wonder if he’s okay.
You wonder if he’s thinking about you as much as you’re thinking about him on days this cold and lonely.
The screen of your phone trailing his movements is the only thing illuminating your dark room. Occasionally, a flash of lightning would burst through the sides of your curtain, but beyond that, you were enveloped in darkness. Only the icon with Seungcheol’s picture on it moving against a white map gave the room light.
It’s stupid, you think, and a little stalker-like. You shouldn’t be checking your ex’s movement like this, and if anyone were to ask you, you shouldn’t even have access to his location like this. But it seemed like he forgot to turn it off.
And it’s not like you turned yours off either.
You shut your phone, rolling over to curl deeper into the blanket. It’s cold. It’s empty. It has been for the past six weeks and maybe even more. If he was still around you could’ve curled up against him, and without a second thought he would’ve wrapped you in his strong embrace and kissed your forehead with a smile.
But you no longer had the right to that. Not when you were the one who called things off.
It’s not like you wanted to. Dating an idol was great until it became too much. Loving Seungcheol was easy until it wasn’t. You were a coward, that you would admit, but could anyone really blame you when you always felt like you were second best? And it’s not like you could argue because being an idol is all Seungcheol has ever known. You would die before you ever let anyone get in the way of that.
You could’ve made him choose. He’s been in the industry long enough, surely he already had plans of settling down with you and building a life off the stage.
But you didn’t.
Not because you were afraid he wouldn’t choose you. In fact it was the opposite. You know he would’ve chosen you. It would take a while on his end to withdraw considering how much he loved his members, but he would, if you really wanted him to.
And that’s why you didn’t.
Because you’re scared that he might choose you and suddenly regret giving all of it up for someone who barely mattered. There were so many people who loved Seungcheol. Kinder people, smarter people, prettier people, people who had something more to offer…
So you let go.
And the worst part was that he let you.
He’s always been respectful like that, and you cannot find it in yourself to fault him for it. The universe knows that if he had asked you to stay, you would’ve come running back like a car with no brakes.
Seungcheol has only 10% battery. Ask them to charge their phone.
You can’t help the way your hand immediately opens up the app to check where Seungcheol could be with only a fraction of his battery left.
The Black Dog
It’s a little invasive, the way you’re quick to search up the spot. Can anyone really blame you for being so worried? He’s an idol, and while they have bodyguards, they also have a ridiculous amount of people who are constantly monitoring their movement (You’d be a hypocrite for calling them out considering that you were also looking at Seungcheol’s location).
Your heart sinks when you realize that it’s a bar, but you’re immediately scolding yourself because why should you care where he went? He was probably out drinking with Mingyu again, and had you still been together, you would’ve given Mingyu an earful about how he should stop dragging Seungcheol out to drink so often.
With a mood sourer than before, you shut your phone off and drift off to sleep. It’s the only place where Seungcheol doesn’t haunt you.
—
Three things greet you the moment you open your phone after waking up from your nap that somehow managed to go from 30 minutes to eight complete hours: messages from Seungcheol, missed calls from Seungcheol, and messages from your best friend.
You choose to check Eunji’s first. You didn’t have the strength to open Seungcheol’s message just yet.
Eunji
https://x.com/…
Eunji
Girl, I know you’re broken up but what is wrong with him?
Quickly, you open the link Eunji sent you, a news article.
You don’t even read through it. The only thing you can see is the date of the article, the words ‘The Black Dog’, and the picture of Seungcheol walking out of the bar beside a woman whose face was blurred.
SEVENTEEN’s S.Coups Spotted with Mystery Woman, Fans say it’s about time
You can feel the way your heart is beating violently, pushing against the bones that cage it, threatening to burst from the sheer amount of pain it felt. You could feel the blood leave your face, the sense of dread settling into your bones as you clutch your phone tighter.
You can’t even cry.
You had spent the last few weeks crying your heart out, and there was nothing left. The only thing you could do was ache and ache and ache and ache until you could no longer breathe.
It had been you who ended things, so why the hell did it hurt so much?
You curl into yourself, wishing that everything around you would just disappear as you zoom into the picture of Seungcheol and the mystery woman.
Fans say it’s about time
Was it not the right time before? Was it not the right time when you were the one by his side? Was the universe so cruel that the masses only favored the idea of Seungcheol in a relationship when he wasn’t with you?
It was unfair.
What did this mystery woman have that you didn’t? You had been on many dates with Seungcheol in public, but none of them ever made the headlines. Sure, you didn’t want your privacy exposed, but really? Not a single one? Did the paparazzi just not consider you worthy enough to be associated with Seungcheol like that? Was Seungcheol so out of your league that no one would ever entertain the idea that you were dating him?
You were spiraling, that much you could tell. The thoughts flew through your mind so quickly that everything blurred into one loud noise that made you want to rip your hair out or throw your phone against the wall.
However, an unexpected notification has you sitting up in disbelief.
Cheol <3
I’m coming over.
Immediately, you’re reading through his previous messages, the messages you overlooked in favor of opening Eunji’s first.
Cheol <3
Are you awake?
Cheol <3
I know you said no contact but please don’t believe the articles.
You want to believe him. You want him to tell you that the girl means nothing to him, that she was just a friend, that the media just twisted the story for clicks… You desperately want to be proven wrong. But did it really matter? So what if he’s not dating her? It doesn’t change the fact that he’s not dating you either.
But why was Seungcheol coming over?
He didn’t have to explain himself to you for the same reason you couldn’t ask him for reassurance. Maybe it was just a habit he couldn’t shake off. A routine that had been engrained into his system from all the years he spent with you.
A loud knock on your door has you pulling the covers off of you, your figure immediately trudging towards the front door. It was still raining after all. If you made Seungcheol wait a little longer, he’d be soaked to the bone even with an umbrella.
When you open the door, you’re met with the sight of Seungcheol drenched in rainwater. He has neither an umbrella nor a raincoat, almost as if he had immediately rushed to your door with no regard for anything else. His hair is disheveled and droplets fall from its tips while some of the strands stick to his forehead. It’s a little longer from when you last saw him.
But his eyes.
It’s like they never changed.
They still look at you with adoration, with warmth. With love so sincere it was almost as if the memory of you breaking his heart six weeks ago was just some nightmare he had finally awoken from.
Choi Seungcheol looked like a man who had lost his way and found himself back home.
You don’t realize that there are tears falling from your eyes. The only time you realize it is when Seungcheol reaches out, cups your cheek, and wipes it away with his thumb.
“Don’t cry, please.” Seungcheol whispers out, his own eyes glistening with unshed tears as he steps closer to you. “I don’t deserve your tears.”
And that only makes you cry harder.
With a surge of recklessness, you wrap your arms around Seungcheol’s neck, clutching onto his broad frame like he would slip away any second.
Seungcheol is quick to pull you even tighter to him, arms encircling your waist like this would be the last time he’d ever get to feel you against him this way. He buries his nose into your hair whispering apologies and explanations that you didn’t even bother listening to.
The rain could go on and the world could stop turning, it didn’t matter to you anymore. The girl in the bar, the fact that you were broken up… None of that mattered. You had Seungcheol in your arms and that was more than enough.
“Cheol, we can’t stand here forever.” You mutter against his neck, still wrapped in his arms. “You’ll get sick.”
“I don’t care.” Came Seungcheol’s reply. “Forever is a short time if I’ll be in your arms the entire time.”
A small smile makes its way onto your face. “Yeah, but what if I get sick too, huh?”
Without a word, Seungcheol pulls away, removes his shoes, and shuts the door behind him. When he turns to look at you, there’s a hint of uncertainty in his eyes.
Like he doesn’t know if he should stay or if he’s already overstaying his welcome. It seemed reality was settling in.
And it was hitting you all once too.
You were still exes, after all.
“The woman in the bar was Mingyu’s cousin.” Seungcheol begins to explain. “Mingyu was already drunk so he asked me to take her home—“
The uncertainty in Seungcheol’s face is suddenly replaced by an indiscernible mixture of different emotions. You can see it swirl violently in his gaze as he stares at you.
“Well, it matters to me.” Seungcheol replies, jaw set and eyes sharp. “It matters to me because I don’t want you to think that I’m suddenly dating someone new when all I’ve been doing these past few weeks is drown myself in work trying to forget you.”
The rawness of his confession catches you off guard.
“I loved you, I still do.” Seungcheol’s words sound like a plea as he steps closer and grabs you by your elbows. “I regret letting you walk out that door without a fight. I thought we’d get over it in a few days but we didn’t.”
Seungcheol presses his forehead against yours, he’s so close that you can feel his ragged breaths dance over your lips.
“Come back to me.” Seungcheol’s grip on you gets tighter as he looks into your eyes with a desperation you’d only see in sacred halls. “Get mad all you want, hit me if you have to but please—“
“Kiss me,” Came your reply. You refused to let the only man you’ve ever truly loved like this reduce himself even further. “That’s all I ask.”
Seungcheol doesn’t miss a beat, his lips crashing against yours like a man who had found his personal oasis after searching tirelessly through a desert with seemingly no end.
“Missed this,” Seungcheol pulls away for a fraction to mutter breathlessly against your lips. “Missed you.”
Then his mouth is back on yours, tongue and teeth clashing as he pulls at the hem of your shirt to signal that he wants it off, quickly.
Seungcheol helps you strip off your shirt before he removes his own hastily. Once his hands are free, he’s immediately pushing you towards your couch, his lips not parting from yours for even a single second.
Your back arches off the couch as Seungcheol’s kisses start going lower and lower, whimpers escaping from your throat as he nips and licks at the skin his lips caress.
For a moment he pauses, looking up from your chest that he was sucking bruises onto. “Tell me to stop.”
With a teasing smile, you run your fingers through his hair. “Why should I?”
At your words, Seungcheol’s eyes darken. “Don’t blame me if you can’t walk tomorrow. I’ve been pent up for six weeks.”
Summary: It is one of those days when you and Seungcheol are both working from home. Notoriously, no work gets done on days like this one.
Word count: 6.6k
Genres/warnings: smut, pwp (plot? what plot?); non-idol au, loser!nerd!perv!seungcheol, established relationship, honestly i can stop at pwp, cheol is a simp and we're not surprised; lmk if i skipped anything important
Smut warnings: Minors DNI, thicc dicc!cheol, implied size difference, dirty talk (of course), slow piv sex, unprotected (this is how we roll here; but please be safe irl), creampie, they continue being horndogs, reader takes charge, light hints of pet play; oral (f rec), face sitting, some brief hand job (m. rec), orgasm denial/control, edging, kinda ruined orgasm, cheol is down bad as always, he's sweetly pathetic, reader is on the phone with her manager when cheol fucks her (oops, don't do it irl kids); see anything i missed? please lmk
A/N: everyone say thank you, seungcheol for that live he held. it gave me the idea of writing a full scene of what i only mentioned briefly in the main fic, though the action here takes place after the main story. as always, enjoy your read and i’ll be happy to see your feedback in any form you’re comfortable with: comments, asks or reblogs. and i will see you in my next fic ᙏ̤̫
You can read it separately but I would recommend reading all of it for the full experience of this couple :)
If you see any mistakes: I try to proofread but English isn’t my first language, proceed at your own discretion.
Masterlist. | PART 1
Seungcheol is forty-seven minutes deep into this video call and he has absorbed precisely none of it. His manager's voice comes through the headset like a monotone hum. He can swear this woman's voice is designed to sandpaper the edges of his sanity. On screen, a grid of eight faces, all feigning attention, and his own small rectangle in the corner shows a man who hasn't blinked in thirty seconds because he's too busy tracking a silhouette moving past the doorway.
That's you. Just a flicker of movement—bare legs, the hem of an oversized t-shirt he knows is his, the soft grey one you stole three months ago and never gave back—and his concentration detonates. His cock twitches against his thigh, a slow, traitorous swell that has nothing to do with whatever the hell his manager is droning on about.
Seungcheol leans back in his chair, the springs groaning under his weight, and tilts his head just enough to catch a sliver of the kitchen through the gap in the doorframe. You're at the counter now, back to him, reaching to open the microwave. The t-shirt stretches, outlining the curve of your butt. Suddenly, the fabric rides up as you tiptoe to grab something from the cupboard above and the very bottom of your ass peeks out, bare and soft-looking, and he has to swallow a sound that would get him fired.
"—and moving forward, I think we need to restructure our code reviews which are taking two days on average," his manager drones, and Seungcheol wants to scream. Fuck them code reviews. He's going to lose his mind. He's going to combust in this ergonomic chair and they'll find him as nothing but a pile of ash and a half-hard dick.
His fingers drum against the armrest. He risks another glance. You're bent over now, rummaging in the fridge, and the t-shirt has ridden up so high he can see the crease where your thigh meets your ass. Seungcheol knows exactly how that crease tastes. He knows the sound you make when he presses his tongue flat against it and drags upward. He knows the way you shudder, the way your hand fists in his hair, the way you always whisper his name in a mix of a curse and a prayer.
Fuck. His cock is fully hard now, a rigid line trapped in his sweatpants and boxer briefs in a way that's becoming painful. He shifts in his seat, trying to find relief, and accidentally knocks his knee against the underside of his desk with a dull thud that makes his microphone—that he forgot to mute—spike.
"You okay there, Seungcheol?" His manager's voice cuts through, and for one horrifying second his heart stops. But he quickly realises that it's just the noise that drew her attention. Just the thud.
"Yeah, fine," he says, and his voice comes out strained, a little too tight. "Just—hit my knee on the table."
He mutes himself. Lets out a breath that shakes. Rubs his palm over his face and tries to think about spreadsheets. Deadlines. Anything except you currently being in the kitchen or the way you looked this morning when you rolled out of bed, hair a disaster, his t-shirt swallowing you, and kissed him on the forehead before padding to the bathroom. Domestic shit. Soft, sweet, married-couple shit that still makes his chest ache even now, months in, even after everything.
It's worse now. That's the thing. He thought it would level out—the insatiable, clawing need that's been devouring him since that first drunk night on the couch. He thought once the novelty wore off, once you'd had each other in every conceivable position on every conceivable surface, the fever would break and you'd settle into something manageable. Normal.
It didn't.
It got so much worse.
Last Friday, for instance. You both worked from home. By his generous estimate, you managed three hours of actual productivity between you. The rest of the day dissolved into a blur of skin and sweat and the obscene, wet sound of his cock sliding into you over and over. He bent you over your desk during what was supposed to be a fifteen-minute coffee break and didn't pull out for forty-five. You sucked him off under his desk during a monthly team call on Google Meet, his teeth sinking into his fist and leaving marks just to keep from moaning into an unmuted mic, his eyes watering with restraint of not rolling back into his skull. Seungcheol fucked you against the hallway wall on the way to the bathroom, one hand clamped over your mouth, your legs wrapped around his waist, your nails carving trenches into his shoulders through his shirt. By the end of the day you couldn't walk straight. Neither could he. You ordered pizza and ate it cross-legged on the floor of your living room, half-naked, feeding each other slices and communicating with humms and grunts because forming full thoughts and voicing them felt like mission impossible. And then he got hard again just from watching you lick grease off your thumb, and you let him lay you back on the soft carpet and fill you up again, until you were both too wrecked to move.
So yeah. It didn't level out. It metastasised.
And now it's Tuesday, and he's been on this call for almost an hour, and you are a room away, in the kitchen, heating up leftovers, and his entire body is humming with want. He can smell you from here. He swears he can—that faint, familiar scent of your body wash and underneath it, the warm scent of your skin that makes his mouth water and his brain go syrupy and stupid.
"—so if everyone could have their reports in by Thursday," his manager is saying, finally, mercifully, "that would be great. Any questions? No? Great. Thanks, everyone."
The call ends. Seungcheol doesn't even say goodbye. He yanks the headset off, tosses it onto his desk, and is out of the bedroom before his chair stops spinning.
You hear him coming. He's not particularly secretive about his arrival—the heavy, purposeful tread of a man who spends too much time at the gym and hasn't learned to move quietly in a shared apartment. But you don't turn around. You're standing at the counter, reaching for the microwave handle, when his arms wrap around you from behind and his body folds over yours like a collapsing star.
He's so big. That's the first thing you register, the same thing you register every time—the sheer, enveloping mass of him. His chest presses against your back, solid and warm through the thin fabric of your—his—t-shirt. His arms circle your waist, thick and possessive, and his face buries into the crook of your neck with a sound that can only be described as a whimper.
"You're done?" you ask, not bothering to hide the amusement in your voice.
"Finally," he mumbles against your skin. His lips move as he speaks, brushing the sensitive spot just below your ear, and you have to suppress a shiver. "Thought she was never going to shut up. I was losing my mind."
"Yeah, I could hear her from here. That voice is something else. Like a sadistic lullaby."
Seungcheol huffs a laugh, his breath warm and damp against your throat. "It's not funny. I was suffering."
"Poor baby." You tilt your head, giving him more access without thinking, your body responding to his proximity the way it always does—on instinct, on autopilot, like your nerve endings have been rewired to recognise him as a primary need. Purely Pavlovian response. "My heart bleeds for you and your very important corporate meeting."
"Don't be mean." He pouts. You can't see his face but you know he's pouting—you can hear it in the way his voice goes soft and petulant, the way his lower lip juts out. "I missed you."
"I was literally a wall away."
"That's a wall too far."
The microwave beeps. You reach for it again, but Seungcheol's hand catches yours first. His fingers slide between yours, locking them together, and he pulls your hand back down, pressing it flat against the counter top. His other hand slips under the hem of your shirt and settles on your lower belly, palm warm and broad and possessive.
"Food can wait," he murmurs.
You open your mouth to argue, to tease him about being a needy, insufferable menace, but then his palm presses down. Just a little. Just enough to apply pressure, to make you aware of the heat pooling low in your abdomen, of the way your body responds to him on a level that has nothing to do with conscious thought. An involuntary sound escapes your throat—small, breathy, embarrassing—and you feel your pussy clench around nothing.
"That's what I thought," he says, and there's a smile in his voice now, satisfied and soft and infuriating.
His lips find the junction of your neck and shoulder. He kisses you there, slow and open-mouthed, and then his teeth graze your skin and you stop breathing for a second.
"Cheol."
"Mm?"
"You're doing that thing."
"What thing?" He does it again—a gentle scrape of teeth, followed by the wet, soothing press of his tongue—and your knees go weak.
"That thing where you—where you turn me into—" You can't finish the sentence. His lips have found a new spot, just above your collarbone, and he's sucking a bruise into existence with the kind of focused intensity he usually reserves for boss fights in Elden Ring. Your brain fills with static. Your hands grip the edge of the counter. "—into a—fuck."
"Into a what?" He pulls back just long enough to speak, his voice low and rough and dripping with false innocence. "Use your words, baby."
"I hate you."
"No you don't." Kiss. Bite. Suck. "You love it. You love when I make you all dumb and shaky. When I take my time and turn you into a little mess before I've even touched you properly." Another kiss, this one pressed to the shell of your ear. "I know you're clenching even without touching you, baby. You think I'm not aware? Oh, I am. I know your body better than I know my own at this point."
You think of saying something sharp, to cut through the haze and reassert some semblance of control. But Seungcheol is right. He does know your body. He's spent months mapping every inch of it with his hands and his mouth and his cock, learning every spot that makes you gasp, every rhythm that makes you fall apart. And right now, with his palm still pressing on your lower belly and his lips trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses down the side of your neck, the only thing your brain can produce is a stream of increasingly pathetic sounds.
You think, distantly, about the irony of it. Months ago you called him a loser to your friend. You rolled your eyes at his compression shirts and his anime figures and his inability to talk to women. And now here you are, melting into a puddle of need because he's kissing your neck and breathing on you. Your friends have noticed, of course. Because you can't exactly hide it. You walk into every brunch, every cafe meetup, wearing the unmistakable glow of a woman who's getting thoroughly, regularly, devastatingly fucked. Loud and proud as they say.
Seungcheol's fingers have trailed lower while you were lost in thought. They're resting on the waistband of your underwear now, tracing the elastic edge with a maddening lightness that makes your hips twitch.
"Mmm, bet you're so wet already," he murmurs, and you can hear the satisfaction in his voice, the smug, reverent delight. "I haven't even done anything and you're soaking through your panties, aren't you? What am I going to do with you?"
"I don't know," you manage, your voice coming out embarrassingly breathy. "Maybe actually fuck me instead of just talking about it?"
"Impatient." He nips at your earlobe. "I like it."
His fingers dip lower, pressing against you through the damp cotton of your underwear and finding his theory to be true. The pressure is light, teasing, nowhere near enough, and you can feel your pussy clenching and throbbing again, desperate for more, desperate for anything. Behind you, pressed against the curve of your ass, his cock is a hard, insistent weight. He's been half-hard since the call started—you could guess from the way he was squirming in his chair, the way his eyes kept cutting toward the kitchen—but now he's fully erect, thick and hot even through the layers of his sweatpants and your t-shirt that barely covers your ass anymore. He rocks against you, a slow, deliberate grind, and the friction makes you both groan.
"Thought about this the whole call," he says, his voice dropping into that lower register that makes your stomach flip. "Thought about bending you over this counter. Thought about pulling these little panties to the side and sliding into you while you're still trying to heat up your stupid breakfast leftovers. Thought about filling you up so full you'd be leaking me all afternoon while you sit in your meetings pretending to be a professional."
"That's—" You swallow, hard. "That's what you were thinking about? During a work call?"
"Every second." Seungcheol grinds against you again, and this time you can feel the full length of him, the girth that still makes your mouth water even after all these months. "Couldn't focus. Couldn't think about anything except your tight little cunt and how bad I need to be inside it. How bad I need to use it."
He says that and lets out a shameful pathetic mewl.
The word "use" and the desperate sound that escapes him land in your chest and detonate. You know what he's doing—he's working you up, talking filth the way he knows you like, the way that makes you weak and pliant and ready to let him do anything. And normally you would let him. Normally you would let him spin you around, bend you over, and fuck you stupid right here against the kitchen counter, and you would come apart on his cock and thank him for it afterwards.
But thanks to his little pathetic display you're feeling something else. Something sharper. Seungcheol spent an hour squirming in his chair thinking about using you? Fine. But you spent that same hour catching glimpses of him in his stupid soft flannel shirt, his hair messy, his brows furrowed, his plush lips wrapped around his water bottle, and you've been simmering with your own kind of want. And maybe it's the oncoming ovulation hormones, or maybe it's the way he whimpered when he first wrapped his arms around you and mewled just now, but something in you decides that today, you're not going to be the one who gets reduced to a mindless, begging mess.
Today, that's going to be him.
His fingers have slipped under the waistband of your panties now, tracing through your slick folds with a slow, exploratory pressure that makes your breath hitch. He's about to push inside—you can feel the tension in his wrist, the way his breathing has gone ragged against your neck—when you reach around with your free hand and squeeze his cock through his sweatpants.
Hard.
Seungcheol makes a sound you've never heard before. A choked, strangled yelp that's half surprise and half something else entirely. His whole body jerks against you, his hips bucking into your grip, and his fingers freeze where they are.
"What—" he starts, but you squeeze again, and the word dissolves into a whimper.
"Here's what's going to happen, baby," you say, and your voice comes out breathless but somewhat steady. "You're going to take your hand out of my panties. You're going to get on your knees. And you're going to do exactly what I tell you. Got it, hmm?"
Seungcheol doesn't answer immediately. His chest is heaving against your back, his cock throbbing in your grip, and you can feel the war happening inside him—the instinct to take over, to reclaim control, wrestling with the part of him that loves this, the part that goes soft and eager and desperate when you turn the tables.
"Got it?" you repeat, and you twist your wrist just enough to make him gasp.
"Yeah," he breathes, voice going a little higher than usual. "Yeah, okay. Got it."
"Good boy."
The words hit him like a physical blow. You feel the full-body shudder that runs through him, the way his cock kicks against your palm, the way his breathing goes even more ragged and uneven. He pulls his hand out of your panties slowly, reluctantly, and you release your grip on him just long enough for him to step back.
"Strip," you say as soon as you turn around to see him.
He does. He pulls his t-shirt over his head first, revealing the broad expanse of his chest, the thick shoulders and defined pecs, the trail of dark hair that runs down his stomach and disappears into the waistband of his sweats. Then his pants go, pushed down over his hips, and his boxers with them, until he's standing naked in the middle of the kitchen with his cock jutting up toward his belly, flushed dark at the tip and already leaking.
You take a moment to look at Seungcheol. It never gets old—the sheer size of him, the thickness, the way his cock curves just slightly, so pretty. The way it twitches under your gaze like it's begging for attention—and you bet it is. The way his balls hang heavy and full, a reminder that he hasn't come since yesterday morning, which in his case means he's already backed up and desperate and so, so easy to break.
"You're so pretty," you murmur, and you mean it. "Look at you. Standing there dripping for me. Such a desperate pathetic mess already and I haven't even touched you."
His cock gives you an eager reaction, twitching and bobbing up and down at your words, and you smile at how it throbs, almost like it's whining and jumping for you to touch it. Seungcheol's ears go red. That very deep, mortified flush that you've been watching since the very first night, except now it makes your chest ache with something tender and possessive instead of irritated. "Baby—"
"On your knees," you order softly, lips stretched in the sweetest of smiles.
He drops so fast you hear his knees hit the tile. You wince, breaking character just for a moment, worried, but Seungcheol doesn't seem to care at all, he is looking up at you with those big brown eyes, pupils blown wide, lips parted, and he is so fucking wreckable in this very moment that it makes your pussy clench and you don't even notice as you slip back into the little play the two of you are orchestrating.
"Please," he whispers, and he doesn't even know what he's asking for. He just knows he needs something, anything, as long as it is from you.
"Please what?" you hum, watching his eyes turn even shinier than before. He's so pretty like this it is unfair. Not for the first time he's giving you aggression urges.
"Please let me taste you. Need to put my mouth on you. I've been thinking about it all morning—thinking about how you taste, how soft and warm you feel on my tongue—please, baby? I need it—"
"Shh." You step forward, close enough that he can smell you again—his nostrils visibly flare when he silently inhales you—and you can feel his exhale ghost against your thighs. "I know. I know you've been a desperate little puppy all morning, couldn't even pay attention to your stupid meeting because you were too busy thinking about my pussy. Isn't that right?"
He nods, frantic, his hands twitching at his sides like he's physically restraining himself from grabbing you. You wouldn't mind if he did, to be fair. "Yes. Yes, that's right. Couldn't—couldn't think about anything else. Just you. Just your sweet pussy. Just how bad I wanted to be inside it." He whimpers and squirms on his knees, and his cock twitches again at the image growing vivid in his head.
"And instead you're on your knees." You reach down, thread your fingers through his hair, and tug—not hard enough to hurt, only to tilt his head back and make him look at you. "Because you're not in charge right now. I am. And I decide when you get to touch me. I decide when you get to cum. Understood?"
"Understood." His voice is wrecked already, and you haven't even started.
"Good." You release his hair and hop up onto the edge of the counter, spreading your legs. "Now be a good boy and get to work."
You pat your thigh and Seungcheol doesn't need to be told twice. His hands find your thighs, tugging your underwear off with urgent impatience before spreading you wider to make room, and then his mouth is on you and the world dissolves into sensation for both of you.
Seungcheol eats pussy like he's been starving for years and you're the first meal he's been served. His tongue is broad and wet and relentless, licking a stripe from your entrance to your clit with a pressure that makes your hips immediately buck against his face. He genuinely moans when he tastes you, like the flavour of your arousal is the best thing he's ever experienced—and the vibration against your clit sends a shockwave up your spine, makes your soles tingle and toes curl.
"Fuck," you breathe, one hand bracing against the counter, the other fisting in his hair. "That's it. That's—right there—"
He stays there. His tongue circles your clit in slow, deliberate strokes, and then his lips close around it and he sucks, and your vision whites out for a second, an involuntary squeal leaving your mouth.
"Oh my god—" you pant, voice getting strained and high-pitched with pleasure.
He hums against you, pleased, and the vibration makes you jolt again. His hands are gripping your thighs hard enough to leave marks, holding you open for him, and his tongue keeps working you in a rhythm that's devastatingly precise. He knows exactly what you like. Of course he does. He's spent months learning your body like a language, and now he's fluent.
But you're not going to let him make you come just yet. You tug on his hair, pulling him back, and he looks up at you with his face slick and shining, his lips swollen and wet, his eyes hazy and half-lidded with want.
"Why'd you stop me?" he whines. "I wasn't done. You taste so good, baby, please let me finish—"
"Because I want to sit on your face."
His eyes go wide. Then darken. His cock, which has been bobbing neglected against his stomach, twitches and throbs visibly, a fresh bead of precum welling at the tip.
"Fuck," he whispers. "Yeah. Yeah, okay. I want that. Please."
"Get on the floor then."
He lies down on the kitchen tiles without a shred of dignity, his cock standing up like a flagpole, his chest heaving. You slide off the counter and stand over him for a moment, looking down at the picture he makes—this big, muscular man, sprawled on the cold floor, looking up at you like you're the sun and the moon and every star in the sky, his cock leaking all over his own stomach.
"You're so pathetic," you tell him, and you mean it as the highest compliment.
"I know," he breathes. "I'm your pathetic little puppy. Now please—please sit on my face. I need your cunt on my tongue. Need you to smother me with your sweet pussy, baby."
Gosh, you both are so fucking nasty for each other, you chuckle and lower yourself down, kneeling carefully over his head. The first contact of his tongue against your pussy makes you both groan—him from the taste, you from the sensation of his mouth working you open while you settle your full weight onto him. Your thighs bracket his head, and his hands come up to grip your ass, guiding you, pulling you down harder, to sit your entire weight on him.
You let Seungcheol work for a while. Let his tongue fuck into you, let his lips close around your clit, let him moan and whimper against your flesh while you rock your hips in slow, lazy circles. But you have other plans for him, so you twist just enough to reach back, your hand finding his cock where it's standing rigid and neglected.
The sound he makes when you wrap your fingers around him is muffled by your pussy, and you feel the desperate, broken groan that vibrates through your entire body. You stroke him slowly, from base to tip, your thumb swiping over the slick, swollen head to collect the precum that's been pooling there just to massage his frenulum and make the man twitch and jerk his hips uncontrollably, losing all pace of his oral ministrations.
"Look at you," you murmur, looking down at him. "So hard for me. So wet. You're dripping all over yourself. Such a pretty mess, hmm."
He can't answer. His mouth is full of your cunt, his tongue buried inside you, and all he can do is whine and buck his hips into your grip, either encouraging or just sensitive.
"Is this what you wanted? When you were sitting in your meeting with your cock all hard and aching? You wanted to be on your back on the kitchen floor, being used like a toy?"
Seungcheol nods frantically, his nose bumping against your clit, and the sensation makes you gasp.
"That's what I thought. You're nothing but a dumb mutt when I get my hands on you. What a sight, huh? A big, strong man reduced to a whimpering mess on the floor. Your friends have no idea, do they? Do they think you're this alpha male now? That you're the cool guy of the group after you bagged me, hmm?” You apply more weight onto his face and Seungcheol groans against you, soft tongue licking deeper into your heat, coaxing a moan out of you. "Should we let them know that you actually love getting on your knees for me? Love being a good puppy for me?"
You twist your wrist on the upstroke, and his hips stutter, his cock pulsing in your grip. He's close. You can feel it in the way his thighs are tensing, the way his breathing has gone ragged and uneven, and the way his tongue has lost its rhythm against your pussy because he can't concentrate on anything except the pleasure you're wringing out of him.
"Are you going to come?" You ask sweetly. "Are you going to spill all over yourself and make a mess like a good little slut?"
He tries to nod again, but you're already pulling your hand away.
"Too bad," you say, and his desperate, wounded keen is the most beautiful sound you've ever heard. "You don't get to cum until I say so. And I haven't said so."
"Please," he gasps, his mouth finally free of your pussy because you've lifted your hips just enough to look down at him. His face is a mess—lips swollen, cheeks flushed, chin slick with your arousal. "Please, baby, I need to cum. I've been thinking about it all day. I can't—"
"Oh, but you can." You climb off him, and he whines at the loss of contact, his hands reaching for you instinctively. "Get up. Bend me over the counter."
Seungcheol scrambles to his feet so fast he nearly slips and you snicker, telling him to be careful. His cock is an angry red, throbbing visibly, a steady stream of precum dripping from the tip on every twitch. He looks ruined already, and you haven't even let him inside you yet.
You turn around and brace yourself against the counter, arching your back, presenting yourself to him. You're soaked—your thighs are glistening, your pussy is swollen and dripping with a mix of your juices and his spit, and you know exactly what he's seeing right now.
"Now you can fuck me," you tell him. "Slow. Exactly the way I want it. And you're not going to come. Do you understand?"
"Yes," he breathes, steps closer behind you. "Yes, I understand. I'll be good. I'll be so good for you."
He lines himself up. You feel the blunt, thick head of his cock pressing against your entrance, and even though you're wet and open and ready, the stretch is still overwhelming. Seungcheol pushes in slowly, inch by inch, spreading your walls, filing the empty space that begged to be filled, and you both groan in unison as he fills you.
"Fuck," he whispers. "Fuck, baby, you're so tight. You're always so tight. How are you still so tight?"
"Shut up and move."
He pulls out almost all the way, making you feel the way his veined shaft drags against your sensitive walls, and then pushes back in. Seungcheol fucks you exactly the way you told him to—slow, deep, each thrust deliberate and measured. His hands are gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, and you can hear the effort it's taking him to hold back, the way his breathing is coming in ragged gasps, the way he's trembling against you.
"You feel so good," he babbles again. "You feel so fucking good, baby, I can't—I don't know how much longer I can—"
"You can last as long as I tell you to last." But your voice is shaking now too. The angle is perfect, his cock hitting that spot inside you with every slow, grinding thrust, and you're getting close yourself. "Don't you dare cum without permission. Don't you fucking dare."
"I won't. I won't, I promise, just—please, can I go faster? Please?"
"No. Keep it slow. I want to feel every inch of you."
He whimpers, but he does what he's told. His thrusts stay slow and deep, his cock dragging against your walls, and you can feel the orgasm building in your core, coiling tighter and tighter—
Your phone rings.
Your intuition immediately screams at you that it must be someone from work.
"Fuck," you hiss in half frustration, half panic. "Fuck, Cheol, stop, I have—have to take this—"
You try to pull away, but his grip on your hips tightens. "No," he whines. "No, baby, please, I'm so close, don't stop me—"
Somewhere in the back of your mind you feel bad for the man, he sounds so ruined.
"I'm not asking." You pull yourself off his cock with a wet, obscene sound, and Seungcheol makes a noise like you've stabbed him. His cock bobs in the air, angry and neglected, throbbing and jumping with denied orgasm. A thick strand of your combined fluids connects him to your pussy for a brief moment before it snaps. He whines out a sob.
"You ruined it," Seungcheol breathes, and he sounds genuinely devastated. "You ruined my orgasm. Baby, why? I was right there—"
"Stay here," you order, already grabbing your phone from the kitchen table where it was resting forgotten all this time. "Don't move."
You answer the call as you walk toward your room, your voice switching to a semblance of something professional and pleasant even though your thighs are still wet and your pussy is still aching and empty. "Hey, yeah, sorry, just give me one second—"
You don't get your one second. Because Seungcheol, your sweet, pathetic, desperate boyfriend, has followed you despite what you told him to do.
You feel him before you see him—his body pressing up behind you, his hands gripping your hips, his cock sliding between your thighs, still slick with your arousal. You're standing in front of your desk, phone pressed to your ear, and he's already bending you forward, already lining himself up.
"No," you mouth silently, turning your head to glare at him. "Don't you dare."
Seungcheol meets your eyes. His are dark and wild and desperate, and there's something almost feral in his expression. He doesn't stop. He pushes inside you in one smooth, harsh thrust that jolts your entire body, and the sensation of intrusion is so sudden and overwhelming that you have to bite down on your own hand to keep from crying out. This leaves you with no support, which means you pretty much topple over, suddenly pressed into your desk with Seungcheol's hand that was applying pressure between your shoulder blades.
"—and so I was wondering if you could take a look at this document before the meeting this afternoon," your team lead is saying in your ear, her voice cheerful and oblivious. "I know it's last minute, but I think there might be an error on page five."
"Of course," you manage, and your voice comes out surprisingly steady considering the fact that your boyfriend is currently buried balls-deep inside you, his hips already starting to move. "I can—I can do that. No problem."
Seungcheol fucks into you with slow, deliberate strokes, and you can feel him throbbing inside you, can feel how close he still is from before, how desperate. One of his hands slides up and down your back, pressing you down onto the desk before you can even think of lifting your upper body into an upright position, and the other grips your hip hard enough to anchor you in place.
"Great, thanks," your team lead says. "Also, I wanted to ask about the client presentation next week. Have you had a chance to—"
He chooses that moment to thrust particularly deep, his cock hitting your cervix, and a tiny, strangled sound escapes your throat before you can stop it.
"You okay?" your team lead asks.
"Yes," you say, and your voice is definitely too high. "Yes, sorry, I just—stubbed my toe. On the desk. It's fine."
Seungcheol leans down, his chest pressing against your back, his lips brushing your free ear. "Little liar," he whispers, so quiet only you can hear. "What will your boss do if she finds out you're getting fucked during your working hours?” He can't help a chuckle that escapes him when he comes up with his next question. "Hmm, does it make you a slut for fucking me and getting paid while doing so? Technically…" he trails off and your pussy clenches traitorously as soon as your brain registers what he just said.
You want to kill him. You want to kill him and then marry him and then kill him again.
"—and if you could send me the updated slides by end of day, that would be perfect," your team lead is saying.
"End of day," you repeat, barely processing the words. Seungcheol has picked up his pace, just slightly, and the sound of his cock sliding into your wet, messy pussy is so loud in the quiet room that you're sure your team lead can hear it if the line stays silent for a moment too long. "Yes. Slides. I'll—I'll send them."
"Are you sure you're okay? You sound a little off."
"I'm fine. I'm great. Just—writing it down."
Seungcheol muffles a laugh against your shoulder. His hand leaves your hip and snakes around to your front, finding your clit with devastating accuracy. Your whole body jolts.
"That's the spot, isn't it?" he breathes in your ear. "That's the spot that makes you stupid. You're going to come on my cock while you're on the phone, aren't you? You're going to soak me and she's going to hear it."
You shake your head frantically, but you can't speak. Your team lead is still talking, something about deadlines and team meetings, and you're nodding along and making vague sounds of agreement while your boyfriend rubs circles on your clit and fucks into you with deep, punishing strokes. You're trying so hard not to start panting or moaning, and your brainpower continues to slip from your grasp.
"I'm going to fill you up," he whispers. "I'm going to pump you so full of cum it'll be dripping out of you for the rest of the day. And you're going to sit in your meetings and feel it leaking into your panties, and you're going to think about me. About this. About how I ruined you while you were trying to be professional."
"Okay," you say into the phone, and you have no idea what you're agreeing to. "Okay, sounds good. I have to—I have to go now, I'll send those slides."
"No rush," your team lead says. "Talk later!"
You hang up with confused fingers, missing the red button on the screen a couple of taps before you finally manage to end the call. The phone clatters onto the desk.
And then you let yourself fall apart.
"Cheol—" It comes out as a loud sob, half fury and half desperate, overwhelming need. "You—you fucking—I can't believe you—"
"You loved it." He's not even trying to hide the smugness in his voice, but it's undercut by the way his hips are stuttering, the way his rhythm is falling apart. "You loved every second of it. I could feel you getting wetter and clenching around me when she asked if you were okay."
"I'm going to kill you—after—after I come—"
"Yeah?" He presses harder on your clit, circles it with the perfect pressure that he knows you enjoy, and the orgasm that's been building since the kitchen finally, finally explodes. "Then come for me. Now, baby. Let me feel it."
You shatter with a mewl. It rips through you like a thunderclap, your whole body seizing up, your pussy clamping down on his cock in rhythmic, pulsing waves. You scream—you can't help it, the sound tears out of you raw and unguarded after long minutes of trying to suppress it all—and Seungcheol groans and buries himself to the hilt, spilling inside you in hot, copious pulses.
He keeps thrusting through it, fucking his cum deeper into you, and you can feel it flooding you, filling you, leaking out around his cock in a white obscene ring and dripping down your thighs. He doesn't stop until he's completely spent, and then he collapses over you, his weight pressing you into the desk, his breath hot and ragged against the back of your neck.
For a long moment the room is silent. The only sounds are your mingled breathing and the faint, distant hum of the fridge in the kitchen.
Then: "You're a menace," you whisper, swallowing thickly and heaving a sigh.
He laughs, breathless and giddy and a little bit wrecked. "Yeah. But you're the same. And you love me."
You don't argue. You can't. Not when his cock is still inside you, still half-hard, still plugging you full of his cum. Not when you can already feel it starting to drip out despite his best efforts. Not when your legs are shaking so badly you're not sure you can stand if you try.
"Next time," you manage, "I'm locking you to a piece of furniture before I take a work call."
"Hmm, I think next time," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your shoulder blade, "you'll let me do it again. Because you're just as depraved as I am."
You hate that he's right. You hate it even more that you don't hate it at all.
*.(๓•͙ ˕ •͙๓).* Please like + reblog + comment if you enjoyed your time reading this! This means a lot and motivates me to continue posting.
thanks for tagging me @ahgasegotarmy116 I think mine is a whole mood if I do say so myself!
tagging: @catiekayy @woncheolisms @cherryberrycheol @fromees @pochaccoups @joshujin and anyone else who comes across this and would like to join in on the fun!
summary: you wish your ex a happy birthday and he asks for a little more.
word count: 1530
SVT Shorts Series | Masterlist
Sorry to keep inundating you guys. Last one for a while!
You’re almost asleep when your phone alarm goes off. Confused and groggy, you grope around on the mattress, finally pulling your phone up to your face.
Seungcheollie’s birthday!!
It’s 11:50 p.m. on August 7th. Ten minutes before his actual birthday, because your boyfriend–no, ex-boyfriend–likes to be wished a happy birthday right at midnight. It makes him feel loved and special. And you still have an alarm set for it.
Groaning, you toss your phone back onto the bed. That’s not what you needed to see right now. You’ve already been thinking about him more than you should lately, partially because you’re lonely, and partially because…well. It’s Seungcheol.
Minghao mentioned him the other day in passing, just a slip of the tongue over lunch. He’s normally not absentminded and hearing Seungcheol’s name caught you both off guard. Minghao apologized, but Seungcheol has been stuck in your mind like a splinter ever since.
And now it’s his birthday.
You don’t know what to do about that. Even before you dated, you always wished him a happy birthday at midnight, or close to. Now that you’re…nothing, not even friends really, you don’t know how to handle it.
And it’s not that you can’t be friends, it’s just that you wiped everything about him out of your life because it made you sad to think about him. Everything except this fucking reminder alarm.
He would wish you a happy birthday. If you don’t, if you ignore him, you’re the asshole. You don’t want to be the petulant one.
You also don’t want to seem too eager.
Buuuut, you also want to win.
Five minutes until midnight. You pull up a new thread and start typing. Hey! Happy Birthday!
No. Too energetic.
Hey, happy birthday. Have a good day.
Too prescriptive. Too cold. Also, you’re running out of time.
At midnight precisely, you send: Happy birthday! I hope whatever you’re doing that it’s a good day.
Good. It’s fine. The right balance of enthusiasm and distance. Only one exclamation point. Weird grammar, but whatever.
It’s only now that you’ve sent it that you realize sending him a midnight text after not speaking to him for months looks insane. You could have just sent one in the morning like a normal human being. Like everyone else.
Also, fuck, he’s read it. Seconds later, your phone starts ringing in your hands. Groaning, you fight the urge to hide it under your pillow. He knows you’re here. It’s not like you can just get out of it now.
“That’s all I get?”
His low, sulky voice echoes out of the speaker. Immediately, you roll your eyes.
“What do you want? We’re not together. I acknowledged it at least. I could have just ignored it.”
You couldn’t have. You’re not that type of person and he knows it.
“All right, all right. Thank you for the birthday text.”
“You’re welcome.”
Silence. Prickly, uncomfortable.
“So…” you start, just as he says, “So, how’ve you been?”
You both pause. Sighing, you say, “Seungcheol, we don’t have to do this.”
“No, but you sent me a birthday text at midnight. That’s something.”
“It’s ‘I forgot to remove my reminder alarm and I felt like I should say something.’ That’s all. I regret it.”
“You don’t.”
“I kind of do.”
“But only kind of,” he challenges.
Flopping back against the pillows, you stare at your phone. At the silly photo of him that’s still his icon. You remember when you took it: he was tipsy and cute and happy and making the babiest of faces and you snapped a great shot and immortalized it as his icon, much to his annoyance. It still makes you smile, even now.
“Don’t read too much into it,” you warn him. “Anyway, I was trying to go to bed.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
He doesn’t sound very sorry. He also doesn’t hang up.
After a moment he adds, “You could come over.”
“Absolutely not,” you say firmly.
Seungcheol’s voice is rushed. “Not for sex! I didn’t mean it like that if that’s what you were thinking. I just meant to talk. Catch up.”
“There’s nothing to talk about. Enjoy your birthday.”
“Wait! Wait, okay. I overstepped. Just…can we talk a little more?”
He sounds so desperate, so sad, that it makes you linger, even though you know you shouldn’t. What you should do is hang up, block him, never wish him a happy birthday again. Let it go. Let him go.
Instead, you wait.
“I…was really hoping you’d be the one to do it. To wish me happy birthday at midnight.”
“Did I win?” you ask, unable to stop yourself.
Seungcheol chuckles. “Jeonghan beat you again.”
Like always. “Bastard.”
“But you came second.”
That sounds about right. In your relationship you were always second place: to his friends, to his job, to everything. He’d tell you he was on his way and show up an hour later. When you both had a rare day off that overlapped, he’d spend half of it sleeping in or playing computer games with Wonwoo and Mingyu.
And you never threw a fit. You never begged for him. You just filled your life with friends and activities to get revenge on him and it worked so well that towards the end you felt like breaking up was easy. He didn’t need you in his life the way you wanted him to. So then what was the point?
Except…the more you think about it, the more you realize there were little signs. He’d show up late but he’d show up with flowers. He’d disappear to play games with the guys but he’d save his evenings for you. And he’d always try to make it up to you with gifts. And while you didn’t want flowers or gifts, you only wanted his attention, you recognize now that it was his way of apologizing. Of attempting to do better. And you never really gave him that chance.
Maybe neither of you had enough time to adjust from single life into the kind of relationship either of you wanted or expected. Which means that’s not just Seungcheol’s fault then.
“I know I didn’t do a very good job,” he says gently. “But it wasn’t from a lack of wanting to.”
“I don’t think either of us gave it a fair chance,” you admit.
“I felt like you didn’t really want me.”
You close your eyes for a second. Inhale. “I wanted you. Too much to admit it.” I still want you. You’re grateful you have enough self-control to keep the second part to yourself.
“I think about you all the time. All the time. I’ve wanted to text you so many times and I just lose the courage.”
“Why? Am I that scary?”
“I feel like I only have one more shot and I don’t want to mess it up. Not this time.”
He sounds like a crazy person. He sounds like standing outside your window with a speaker kind of crazy and you’re not sure how you went from texting him happy birthday to this.
“Seungcheol, what exactly are you saying?”
“I’m saying let’s try again,” he says earnestly. “I’m saying let’s be all in this time. I can do so much better, I promise. I can be the man you really deserve.”
“You’re insane. Truly.”
“I’m saying I’m willing to try.”
“You’re saying crazy things.”
But still, he presses. “I’m saying…it’s my birthday and I want to see you. Can I come over?”
He’s taking real advantage of this whole birthday thing and you want to tell him that. You want to tell him to shove it and leave you alone. But you also want to let him.
You’ve known from the moment you picked up the damn phone and heard his voice that you were going to break. Because that’s what he does to you, even now. Especially now.
“Yes.”
Seungcheol hums his approval; you can picture his smile, the deep dimple in his cheek. He’s irresistible to you. God, everyone is going to be insufferable if you date him again. Not after you made such a fuss.
But you’ve missed being held and no one holds you like him. You’ve missed being kissed, and no one does that right, either. Just him. Just Seungcheol.
“But give me ten minutes,” you rush to say, realizing you’re in your “skipped laundry day” pajama set. You don’t know what you’ll find in ten minutes, but there has to be something better than this.
“Too late,” he says fondly. “I’m already outside your door. Let me in?”
You hear it now, the barest of knocks. Each one makes your heart jump.
“Seungcheol…”
“Please?”
Swallowing, you head over to your door and peer through the peephole. Sure enough, Seungcheol is standing on your step, dressed in an oversized black hoodie. His full cheeks and pouty lips are still visible under the hood; if you let him in you’re definitely going to kiss him.
He’s still holding his phone. You watch him say your name, softly, sweetly, into the receiver. It echoes back to you inside your apartment.
Inhaling deeply, you unlock the door and pull it open.
Summary: It is one of those days when you and Seungcheol are both working from home. Notoriously, no work gets done on days like this one.
Word count: 6.6k
Genres/warnings: smut, pwp (plot? what plot?); non-idol au, loser!nerd!perv!seungcheol, established relationship, honestly i can stop at pwp, cheol is a simp and we're not surprised; lmk if i skipped anything important
Smut warnings: Minors DNI, thicc dicc!cheol, implied size difference, dirty talk (of course), slow piv sex, unprotected (this is how we roll here; but please be safe irl), creampie, they continue being horndogs, reader takes charge, light hints of pet play; oral (f rec), face sitting, some brief hand job (m. rec), orgasm denial/control, edging, kinda ruined orgasm, cheol is down bad as always, he's sweetly pathetic, reader is on the phone with her manager when cheol fucks her (oops, don't do it irl kids); see anything i missed? please lmk
A/N: everyone say thank you, seungcheol for that live he held. it gave me the idea of writing a full scene of what i only mentioned briefly in the main fic, though the action here takes place after the main story. as always, enjoy your read and i’ll be happy to see your feedback in any form you’re comfortable with: comments, asks or reblogs. and i will see you in my next fic ᙏ̤̫
You can read it separately but I would recommend reading all of it for the full experience of this couple :)
If you see any mistakes: I try to proofread but English isn’t my first language, proceed at your own discretion.
Masterlist. | PART 1
Seungcheol is forty-seven minutes deep into this video call and he has absorbed precisely none of it. His manager's voice comes through the headset like a monotone hum. He can swear this woman's voice is designed to sandpaper the edges of his sanity. On screen, a grid of eight faces, all feigning attention, and his own small rectangle in the corner shows a man who hasn't blinked in thirty seconds because he's too busy tracking a silhouette moving past the doorway.
That's you. Just a flicker of movement—bare legs, the hem of an oversized t-shirt he knows is his, the soft grey one you stole three months ago and never gave back—and his concentration detonates. His cock twitches against his thigh, a slow, traitorous swell that has nothing to do with whatever the hell his manager is droning on about.
Seungcheol leans back in his chair, the springs groaning under his weight, and tilts his head just enough to catch a sliver of the kitchen through the gap in the doorframe. You're at the counter now, back to him, reaching to open the microwave. The t-shirt stretches, outlining the curve of your butt. Suddenly, the fabric rides up as you tiptoe to grab something from the cupboard above and the very bottom of your ass peeks out, bare and soft-looking, and he has to swallow a sound that would get him fired.
"—and moving forward, I think we need to restructure our code reviews which are taking two days on average," his manager drones, and Seungcheol wants to scream. Fuck them code reviews. He's going to lose his mind. He's going to combust in this ergonomic chair and they'll find him as nothing but a pile of ash and a half-hard dick.
His fingers drum against the armrest. He risks another glance. You're bent over now, rummaging in the fridge, and the t-shirt has ridden up so high he can see the crease where your thigh meets your ass. Seungcheol knows exactly how that crease tastes. He knows the sound you make when he presses his tongue flat against it and drags upward. He knows the way you shudder, the way your hand fists in his hair, the way you always whisper his name in a mix of a curse and a prayer.
Fuck. His cock is fully hard now, a rigid line trapped in his sweatpants and boxer briefs in a way that's becoming painful. He shifts in his seat, trying to find relief, and accidentally knocks his knee against the underside of his desk with a dull thud that makes his microphone—that he forgot to mute—spike.
"You okay there, Seungcheol?" His manager's voice cuts through, and for one horrifying second his heart stops. But he quickly realises that it's just the noise that drew her attention. Just the thud.
"Yeah, fine," he says, and his voice comes out strained, a little too tight. "Just—hit my knee on the table."
He mutes himself. Lets out a breath that shakes. Rubs his palm over his face and tries to think about spreadsheets. Deadlines. Anything except you currently being in the kitchen or the way you looked this morning when you rolled out of bed, hair a disaster, his t-shirt swallowing you, and kissed him on the forehead before padding to the bathroom. Domestic shit. Soft, sweet, married-couple shit that still makes his chest ache even now, months in, even after everything.
It's worse now. That's the thing. He thought it would level out—the insatiable, clawing need that's been devouring him since that first drunk night on the couch. He thought once the novelty wore off, once you'd had each other in every conceivable position on every conceivable surface, the fever would break and you'd settle into something manageable. Normal.
It didn't.
It got so much worse.
Last Friday, for instance. You both worked from home. By his generous estimate, you managed three hours of actual productivity between you. The rest of the day dissolved into a blur of skin and sweat and the obscene, wet sound of his cock sliding into you over and over. He bent you over your desk during what was supposed to be a fifteen-minute coffee break and didn't pull out for forty-five. You sucked him off under his desk during a monthly team call on Google Meet, his teeth sinking into his fist and leaving marks just to keep from moaning into an unmuted mic, his eyes watering with restraint of not rolling back into his skull. Seungcheol fucked you against the hallway wall on the way to the bathroom, one hand clamped over your mouth, your legs wrapped around his waist, your nails carving trenches into his shoulders through his shirt. By the end of the day you couldn't walk straight. Neither could he. You ordered pizza and ate it cross-legged on the floor of your living room, half-naked, feeding each other slices and communicating with humms and grunts because forming full thoughts and voicing them felt like mission impossible. And then he got hard again just from watching you lick grease off your thumb, and you let him lay you back on the soft carpet and fill you up again, until you were both too wrecked to move.
So yeah. It didn't level out. It metastasised.
And now it's Tuesday, and he's been on this call for almost an hour, and you are a room away, in the kitchen, heating up leftovers, and his entire body is humming with want. He can smell you from here. He swears he can—that faint, familiar scent of your body wash and underneath it, the warm scent of your skin that makes his mouth water and his brain go syrupy and stupid.
"—so if everyone could have their reports in by Thursday," his manager is saying, finally, mercifully, "that would be great. Any questions? No? Great. Thanks, everyone."
The call ends. Seungcheol doesn't even say goodbye. He yanks the headset off, tosses it onto his desk, and is out of the bedroom before his chair stops spinning.
You hear him coming. He's not particularly secretive about his arrival—the heavy, purposeful tread of a man who spends too much time at the gym and hasn't learned to move quietly in a shared apartment. But you don't turn around. You're standing at the counter, reaching for the microwave handle, when his arms wrap around you from behind and his body folds over yours like a collapsing star.
He's so big. That's the first thing you register, the same thing you register every time—the sheer, enveloping mass of him. His chest presses against your back, solid and warm through the thin fabric of your—his—t-shirt. His arms circle your waist, thick and possessive, and his face buries into the crook of your neck with a sound that can only be described as a whimper.
"You're done?" you ask, not bothering to hide the amusement in your voice.
"Finally," he mumbles against your skin. His lips move as he speaks, brushing the sensitive spot just below your ear, and you have to suppress a shiver. "Thought she was never going to shut up. I was losing my mind."
"Yeah, I could hear her from here. That voice is something else. Like a sadistic lullaby."
Seungcheol huffs a laugh, his breath warm and damp against your throat. "It's not funny. I was suffering."
"Poor baby." You tilt your head, giving him more access without thinking, your body responding to his proximity the way it always does—on instinct, on autopilot, like your nerve endings have been rewired to recognise him as a primary need. Purely Pavlovian response. "My heart bleeds for you and your very important corporate meeting."
"Don't be mean." He pouts. You can't see his face but you know he's pouting—you can hear it in the way his voice goes soft and petulant, the way his lower lip juts out. "I missed you."
"I was literally a wall away."
"That's a wall too far."
The microwave beeps. You reach for it again, but Seungcheol's hand catches yours first. His fingers slide between yours, locking them together, and he pulls your hand back down, pressing it flat against the counter top. His other hand slips under the hem of your shirt and settles on your lower belly, palm warm and broad and possessive.
"Food can wait," he murmurs.
You open your mouth to argue, to tease him about being a needy, insufferable menace, but then his palm presses down. Just a little. Just enough to apply pressure, to make you aware of the heat pooling low in your abdomen, of the way your body responds to him on a level that has nothing to do with conscious thought. An involuntary sound escapes your throat—small, breathy, embarrassing—and you feel your pussy clench around nothing.
"That's what I thought," he says, and there's a smile in his voice now, satisfied and soft and infuriating.
His lips find the junction of your neck and shoulder. He kisses you there, slow and open-mouthed, and then his teeth graze your skin and you stop breathing for a second.
"Cheol."
"Mm?"
"You're doing that thing."
"What thing?" He does it again—a gentle scrape of teeth, followed by the wet, soothing press of his tongue—and your knees go weak.
"That thing where you—where you turn me into—" You can't finish the sentence. His lips have found a new spot, just above your collarbone, and he's sucking a bruise into existence with the kind of focused intensity he usually reserves for boss fights in Elden Ring. Your brain fills with static. Your hands grip the edge of the counter. "—into a—fuck."
"Into a what?" He pulls back just long enough to speak, his voice low and rough and dripping with false innocence. "Use your words, baby."
"I hate you."
"No you don't." Kiss. Bite. Suck. "You love it. You love when I make you all dumb and shaky. When I take my time and turn you into a little mess before I've even touched you properly." Another kiss, this one pressed to the shell of your ear. "I know you're clenching even without touching you, baby. You think I'm not aware? Oh, I am. I know your body better than I know my own at this point."
You think of saying something sharp, to cut through the haze and reassert some semblance of control. But Seungcheol is right. He does know your body. He's spent months mapping every inch of it with his hands and his mouth and his cock, learning every spot that makes you gasp, every rhythm that makes you fall apart. And right now, with his palm still pressing on your lower belly and his lips trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses down the side of your neck, the only thing your brain can produce is a stream of increasingly pathetic sounds.
You think, distantly, about the irony of it. Months ago you called him a loser to your friend. You rolled your eyes at his compression shirts and his anime figures and his inability to talk to women. And now here you are, melting into a puddle of need because he's kissing your neck and breathing on you. Your friends have noticed, of course. Because you can't exactly hide it. You walk into every brunch, every cafe meetup, wearing the unmistakable glow of a woman who's getting thoroughly, regularly, devastatingly fucked. Loud and proud as they say.
Seungcheol's fingers have trailed lower while you were lost in thought. They're resting on the waistband of your underwear now, tracing the elastic edge with a maddening lightness that makes your hips twitch.
"Mmm, bet you're so wet already," he murmurs, and you can hear the satisfaction in his voice, the smug, reverent delight. "I haven't even done anything and you're soaking through your panties, aren't you? What am I going to do with you?"
"I don't know," you manage, your voice coming out embarrassingly breathy. "Maybe actually fuck me instead of just talking about it?"
"Impatient." He nips at your earlobe. "I like it."
His fingers dip lower, pressing against you through the damp cotton of your underwear and finding his theory to be true. The pressure is light, teasing, nowhere near enough, and you can feel your pussy clenching and throbbing again, desperate for more, desperate for anything. Behind you, pressed against the curve of your ass, his cock is a hard, insistent weight. He's been half-hard since the call started—you could guess from the way he was squirming in his chair, the way his eyes kept cutting toward the kitchen—but now he's fully erect, thick and hot even through the layers of his sweatpants and your t-shirt that barely covers your ass anymore. He rocks against you, a slow, deliberate grind, and the friction makes you both groan.
"Thought about this the whole call," he says, his voice dropping into that lower register that makes your stomach flip. "Thought about bending you over this counter. Thought about pulling these little panties to the side and sliding into you while you're still trying to heat up your stupid breakfast leftovers. Thought about filling you up so full you'd be leaking me all afternoon while you sit in your meetings pretending to be a professional."
"That's—" You swallow, hard. "That's what you were thinking about? During a work call?"
"Every second." Seungcheol grinds against you again, and this time you can feel the full length of him, the girth that still makes your mouth water even after all these months. "Couldn't focus. Couldn't think about anything except your tight little cunt and how bad I need to be inside it. How bad I need to use it."
He says that and lets out a shameful pathetic mewl.
The word "use" and the desperate sound that escapes him land in your chest and detonate. You know what he's doing—he's working you up, talking filth the way he knows you like, the way that makes you weak and pliant and ready to let him do anything. And normally you would let him. Normally you would let him spin you around, bend you over, and fuck you stupid right here against the kitchen counter, and you would come apart on his cock and thank him for it afterwards.
But thanks to his little pathetic display you're feeling something else. Something sharper. Seungcheol spent an hour squirming in his chair thinking about using you? Fine. But you spent that same hour catching glimpses of him in his stupid soft flannel shirt, his hair messy, his brows furrowed, his plush lips wrapped around his water bottle, and you've been simmering with your own kind of want. And maybe it's the oncoming ovulation hormones, or maybe it's the way he whimpered when he first wrapped his arms around you and mewled just now, but something in you decides that today, you're not going to be the one who gets reduced to a mindless, begging mess.
Today, that's going to be him.
His fingers have slipped under the waistband of your panties now, tracing through your slick folds with a slow, exploratory pressure that makes your breath hitch. He's about to push inside—you can feel the tension in his wrist, the way his breathing has gone ragged against your neck—when you reach around with your free hand and squeeze his cock through his sweatpants.
Hard.
Seungcheol makes a sound you've never heard before. A choked, strangled yelp that's half surprise and half something else entirely. His whole body jerks against you, his hips bucking into your grip, and his fingers freeze where they are.
"What—" he starts, but you squeeze again, and the word dissolves into a whimper.
"Here's what's going to happen, baby," you say, and your voice comes out breathless but somewhat steady. "You're going to take your hand out of my panties. You're going to get on your knees. And you're going to do exactly what I tell you. Got it, hmm?"
Seungcheol doesn't answer immediately. His chest is heaving against your back, his cock throbbing in your grip, and you can feel the war happening inside him—the instinct to take over, to reclaim control, wrestling with the part of him that loves this, the part that goes soft and eager and desperate when you turn the tables.
"Got it?" you repeat, and you twist your wrist just enough to make him gasp.
"Yeah," he breathes, voice going a little higher than usual. "Yeah, okay. Got it."
"Good boy."
The words hit him like a physical blow. You feel the full-body shudder that runs through him, the way his cock kicks against your palm, the way his breathing goes even more ragged and uneven. He pulls his hand out of your panties slowly, reluctantly, and you release your grip on him just long enough for him to step back.
"Strip," you say as soon as you turn around to see him.
He does. He pulls his t-shirt over his head first, revealing the broad expanse of his chest, the thick shoulders and defined pecs, the trail of dark hair that runs down his stomach and disappears into the waistband of his sweats. Then his pants go, pushed down over his hips, and his boxers with them, until he's standing naked in the middle of the kitchen with his cock jutting up toward his belly, flushed dark at the tip and already leaking.
You take a moment to look at Seungcheol. It never gets old—the sheer size of him, the thickness, the way his cock curves just slightly, so pretty. The way it twitches under your gaze like it's begging for attention—and you bet it is. The way his balls hang heavy and full, a reminder that he hasn't come since yesterday morning, which in his case means he's already backed up and desperate and so, so easy to break.
"You're so pretty," you murmur, and you mean it. "Look at you. Standing there dripping for me. Such a desperate pathetic mess already and I haven't even touched you."
His cock gives you an eager reaction, twitching and bobbing up and down at your words, and you smile at how it throbs, almost like it's whining and jumping for you to touch it. Seungcheol's ears go red. That very deep, mortified flush that you've been watching since the very first night, except now it makes your chest ache with something tender and possessive instead of irritated. "Baby—"
"On your knees," you order softly, lips stretched in the sweetest of smiles.
He drops so fast you hear his knees hit the tile. You wince, breaking character just for a moment, worried, but Seungcheol doesn't seem to care at all, he is looking up at you with those big brown eyes, pupils blown wide, lips parted, and he is so fucking wreckable in this very moment that it makes your pussy clench and you don't even notice as you slip back into the little play the two of you are orchestrating.
"Please," he whispers, and he doesn't even know what he's asking for. He just knows he needs something, anything, as long as it is from you.
"Please what?" you hum, watching his eyes turn even shinier than before. He's so pretty like this it is unfair. Not for the first time he's giving you aggression urges.
"Please let me taste you. Need to put my mouth on you. I've been thinking about it all morning—thinking about how you taste, how soft and warm you feel on my tongue—please, baby? I need it—"
"Shh." You step forward, close enough that he can smell you again—his nostrils visibly flare when he silently inhales you—and you can feel his exhale ghost against your thighs. "I know. I know you've been a desperate little puppy all morning, couldn't even pay attention to your stupid meeting because you were too busy thinking about my pussy. Isn't that right?"
He nods, frantic, his hands twitching at his sides like he's physically restraining himself from grabbing you. You wouldn't mind if he did, to be fair. "Yes. Yes, that's right. Couldn't—couldn't think about anything else. Just you. Just your sweet pussy. Just how bad I wanted to be inside it." He whimpers and squirms on his knees, and his cock twitches again at the image growing vivid in his head.
"And instead you're on your knees." You reach down, thread your fingers through his hair, and tug—not hard enough to hurt, only to tilt his head back and make him look at you. "Because you're not in charge right now. I am. And I decide when you get to touch me. I decide when you get to cum. Understood?"
"Understood." His voice is wrecked already, and you haven't even started.
"Good." You release his hair and hop up onto the edge of the counter, spreading your legs. "Now be a good boy and get to work."
You pat your thigh and Seungcheol doesn't need to be told twice. His hands find your thighs, tugging your underwear off with urgent impatience before spreading you wider to make room, and then his mouth is on you and the world dissolves into sensation for both of you.
Seungcheol eats pussy like he's been starving for years and you're the first meal he's been served. His tongue is broad and wet and relentless, licking a stripe from your entrance to your clit with a pressure that makes your hips immediately buck against his face. He genuinely moans when he tastes you, like the flavour of your arousal is the best thing he's ever experienced—and the vibration against your clit sends a shockwave up your spine, makes your soles tingle and toes curl.
"Fuck," you breathe, one hand bracing against the counter, the other fisting in his hair. "That's it. That's—right there—"
He stays there. His tongue circles your clit in slow, deliberate strokes, and then his lips close around it and he sucks, and your vision whites out for a second, an involuntary squeal leaving your mouth.
"Oh my god—" you pant, voice getting strained and high-pitched with pleasure.
He hums against you, pleased, and the vibration makes you jolt again. His hands are gripping your thighs hard enough to leave marks, holding you open for him, and his tongue keeps working you in a rhythm that's devastatingly precise. He knows exactly what you like. Of course he does. He's spent months learning your body like a language, and now he's fluent.
But you're not going to let him make you come just yet. You tug on his hair, pulling him back, and he looks up at you with his face slick and shining, his lips swollen and wet, his eyes hazy and half-lidded with want.
"Why'd you stop me?" he whines. "I wasn't done. You taste so good, baby, please let me finish—"
"Because I want to sit on your face."
His eyes go wide. Then darken. His cock, which has been bobbing neglected against his stomach, twitches and throbs visibly, a fresh bead of precum welling at the tip.
"Fuck," he whispers. "Yeah. Yeah, okay. I want that. Please."
"Get on the floor then."
He lies down on the kitchen tiles without a shred of dignity, his cock standing up like a flagpole, his chest heaving. You slide off the counter and stand over him for a moment, looking down at the picture he makes—this big, muscular man, sprawled on the cold floor, looking up at you like you're the sun and the moon and every star in the sky, his cock leaking all over his own stomach.
"You're so pathetic," you tell him, and you mean it as the highest compliment.
"I know," he breathes. "I'm your pathetic little puppy. Now please—please sit on my face. I need your cunt on my tongue. Need you to smother me with your sweet pussy, baby."
Gosh, you both are so fucking nasty for each other, you chuckle and lower yourself down, kneeling carefully over his head. The first contact of his tongue against your pussy makes you both groan—him from the taste, you from the sensation of his mouth working you open while you settle your full weight onto him. Your thighs bracket his head, and his hands come up to grip your ass, guiding you, pulling you down harder, to sit your entire weight on him.
You let Seungcheol work for a while. Let his tongue fuck into you, let his lips close around your clit, let him moan and whimper against your flesh while you rock your hips in slow, lazy circles. But you have other plans for him, so you twist just enough to reach back, your hand finding his cock where it's standing rigid and neglected.
The sound he makes when you wrap your fingers around him is muffled by your pussy, and you feel the desperate, broken groan that vibrates through your entire body. You stroke him slowly, from base to tip, your thumb swiping over the slick, swollen head to collect the precum that's been pooling there just to massage his frenulum and make the man twitch and jerk his hips uncontrollably, losing all pace of his oral ministrations.
"Look at you," you murmur, looking down at him. "So hard for me. So wet. You're dripping all over yourself. Such a pretty mess, hmm."
He can't answer. His mouth is full of your cunt, his tongue buried inside you, and all he can do is whine and buck his hips into your grip, either encouraging or just sensitive.
"Is this what you wanted? When you were sitting in your meeting with your cock all hard and aching? You wanted to be on your back on the kitchen floor, being used like a toy?"
Seungcheol nods frantically, his nose bumping against your clit, and the sensation makes you gasp.
"That's what I thought. You're nothing but a dumb mutt when I get my hands on you. What a sight, huh? A big, strong man reduced to a whimpering mess on the floor. Your friends have no idea, do they? Do they think you're this alpha male now? That you're the cool guy of the group after you bagged me, hmm?” You apply more weight onto his face and Seungcheol groans against you, soft tongue licking deeper into your heat, coaxing a moan out of you. "Should we let them know that you actually love getting on your knees for me? Love being a good puppy for me?"
You twist your wrist on the upstroke, and his hips stutter, his cock pulsing in your grip. He's close. You can feel it in the way his thighs are tensing, the way his breathing has gone ragged and uneven, and the way his tongue has lost its rhythm against your pussy because he can't concentrate on anything except the pleasure you're wringing out of him.
"Are you going to come?" You ask sweetly. "Are you going to spill all over yourself and make a mess like a good little slut?"
He tries to nod again, but you're already pulling your hand away.
"Too bad," you say, and his desperate, wounded keen is the most beautiful sound you've ever heard. "You don't get to cum until I say so. And I haven't said so."
"Please," he gasps, his mouth finally free of your pussy because you've lifted your hips just enough to look down at him. His face is a mess—lips swollen, cheeks flushed, chin slick with your arousal. "Please, baby, I need to cum. I've been thinking about it all day. I can't—"
"Oh, but you can." You climb off him, and he whines at the loss of contact, his hands reaching for you instinctively. "Get up. Bend me over the counter."
Seungcheol scrambles to his feet so fast he nearly slips and you snicker, telling him to be careful. His cock is an angry red, throbbing visibly, a steady stream of precum dripping from the tip on every twitch. He looks ruined already, and you haven't even let him inside you yet.
You turn around and brace yourself against the counter, arching your back, presenting yourself to him. You're soaked—your thighs are glistening, your pussy is swollen and dripping with a mix of your juices and his spit, and you know exactly what he's seeing right now.
"Now you can fuck me," you tell him. "Slow. Exactly the way I want it. And you're not going to come. Do you understand?"
"Yes," he breathes, steps closer behind you. "Yes, I understand. I'll be good. I'll be so good for you."
He lines himself up. You feel the blunt, thick head of his cock pressing against your entrance, and even though you're wet and open and ready, the stretch is still overwhelming. Seungcheol pushes in slowly, inch by inch, spreading your walls, filing the empty space that begged to be filled, and you both groan in unison as he fills you.
"Fuck," he whispers. "Fuck, baby, you're so tight. You're always so tight. How are you still so tight?"
"Shut up and move."
He pulls out almost all the way, making you feel the way his veined shaft drags against your sensitive walls, and then pushes back in. Seungcheol fucks you exactly the way you told him to—slow, deep, each thrust deliberate and measured. His hands are gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, and you can hear the effort it's taking him to hold back, the way his breathing is coming in ragged gasps, the way he's trembling against you.
"You feel so good," he babbles again. "You feel so fucking good, baby, I can't—I don't know how much longer I can—"
"You can last as long as I tell you to last." But your voice is shaking now too. The angle is perfect, his cock hitting that spot inside you with every slow, grinding thrust, and you're getting close yourself. "Don't you dare cum without permission. Don't you fucking dare."
"I won't. I won't, I promise, just—please, can I go faster? Please?"
"No. Keep it slow. I want to feel every inch of you."
He whimpers, but he does what he's told. His thrusts stay slow and deep, his cock dragging against your walls, and you can feel the orgasm building in your core, coiling tighter and tighter—
Your phone rings.
Your intuition immediately screams at you that it must be someone from work.
"Fuck," you hiss in half frustration, half panic. "Fuck, Cheol, stop, I have—have to take this—"
You try to pull away, but his grip on your hips tightens. "No," he whines. "No, baby, please, I'm so close, don't stop me—"
Somewhere in the back of your mind you feel bad for the man, he sounds so ruined.
"I'm not asking." You pull yourself off his cock with a wet, obscene sound, and Seungcheol makes a noise like you've stabbed him. His cock bobs in the air, angry and neglected, throbbing and jumping with denied orgasm. A thick strand of your combined fluids connects him to your pussy for a brief moment before it snaps. He whines out a sob.
"You ruined it," Seungcheol breathes, and he sounds genuinely devastated. "You ruined my orgasm. Baby, why? I was right there—"
"Stay here," you order, already grabbing your phone from the kitchen table where it was resting forgotten all this time. "Don't move."
You answer the call as you walk toward your room, your voice switching to a semblance of something professional and pleasant even though your thighs are still wet and your pussy is still aching and empty. "Hey, yeah, sorry, just give me one second—"
You don't get your one second. Because Seungcheol, your sweet, pathetic, desperate boyfriend, has followed you despite what you told him to do.
You feel him before you see him—his body pressing up behind you, his hands gripping your hips, his cock sliding between your thighs, still slick with your arousal. You're standing in front of your desk, phone pressed to your ear, and he's already bending you forward, already lining himself up.
"No," you mouth silently, turning your head to glare at him. "Don't you dare."
Seungcheol meets your eyes. His are dark and wild and desperate, and there's something almost feral in his expression. He doesn't stop. He pushes inside you in one smooth, harsh thrust that jolts your entire body, and the sensation of intrusion is so sudden and overwhelming that you have to bite down on your own hand to keep from crying out. This leaves you with no support, which means you pretty much topple over, suddenly pressed into your desk with Seungcheol's hand that was applying pressure between your shoulder blades.
"—and so I was wondering if you could take a look at this document before the meeting this afternoon," your team lead is saying in your ear, her voice cheerful and oblivious. "I know it's last minute, but I think there might be an error on page five."
"Of course," you manage, and your voice comes out surprisingly steady considering the fact that your boyfriend is currently buried balls-deep inside you, his hips already starting to move. "I can—I can do that. No problem."
Seungcheol fucks into you with slow, deliberate strokes, and you can feel him throbbing inside you, can feel how close he still is from before, how desperate. One of his hands slides up and down your back, pressing you down onto the desk before you can even think of lifting your upper body into an upright position, and the other grips your hip hard enough to anchor you in place.
"Great, thanks," your team lead says. "Also, I wanted to ask about the client presentation next week. Have you had a chance to—"
He chooses that moment to thrust particularly deep, his cock hitting your cervix, and a tiny, strangled sound escapes your throat before you can stop it.
"You okay?" your team lead asks.
"Yes," you say, and your voice is definitely too high. "Yes, sorry, I just—stubbed my toe. On the desk. It's fine."
Seungcheol leans down, his chest pressing against your back, his lips brushing your free ear. "Little liar," he whispers, so quiet only you can hear. "What will your boss do if she finds out you're getting fucked during your working hours?” He can't help a chuckle that escapes him when he comes up with his next question. "Hmm, does it make you a slut for fucking me and getting paid while doing so? Technically…" he trails off and your pussy clenches traitorously as soon as your brain registers what he just said.
You want to kill him. You want to kill him and then marry him and then kill him again.
"—and if you could send me the updated slides by end of day, that would be perfect," your team lead is saying.
"End of day," you repeat, barely processing the words. Seungcheol has picked up his pace, just slightly, and the sound of his cock sliding into your wet, messy pussy is so loud in the quiet room that you're sure your team lead can hear it if the line stays silent for a moment too long. "Yes. Slides. I'll—I'll send them."
"Are you sure you're okay? You sound a little off."
"I'm fine. I'm great. Just—writing it down."
Seungcheol muffles a laugh against your shoulder. His hand leaves your hip and snakes around to your front, finding your clit with devastating accuracy. Your whole body jolts.
"That's the spot, isn't it?" he breathes in your ear. "That's the spot that makes you stupid. You're going to come on my cock while you're on the phone, aren't you? You're going to soak me and she's going to hear it."
You shake your head frantically, but you can't speak. Your team lead is still talking, something about deadlines and team meetings, and you're nodding along and making vague sounds of agreement while your boyfriend rubs circles on your clit and fucks into you with deep, punishing strokes. You're trying so hard not to start panting or moaning, and your brainpower continues to slip from your grasp.
"I'm going to fill you up," he whispers. "I'm going to pump you so full of cum it'll be dripping out of you for the rest of the day. And you're going to sit in your meetings and feel it leaking into your panties, and you're going to think about me. About this. About how I ruined you while you were trying to be professional."
"Okay," you say into the phone, and you have no idea what you're agreeing to. "Okay, sounds good. I have to—I have to go now, I'll send those slides."
"No rush," your team lead says. "Talk later!"
You hang up with confused fingers, missing the red button on the screen a couple of taps before you finally manage to end the call. The phone clatters onto the desk.
And then you let yourself fall apart.
"Cheol—" It comes out as a loud sob, half fury and half desperate, overwhelming need. "You—you fucking—I can't believe you—"
"You loved it." He's not even trying to hide the smugness in his voice, but it's undercut by the way his hips are stuttering, the way his rhythm is falling apart. "You loved every second of it. I could feel you getting wetter and clenching around me when she asked if you were okay."
"I'm going to kill you—after—after I come—"
"Yeah?" He presses harder on your clit, circles it with the perfect pressure that he knows you enjoy, and the orgasm that's been building since the kitchen finally, finally explodes. "Then come for me. Now, baby. Let me feel it."
You shatter with a mewl. It rips through you like a thunderclap, your whole body seizing up, your pussy clamping down on his cock in rhythmic, pulsing waves. You scream—you can't help it, the sound tears out of you raw and unguarded after long minutes of trying to suppress it all—and Seungcheol groans and buries himself to the hilt, spilling inside you in hot, copious pulses.
He keeps thrusting through it, fucking his cum deeper into you, and you can feel it flooding you, filling you, leaking out around his cock in a white obscene ring and dripping down your thighs. He doesn't stop until he's completely spent, and then he collapses over you, his weight pressing you into the desk, his breath hot and ragged against the back of your neck.
For a long moment the room is silent. The only sounds are your mingled breathing and the faint, distant hum of the fridge in the kitchen.
Then: "You're a menace," you whisper, swallowing thickly and heaving a sigh.
He laughs, breathless and giddy and a little bit wrecked. "Yeah. But you're the same. And you love me."
You don't argue. You can't. Not when his cock is still inside you, still half-hard, still plugging you full of his cum. Not when you can already feel it starting to drip out despite his best efforts. Not when your legs are shaking so badly you're not sure you can stand if you try.
"Next time," you manage, "I'm locking you to a piece of furniture before I take a work call."
"Hmm, I think next time," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your shoulder blade, "you'll let me do it again. Because you're just as depraved as I am."
You hate that he's right. You hate it even more that you don't hate it at all.
*.(๓•͙ ˕ •͙๓).* Please like + reblog + comment if you enjoyed your time reading this! This means a lot and motivates me to continue posting.
me yesterday after going through the day, smelling stinky paint all day in the office because our building is getting renovated. my head hurt, i felt nauseous and ready to never return to that goddamn place again 🥴
and now i feel like i’m getting ptsd because i can sense that stinky smell again but i don’t think they’re painting anything??
i’m not even sure it was paint actually but I don’t know how to explain it in english cuz my vocab doesn’t extend much into architectural renovations😅
can we gentle cancel you for a day or two? because every time you post your writing I can’t think about anything but it. I reread it in a row for 10000 times, I’m late for work because of it, I can’t do anything I need to just lay on the bed watch the ceiling and dream about my happy delusional life with seungcheol 🤬
I hate you for that but I love you so much at the same time…
ok you got me worried there for a sec with that cancellation request 😭😭
but oh well, i’m flattered that my scribbles affect people so much 🤭
Summary: Seungcheol is a typical loser. Or, well, almost a typical one. He has a circle of friends that he only talks to online while playing his video games, he's got no rizz, he fumbles around women, and he's a gym rat with a body and face so gorgeous it feels like a joke in combination to everything else. And he's your flatmate.
Word count: 6.6k
Genres/warnings: smut, pwp (plot? what plot?); non-idol au, loser!nerd!perv!seungcheol, flatmates to lovers(?), a lot of feelings of annoyance and irritation, reader is a little mean but it's just frustration and some insecurity talking, mentions of recreational drinking, frustration with men, reader is going through a dry spell era; lmk if i skipped anything
Smut warnings: Minors DNI, thicc dicc!cheol, implied size difference, brief handjob, nipple play (m rec), vag fingering, dirty talk (of course), name calling (baby, slut), piv sex, unprotected (this is how we roll here; but please be safe irl), some light hair pulling, overstimulation, creampie (multiple), kinda cockwarming? lmk if i forgot smth
A/N: hey thereee~ long time no see! i missed you all T_T been working on a fic for a while because life keeps interfering and this little thing popped up in my head. it's not the one i was going to post on feb 14th, that one is hopefully going out next wednesday (it's a monstrosity and i haven't written anything quite as big before). meanwhile this is a little offering for my prolonged absence, i hope it is to your liking. and i might put out a pt2 for it later if it does well.
please enjoy your read and i'll be happy to see your feedback in any form you're comfortable with: comments, asks or reblogs. and i will see you in my next fic ᙏ̤̫
A/N2: don't trust the cute pink header, there's nothing cute about this one
If you see any mistakes: I try to proofread but English isn’t my first language, proceed at your own discretion.
Masterlist. | PART 2
Here's the thing about Seungcheol. He is a walking contradiction and everything about him grates on your nerves the wrong way. The way he's wearing ridiculous compression shirts that should be illegal and you hate him for it. You hate him in a way that makes you clench your teeth when he shuffles into the kitchen at noon on a Saturday, hair ruffled, those ridiculous plush lips wrapped around a protein shake straw while he blinks at you with eyes so big and brown they should be reserved for baby cows or animated Disney characters, not your flatmate who spends approximately fourteen hours a day alternating between screaming at Valorant and deadlifting twice his body weight in the gym.
You hate the way his thick brows furrow when he's concentrating on a boss fight, the way his dimples carve themselves into his cheeks when he laughs at something stupid in whatever anime is currently playing on his second monitor. You hate that he owns compression shirts—multiple, in different colours and sleeve lengths—and that they cling to his chest and shoulders like it's their personal responsibility to showcase every contour of muscle underneath. You hate that he's your flatmate and you have to see this every single day.
You especially hate that he's bitchless.
To be fair, it shouldn't bother you. It really shouldn't. But it does anyways. The man has no personal life to speak of. His social calendar consists of online gaming sessions with his friends—Wonwoo, Woozi and Hoshi, their voices floating through his headset or just speakers at all hours of the night—and occasional trips to the gym where you assume he intimidates everyone else into silence with those shoulders until a woman approaches and then he's the one intimidated. Because Seungcheol doesn't date. He doesn't bring anyone home. He doesn't even seem to look at other people when you're out together grabbing groceries or picking up takeout. You assumed in your mind that maybe he's gay but no, your gaydar doesn't go off when you observe him. And the way he turns into a mess specifically when women are involved only proves that it's not the case. He's just got no game.
You found out exactly how bad it is when your friend Jess came over one time while you were getting ready to go out. She arrived a little early and you'd told her to just come up, it's fine, my flatmate is harmless. And she'd walked in, taken one look at Seungcheol on the couch in his compression shirt and gaming headset, controller in hand, and literally stopped in her tracks.
"Oh," she'd said. And then, because Jess has no filter: "That's your flatmate? The loser you're always complaining about?"
This is when Seungcheol had chosen the moment to pause his game and look up. Had seen Jess—Jess with her perfect hair and perfect makeup and perfect body in her perfect girls-night-out dress. And he'd fucking frozen. His mouth had opened and no words came out. His ears had turned this deep, mortified red that crept up his neck and spread across his cheeks, and he'd just… sat there. Staring silently.
You'd had to physically drag your friend to your room to break this embarrassing staring contest.
"Holy shit," she'd whispered, clutching your arm when you locked the door behind you. "He's hot. Like, actually hot. Why didn't you tell me he was hot? He's gorgeous. Those eyes? Those lips? And his body, oh my god, I bet if he stood up and faced us I'd see everything through that shirt—"
"He's a loser," you'd hissed back, rummaging through your makeup bag with more force than necessary, annoyance spiked through the roof. "He watches hentai. He has a figure collection and he argues with strangers on Reddit about coolest Naruto characters."
"I don't care if he collects toe nail clippings," Jess had said flatly and you sent her a disgusted look. "I could climb him like a tree."
And then you'd gone back to the living room and Seungcheol had still been sitting there frozen, ears burning, apparently incapable of forming words while Jess smiled at him and said goodbye. He'd managed a single, jerky nod. That was it. You'd had to restrain yourself from turning around and hissing at him something along the lines of dude, what the fuck?
Later, when you came home from your brunch with friends, you'd found him in the kitchen breathless and chugging water like he'd just run a marathon. Maybe he did. You didn't know and you really didn't want to find out.
"Dude," you'd said, leaning against the doorway. "What was that?"
He'd looked at you with those big cow eyes, still flushed. "What was what?"
"My friend Jess earlier. You couldn't even talk to her. She said hi and you short-circuited."
His flush had deepened. He'd shrugged, mumbled something about needing to game, and fled to his room.
And you stood there in the kitchen, annoyed for reasons you couldn't name. Because he doesn't shut down around you. He never has. From the day you moved in, he's been normal—annoyingly normal, the kind of normal where he leaves dirty dishes in the sink and eats your snacks without asking and makes dumb jokes about your music taste. He teases you about your recent Bridgerton obsession. He complains when you use all the hot water. He argues with you about whose turn it is to take out the trash.
He never once looked at you like he looked at Jess—like he'd forgotten how to function, like he was seeing someone worth being nervous around.
And you don't know why that bothers you. You don't know why it sits in your chest like a splinter, why it surfaces every time you catch him laughing at his monitor or flexing in the hallway mirror he hung there to check his form after workouts. You don't know why, when you meet your friends at the cafe every month and Jess inevitably brings him up—So, how's the hot flatmate? Still not talking to women?—you feel something twist that you can't identify.
You tell yourself it's just annoyance. He's your flatmate. You have to live with him. Of course you're going to have feelings about him.
You tell yourself a lot of things.
Doesn't mean they're true. Doesn't mean you are going to admit it.
You're at the club. It is loud and sweaty and exactly the type of place you usually love but tonight it's just annoying. The bass vibrates up through your feet and into your bones and the guy who bought you a drink keeps trying to put his hand on your waist, and his friends are all watching from the booth like they're waiting to see if he'll score. You've been dickless for four months. Four months of this—guys who are cringe, guys who're boring, guys who can't hold a conversation, guys who think grinding on you for thirty seconds counts as foreplay.
You're tipsy enough that the irritation has morphed into something sharp and hot under your skin. Tipsy enough that when you stumble into your apartment at three in the morning, kicking off your heels and dropping your purse on the floor, you're primed to be annoyed by whatever you find.
What you find is Seungcheol on the couch.
He's in his usual spot, controller in hand, headset pushed down around his neck. The TV is on some game you don't recognise. He's wearing grey sweats and a tank top that leaves his shoulders bare, and his hair is messy like he's been running his hands through it, and he looks up when you come in and blinks those big eyes at you.
"You're back late," he says. "Good night?"
Something inside you snaps.
"No," you hear yourself say. Your voice comes out flat and maybe a little slurred. "It was a shit night. All guys are shit. Every single one of them."
His eyebrows go up. He pauses the game, sets the controller down, gives you his full attention in a way that's almost unsettling. You feel it grate on your nerves. "That bad?"
"They're all cringe." You're walking toward the couch now, you're not sure why, your feet carrying you forward while your brain churns with four months of frustration and this other thing that's been building since Jess came over and he couldn't even look at her properly. "They don't know how to talk to women. They don't know how to do anything. They just—they stand there and expect you to be impressed that they bought you a drink."
Seungcheol's lips twitch. Those plush, stupid lips. "Sounds rough."
"Don't laugh at me."
"I'm not laughing." He's not. He's looking at you with an expression that you can't read, but there's something careful and soft about it. "Do you want water? You seem—"
"I seem what?"
"Frustrated."
The word lands in your chest and explodes. Frustrated. Yeah. That's one way to name it. Four months of no sex. four months of shitty dates and cringe club guys. four months of watching your flatmate exist in his compression shirts with his pretty face and his complete lack of interest in y—
"Do you think I'm attractive?"
The question comes out of nowhere, before you can even properly finish your line of thought. You don't know you're going to ask it until it's already hanging in the air between you. Seungcheol's eyes go wide. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
"What?"
"You heard me." You're standing right in front of him now, close enough to touch. The alcohol is doing things to your brain, lowering all your inhibitions, letting the splinter in your chest work its way out. "When Jess came over you couldn't even talk to her. You just sat there like a—like a loser." In your head you know you sound bitter, it registers with delay like everything else. Your sober self wishes you didn't say that, that you weren't mean like that. But you are. You're drunk, you're frustrated and you're unreasonably mean. "But you talk to me fine. You're always fine with me. So either you think I'm not worth being nervous about or—"
"Or what?"
"Or I don't know. Fuck!" You throw your hands up. "I don't know what I'm saying. I'm drunk. I'm going to bed."
You turn to leave. You make exactly one step before his hand closes around your wrist.
"Wait."
The word is quiet. Different from his usual voice—lower, rougher. You turn back. He's still sitting on the couch, but he's looking up at you now with an expression you've never seen on him before. There's something dark in those big brown eyes. And it makes your stomach flip.
"You wanna know why I'm not nervous around you?" he says slowly. "Because I live with you. Because I see you every day. Because if I got nervous every time you walked into the room in one of those little dresses or bent over to get something from the fridge or came out of the shower with your hair wet, I would literally never be able to function. I just had to become cool with a bunch of stuff real quick."
Your heart stops. Then starts again, too fast.
"What?"
"You asked," his grip on your wrist tightens, just slightly. "I'm answering. Yes, I think you're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. I've thought that since the day you moved in. I've jerked off to you more times than I can count. I have to leave the room sometimes when you're wearing certain things because I can't handle it. But yeah, that's why I'm not nervous. Because I've had eight months to get used to the fact that you're out of my league and nothing's ever going to happen, so I might as well just… exist around you and pretend I'm fine."
He stops. Breathes. His ears are red, you notice. That same mortified shade from when Jess was here.
You should either start a proper conversation with him or just leave and pretend it never happened, that the next morning you don't remember a thing. Instead, what comes out of your mouth is: "Okay, then prove it."
His brows draw together. "Prove what?"
"That you thought about me the way you say you did. That… that you want me." You don't know where this boldness is coming from. The alcohol probably. The frustration. The four months of nothing and the way his words are seeping into your skin, warm and electric. "Show me."
For a long moment, he just stares at you and you think he's going to chicken out. Then his expression shifts—you see a hint of something hot and hungry that makes you hold your breath.
"You're drunk," he says. But his voice is rough now, and the sound of it does things to your insides.
"Tipsy. Not drunk," you argue as you step closer, enough that your knees bump against his. "So, are you really going to say no and lose your chance?"
Seungcheol answers with a tug of your wrist, pulling you down onto his lap.
You land straddling him, your dress riding up your thighs, your hands bracing on his shoulders. His shoulders are solid under your palms—all that muscle from all those hours in the gym, all those compression shirts hiding exactly what you're feeling now. His hands settle on your hips, fingers pressing into the curve of your waist, and he looks up at you with those big dark eyes and you realise you've made a terrible mistake.
Because you want this. You want this so badly it sends your pussy aching.
"Last chance to change your mind," he murmurs.
You kiss him.
His mouth is soft, lips chapped but still soft. You knew they would be—you've spent too much time staring and sneaking glances at these lips not to have imagined this—but the reality of it is different. He kisses like he's savouring you slowly, one hand sliding up your back to tangle in your hair. You make a sound against his mouth, embarrassing and needy, and you feel him smile.
"Yeah?" he breathes. "You like that?"
"Shut up."
He laughs low in his chest, and then he's kissing you again and his hands are moving, pushing the strap of your dress down your shoulder, tracing the line of your collarbone with fingers that are somehow gentle and rough at the same time. You rock against him without meaning to, chasing friction, and you feel it—the hardness pressing up against you through his sweats.
It's big.
You pull back, breathing hard. Look down. Then back up at his face, incredulous. Slowly getting even more irritated.
"Is that your cock?" The word is obscene, too direct, but the alcohol loosens your tongue and you don't take it back.
His ears go red again but there's still something smug in his expression. "Yeah."
"That's… that's all you?"
"I mean, it's mostly me. Little bit of you, I guess, since you're the reason it's happening."
You probably should say something clever that regains the upper hand, that makes you feel less like you've just had your breath knocked out of you. Instead what comes out is: "I need to see it."
His eyebrows shoot up. "Right now?"
"Of course right now. When else?" You hiss, your voice edged with frustration and want and that strange fuzzy impatience that alcohol brings. You're just annoyed that he's even asking, that he's making you wait when you can feel him against you and every nerve in your body is screaming for more.
Seungcheol hesitates for half a second—you can see him weighting something, maybe concern for your tipsy state or his own restraint—and then reaches down. You shift back just enough to give him room, watching as he lifts his hips and pushes his sweats and boxers down. Just low enough. Just enough for his cock to spring free, heavy and thick against his stomach.
You stare.
You've seen dicks before. You're a grown woman, you've had sex, you know what they look like. But you don't think you've ever seen one quite like this in real life. It's not the longest you've ever encountered—a bit above average maybe—but the girth. The fucking girth. His cock is so thick your mouth actually waters at the thought of trying to fit it anywhere.
"Well?" His voice is strained. "Good? Bad? Terrifying?"
"Shut up," you whisper again, and reach down to wrap your hand around it.
Seungcheol groans. And he sounds so raw and desperate. Especially when his head falls back against the couch cushion and reveals his neck. You find the sight vulnerable in the most exciting way. He lets out a smaller, choked groan and the sound goes straight between your legs, makes you clench around nothing. He's hot in your hand and the weight of him feels obscene. You can't even close your fingers all the way around the base, and the stretch of your thumb and middle finger trying to meet sends a little thrill straight through your tipsy haze. He's veined, flushed dark at the tip, and there's already a bead of precum pearling at the slit that makes your mouth water.
You swallow.
"Fuck," Seungcheol breathes, and the word is punched out of him like you've done something devastating with just your palm. His hips twitch again, involuntarily, and you watch the way the muscles in his stomach jump with the movement. "Your hand—fuck, your hand feels—"
You cut him off by squeezing, just a little, and his whole body jerks.
The couch creaks under you both. You're still straddling his thighs, your dress bunched up around your hips, and you can feel the heat of him radiating through his sweats against the inside of your bare leg. His hands have found your waist again, fingers pressing into the soft give of your skin like he needs to hold onto you or he'll fly apart.
"I can't even close my hand around you," you murmur, and it comes out wondering, almost awed. You're not trying to flatter him. You're genuinely fucked by the reality of it, the sheer size of him, and the alcohol in your system makes everything feel heightened, more immediate. "How is this… how do you even—"
"I know," he says, and there's something stupidly apologetic in his voice, which is so ridiculous you almost laugh. "I know, I'm sorry, I just—I'm big, okay, I've always been—"
"Don't apologize for your cock," you snap, but there's no heat in it. You're too busy stroking him again, watching the way his precum smears under your thumb, making the glide easier. "God, you're so thick. You're so fucking thick, Cheol!"
He makes a sound at that. A sound you've never heard a man make before—high in his throat, desperate, like you've wrung it out of him against his will. His ears are burning red, his cheeks flushed, and he's looking at you with those big dark eyes like you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen and also maybe a little terrifying.
"You can't just… say shit like that," he gets out. "You can't just—"
"I can say whatever I want." You lean forward, bracing your free hand on his shoulder, and your face is inches from his now. You can smell him—clean soap and warm skin underneath, something that's just him. "I'm the one with your dick in my hand. I think that gives me privileges."
His laugh is strangled. "Yeah. Yeah, okay. Privileges. Got it."
You kiss him again, because you can't not. Because his mouth is right there and you want to taste the sounds he's been making. He meets you halfway, desperate and eager, and this time there's nothing slow about it. This time it's all teeth and tongue and the slick slide of your lips together, and his hands are moving on your body like he's trying to map every inch of you at once while he has a chance.
One hand slides up your back, pressing you closer. The other grips your hip hard enough to bruise, and you want that, want to wake up tomorrow with the ghost of his fingers stamped into your skin. You're still stroking him, slow and messy because you're distracted by his mouth, by the way he groans into you when your thumb sweeps over the head.
"Off," you gasp against his lips. "Take this off. I need to feel you."
You're tugging at his t-shirt, and he helps, pulling back just long enough to yank it over his head and toss it somewhere across the room. And then your hands are on his chest, his shoulders, and god. You've watched him in those compression shirts. You've watched the way his muscles move when he's lifting, when he's doing those stupid pull-ups in the doorway of his room. But seeing it up close, feeling it—
He's built. Thick in a way that matches the rest of him, broad shoulders and a chest that your hands can't quite span, with a happy trail dusting down his stomach in a line that makes you want to follow it with your tongue. You do, actually. You dip your head and press your mouth to the base of his throat, feel his pulse jumping under your lips, and then you're kissing down, down, across his collarbone, over the swell of his pec.
"Fuck," he gasps. His hands are in your hair, not pulling, just holding, like he can't decide whether to guide you or just let you do whatever you want. "Fuck, baby, your mouth."
Oh, you like that. Baby. You like the way it sounds falling from his lips, rough and wrecked and like he doesn't even realize he's said it. You drag your tongue across his nipple just to hear what sound he makes and he whines, really whines, and you feel it everywhere.
"S-sensitive," he admits, voice strained. "They're… fuck, that's—"
You do it again. Slower this time, circling, and then you bite down just lightly and he bucks underneath you, his cock jumping in your hand that you wrapped around him again.
"Jesus Christ," he pants. "You're going to… I can't… if you keep doing that I'm going to cum and I really don't want to cum yet."
You lift your head, looking at him through eyes that feel heavy-lidded and drunk. "Why not?"
"Because I want to be inside you when I do." He says it simply, like it's obvious, like there's no other option he'd even consider. And the way he says it, the certainty in his voice—it makes something hot and tight curl in your stomach.
"Yeah?" you hear yourself ask. "You want to fill me up? Want to fill my pussy?"
His pupils blow so wide his eyes look black. "Yes. Fuck, yes. I want… I want to be so deep inside you that you can't tell where I end and you begin. I want to feel you cream around me. I want—" He breaks off, swallowing hard. "I've thought about it. So much. Too much. Jerking off in my room thinking about your cunt and what it would feel like."
The word sounds obscene coming from him. Cunt. Like he's been saving it up, hoarding it, waiting for permission to use it. You rock against him again—a reflex, an instinct—and you feel him pressing up against you through the soaked fabric of your panties.
"Then do it," you say. "Fuck me. Fill me up. Make me feel every inch of this big fucking cock."
Seungcheol kisses you once more, hard and claiming, and then his hands are on your hips and he's lifting you like you weigh nothing, shifting you back just enough to reach between you. His fingers hook into the waistband of your panties and he looks at you, questioning.
"Off," you confirm. "Now."
He slides them down your legs, slow, deliberate, watching the way they peel away from your dampened skin. You manoeuvre yourself to kick them off before straddling his lap again. And then his hand is between your thighs and you gasp because of how good his hands feel, how rough his palms are from the gym, how that roughness drags against the slick heat of you in a way that makes your vision go spotty.
"You're so wet," he murmurs, delighted. "Fuck, baby, you're soaking. Is this all for me?"
"Yes," you manage. "Yes, it's… I've been… every month, thinking about—"
"I know." He slides a finger through your folds, collecting your wetness, and you whimper at the sensation. "I know, me too. Every time you walked past my room. Every time you left for the club in those little dresses. I'd hear you come home and I'd lie there and think about doing this."
He pushes a finger inside you, just one, and you cry out. You're so sensitive, so wound up, and the stretch of him even just one finger has you clenching down immediately.
"God, you're tight." His voice is wondering. "You're so fucking tight, baby. I don't know how I'm going to fit."
"You will." You're grinding down on his hand, desperate for more. "You will, I can take it, I want it—"
He adds a second finger and you see stars.
It's a stretch, a real stretch, and you're suddenly very aware of exactly how big he is, how much bigger than his fingers he's going to be. But it's a good stretch, the kind that makes your mouth fall open and your hips start moving on their own, riding his hand while he watches you with those dark, hungry eyes.
"That's it," he murmurs. "That's it, baby, take my fingers. Get yourself ready for me."
You're babbling. You're not sure what you're saying—something about more, about please, about I need you inside me—and he's drinking it all in, curling his digits inside you, finding that spot that makes your whole body jolt.
"There?" he asks, and he's smug about it, the bastard. "That the spot?"
"Fuck you."
"Yeah?" He crooks his fingers again, deliberately, and you keen. "You want to? Because right now you're the one riding my hand like a desperate little slut."
The word hits you like a shot of something hot and sharp. From anyone else it might make you angry, but from him—from Seungcheol, your flatmate who leaves his protein shakes in the sink and does pull-ups in the doorway and looks at you like you hung the moon—it makes you clench down on his fingers so hard he groans.
"Yeah," he breathes. "Yeah, you like that, don't you? You like being my desperate little slut, getting off on my fingers on the couch like a fucking dream."
"Cheol—"
"I've got you." He pulls his fingers out and you whine at the loss, but then his hands are on your hips again, guiding you forward, and you feel him—the blunt head of his cock pressing against your entrance, slippery with your wetness and his precum. "I've got you, baby. I'm going to take care of you."
He doesn't push in. He just holds you there, letting you feel the pressure, the promise of it, and you're so desperate you could cry.
"Please," you whisper. "Please, Cheol, I need—"
"I know what you need." His voice is rough, restrained, and you think he's holding himself back with everything he has. He probably is. "But I need you to look at me. I need you to see me when I do this."
You meet his eyes. They're dark and soft and it makes your chest ache, even through the haze of lust and alcohol.
"Okay," you whisper. "Okay."
And then you sink down.
It's too much. It's immediately, overwhelmingly too much. He's so thick—thicker than his fingers, thicker than anything you've ever had inside you—and the stretch burns in a way that makes you gasp, makes your nails dig into his shoulders. You can only take half of him before you have to stop, trembling, your forehead dropping to his.
"Fuck," he breathes. "Fuck, baby, you're so tight. You're so fucking tight around me."
"You're so big." It comes out wrecked, broken. "I can't… you're too—"
"You can." His hands are stroking your back, soothing, even though his voice is strained with the effort of holding still. "You can take it. You're doing so good, baby. Just breathe. Let yourself adjust."
You try. You take a breath, then another, and slowly the sharp edge of the stretch dulls into something more bearable. More than bearable—good. Full in a way you've never felt full before, it's like he's reaching places inside you that no one's ever touched. And maybe he is.
"Okay," you whisper. "Okay, I'm… I think I can—"
"Take more," he urges. "Just a little more, baby. I need to be deeper."
You sink down another inch and moan. He fills you completely, impossibly, and you can feel yourself stretching around him, accommodating him, taking him. It's the most intense thing you've ever felt, and you're drunk and fuzzy and every sensation is amplified, overwhelming.
"That's it," he groans. "That's it, fuck, you're taking me. You're taking all of me, baby, look."
You look down. You shouldn't have looked down. Because you can see it—the place where your bodies meet, the way you're stretched around him, the way his cock disappears inside you and you're taking it, every thick inch from the tip to the base.
"Oh my god," you whisper.
"Yeah." His voice is wrecked. "Yeah, that's... fuck, you feel..."
He can't finish. You start to move.
It's clumsy at first. You're still adjusting to the stretch, still tipsy, still overwhelmed by the sheer fullness of him. But then you find a rhythm, rocking against him, and his head falls back and he makes these sounds—these desperate, broken sounds that you want to bottle and keep forever.
His hands guide your movements, helping you, and you can feel him everywhere. Stretched around him, full in a way you've never been full before. Every nerve ending is on fire, every sensation heightened by the alcohol in your system and the reality of what's happening.
"Look at me," you demand, but it comes out softer, needier than you intend. "I want you to look at me."
He does. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, and he looks at you like you're sacred and he can't believe he's allowed to touch.
Your insides clench around him and you whine.
"You're so beautiful," he says, so wrecked and fucked out already. "Fuck, you're so... I've wanted this for so long—"
You lean down and press your lips to his, swallowing his words, and he responds with a desperation that matches your own. His arms wrap around you, pulling you close, and he starts to thrust up into you from below, changing the angle, and something inside you zips up your spine.
"There," you gasp against his mouth. "Right there, don't stop, please."
Seungcheol doesn't stop. He fucks up into you with a rhythm that's steady and deep, hitting that spot inside you with every movement. The sound of it—the wet, sloppy sound of his cock sliding into your soaked cunt—fills the room along with your moans and his grunts.
"You feel that?" he murmurs against your throat. "You feel me hitting that spot, baby? Feel how deep l am?"
"Yes—fuck—yes—" he's kissing your cervix with his tip and it feels like your brain is getting fried.
"I'm so deep inside you." His voice is reverent and filthy all at once. "I'm so deep I can feel your heartbeat. Can you feel mine? Can you feel me pulsing in your tight little cunt?"
You can. You can feel every twitch, every throb, every inch of him buried inside you. The pressure is building, coiling tight in your belly, and you're going to cum—you're actually going to cum, and it's going to rip through you full force.
"That's it," he breathes. "I can feel you getting tighter. You're close, aren't you? You're going to cum on my cock like a good little slut."
"Cheol—"
"Say it." His hand tangles in your hair, gently pulling your head back so he can see your face. "Say what you are. Say whose cunt this is."
"Yours," you gasp. "It's yours, I'm yours, I'm your—your good little slut, I'm-"
"Come for me."
You shatter.
It rips through you like nothing you've ever felt, wave after wave of pleasure so intense you can't breathe, can't think, can only cling to Seungcheol and sob against his neck while your body clenches around him over and over. He groans, hips stuttering, and you feel him pulse inside you, feel the hot rush of him filling you up, and that sends you over again, another wave crashing through you as he keeps cumming and cumming.
"Take it," he groans. "Take all of it, baby, fuck—"
He's still spilling inside you. You can feel it, hot and wet, flooding you, and there's so much of it, more than you've ever felt, and it's dripping out around him, soaking both of you, and you're still clenching, still coming down from your high when you realize.
He's still hard.
He's still hard, still buried inside you, and you can feel him twitching, feel the way he hasn't softened at all, and you look at him with wide eyes.
"You're—"
"I know." His voice is rough, almost apologetic again. "I'm sorry, I just… I always… I can usually go again, right away, and I—"
You think that this is what gets you. He's capable of being absolutely filthy and obscene and yet, at the end of the day he's the same silly guy who can't talk to women. He never really learned to be a self-absorbed jackass.
"Then do it."
He stares at you. "You just came. You're probably sensitive."
"I am sensitive." You shift on him, just slightly, and the sensation of his still-hard cock moving inside your oversensitive, cum-filled cunt makes you gasp. "I'm so fucking sensitive I can barely breathe. But I want more. I want you to use me."
His eyes go dark. "Use you?"
"Fuck me again." You're pleading now, desperate, the remnants of alcohol and the orgasm making you bold. "Fuck me until I can't walk. Fill me up so full I drip for days. I want to sit while I work tomorrow and feel you soaking through my panties. I want to remember this every time I move."
His expression cracks open, almost pained. "Fuck, baby. You can't say shit like that."
"I just did." You clench around him deliberately, and Seungcheol groans. "Now move."
He does.
He flips you in one smooth motion, laying you back against the couch cushions and looming over you, and he doesn't even pull out—just starts thrusting again, deep and hard, and you squeal.
It's too much. It's so much. You're oversensitive, still clenching from your orgasm, and every thrust sends sparks through your whole body. You can feel his cum inside you, feel it slicking the way, feel it dripping out of you with every stroke, can imagine it forming a ring of white around Seungcheol's shaft, and the obscenity of it—the sheer filth of it—has you moaning uncontrollably.
"Look at you." His voice is strained, wrecked. "Look at you taking my cock again, still full of me. You're so fucking perfect. This cunt was made for me."
"Yes—yes—"
"So tight. So wet. I can feel my own cum inside you, baby, I can feel it slicking us both up." He drives deeper, somehow deeper, and you keen.
"You're so messy. Such a messy little cunt, dripping with me, and I'm going to keep filling you up until you can't hold any more."
"Cheol—"
"I'm going to fuck you until it's all you can think about." His hand slips between you, fingers finding your clit, and you jolt. "Until you're walking around with my seed dripping down your thighs and all you can remember is my cock stretching you open."
You're going to crash again. You can feel it building, impossibly fast, your oversensitive body hurtling toward another climax.
"That's it." He's watching your face, reading every expression. "That's it, baby, come for me again. Cum on my cock while you're still full. I want to feel you squeeze it out of me."
The dirty talk, the pressure on your clit, the feeling of him so deep inside you—it all crashes together and you shatter again, coming with a scream that you barely recognize as your own. Your body clenches around him violently, rhythmically, and he groans and slams into you, holding himself deep as he spills again.
You feel it. Feel the hot spurts of him filling you again, even fuller than before, and there's so much that it's overflowing, dripping out around him and down your ass, soaking the couch cushions beneath you. He keeps going, keeps pumping into you, and you keep clenching, riding out wave after wave until you're both shaking and spent.
He collapses on top of you, barely holding his weight on his elbows, and you lie there together, breathing harshly, hearts pounding.
"Holy shit," you whisper.
"Yeah," his voice is muffled against your neck, lips pressing soft kisses that melt your brain. "Yeah. Holy shit."
You lie there for a long moment, just breathing.
You can feel him finally softening inside you, can feel the mess between your legs—so much cum that it's still leaking out, warm and wet against your skin.
"I meant it," you murmur. "What I said. I want to feel this tomorrow."
He lifts his head, looking at you with those big dark eyes. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." You reach up, touch his face. "I want to sit at my desk and think about it dripping out of me." You're not sure if you're saying it because you're still intoxicated or just riding the ecstatic high of your orgasm. You don't even know if you're gonna mean it in the morning. But right now? Yeah, you do mean it.
Seungcheol chuckles, a little incredulous, and kisses you soft and sweet, so in contrast to what just happened. "Good. Because I'm not done with you yet."
You raise an eyebrow. "Again?"
A small, smug smile stretches his lips. "Give me ten minutes."
You laugh, and then wince as the movement shifts him inside you. "I'm going to need more than ten minutes. I'm going to need a proper nap. I can barely feel my legs."
"That's the goal." He kisses your nose, your forehead, your eyelids. "Can't walk. Can't think. Just full of my cum and remembering exactly who put it there."
You feel your cheeks heat up when you actually process his words: "I really hate you."
He grins. "No you don't."
"No," you admit. "I really don't."
You close your eyes with a satisfied sigh and slowly feel your body getting heavy, limbs leaden and like your brain all too heavy at once. You haven't felt so tired in a while. Somewhere in the back of your mind you think you should get up. Go (more like crawl) to your room and process what just happened and figure out what this means for your living situation. Instead you stay there, curled against his chest, his softening cock still inside you, and you fall asleep to the steady thump of his heartbeat.
*.(๓•͙ ˕ •͙๓).* Please like + reblog + comment if you enjoyed your time reading this! This means a lot and motivates me to continue posting.
Summary: It is one of those days when you and Seungcheol are both working from home. Notoriously, no work gets done on days like this one.
Word count: 6.6k
Genres/warnings: smut, pwp (plot? what plot?); non-idol au, loser!nerd!perv!seungcheol, established relationship, honestly i can stop at pwp, cheol is a simp and we're not surprised; lmk if i skipped anything important
Smut warnings: Minors DNI, thicc dicc!cheol, implied size difference, dirty talk (of course), slow piv sex, unprotected (this is how we roll here; but please be safe irl), creampie, they continue being horndogs, reader takes charge, light hints of pet play; oral (f rec), face sitting, some brief hand job (m. rec), orgasm denial/control, edging, kinda ruined orgasm, cheol is down bad as always, he's sweetly pathetic, reader is on the phone with her manager when cheol fucks her (oops, don't do it irl kids); see anything i missed? please lmk
A/N: everyone say thank you, seungcheol for that live he held. it gave me the idea of writing a full scene of what i only mentioned briefly in the main fic, though the action here takes place after the main story. as always, enjoy your read and i’ll be happy to see your feedback in any form you’re comfortable with: comments, asks or reblogs. and i will see you in my next fic ᙏ̤̫
You can read it separately but I would recommend reading all of it for the full experience of this couple :)
If you see any mistakes: I try to proofread but English isn’t my first language, proceed at your own discretion.
Masterlist. | PART 1
Seungcheol is forty-seven minutes deep into this video call and he has absorbed precisely none of it. His manager's voice comes through the headset like a monotone hum. He can swear this woman's voice is designed to sandpaper the edges of his sanity. On screen, a grid of eight faces, all feigning attention, and his own small rectangle in the corner shows a man who hasn't blinked in thirty seconds because he's too busy tracking a silhouette moving past the doorway.
That's you. Just a flicker of movement—bare legs, the hem of an oversized t-shirt he knows is his, the soft grey one you stole three months ago and never gave back—and his concentration detonates. His cock twitches against his thigh, a slow, traitorous swell that has nothing to do with whatever the hell his manager is droning on about.
Seungcheol leans back in his chair, the springs groaning under his weight, and tilts his head just enough to catch a sliver of the kitchen through the gap in the doorframe. You're at the counter now, back to him, reaching to open the microwave. The t-shirt stretches, outlining the curve of your butt. Suddenly, the fabric rides up as you tiptoe to grab something from the cupboard above and the very bottom of your ass peeks out, bare and soft-looking, and he has to swallow a sound that would get him fired.
"—and moving forward, I think we need to restructure our code reviews which are taking two days on average," his manager drones, and Seungcheol wants to scream. Fuck them code reviews. He's going to lose his mind. He's going to combust in this ergonomic chair and they'll find him as nothing but a pile of ash and a half-hard dick.
His fingers drum against the armrest. He risks another glance. You're bent over now, rummaging in the fridge, and the t-shirt has ridden up so high he can see the crease where your thigh meets your ass. Seungcheol knows exactly how that crease tastes. He knows the sound you make when he presses his tongue flat against it and drags upward. He knows the way you shudder, the way your hand fists in his hair, the way you always whisper his name in a mix of a curse and a prayer.
Fuck. His cock is fully hard now, a rigid line trapped in his sweatpants and boxer briefs in a way that's becoming painful. He shifts in his seat, trying to find relief, and accidentally knocks his knee against the underside of his desk with a dull thud that makes his microphone—that he forgot to mute—spike.
"You okay there, Seungcheol?" His manager's voice cuts through, and for one horrifying second his heart stops. But he quickly realises that it's just the noise that drew her attention. Just the thud.
"Yeah, fine," he says, and his voice comes out strained, a little too tight. "Just—hit my knee on the table."
He mutes himself. Lets out a breath that shakes. Rubs his palm over his face and tries to think about spreadsheets. Deadlines. Anything except you currently being in the kitchen or the way you looked this morning when you rolled out of bed, hair a disaster, his t-shirt swallowing you, and kissed him on the forehead before padding to the bathroom. Domestic shit. Soft, sweet, married-couple shit that still makes his chest ache even now, months in, even after everything.
It's worse now. That's the thing. He thought it would level out—the insatiable, clawing need that's been devouring him since that first drunk night on the couch. He thought once the novelty wore off, once you'd had each other in every conceivable position on every conceivable surface, the fever would break and you'd settle into something manageable. Normal.
It didn't.
It got so much worse.
Last Friday, for instance. You both worked from home. By his generous estimate, you managed three hours of actual productivity between you. The rest of the day dissolved into a blur of skin and sweat and the obscene, wet sound of his cock sliding into you over and over. He bent you over your desk during what was supposed to be a fifteen-minute coffee break and didn't pull out for forty-five. You sucked him off under his desk during a monthly team call on Google Meet, his teeth sinking into his fist and leaving marks just to keep from moaning into an unmuted mic, his eyes watering with restraint of not rolling back into his skull. Seungcheol fucked you against the hallway wall on the way to the bathroom, one hand clamped over your mouth, your legs wrapped around his waist, your nails carving trenches into his shoulders through his shirt. By the end of the day you couldn't walk straight. Neither could he. You ordered pizza and ate it cross-legged on the floor of your living room, half-naked, feeding each other slices and communicating with humms and grunts because forming full thoughts and voicing them felt like mission impossible. And then he got hard again just from watching you lick grease off your thumb, and you let him lay you back on the soft carpet and fill you up again, until you were both too wrecked to move.
So yeah. It didn't level out. It metastasised.
And now it's Tuesday, and he's been on this call for almost an hour, and you are a room away, in the kitchen, heating up leftovers, and his entire body is humming with want. He can smell you from here. He swears he can—that faint, familiar scent of your body wash and underneath it, the warm scent of your skin that makes his mouth water and his brain go syrupy and stupid.
"—so if everyone could have their reports in by Thursday," his manager is saying, finally, mercifully, "that would be great. Any questions? No? Great. Thanks, everyone."
The call ends. Seungcheol doesn't even say goodbye. He yanks the headset off, tosses it onto his desk, and is out of the bedroom before his chair stops spinning.
You hear him coming. He's not particularly secretive about his arrival—the heavy, purposeful tread of a man who spends too much time at the gym and hasn't learned to move quietly in a shared apartment. But you don't turn around. You're standing at the counter, reaching for the microwave handle, when his arms wrap around you from behind and his body folds over yours like a collapsing star.
He's so big. That's the first thing you register, the same thing you register every time—the sheer, enveloping mass of him. His chest presses against your back, solid and warm through the thin fabric of your—his—t-shirt. His arms circle your waist, thick and possessive, and his face buries into the crook of your neck with a sound that can only be described as a whimper.
"You're done?" you ask, not bothering to hide the amusement in your voice.
"Finally," he mumbles against your skin. His lips move as he speaks, brushing the sensitive spot just below your ear, and you have to suppress a shiver. "Thought she was never going to shut up. I was losing my mind."
"Yeah, I could hear her from here. That voice is something else. Like a sadistic lullaby."
Seungcheol huffs a laugh, his breath warm and damp against your throat. "It's not funny. I was suffering."
"Poor baby." You tilt your head, giving him more access without thinking, your body responding to his proximity the way it always does—on instinct, on autopilot, like your nerve endings have been rewired to recognise him as a primary need. Purely Pavlovian response. "My heart bleeds for you and your very important corporate meeting."
"Don't be mean." He pouts. You can't see his face but you know he's pouting—you can hear it in the way his voice goes soft and petulant, the way his lower lip juts out. "I missed you."
"I was literally a wall away."
"That's a wall too far."
The microwave beeps. You reach for it again, but Seungcheol's hand catches yours first. His fingers slide between yours, locking them together, and he pulls your hand back down, pressing it flat against the counter top. His other hand slips under the hem of your shirt and settles on your lower belly, palm warm and broad and possessive.
"Food can wait," he murmurs.
You open your mouth to argue, to tease him about being a needy, insufferable menace, but then his palm presses down. Just a little. Just enough to apply pressure, to make you aware of the heat pooling low in your abdomen, of the way your body responds to him on a level that has nothing to do with conscious thought. An involuntary sound escapes your throat—small, breathy, embarrassing—and you feel your pussy clench around nothing.
"That's what I thought," he says, and there's a smile in his voice now, satisfied and soft and infuriating.
His lips find the junction of your neck and shoulder. He kisses you there, slow and open-mouthed, and then his teeth graze your skin and you stop breathing for a second.
"Cheol."
"Mm?"
"You're doing that thing."
"What thing?" He does it again—a gentle scrape of teeth, followed by the wet, soothing press of his tongue—and your knees go weak.
"That thing where you—where you turn me into—" You can't finish the sentence. His lips have found a new spot, just above your collarbone, and he's sucking a bruise into existence with the kind of focused intensity he usually reserves for boss fights in Elden Ring. Your brain fills with static. Your hands grip the edge of the counter. "—into a—fuck."
"Into a what?" He pulls back just long enough to speak, his voice low and rough and dripping with false innocence. "Use your words, baby."
"I hate you."
"No you don't." Kiss. Bite. Suck. "You love it. You love when I make you all dumb and shaky. When I take my time and turn you into a little mess before I've even touched you properly." Another kiss, this one pressed to the shell of your ear. "I know you're clenching even without touching you, baby. You think I'm not aware? Oh, I am. I know your body better than I know my own at this point."
You think of saying something sharp, to cut through the haze and reassert some semblance of control. But Seungcheol is right. He does know your body. He's spent months mapping every inch of it with his hands and his mouth and his cock, learning every spot that makes you gasp, every rhythm that makes you fall apart. And right now, with his palm still pressing on your lower belly and his lips trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses down the side of your neck, the only thing your brain can produce is a stream of increasingly pathetic sounds.
You think, distantly, about the irony of it. Months ago you called him a loser to your friend. You rolled your eyes at his compression shirts and his anime figures and his inability to talk to women. And now here you are, melting into a puddle of need because he's kissing your neck and breathing on you. Your friends have noticed, of course. Because you can't exactly hide it. You walk into every brunch, every cafe meetup, wearing the unmistakable glow of a woman who's getting thoroughly, regularly, devastatingly fucked. Loud and proud as they say.
Seungcheol's fingers have trailed lower while you were lost in thought. They're resting on the waistband of your underwear now, tracing the elastic edge with a maddening lightness that makes your hips twitch.
"Mmm, bet you're so wet already," he murmurs, and you can hear the satisfaction in his voice, the smug, reverent delight. "I haven't even done anything and you're soaking through your panties, aren't you? What am I going to do with you?"
"I don't know," you manage, your voice coming out embarrassingly breathy. "Maybe actually fuck me instead of just talking about it?"
"Impatient." He nips at your earlobe. "I like it."
His fingers dip lower, pressing against you through the damp cotton of your underwear and finding his theory to be true. The pressure is light, teasing, nowhere near enough, and you can feel your pussy clenching and throbbing again, desperate for more, desperate for anything. Behind you, pressed against the curve of your ass, his cock is a hard, insistent weight. He's been half-hard since the call started—you could guess from the way he was squirming in his chair, the way his eyes kept cutting toward the kitchen—but now he's fully erect, thick and hot even through the layers of his sweatpants and your t-shirt that barely covers your ass anymore. He rocks against you, a slow, deliberate grind, and the friction makes you both groan.
"Thought about this the whole call," he says, his voice dropping into that lower register that makes your stomach flip. "Thought about bending you over this counter. Thought about pulling these little panties to the side and sliding into you while you're still trying to heat up your stupid breakfast leftovers. Thought about filling you up so full you'd be leaking me all afternoon while you sit in your meetings pretending to be a professional."
"That's—" You swallow, hard. "That's what you were thinking about? During a work call?"
"Every second." Seungcheol grinds against you again, and this time you can feel the full length of him, the girth that still makes your mouth water even after all these months. "Couldn't focus. Couldn't think about anything except your tight little cunt and how bad I need to be inside it. How bad I need to use it."
He says that and lets out a shameful pathetic mewl.
The word "use" and the desperate sound that escapes him land in your chest and detonate. You know what he's doing—he's working you up, talking filth the way he knows you like, the way that makes you weak and pliant and ready to let him do anything. And normally you would let him. Normally you would let him spin you around, bend you over, and fuck you stupid right here against the kitchen counter, and you would come apart on his cock and thank him for it afterwards.
But thanks to his little pathetic display you're feeling something else. Something sharper. Seungcheol spent an hour squirming in his chair thinking about using you? Fine. But you spent that same hour catching glimpses of him in his stupid soft flannel shirt, his hair messy, his brows furrowed, his plush lips wrapped around his water bottle, and you've been simmering with your own kind of want. And maybe it's the oncoming ovulation hormones, or maybe it's the way he whimpered when he first wrapped his arms around you and mewled just now, but something in you decides that today, you're not going to be the one who gets reduced to a mindless, begging mess.
Today, that's going to be him.
His fingers have slipped under the waistband of your panties now, tracing through your slick folds with a slow, exploratory pressure that makes your breath hitch. He's about to push inside—you can feel the tension in his wrist, the way his breathing has gone ragged against your neck—when you reach around with your free hand and squeeze his cock through his sweatpants.
Hard.
Seungcheol makes a sound you've never heard before. A choked, strangled yelp that's half surprise and half something else entirely. His whole body jerks against you, his hips bucking into your grip, and his fingers freeze where they are.
"What—" he starts, but you squeeze again, and the word dissolves into a whimper.
"Here's what's going to happen, baby," you say, and your voice comes out breathless but somewhat steady. "You're going to take your hand out of my panties. You're going to get on your knees. And you're going to do exactly what I tell you. Got it, hmm?"
Seungcheol doesn't answer immediately. His chest is heaving against your back, his cock throbbing in your grip, and you can feel the war happening inside him—the instinct to take over, to reclaim control, wrestling with the part of him that loves this, the part that goes soft and eager and desperate when you turn the tables.
"Got it?" you repeat, and you twist your wrist just enough to make him gasp.
"Yeah," he breathes, voice going a little higher than usual. "Yeah, okay. Got it."
"Good boy."
The words hit him like a physical blow. You feel the full-body shudder that runs through him, the way his cock kicks against your palm, the way his breathing goes even more ragged and uneven. He pulls his hand out of your panties slowly, reluctantly, and you release your grip on him just long enough for him to step back.
"Strip," you say as soon as you turn around to see him.
He does. He pulls his t-shirt over his head first, revealing the broad expanse of his chest, the thick shoulders and defined pecs, the trail of dark hair that runs down his stomach and disappears into the waistband of his sweats. Then his pants go, pushed down over his hips, and his boxers with them, until he's standing naked in the middle of the kitchen with his cock jutting up toward his belly, flushed dark at the tip and already leaking.
You take a moment to look at Seungcheol. It never gets old—the sheer size of him, the thickness, the way his cock curves just slightly, so pretty. The way it twitches under your gaze like it's begging for attention—and you bet it is. The way his balls hang heavy and full, a reminder that he hasn't come since yesterday morning, which in his case means he's already backed up and desperate and so, so easy to break.
"You're so pretty," you murmur, and you mean it. "Look at you. Standing there dripping for me. Such a desperate pathetic mess already and I haven't even touched you."
His cock gives you an eager reaction, twitching and bobbing up and down at your words, and you smile at how it throbs, almost like it's whining and jumping for you to touch it. Seungcheol's ears go red. That very deep, mortified flush that you've been watching since the very first night, except now it makes your chest ache with something tender and possessive instead of irritated. "Baby—"
"On your knees," you order softly, lips stretched in the sweetest of smiles.
He drops so fast you hear his knees hit the tile. You wince, breaking character just for a moment, worried, but Seungcheol doesn't seem to care at all, he is looking up at you with those big brown eyes, pupils blown wide, lips parted, and he is so fucking wreckable in this very moment that it makes your pussy clench and you don't even notice as you slip back into the little play the two of you are orchestrating.
"Please," he whispers, and he doesn't even know what he's asking for. He just knows he needs something, anything, as long as it is from you.
"Please what?" you hum, watching his eyes turn even shinier than before. He's so pretty like this it is unfair. Not for the first time he's giving you aggression urges.
"Please let me taste you. Need to put my mouth on you. I've been thinking about it all morning—thinking about how you taste, how soft and warm you feel on my tongue—please, baby? I need it—"
"Shh." You step forward, close enough that he can smell you again—his nostrils visibly flare when he silently inhales you—and you can feel his exhale ghost against your thighs. "I know. I know you've been a desperate little puppy all morning, couldn't even pay attention to your stupid meeting because you were too busy thinking about my pussy. Isn't that right?"
He nods, frantic, his hands twitching at his sides like he's physically restraining himself from grabbing you. You wouldn't mind if he did, to be fair. "Yes. Yes, that's right. Couldn't—couldn't think about anything else. Just you. Just your sweet pussy. Just how bad I wanted to be inside it." He whimpers and squirms on his knees, and his cock twitches again at the image growing vivid in his head.
"And instead you're on your knees." You reach down, thread your fingers through his hair, and tug—not hard enough to hurt, only to tilt his head back and make him look at you. "Because you're not in charge right now. I am. And I decide when you get to touch me. I decide when you get to cum. Understood?"
"Understood." His voice is wrecked already, and you haven't even started.
"Good." You release his hair and hop up onto the edge of the counter, spreading your legs. "Now be a good boy and get to work."
You pat your thigh and Seungcheol doesn't need to be told twice. His hands find your thighs, tugging your underwear off with urgent impatience before spreading you wider to make room, and then his mouth is on you and the world dissolves into sensation for both of you.
Seungcheol eats pussy like he's been starving for years and you're the first meal he's been served. His tongue is broad and wet and relentless, licking a stripe from your entrance to your clit with a pressure that makes your hips immediately buck against his face. He genuinely moans when he tastes you, like the flavour of your arousal is the best thing he's ever experienced—and the vibration against your clit sends a shockwave up your spine, makes your soles tingle and toes curl.
"Fuck," you breathe, one hand bracing against the counter, the other fisting in his hair. "That's it. That's—right there—"
He stays there. His tongue circles your clit in slow, deliberate strokes, and then his lips close around it and he sucks, and your vision whites out for a second, an involuntary squeal leaving your mouth.
"Oh my god—" you pant, voice getting strained and high-pitched with pleasure.
He hums against you, pleased, and the vibration makes you jolt again. His hands are gripping your thighs hard enough to leave marks, holding you open for him, and his tongue keeps working you in a rhythm that's devastatingly precise. He knows exactly what you like. Of course he does. He's spent months learning your body like a language, and now he's fluent.
But you're not going to let him make you come just yet. You tug on his hair, pulling him back, and he looks up at you with his face slick and shining, his lips swollen and wet, his eyes hazy and half-lidded with want.
"Why'd you stop me?" he whines. "I wasn't done. You taste so good, baby, please let me finish—"
"Because I want to sit on your face."
His eyes go wide. Then darken. His cock, which has been bobbing neglected against his stomach, twitches and throbs visibly, a fresh bead of precum welling at the tip.
"Fuck," he whispers. "Yeah. Yeah, okay. I want that. Please."
"Get on the floor then."
He lies down on the kitchen tiles without a shred of dignity, his cock standing up like a flagpole, his chest heaving. You slide off the counter and stand over him for a moment, looking down at the picture he makes—this big, muscular man, sprawled on the cold floor, looking up at you like you're the sun and the moon and every star in the sky, his cock leaking all over his own stomach.
"You're so pathetic," you tell him, and you mean it as the highest compliment.
"I know," he breathes. "I'm your pathetic little puppy. Now please—please sit on my face. I need your cunt on my tongue. Need you to smother me with your sweet pussy, baby."
Gosh, you both are so fucking nasty for each other, you chuckle and lower yourself down, kneeling carefully over his head. The first contact of his tongue against your pussy makes you both groan—him from the taste, you from the sensation of his mouth working you open while you settle your full weight onto him. Your thighs bracket his head, and his hands come up to grip your ass, guiding you, pulling you down harder, to sit your entire weight on him.
You let Seungcheol work for a while. Let his tongue fuck into you, let his lips close around your clit, let him moan and whimper against your flesh while you rock your hips in slow, lazy circles. But you have other plans for him, so you twist just enough to reach back, your hand finding his cock where it's standing rigid and neglected.
The sound he makes when you wrap your fingers around him is muffled by your pussy, and you feel the desperate, broken groan that vibrates through your entire body. You stroke him slowly, from base to tip, your thumb swiping over the slick, swollen head to collect the precum that's been pooling there just to massage his frenulum and make the man twitch and jerk his hips uncontrollably, losing all pace of his oral ministrations.
"Look at you," you murmur, looking down at him. "So hard for me. So wet. You're dripping all over yourself. Such a pretty mess, hmm."
He can't answer. His mouth is full of your cunt, his tongue buried inside you, and all he can do is whine and buck his hips into your grip, either encouraging or just sensitive.
"Is this what you wanted? When you were sitting in your meeting with your cock all hard and aching? You wanted to be on your back on the kitchen floor, being used like a toy?"
Seungcheol nods frantically, his nose bumping against your clit, and the sensation makes you gasp.
"That's what I thought. You're nothing but a dumb mutt when I get my hands on you. What a sight, huh? A big, strong man reduced to a whimpering mess on the floor. Your friends have no idea, do they? Do they think you're this alpha male now? That you're the cool guy of the group after you bagged me, hmm?” You apply more weight onto his face and Seungcheol groans against you, soft tongue licking deeper into your heat, coaxing a moan out of you. "Should we let them know that you actually love getting on your knees for me? Love being a good puppy for me?"
You twist your wrist on the upstroke, and his hips stutter, his cock pulsing in your grip. He's close. You can feel it in the way his thighs are tensing, the way his breathing has gone ragged and uneven, and the way his tongue has lost its rhythm against your pussy because he can't concentrate on anything except the pleasure you're wringing out of him.
"Are you going to come?" You ask sweetly. "Are you going to spill all over yourself and make a mess like a good little slut?"
He tries to nod again, but you're already pulling your hand away.
"Too bad," you say, and his desperate, wounded keen is the most beautiful sound you've ever heard. "You don't get to cum until I say so. And I haven't said so."
"Please," he gasps, his mouth finally free of your pussy because you've lifted your hips just enough to look down at him. His face is a mess—lips swollen, cheeks flushed, chin slick with your arousal. "Please, baby, I need to cum. I've been thinking about it all day. I can't—"
"Oh, but you can." You climb off him, and he whines at the loss of contact, his hands reaching for you instinctively. "Get up. Bend me over the counter."
Seungcheol scrambles to his feet so fast he nearly slips and you snicker, telling him to be careful. His cock is an angry red, throbbing visibly, a steady stream of precum dripping from the tip on every twitch. He looks ruined already, and you haven't even let him inside you yet.
You turn around and brace yourself against the counter, arching your back, presenting yourself to him. You're soaked—your thighs are glistening, your pussy is swollen and dripping with a mix of your juices and his spit, and you know exactly what he's seeing right now.
"Now you can fuck me," you tell him. "Slow. Exactly the way I want it. And you're not going to come. Do you understand?"
"Yes," he breathes, steps closer behind you. "Yes, I understand. I'll be good. I'll be so good for you."
He lines himself up. You feel the blunt, thick head of his cock pressing against your entrance, and even though you're wet and open and ready, the stretch is still overwhelming. Seungcheol pushes in slowly, inch by inch, spreading your walls, filing the empty space that begged to be filled, and you both groan in unison as he fills you.
"Fuck," he whispers. "Fuck, baby, you're so tight. You're always so tight. How are you still so tight?"
"Shut up and move."
He pulls out almost all the way, making you feel the way his veined shaft drags against your sensitive walls, and then pushes back in. Seungcheol fucks you exactly the way you told him to—slow, deep, each thrust deliberate and measured. His hands are gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, and you can hear the effort it's taking him to hold back, the way his breathing is coming in ragged gasps, the way he's trembling against you.
"You feel so good," he babbles again. "You feel so fucking good, baby, I can't—I don't know how much longer I can—"
"You can last as long as I tell you to last." But your voice is shaking now too. The angle is perfect, his cock hitting that spot inside you with every slow, grinding thrust, and you're getting close yourself. "Don't you dare cum without permission. Don't you fucking dare."
"I won't. I won't, I promise, just—please, can I go faster? Please?"
"No. Keep it slow. I want to feel every inch of you."
He whimpers, but he does what he's told. His thrusts stay slow and deep, his cock dragging against your walls, and you can feel the orgasm building in your core, coiling tighter and tighter—
Your phone rings.
Your intuition immediately screams at you that it must be someone from work.
"Fuck," you hiss in half frustration, half panic. "Fuck, Cheol, stop, I have—have to take this—"
You try to pull away, but his grip on your hips tightens. "No," he whines. "No, baby, please, I'm so close, don't stop me—"
Somewhere in the back of your mind you feel bad for the man, he sounds so ruined.
"I'm not asking." You pull yourself off his cock with a wet, obscene sound, and Seungcheol makes a noise like you've stabbed him. His cock bobs in the air, angry and neglected, throbbing and jumping with denied orgasm. A thick strand of your combined fluids connects him to your pussy for a brief moment before it snaps. He whines out a sob.
"You ruined it," Seungcheol breathes, and he sounds genuinely devastated. "You ruined my orgasm. Baby, why? I was right there—"
"Stay here," you order, already grabbing your phone from the kitchen table where it was resting forgotten all this time. "Don't move."
You answer the call as you walk toward your room, your voice switching to a semblance of something professional and pleasant even though your thighs are still wet and your pussy is still aching and empty. "Hey, yeah, sorry, just give me one second—"
You don't get your one second. Because Seungcheol, your sweet, pathetic, desperate boyfriend, has followed you despite what you told him to do.
You feel him before you see him—his body pressing up behind you, his hands gripping your hips, his cock sliding between your thighs, still slick with your arousal. You're standing in front of your desk, phone pressed to your ear, and he's already bending you forward, already lining himself up.
"No," you mouth silently, turning your head to glare at him. "Don't you dare."
Seungcheol meets your eyes. His are dark and wild and desperate, and there's something almost feral in his expression. He doesn't stop. He pushes inside you in one smooth, harsh thrust that jolts your entire body, and the sensation of intrusion is so sudden and overwhelming that you have to bite down on your own hand to keep from crying out. This leaves you with no support, which means you pretty much topple over, suddenly pressed into your desk with Seungcheol's hand that was applying pressure between your shoulder blades.
"—and so I was wondering if you could take a look at this document before the meeting this afternoon," your team lead is saying in your ear, her voice cheerful and oblivious. "I know it's last minute, but I think there might be an error on page five."
"Of course," you manage, and your voice comes out surprisingly steady considering the fact that your boyfriend is currently buried balls-deep inside you, his hips already starting to move. "I can—I can do that. No problem."
Seungcheol fucks into you with slow, deliberate strokes, and you can feel him throbbing inside you, can feel how close he still is from before, how desperate. One of his hands slides up and down your back, pressing you down onto the desk before you can even think of lifting your upper body into an upright position, and the other grips your hip hard enough to anchor you in place.
"Great, thanks," your team lead says. "Also, I wanted to ask about the client presentation next week. Have you had a chance to—"
He chooses that moment to thrust particularly deep, his cock hitting your cervix, and a tiny, strangled sound escapes your throat before you can stop it.
"You okay?" your team lead asks.
"Yes," you say, and your voice is definitely too high. "Yes, sorry, I just—stubbed my toe. On the desk. It's fine."
Seungcheol leans down, his chest pressing against your back, his lips brushing your free ear. "Little liar," he whispers, so quiet only you can hear. "What will your boss do if she finds out you're getting fucked during your working hours?” He can't help a chuckle that escapes him when he comes up with his next question. "Hmm, does it make you a slut for fucking me and getting paid while doing so? Technically…" he trails off and your pussy clenches traitorously as soon as your brain registers what he just said.
You want to kill him. You want to kill him and then marry him and then kill him again.
"—and if you could send me the updated slides by end of day, that would be perfect," your team lead is saying.
"End of day," you repeat, barely processing the words. Seungcheol has picked up his pace, just slightly, and the sound of his cock sliding into your wet, messy pussy is so loud in the quiet room that you're sure your team lead can hear it if the line stays silent for a moment too long. "Yes. Slides. I'll—I'll send them."
"Are you sure you're okay? You sound a little off."
"I'm fine. I'm great. Just—writing it down."
Seungcheol muffles a laugh against your shoulder. His hand leaves your hip and snakes around to your front, finding your clit with devastating accuracy. Your whole body jolts.
"That's the spot, isn't it?" he breathes in your ear. "That's the spot that makes you stupid. You're going to come on my cock while you're on the phone, aren't you? You're going to soak me and she's going to hear it."
You shake your head frantically, but you can't speak. Your team lead is still talking, something about deadlines and team meetings, and you're nodding along and making vague sounds of agreement while your boyfriend rubs circles on your clit and fucks into you with deep, punishing strokes. You're trying so hard not to start panting or moaning, and your brainpower continues to slip from your grasp.
"I'm going to fill you up," he whispers. "I'm going to pump you so full of cum it'll be dripping out of you for the rest of the day. And you're going to sit in your meetings and feel it leaking into your panties, and you're going to think about me. About this. About how I ruined you while you were trying to be professional."
"Okay," you say into the phone, and you have no idea what you're agreeing to. "Okay, sounds good. I have to—I have to go now, I'll send those slides."
"No rush," your team lead says. "Talk later!"
You hang up with confused fingers, missing the red button on the screen a couple of taps before you finally manage to end the call. The phone clatters onto the desk.
And then you let yourself fall apart.
"Cheol—" It comes out as a loud sob, half fury and half desperate, overwhelming need. "You—you fucking—I can't believe you—"
"You loved it." He's not even trying to hide the smugness in his voice, but it's undercut by the way his hips are stuttering, the way his rhythm is falling apart. "You loved every second of it. I could feel you getting wetter and clenching around me when she asked if you were okay."
"I'm going to kill you—after—after I come—"
"Yeah?" He presses harder on your clit, circles it with the perfect pressure that he knows you enjoy, and the orgasm that's been building since the kitchen finally, finally explodes. "Then come for me. Now, baby. Let me feel it."
You shatter with a mewl. It rips through you like a thunderclap, your whole body seizing up, your pussy clamping down on his cock in rhythmic, pulsing waves. You scream—you can't help it, the sound tears out of you raw and unguarded after long minutes of trying to suppress it all—and Seungcheol groans and buries himself to the hilt, spilling inside you in hot, copious pulses.
He keeps thrusting through it, fucking his cum deeper into you, and you can feel it flooding you, filling you, leaking out around his cock in a white obscene ring and dripping down your thighs. He doesn't stop until he's completely spent, and then he collapses over you, his weight pressing you into the desk, his breath hot and ragged against the back of your neck.
For a long moment the room is silent. The only sounds are your mingled breathing and the faint, distant hum of the fridge in the kitchen.
Then: "You're a menace," you whisper, swallowing thickly and heaving a sigh.
He laughs, breathless and giddy and a little bit wrecked. "Yeah. But you're the same. And you love me."
You don't argue. You can't. Not when his cock is still inside you, still half-hard, still plugging you full of his cum. Not when you can already feel it starting to drip out despite his best efforts. Not when your legs are shaking so badly you're not sure you can stand if you try.
"Next time," you manage, "I'm locking you to a piece of furniture before I take a work call."
"Hmm, I think next time," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your shoulder blade, "you'll let me do it again. Because you're just as depraved as I am."
You hate that he's right. You hate it even more that you don't hate it at all.
*.(๓•͙ ˕ •͙๓).* Please like + reblog + comment if you enjoyed your time reading this! This means a lot and motivates me to continue posting.
Summary: It is one of those days when you and Seungcheol are both working from home. Notoriously, no work gets done on days like this one.
Word count: 6.6k
Genres/warnings: smut, pwp (plot? what plot?); non-idol au, loser!nerd!perv!seungcheol, established relationship, honestly i can stop at pwp, cheol is a simp and we're not surprised; lmk if i skipped anything important
Smut warnings: Minors DNI, thicc dicc!cheol, implied size difference, dirty talk (of course), slow piv sex, unprotected (this is how we roll here; but please be safe irl), creampie, they continue being horndogs, reader takes charge, light hints of pet play; oral (f rec), face sitting, some brief hand job (m. rec), orgasm denial/control, edging, kinda ruined orgasm, cheol is down bad as always, he's sweetly pathetic, reader is on the phone with her manager when cheol fucks her (oops, don't do it irl kids); see anything i missed? please lmk
A/N: everyone say thank you, seungcheol for that live he held. it gave me the idea of writing a full scene of what i only mentioned briefly in the main fic, though the action here takes place after the main story. as always, enjoy your read and i’ll be happy to see your feedback in any form you’re comfortable with: comments, asks or reblogs. and i will see you in my next fic ᙏ̤̫
You can read it separately but I would recommend reading all of it for the full experience of this couple :)
If you see any mistakes: I try to proofread but English isn’t my first language, proceed at your own discretion.
Masterlist. | PART 1
Seungcheol is forty-seven minutes deep into this video call and he has absorbed precisely none of it. His manager's voice comes through the headset like a monotone hum. He can swear this woman's voice is designed to sandpaper the edges of his sanity. On screen, a grid of eight faces, all feigning attention, and his own small rectangle in the corner shows a man who hasn't blinked in thirty seconds because he's too busy tracking a silhouette moving past the doorway.
That's you. Just a flicker of movement—bare legs, the hem of an oversized t-shirt he knows is his, the soft grey one you stole three months ago and never gave back—and his concentration detonates. His cock twitches against his thigh, a slow, traitorous swell that has nothing to do with whatever the hell his manager is droning on about.
Seungcheol leans back in his chair, the springs groaning under his weight, and tilts his head just enough to catch a sliver of the kitchen through the gap in the doorframe. You're at the counter now, back to him, reaching to open the microwave. The t-shirt stretches, outlining the curve of your butt. Suddenly, the fabric rides up as you tiptoe to grab something from the cupboard above and the very bottom of your ass peeks out, bare and soft-looking, and he has to swallow a sound that would get him fired.
"—and moving forward, I think we need to restructure our code reviews which are taking two days on average," his manager drones, and Seungcheol wants to scream. Fuck them code reviews. He's going to lose his mind. He's going to combust in this ergonomic chair and they'll find him as nothing but a pile of ash and a half-hard dick.
His fingers drum against the armrest. He risks another glance. You're bent over now, rummaging in the fridge, and the t-shirt has ridden up so high he can see the crease where your thigh meets your ass. Seungcheol knows exactly how that crease tastes. He knows the sound you make when he presses his tongue flat against it and drags upward. He knows the way you shudder, the way your hand fists in his hair, the way you always whisper his name in a mix of a curse and a prayer.
Fuck. His cock is fully hard now, a rigid line trapped in his sweatpants and boxer briefs in a way that's becoming painful. He shifts in his seat, trying to find relief, and accidentally knocks his knee against the underside of his desk with a dull thud that makes his microphone—that he forgot to mute—spike.
"You okay there, Seungcheol?" His manager's voice cuts through, and for one horrifying second his heart stops. But he quickly realises that it's just the noise that drew her attention. Just the thud.
"Yeah, fine," he says, and his voice comes out strained, a little too tight. "Just—hit my knee on the table."
He mutes himself. Lets out a breath that shakes. Rubs his palm over his face and tries to think about spreadsheets. Deadlines. Anything except you currently being in the kitchen or the way you looked this morning when you rolled out of bed, hair a disaster, his t-shirt swallowing you, and kissed him on the forehead before padding to the bathroom. Domestic shit. Soft, sweet, married-couple shit that still makes his chest ache even now, months in, even after everything.
It's worse now. That's the thing. He thought it would level out—the insatiable, clawing need that's been devouring him since that first drunk night on the couch. He thought once the novelty wore off, once you'd had each other in every conceivable position on every conceivable surface, the fever would break and you'd settle into something manageable. Normal.
It didn't.
It got so much worse.
Last Friday, for instance. You both worked from home. By his generous estimate, you managed three hours of actual productivity between you. The rest of the day dissolved into a blur of skin and sweat and the obscene, wet sound of his cock sliding into you over and over. He bent you over your desk during what was supposed to be a fifteen-minute coffee break and didn't pull out for forty-five. You sucked him off under his desk during a monthly team call on Google Meet, his teeth sinking into his fist and leaving marks just to keep from moaning into an unmuted mic, his eyes watering with restraint of not rolling back into his skull. Seungcheol fucked you against the hallway wall on the way to the bathroom, one hand clamped over your mouth, your legs wrapped around his waist, your nails carving trenches into his shoulders through his shirt. By the end of the day you couldn't walk straight. Neither could he. You ordered pizza and ate it cross-legged on the floor of your living room, half-naked, feeding each other slices and communicating with humms and grunts because forming full thoughts and voicing them felt like mission impossible. And then he got hard again just from watching you lick grease off your thumb, and you let him lay you back on the soft carpet and fill you up again, until you were both too wrecked to move.
So yeah. It didn't level out. It metastasised.
And now it's Tuesday, and he's been on this call for almost an hour, and you are a room away, in the kitchen, heating up leftovers, and his entire body is humming with want. He can smell you from here. He swears he can—that faint, familiar scent of your body wash and underneath it, the warm scent of your skin that makes his mouth water and his brain go syrupy and stupid.
"—so if everyone could have their reports in by Thursday," his manager is saying, finally, mercifully, "that would be great. Any questions? No? Great. Thanks, everyone."
The call ends. Seungcheol doesn't even say goodbye. He yanks the headset off, tosses it onto his desk, and is out of the bedroom before his chair stops spinning.
You hear him coming. He's not particularly secretive about his arrival—the heavy, purposeful tread of a man who spends too much time at the gym and hasn't learned to move quietly in a shared apartment. But you don't turn around. You're standing at the counter, reaching for the microwave handle, when his arms wrap around you from behind and his body folds over yours like a collapsing star.
He's so big. That's the first thing you register, the same thing you register every time—the sheer, enveloping mass of him. His chest presses against your back, solid and warm through the thin fabric of your—his—t-shirt. His arms circle your waist, thick and possessive, and his face buries into the crook of your neck with a sound that can only be described as a whimper.
"You're done?" you ask, not bothering to hide the amusement in your voice.
"Finally," he mumbles against your skin. His lips move as he speaks, brushing the sensitive spot just below your ear, and you have to suppress a shiver. "Thought she was never going to shut up. I was losing my mind."
"Yeah, I could hear her from here. That voice is something else. Like a sadistic lullaby."
Seungcheol huffs a laugh, his breath warm and damp against your throat. "It's not funny. I was suffering."
"Poor baby." You tilt your head, giving him more access without thinking, your body responding to his proximity the way it always does—on instinct, on autopilot, like your nerve endings have been rewired to recognise him as a primary need. Purely Pavlovian response. "My heart bleeds for you and your very important corporate meeting."
"Don't be mean." He pouts. You can't see his face but you know he's pouting—you can hear it in the way his voice goes soft and petulant, the way his lower lip juts out. "I missed you."
"I was literally a wall away."
"That's a wall too far."
The microwave beeps. You reach for it again, but Seungcheol's hand catches yours first. His fingers slide between yours, locking them together, and he pulls your hand back down, pressing it flat against the counter top. His other hand slips under the hem of your shirt and settles on your lower belly, palm warm and broad and possessive.
"Food can wait," he murmurs.
You open your mouth to argue, to tease him about being a needy, insufferable menace, but then his palm presses down. Just a little. Just enough to apply pressure, to make you aware of the heat pooling low in your abdomen, of the way your body responds to him on a level that has nothing to do with conscious thought. An involuntary sound escapes your throat—small, breathy, embarrassing—and you feel your pussy clench around nothing.
"That's what I thought," he says, and there's a smile in his voice now, satisfied and soft and infuriating.
His lips find the junction of your neck and shoulder. He kisses you there, slow and open-mouthed, and then his teeth graze your skin and you stop breathing for a second.
"Cheol."
"Mm?"
"You're doing that thing."
"What thing?" He does it again—a gentle scrape of teeth, followed by the wet, soothing press of his tongue—and your knees go weak.
"That thing where you—where you turn me into—" You can't finish the sentence. His lips have found a new spot, just above your collarbone, and he's sucking a bruise into existence with the kind of focused intensity he usually reserves for boss fights in Elden Ring. Your brain fills with static. Your hands grip the edge of the counter. "—into a—fuck."
"Into a what?" He pulls back just long enough to speak, his voice low and rough and dripping with false innocence. "Use your words, baby."
"I hate you."
"No you don't." Kiss. Bite. Suck. "You love it. You love when I make you all dumb and shaky. When I take my time and turn you into a little mess before I've even touched you properly." Another kiss, this one pressed to the shell of your ear. "I know you're clenching even without touching you, baby. You think I'm not aware? Oh, I am. I know your body better than I know my own at this point."
You think of saying something sharp, to cut through the haze and reassert some semblance of control. But Seungcheol is right. He does know your body. He's spent months mapping every inch of it with his hands and his mouth and his cock, learning every spot that makes you gasp, every rhythm that makes you fall apart. And right now, with his palm still pressing on your lower belly and his lips trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses down the side of your neck, the only thing your brain can produce is a stream of increasingly pathetic sounds.
You think, distantly, about the irony of it. Months ago you called him a loser to your friend. You rolled your eyes at his compression shirts and his anime figures and his inability to talk to women. And now here you are, melting into a puddle of need because he's kissing your neck and breathing on you. Your friends have noticed, of course. Because you can't exactly hide it. You walk into every brunch, every cafe meetup, wearing the unmistakable glow of a woman who's getting thoroughly, regularly, devastatingly fucked. Loud and proud as they say.
Seungcheol's fingers have trailed lower while you were lost in thought. They're resting on the waistband of your underwear now, tracing the elastic edge with a maddening lightness that makes your hips twitch.
"Mmm, bet you're so wet already," he murmurs, and you can hear the satisfaction in his voice, the smug, reverent delight. "I haven't even done anything and you're soaking through your panties, aren't you? What am I going to do with you?"
"I don't know," you manage, your voice coming out embarrassingly breathy. "Maybe actually fuck me instead of just talking about it?"
"Impatient." He nips at your earlobe. "I like it."
His fingers dip lower, pressing against you through the damp cotton of your underwear and finding his theory to be true. The pressure is light, teasing, nowhere near enough, and you can feel your pussy clenching and throbbing again, desperate for more, desperate for anything. Behind you, pressed against the curve of your ass, his cock is a hard, insistent weight. He's been half-hard since the call started—you could guess from the way he was squirming in his chair, the way his eyes kept cutting toward the kitchen—but now he's fully erect, thick and hot even through the layers of his sweatpants and your t-shirt that barely covers your ass anymore. He rocks against you, a slow, deliberate grind, and the friction makes you both groan.
"Thought about this the whole call," he says, his voice dropping into that lower register that makes your stomach flip. "Thought about bending you over this counter. Thought about pulling these little panties to the side and sliding into you while you're still trying to heat up your stupid breakfast leftovers. Thought about filling you up so full you'd be leaking me all afternoon while you sit in your meetings pretending to be a professional."
"That's—" You swallow, hard. "That's what you were thinking about? During a work call?"
"Every second." Seungcheol grinds against you again, and this time you can feel the full length of him, the girth that still makes your mouth water even after all these months. "Couldn't focus. Couldn't think about anything except your tight little cunt and how bad I need to be inside it. How bad I need to use it."
He says that and lets out a shameful pathetic mewl.
The word "use" and the desperate sound that escapes him land in your chest and detonate. You know what he's doing—he's working you up, talking filth the way he knows you like, the way that makes you weak and pliant and ready to let him do anything. And normally you would let him. Normally you would let him spin you around, bend you over, and fuck you stupid right here against the kitchen counter, and you would come apart on his cock and thank him for it afterwards.
But thanks to his little pathetic display you're feeling something else. Something sharper. Seungcheol spent an hour squirming in his chair thinking about using you? Fine. But you spent that same hour catching glimpses of him in his stupid soft flannel shirt, his hair messy, his brows furrowed, his plush lips wrapped around his water bottle, and you've been simmering with your own kind of want. And maybe it's the oncoming ovulation hormones, or maybe it's the way he whimpered when he first wrapped his arms around you and mewled just now, but something in you decides that today, you're not going to be the one who gets reduced to a mindless, begging mess.
Today, that's going to be him.
His fingers have slipped under the waistband of your panties now, tracing through your slick folds with a slow, exploratory pressure that makes your breath hitch. He's about to push inside—you can feel the tension in his wrist, the way his breathing has gone ragged against your neck—when you reach around with your free hand and squeeze his cock through his sweatpants.
Hard.
Seungcheol makes a sound you've never heard before. A choked, strangled yelp that's half surprise and half something else entirely. His whole body jerks against you, his hips bucking into your grip, and his fingers freeze where they are.
"What—" he starts, but you squeeze again, and the word dissolves into a whimper.
"Here's what's going to happen, baby," you say, and your voice comes out breathless but somewhat steady. "You're going to take your hand out of my panties. You're going to get on your knees. And you're going to do exactly what I tell you. Got it, hmm?"
Seungcheol doesn't answer immediately. His chest is heaving against your back, his cock throbbing in your grip, and you can feel the war happening inside him—the instinct to take over, to reclaim control, wrestling with the part of him that loves this, the part that goes soft and eager and desperate when you turn the tables.
"Got it?" you repeat, and you twist your wrist just enough to make him gasp.
"Yeah," he breathes, voice going a little higher than usual. "Yeah, okay. Got it."
"Good boy."
The words hit him like a physical blow. You feel the full-body shudder that runs through him, the way his cock kicks against your palm, the way his breathing goes even more ragged and uneven. He pulls his hand out of your panties slowly, reluctantly, and you release your grip on him just long enough for him to step back.
"Strip," you say as soon as you turn around to see him.
He does. He pulls his t-shirt over his head first, revealing the broad expanse of his chest, the thick shoulders and defined pecs, the trail of dark hair that runs down his stomach and disappears into the waistband of his sweats. Then his pants go, pushed down over his hips, and his boxers with them, until he's standing naked in the middle of the kitchen with his cock jutting up toward his belly, flushed dark at the tip and already leaking.
You take a moment to look at Seungcheol. It never gets old—the sheer size of him, the thickness, the way his cock curves just slightly, so pretty. The way it twitches under your gaze like it's begging for attention—and you bet it is. The way his balls hang heavy and full, a reminder that he hasn't come since yesterday morning, which in his case means he's already backed up and desperate and so, so easy to break.
"You're so pretty," you murmur, and you mean it. "Look at you. Standing there dripping for me. Such a desperate pathetic mess already and I haven't even touched you."
His cock gives you an eager reaction, twitching and bobbing up and down at your words, and you smile at how it throbs, almost like it's whining and jumping for you to touch it. Seungcheol's ears go red. That very deep, mortified flush that you've been watching since the very first night, except now it makes your chest ache with something tender and possessive instead of irritated. "Baby—"
"On your knees," you order softly, lips stretched in the sweetest of smiles.
He drops so fast you hear his knees hit the tile. You wince, breaking character just for a moment, worried, but Seungcheol doesn't seem to care at all, he is looking up at you with those big brown eyes, pupils blown wide, lips parted, and he is so fucking wreckable in this very moment that it makes your pussy clench and you don't even notice as you slip back into the little play the two of you are orchestrating.
"Please," he whispers, and he doesn't even know what he's asking for. He just knows he needs something, anything, as long as it is from you.
"Please what?" you hum, watching his eyes turn even shinier than before. He's so pretty like this it is unfair. Not for the first time he's giving you aggression urges.
"Please let me taste you. Need to put my mouth on you. I've been thinking about it all morning—thinking about how you taste, how soft and warm you feel on my tongue—please, baby? I need it—"
"Shh." You step forward, close enough that he can smell you again—his nostrils visibly flare when he silently inhales you—and you can feel his exhale ghost against your thighs. "I know. I know you've been a desperate little puppy all morning, couldn't even pay attention to your stupid meeting because you were too busy thinking about my pussy. Isn't that right?"
He nods, frantic, his hands twitching at his sides like he's physically restraining himself from grabbing you. You wouldn't mind if he did, to be fair. "Yes. Yes, that's right. Couldn't—couldn't think about anything else. Just you. Just your sweet pussy. Just how bad I wanted to be inside it." He whimpers and squirms on his knees, and his cock twitches again at the image growing vivid in his head.
"And instead you're on your knees." You reach down, thread your fingers through his hair, and tug—not hard enough to hurt, only to tilt his head back and make him look at you. "Because you're not in charge right now. I am. And I decide when you get to touch me. I decide when you get to cum. Understood?"
"Understood." His voice is wrecked already, and you haven't even started.
"Good." You release his hair and hop up onto the edge of the counter, spreading your legs. "Now be a good boy and get to work."
You pat your thigh and Seungcheol doesn't need to be told twice. His hands find your thighs, tugging your underwear off with urgent impatience before spreading you wider to make room, and then his mouth is on you and the world dissolves into sensation for both of you.
Seungcheol eats pussy like he's been starving for years and you're the first meal he's been served. His tongue is broad and wet and relentless, licking a stripe from your entrance to your clit with a pressure that makes your hips immediately buck against his face. He genuinely moans when he tastes you, like the flavour of your arousal is the best thing he's ever experienced—and the vibration against your clit sends a shockwave up your spine, makes your soles tingle and toes curl.
"Fuck," you breathe, one hand bracing against the counter, the other fisting in his hair. "That's it. That's—right there—"
He stays there. His tongue circles your clit in slow, deliberate strokes, and then his lips close around it and he sucks, and your vision whites out for a second, an involuntary squeal leaving your mouth.
"Oh my god—" you pant, voice getting strained and high-pitched with pleasure.
He hums against you, pleased, and the vibration makes you jolt again. His hands are gripping your thighs hard enough to leave marks, holding you open for him, and his tongue keeps working you in a rhythm that's devastatingly precise. He knows exactly what you like. Of course he does. He's spent months learning your body like a language, and now he's fluent.
But you're not going to let him make you come just yet. You tug on his hair, pulling him back, and he looks up at you with his face slick and shining, his lips swollen and wet, his eyes hazy and half-lidded with want.
"Why'd you stop me?" he whines. "I wasn't done. You taste so good, baby, please let me finish—"
"Because I want to sit on your face."
His eyes go wide. Then darken. His cock, which has been bobbing neglected against his stomach, twitches and throbs visibly, a fresh bead of precum welling at the tip.
"Fuck," he whispers. "Yeah. Yeah, okay. I want that. Please."
"Get on the floor then."
He lies down on the kitchen tiles without a shred of dignity, his cock standing up like a flagpole, his chest heaving. You slide off the counter and stand over him for a moment, looking down at the picture he makes—this big, muscular man, sprawled on the cold floor, looking up at you like you're the sun and the moon and every star in the sky, his cock leaking all over his own stomach.
"You're so pathetic," you tell him, and you mean it as the highest compliment.
"I know," he breathes. "I'm your pathetic little puppy. Now please—please sit on my face. I need your cunt on my tongue. Need you to smother me with your sweet pussy, baby."
Gosh, you both are so fucking nasty for each other, you chuckle and lower yourself down, kneeling carefully over his head. The first contact of his tongue against your pussy makes you both groan—him from the taste, you from the sensation of his mouth working you open while you settle your full weight onto him. Your thighs bracket his head, and his hands come up to grip your ass, guiding you, pulling you down harder, to sit your entire weight on him.
You let Seungcheol work for a while. Let his tongue fuck into you, let his lips close around your clit, let him moan and whimper against your flesh while you rock your hips in slow, lazy circles. But you have other plans for him, so you twist just enough to reach back, your hand finding his cock where it's standing rigid and neglected.
The sound he makes when you wrap your fingers around him is muffled by your pussy, and you feel the desperate, broken groan that vibrates through your entire body. You stroke him slowly, from base to tip, your thumb swiping over the slick, swollen head to collect the precum that's been pooling there just to massage his frenulum and make the man twitch and jerk his hips uncontrollably, losing all pace of his oral ministrations.
"Look at you," you murmur, looking down at him. "So hard for me. So wet. You're dripping all over yourself. Such a pretty mess, hmm."
He can't answer. His mouth is full of your cunt, his tongue buried inside you, and all he can do is whine and buck his hips into your grip, either encouraging or just sensitive.
"Is this what you wanted? When you were sitting in your meeting with your cock all hard and aching? You wanted to be on your back on the kitchen floor, being used like a toy?"
Seungcheol nods frantically, his nose bumping against your clit, and the sensation makes you gasp.
"That's what I thought. You're nothing but a dumb mutt when I get my hands on you. What a sight, huh? A big, strong man reduced to a whimpering mess on the floor. Your friends have no idea, do they? Do they think you're this alpha male now? That you're the cool guy of the group after you bagged me, hmm?” You apply more weight onto his face and Seungcheol groans against you, soft tongue licking deeper into your heat, coaxing a moan out of you. "Should we let them know that you actually love getting on your knees for me? Love being a good puppy for me?"
You twist your wrist on the upstroke, and his hips stutter, his cock pulsing in your grip. He's close. You can feel it in the way his thighs are tensing, the way his breathing has gone ragged and uneven, and the way his tongue has lost its rhythm against your pussy because he can't concentrate on anything except the pleasure you're wringing out of him.
"Are you going to come?" You ask sweetly. "Are you going to spill all over yourself and make a mess like a good little slut?"
He tries to nod again, but you're already pulling your hand away.
"Too bad," you say, and his desperate, wounded keen is the most beautiful sound you've ever heard. "You don't get to cum until I say so. And I haven't said so."
"Please," he gasps, his mouth finally free of your pussy because you've lifted your hips just enough to look down at him. His face is a mess—lips swollen, cheeks flushed, chin slick with your arousal. "Please, baby, I need to cum. I've been thinking about it all day. I can't—"
"Oh, but you can." You climb off him, and he whines at the loss of contact, his hands reaching for you instinctively. "Get up. Bend me over the counter."
Seungcheol scrambles to his feet so fast he nearly slips and you snicker, telling him to be careful. His cock is an angry red, throbbing visibly, a steady stream of precum dripping from the tip on every twitch. He looks ruined already, and you haven't even let him inside you yet.
You turn around and brace yourself against the counter, arching your back, presenting yourself to him. You're soaked—your thighs are glistening, your pussy is swollen and dripping with a mix of your juices and his spit, and you know exactly what he's seeing right now.
"Now you can fuck me," you tell him. "Slow. Exactly the way I want it. And you're not going to come. Do you understand?"
"Yes," he breathes, steps closer behind you. "Yes, I understand. I'll be good. I'll be so good for you."
He lines himself up. You feel the blunt, thick head of his cock pressing against your entrance, and even though you're wet and open and ready, the stretch is still overwhelming. Seungcheol pushes in slowly, inch by inch, spreading your walls, filing the empty space that begged to be filled, and you both groan in unison as he fills you.
"Fuck," he whispers. "Fuck, baby, you're so tight. You're always so tight. How are you still so tight?"
"Shut up and move."
He pulls out almost all the way, making you feel the way his veined shaft drags against your sensitive walls, and then pushes back in. Seungcheol fucks you exactly the way you told him to—slow, deep, each thrust deliberate and measured. His hands are gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, and you can hear the effort it's taking him to hold back, the way his breathing is coming in ragged gasps, the way he's trembling against you.
"You feel so good," he babbles again. "You feel so fucking good, baby, I can't—I don't know how much longer I can—"
"You can last as long as I tell you to last." But your voice is shaking now too. The angle is perfect, his cock hitting that spot inside you with every slow, grinding thrust, and you're getting close yourself. "Don't you dare cum without permission. Don't you fucking dare."
"I won't. I won't, I promise, just—please, can I go faster? Please?"
"No. Keep it slow. I want to feel every inch of you."
He whimpers, but he does what he's told. His thrusts stay slow and deep, his cock dragging against your walls, and you can feel the orgasm building in your core, coiling tighter and tighter—
Your phone rings.
Your intuition immediately screams at you that it must be someone from work.
"Fuck," you hiss in half frustration, half panic. "Fuck, Cheol, stop, I have—have to take this—"
You try to pull away, but his grip on your hips tightens. "No," he whines. "No, baby, please, I'm so close, don't stop me—"
Somewhere in the back of your mind you feel bad for the man, he sounds so ruined.
"I'm not asking." You pull yourself off his cock with a wet, obscene sound, and Seungcheol makes a noise like you've stabbed him. His cock bobs in the air, angry and neglected, throbbing and jumping with denied orgasm. A thick strand of your combined fluids connects him to your pussy for a brief moment before it snaps. He whines out a sob.
"You ruined it," Seungcheol breathes, and he sounds genuinely devastated. "You ruined my orgasm. Baby, why? I was right there—"
"Stay here," you order, already grabbing your phone from the kitchen table where it was resting forgotten all this time. "Don't move."
You answer the call as you walk toward your room, your voice switching to a semblance of something professional and pleasant even though your thighs are still wet and your pussy is still aching and empty. "Hey, yeah, sorry, just give me one second—"
You don't get your one second. Because Seungcheol, your sweet, pathetic, desperate boyfriend, has followed you despite what you told him to do.
You feel him before you see him—his body pressing up behind you, his hands gripping your hips, his cock sliding between your thighs, still slick with your arousal. You're standing in front of your desk, phone pressed to your ear, and he's already bending you forward, already lining himself up.
"No," you mouth silently, turning your head to glare at him. "Don't you dare."
Seungcheol meets your eyes. His are dark and wild and desperate, and there's something almost feral in his expression. He doesn't stop. He pushes inside you in one smooth, harsh thrust that jolts your entire body, and the sensation of intrusion is so sudden and overwhelming that you have to bite down on your own hand to keep from crying out. This leaves you with no support, which means you pretty much topple over, suddenly pressed into your desk with Seungcheol's hand that was applying pressure between your shoulder blades.
"—and so I was wondering if you could take a look at this document before the meeting this afternoon," your team lead is saying in your ear, her voice cheerful and oblivious. "I know it's last minute, but I think there might be an error on page five."
"Of course," you manage, and your voice comes out surprisingly steady considering the fact that your boyfriend is currently buried balls-deep inside you, his hips already starting to move. "I can—I can do that. No problem."
Seungcheol fucks into you with slow, deliberate strokes, and you can feel him throbbing inside you, can feel how close he still is from before, how desperate. One of his hands slides up and down your back, pressing you down onto the desk before you can even think of lifting your upper body into an upright position, and the other grips your hip hard enough to anchor you in place.
"Great, thanks," your team lead says. "Also, I wanted to ask about the client presentation next week. Have you had a chance to—"
He chooses that moment to thrust particularly deep, his cock hitting your cervix, and a tiny, strangled sound escapes your throat before you can stop it.
"You okay?" your team lead asks.
"Yes," you say, and your voice is definitely too high. "Yes, sorry, I just—stubbed my toe. On the desk. It's fine."
Seungcheol leans down, his chest pressing against your back, his lips brushing your free ear. "Little liar," he whispers, so quiet only you can hear. "What will your boss do if she finds out you're getting fucked during your working hours?” He can't help a chuckle that escapes him when he comes up with his next question. "Hmm, does it make you a slut for fucking me and getting paid while doing so? Technically…" he trails off and your pussy clenches traitorously as soon as your brain registers what he just said.
You want to kill him. You want to kill him and then marry him and then kill him again.
"—and if you could send me the updated slides by end of day, that would be perfect," your team lead is saying.
"End of day," you repeat, barely processing the words. Seungcheol has picked up his pace, just slightly, and the sound of his cock sliding into your wet, messy pussy is so loud in the quiet room that you're sure your team lead can hear it if the line stays silent for a moment too long. "Yes. Slides. I'll—I'll send them."
"Are you sure you're okay? You sound a little off."
"I'm fine. I'm great. Just—writing it down."
Seungcheol muffles a laugh against your shoulder. His hand leaves your hip and snakes around to your front, finding your clit with devastating accuracy. Your whole body jolts.
"That's the spot, isn't it?" he breathes in your ear. "That's the spot that makes you stupid. You're going to come on my cock while you're on the phone, aren't you? You're going to soak me and she's going to hear it."
You shake your head frantically, but you can't speak. Your team lead is still talking, something about deadlines and team meetings, and you're nodding along and making vague sounds of agreement while your boyfriend rubs circles on your clit and fucks into you with deep, punishing strokes. You're trying so hard not to start panting or moaning, and your brainpower continues to slip from your grasp.
"I'm going to fill you up," he whispers. "I'm going to pump you so full of cum it'll be dripping out of you for the rest of the day. And you're going to sit in your meetings and feel it leaking into your panties, and you're going to think about me. About this. About how I ruined you while you were trying to be professional."
"Okay," you say into the phone, and you have no idea what you're agreeing to. "Okay, sounds good. I have to—I have to go now, I'll send those slides."
"No rush," your team lead says. "Talk later!"
You hang up with confused fingers, missing the red button on the screen a couple of taps before you finally manage to end the call. The phone clatters onto the desk.
And then you let yourself fall apart.
"Cheol—" It comes out as a loud sob, half fury and half desperate, overwhelming need. "You—you fucking—I can't believe you—"
"You loved it." He's not even trying to hide the smugness in his voice, but it's undercut by the way his hips are stuttering, the way his rhythm is falling apart. "You loved every second of it. I could feel you getting wetter and clenching around me when she asked if you were okay."
"I'm going to kill you—after—after I come—"
"Yeah?" He presses harder on your clit, circles it with the perfect pressure that he knows you enjoy, and the orgasm that's been building since the kitchen finally, finally explodes. "Then come for me. Now, baby. Let me feel it."
You shatter with a mewl. It rips through you like a thunderclap, your whole body seizing up, your pussy clamping down on his cock in rhythmic, pulsing waves. You scream—you can't help it, the sound tears out of you raw and unguarded after long minutes of trying to suppress it all—and Seungcheol groans and buries himself to the hilt, spilling inside you in hot, copious pulses.
He keeps thrusting through it, fucking his cum deeper into you, and you can feel it flooding you, filling you, leaking out around his cock in a white obscene ring and dripping down your thighs. He doesn't stop until he's completely spent, and then he collapses over you, his weight pressing you into the desk, his breath hot and ragged against the back of your neck.
For a long moment the room is silent. The only sounds are your mingled breathing and the faint, distant hum of the fridge in the kitchen.
Then: "You're a menace," you whisper, swallowing thickly and heaving a sigh.
He laughs, breathless and giddy and a little bit wrecked. "Yeah. But you're the same. And you love me."
You don't argue. You can't. Not when his cock is still inside you, still half-hard, still plugging you full of his cum. Not when you can already feel it starting to drip out despite his best efforts. Not when your legs are shaking so badly you're not sure you can stand if you try.
"Next time," you manage, "I'm locking you to a piece of furniture before I take a work call."
"Hmm, I think next time," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your shoulder blade, "you'll let me do it again. Because you're just as depraved as I am."
You hate that he's right. You hate it even more that you don't hate it at all.
*.(๓•͙ ˕ •͙๓).* Please like + reblog + comment if you enjoyed your time reading this! This means a lot and motivates me to continue posting.
