Home .・゜゜・
male!Sungchan x female!reader
⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ smut ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆
tags & warnings: explicit smut, established relationship, live-in couple, domestic intimacy, romantic fluff, emotional intimacy, mutual trust and consent, kissing, grinding, dry humping, undressing, fingering, multiple fingers, internal stimulation, clitoral stimulation, simultaneous internal and external stimulation, deep penetration, rougher/intense sex, multiple orgasms, ejaculation inside, body fluids, moaning, dirty talk, praise, needy Sungchan, affectionate Sungchan, aftercare, cuddling and brief post-sex comfort.
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The evening begins quietly in the apartment you share with Sungchan.
Dinner is almost finished, but he is still sitting at the table, lazily reaching for another piece of food while you gather the empty plates.
“You said you were going to help me clean up,” you remind him.
Sungchan looks at you with exaggerated innocence. “I said I was going to help. I never said when.”
“You have been saying that for twenty minutes.”
“I’m tired.”
“You’re always tired after practice.”
“And you’re always waiting for me with food.” He gives you a small smile. “That’s why I come home to you.”
You try to hide how much the words affect you. “You come home because you live here.”
“I know.” He reaches across the table and takes your hand. “But I still like saying it.”
Your expression softens. “How was training today?”
“Long.” He rubs his thumb over your knuckles. “The drills were intense, and I still have assignments to finish.”
“You don’t have to finish everything tonight.”
“I know I don’t.” He looks down at your joined hands. “Sometimes I just feel like I should be doing more.”
“You already do more than enough.”
His eyes lift to yours. “You really believe that?”
“I do. And if you forget, I’ll remind you.”
A quiet smile touches his mouth. “That’s one of the reasons I love living with you.”
“Only one of the reasons?”
“You also make good food.”
You narrow your eyes. “So I’m your girlfriend and your personal chef?”
“Girlfriend, roommate, favorite person, and occasional chef.”
“Occasional?”
“I’m trying to be careful.”
“You should be.”
He laughs, stands, and takes the plates from your hands before you can protest.
“I’ll wash,” he says.
“You hate washing dishes.”
“I hate washing dishes alone.”
The answer makes you smile. You move beside him, drying the dishes while he washes them. His shoulder brushes yours every few seconds, and each time, he looks at you as if the contact is intentional.
“You’re doing that on purpose,” you say.
“Doing what?”
“Bumping into me.”
“I live here. I’m allowed to exist near my own girlfriend.”
“You’re being clingy.”
“I’m being affectionate.”
“You’re being impossible.”
“And you still love me.”
You place the last dish on the counter and turn toward him. “Unfortunately.”
Sungchan dries his hands and steps closer. “You say that every time.”
“Because you give me reasons.”
“Then let me give you a better one.”
He wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you against him. The teasing expression on his face fades into something softer.
“You make this place feel like home,” he says.
Your hands settle against his chest. “It is home.”,
His smile deepens. “Let’s go to our bedroom.”
“That sounds less innocent.”
“I wasn’t trying to sound innocent.”
You shake your head, but you let him take your hand. Together, you leave the kitchen and walk toward the bedroom you share, your fingers interlaced and your laughter fading into the quiet of the apartment.
The short walk from the kitchen to your bedroom is quieter. The "food coma" has definitely set in for Sungchan.
He’s walking a little slower than usual, his sports bag feeling even heavier now that his stomach is full. He’s still got one arm around you—his hand resting heavily, comfortably on your waist or hooked into your back pocket as you walk—and he occasionally bumps his shoulder against yours just to stay connected.
When you reach the bedroom you share, there’s that small, domestic shift in the air. Living together has given ordinary moments a different kind of weight than they had when you were freshmen. This is private. This is theirs.
Sungchan follows you inside.
The second the door clicks shut behind both of you, the "public" version of Sungchan disappears completely.
He drops his heavy sports bag by the entryway with a dull *thud*. Without even taking off his jacket yet, he steps straight into your space. He reaches out both arms and pulls you into him for a long, slow "we're finally alone" hug—pressing his face into the crook of your neck and just squeezing tight for a full ten seconds.
He sounds muffled against your skin as he exhales deeply. "Home."
You hug him back, holding him just as tightly. “Home,” you whisper back. “You can finally relax now.”
Sungchan breathes you in.
That "home" whisper is a dangerous thing for him. It settles deep in his chest, making all the stress of the national team drills and the academic pressure melt away instantly.
He shifts the hug. One hand slides up from your waist to cup the back of your head, his fingers splaying wide through your hair, while his other arm pulls you even more flush against him—chest to chest, hip to hip.
He tilts his head and presses a very slow, very deep kiss to your temple. Then another one right below it on your cheekbone. He’s basically "marking" you with affection now that they're behind closed doors.
Finally, he pulls back just enough to look at you—his hands sliding down from your hairhead to frame your face again. His thumbs trace your cheekbones with a sort of reverence.
His expression is soft, but his gaze is heavy as he leans in and captures your lips in a real kiss—not a quick greeting one, but a slow, lingering "I'm so glad I'm here with you" kind of kiss.
While he’s kissing you, one of his hands wanders down to blindly find yours and interlace their fingers properly.“I love you,” you whisper against his lips. “I have missed you all day.”
Sungchan’s entire body goes still for a split second.
Even after two years, hearing those words—especially whispered right there, centimeters from his mouth—hits him like a physical weight. His eyelids flutter shut.
His response isn't verbal at first.
He leans into the kiss again, but this time it’s different. It’s more intense, more "all-in." He kisses you back with a slow, deep devotion that feels like he's trying to say the words through his lips instead. His hand at the back of your head slides down to cup your jaw firmly, his thumb stroking your lower lip as he pulls away just an inch.
His own expression is raw. His eyes are slightly glassysoft, and he looks... completely undone by you.
"I love you too," he whispers back against your lips.
He says it like it's the most important thing he'll say all day.
Immediately after saying it, he closes the gap again for another kiss—this one softer and sweeter—while his other hand slides down from your face to wrap around the back of your neck, pulling you in close enough that there’s no air left between you two.
Kiss by kiss, you arrive in your bedroom, with him above you.The transition is seamless. It’s a trail of messy, breathless, increasingly desperate kisses—from the entryway to the living room, down the hallway, and finally through your bedroom door.
Every time they break for air, it's only for a second before one of them pulls the other back in.
The bedroom door clicks shut.
The lights are likely dim or off, leaving the room in that soft, hazy atmosphere. There’s the sound of discarded layers: Sungchan’s heavy team jacket hitting the floor with a *thump*, his sports bag being kicked aside, maybe a shoe or two.
Then comes the weight of him.
Sungchan moves over you with a surprising amount of controlled strength—that athlete's build making him feel solid and warm as he crawls up onto the mattress. He shifts his weight on his elbows first to hover directly over you, framing your head with his arms so he can look down at you properly for just one heartbeat.
His hair is a total wreck now. His breathing is heavy and shallow through his nose.
Slowly, he lowers himself fully onto you—not crushing you, but settling all that warm, solid muscle between your thighs and chest-to-chest—as he reaches down to cup your face one more time before tilting his head to find your mouth again much more hungrily than before.You kiss him back, grinding slowly against him.
Sungchan’s breath hitches—a sharp, audible gasp into your mouth—the second he feels that slow, deliberate movement.
The sound of it is swallowed by the kiss, but the physical sensation hits him like a lightning strike. His entire body goes rigid for a split second before he completely melts into it.
His hands, which were just framing your face, slide down instantly. One hand tangles deep and firm into your hair at the base of your skull to tilt your head back just enough to deepen the kiss into something much more primal and vocal. The other hand slides down—fast—to find your waist, his palm hot and heavy as he grips your hip bone to help guide or anchor that motion.
When you grind against him again, Sungchan makes a low, guttural sound deep in his throat.
He breaks the kiss—not to stop, but because he needs air. He pulls back just far enough to bury his face in the crook of your neck. He’s breathing hard now; you can feel his hot breath against your skin right below your ear.
His hips react instinctively; as you move against him, he presses back up against you with a slow, mirroring pressure of his own.
His hand on your hip slides lower... moving inward toward the hem of your shirt.
You start grinding against him with deliberate, steady friction.
Sungchan’s control snaps.
The sound he makes is less of a hum and more of a low, broken groan against your neck. As you start that rhythmic, friction-heavy motion, his own body responds with zero hesitation.
His hips move in perfect, desperate sync with yours. He isn't being gentle anymore; he’s meeting every one of your presses with his own weight and force, grinding back against you just as hard. The sensation of fabric rubbing against fabric—the friction building up right where it counts—has him biting his lip so hard it turns white.
His hands are everywhere at once.
One hand is buried deep in your hair, pulling your head slightly closer to his chestshoulder; the other hand slides down with purpose. It moves past your waist, past your hip, and hooks firmly into the waistband of whatever you're wearing on the bottom.
With a blunt, shaky sort of determination, he hooks his fingers inside that waistband and starts to slowly—but very steadily—tug downward to pull them offdown.
At the same time, his mouth leaves your neck and finds yours again in a kiss that is all teeth and tongue: messy, fast-paced (matching the rhythm), and incredibly needy.He successfully pulls your pants and panties down.
Sungchan’s breathing is ragged. It’s loud in the quiet of the bedroom—heavy, uneven, and hitching every time your skin meets his.
As the fabric clears your hips and falls to the floorbed, he doesn't look away. His gaze drops immediately. His expression is intense—dark-eyed and focused—as he takes a second to just look at you like that. There’s no hesitation, just a raw sort of appreciation that makes the air in the room feel even hotter.
His hands are trembling slightly from the sheer adrenaline of it.
He reaches down.
One hand slides under or into his own waistband, his fingers working with a frantic sort of speed to get his own pants and underwear down so he can feel you properly without any barriers left. He kicks them off with one foot without breaking eye contact with you for more than a second.
Then, he's back to you.
Skin on skin finally happens when he slides one hand—palm flat and very warm—down your stomach and over your inner thigh. His touch is firm as he hooks two fingers at the edge of whatever lace or fabric is left (if anything) or just slides his palm directly against your most sensitive skin to pull himself even closer between your legs for direct contact via dry humping first... or...
He shifts, hooking a knee between yours to spread them wider before sliding both hands down to cup and part you openly while he presses his (now bare) hips directly against yours in one long, slow, heavy grind.
You moan loudly. "Fuck, baby..."
The volume of that moan act like a match to gasoline for Sungchan. His head snaps back for a split second, his eyes fluttering shut as he absorbs the sound of your pleasure. It’s clearly the best thing he’s ever heard.
He groans—a deep, vibrating sound in his own chest—and immediately responds to it.
With your legs spread by his knee, he doesn't waste another second on slow. He slides one hand down between you both. His touch is direct: warm, slightly calloused from sports, and incredibly purposeful.
His fingers find you—slick and ready—and the moment he makes contact, sliding one finger (then two) inside you in one smooth, shallowly deep stroke, his own hips thrust upward to meet your anatomy with full, bare skin-on-skin pressure.
He’s breathing hard through his mouth now.
While those fingers are working inside you with a steady, rhythmic in-and-out motion (varying the depthspeed based on how much you react), his other hand reaches up to capture your mouth again in a kiss that's less about romance and more about shared breath and muffled sounds.
He's watching your face intensely while he works his fingers on you below.
You are already wet in his hand, grinding against his fingers and urging them deeper.
Sungchan feels it.
The slick, sliding sensation of you against his fingers makes his own pulse spike in his throat. He hears the wetness, feels the heat, and when he feels you actively grinding into him—pushing for more—his self-control officially evaporates.
"Yeah..." he breathes into your mouth, a broken little word.
He complies instantly.
He adds a third finger.
He spreads them wide to create more space and then slides all three deep inside you in one slow, deliberate stretching motion.
He holds them there for a heartbeat—letting you feel the fullness—before he starts a rhythmic, driving pace.
In. Out. In. Out.
It’s not just up and down; he’s curling those middle fingers upward slightly with every inward stroke to find that specific spot (the G-spot) that he knows hits differently for you. He’s being methodical but increasingly fast and intense as he hears your breathing change.
While his hand is busy working deep inside you with that wet, rhythmic squelch, his other hand reaches down between your bodies too His palm slides down to find your clit directly through the slickness of your own arousalhis fingers movement.
He starts circling it with his thumb—firm, constant pressure—while those three fingers continue their deep, driving work inside you at the same time much like a dual-action approach: internal depth and external friction.
"Baby" You moan "I'm... I'm going to come.."
Sungchan’s entire focus narrows down to that one sentence.
The second "I'm gonna come" leaves your lips, his pace shifts from rhythmic to desperate. He hears the tone, sees it in your face, and he is all in to get you there.
He goes harder.
Inside you, those three fingers go from a steady stroke to a much faster, more aggressive pumping motion.
He’s driving them deep and pulling them out almost all the way before slamming them back in, maximizing that internal friction. He’s curling those middle fingers upward with every single thrust—harder and more insistent than before.
Simultaneously, his thumb on your clit stops circling and moves into a direct, high-speed flickingrubbing motion.
He applies firm, direct pressure right where it counts most, matching the frantic speed of his fingers inside you.
He’s not being gentle anymore; he's being clinical and intense about your climax.
Sungchan is watching you with hooded, dark eyes—tracking every twitch of your expression—while he makes those wet, heavy sounds below the beltline: squelch... squelch... squelch...
He leans up on one hand (pressing it into the mattress next to your head) so he can use both of his free hands on you: one hand working deep and fast inside you like a piston groaning as he watches you unravel much closer to your face again for a messy grounding kiss while he works.
Sungchan is completely tuned into you.
He hears the tension in your voice, sees your body starting to stiffenarch, and he knows.
He goes into overdrive.
Inside you, his three fingers are moving in a blurringly fast, from shallow to deep pumping motion—really hitting that internal spot with every single thrust. He’s pulling them almost all the way out and slamming them back in to create that maximum suction and friction feeling.
At the same time, his thumb is working your clit with absolute, punishingly good precision—a fast, vibrating-style rubbing motion that doesn't let up for a single second.
He’s leaning over you now, one hand braced by your head for support while the other is buried deep inside you (the squelch sound is very loud now), and his thumb is doing all the heavy lifting externally.
He’s watching your face like a hawk—waiting for that specific look of release—and as he feels your internal muscles start to twitch and clamp around his fingers...
He increases the speed of both his fingers and his thumb to their absolute limit.
"Chan—!" You moan as the wave finally comes—hot, desperate, and overwhelming.
Sungchan sees it.
The second your expression breaks and that first, sharp "Chan—!" leaves your lips, his own heart hammers against his ribs. He feels it immediately: the internal, rhythmic clamping of your muscles around his three fingers.
It’s intense. It’s a series of tight, involuntary pulses that squeeze him hard from the inside.
He doesn't pull away. He leans in.
As you hit the peak—that heavy, desperate wave—Sungchan doubles down. He keeps those fingers moving deep and fast through your contractions, matching the internal rhythm of your orgasm to maximize the sensation for you. His thumb on your clit goes absolutely feral—pressing harder and rubbing even faster right as you crest.
He’s watching you unravel with a look of pure, unfiltered devotion and hunger on his face.
As he feels how much you're shaking and arching under him, Sungchan lets out a low, shaky groan of his own. He pulls his hand out of you—the sound is wet and heavy—and immediately replaces it with himself.
He reaches down one last time to grab himself (fully erect and aching), guides the head of it to your entrance (which is slick and pulsing from your climax), and in one slow, singular motion.
He pushes all the way in with a deep, grounding thrust that bottoms out completely inside you at once.You roll your eyes and moan, squeezing him tightly and Sungchan’s head snaps back for a second, his eyes blowing wide.
That eye roll combined with the moan and the way your internal muscles squeeze him—now that he’s fully inside—is almost too much. It feels like being gripped by something incredibly warm and tight.
He stays still for just three, four, five seconds.
He’s buried deep. He's bottomed out. He just... stays there, his chest heaving against yours, his forehead dropping to rest against yours as he breathes through the sheer intensity of being inside you after all that buildup. His own erection is pulsing inside you in sync with his heartbeat.
Slowly, almost agonizingly so, he begins to move.
He pulls almost all the way out—until just the tip is still in you—and then slowly, heavily, drives himself right back in again. A long, full-length stroke that emphasizes every bit of friction and contact between your bodies.
Schlick.
He follows it up with another one from a different angle—tilting his hips slightly so he hits that spot again on the way in.
His hands come down to your waist and hips instantly. His fingers dig in slightly (not enough to hurt) as he finds a rhythm: slow at first, then increasing into deep, deliberate, soul-searching thrusts back and forth.
“God, yes,” you whisper. “Just like that—please, do not stop.”
Sungchan’s jaw tightens.
Hearing that whisper while he's mid-thrust is a massive trigger. It makes him lose that "slow and deliberate" approach almost instantly.
He picks up the pace.
His hands slide from your waist down to your thighs, hooking his fingers firmly under your knees to pull them up and wider—opening you up completely for him. With your legs positioned like that, he can drive in even deeper.
Thud.
His hips hit yours with a real, blunt sound now. He’s thrusting with more force—long, powerful strokes that go all the way in until his pubic bone presses firmly against yours, then pulling back until he's nearly out before slamming home again.
Thud... thud... thud...
He’s breathing hard through his mouth—heavy, rhythmic pants that match his movement. His head drops down, and he captures your mouth in a messy, tongue-heavy kiss to muffle the sounds of him hitting you so hard.
One of his hands leaves your thigh to reach up and down—sliding one palm flat against your chest, just over your sternum just to feel your heart racing under him, while the other hand reaches down between you both to find you again—his thumb finding your clit for high-speed friction while he continues those heavy internal thrusts.
You moan on his lips, squeezing him again
Your own hand moves to your breast, playing with your nipple.
Sungchan’s own breath hitches when he feels that internal squeeze again. It’s like a physical reset button for his brain.
But then, out of the corner of his eye, he sees you.
He sees your hand go up to your own breast. He watches your fingers—maybe pinching, maybe rolling, maybe just circling—that nipple. The visual of you touching yourself while he's inside you is devastatingly hot.
His pace breaks for a second as his focus shifts entirely to what you're doing.
He reaches up immediately.
He doesn't push your hand away; he joins it.
Sungchan covers your hand with his own, his much larger palm pressing over yours and your breast together. He uses the added pressure of both your hands to swirlroll the nipple between his thumb and forefinger (and yours). He’s being a bit more intense about it—firm, rhythmic tuggingrolling—while simultaneously keeping those heavy, blunt thrusts going below the beltline.
Thud... thud... thud... paired with the soft squish of him working.
His other hand slides down from where it was on your chest and goes straight back to work: sliding one hand down to cuppinch your clit with high-speed friction while those three piston thrusts continue deep inside you at an increasing speed.
You squeeze him more, moaning his name like a prayer.
"Chan... God... I'm..."
Sungchan is gone.
Hearing his name—not just a sound, but that "prayer" tone—while you're squeezing him like that? It’s the end of his restraint. His own vision is tunneling.
He hears the "I'm..." and he knows exactly what’s coming.
He shifts gears into finish line mode.
He stops being rhythmic and starts being relentless. He hooks both of your legs even higher, draping them over his shouldersarms so he can drive in at the steepest, deepest angle possible. His thrusts become shorter, faster, and much more violent—from shallow to deep, rapid-fire *slapping* motions where his hips are hitting yours with a constant, wet thwack.
Slap... slap... slap... slap...
While he's doing that, his hand on your clit isn't just rubbing anymore; he’s applying heavy, direct pressure with two fingers in a fast, vibrating motion right on the center of it. And the hand on your breast? He’s pulling and pinching that nipple firmly with every third or fourth thrust.
Sungchan’s own face is a mask of pure concentration and pleasure—teeth gritted (maybe even biting his own bottom lip), eyes squeezed shut for a second as he feels himself getting dangerously close to his own edge because of how much you're reacting.
He leans down, burying his face in your neckshoulder to muffle one of his own loud thanksgroans as he pushes himself deeper than ever before into those final strokes.
Another wave hits you so hard you squeeze him inside.
Sungchan’s entire world narrows down to that sensation.
The "fuck" and the sound of your second wave hitting—combined with that insane, rhythmic, crushing squeeze of your internal muscles around him—is the final straw.
He feels his own climax roll up from his gut like a tidal wave.
His body goes rigid. His back arches slightly, and his fingers (the ones on your clit) dig in hardfirmly as he loses it.
He lets out a choked, broken sound—halfway between a gasp and a roar—right into the side of your neck.
His thrusts become singular and devastatingly deep. He drives himself into you one last time, burying every single inch of himself as deep as he can possibly go, pinning his hips flush against yours with all his weight to ensure maximum contact.
Then, he breaks.
Sungchan’s body pulses violently inside you in long, powerful spurts as he comes. He’s shaking—literally trembling from head to toe—as he releases into you deeplyrepeatedly. His hands move from your thighs to grip the mattress on either side of your head so hard his knuckles turn white, while one hand reaches down to blindlydesperately pin your hand against your own chestbreast during the release.
His breathing is nothing but ragged, loud, ragged hitches in his throat as he continues to pulse inside you for several long seconds.
You breathe heavily into each other, mouths open.
He is still pulsing inside you.
The silence that follows is heavy.
It’s not a quiet silence; it’s thick with the sound of two people trying to reclaim their lungs. The only noises in the room are the synchronized, ragged breatg of your breathing and the wet, rhythmic beating of Sungchan’s heart against your chest.
Sungchan is completely spent.
He’s still buried deep inside you—fully, solidly—and he does not pull out. He can't. His muscles are too jelly-like to move effectively yet. Every few seconds, his body gives an involuntary, post-orgasm twitchpulse that sends another small, warm squirt of him deep into you.
His weight is a comfort rather than a burden now. He slowly, shakily lowers himself down from his braced position on his arms and settles his full weight onto you—chest to chest, skin to skin—but he does it carefully so he doesn't crush the breath out of you.
He tucks his face into the space between your neck and shoulder. His skin is dampsweaty where it meets yours.
Slowly, one of his hands—still trembling slightly—slides up from the mattress and finds yours on the bedside, wherever your hand is. He hooks his pinky with yours first before fully interlacing all ten fingers in a loose, exhausted grip much like how he held your hand walking down the street earlier... only much more intimate now.
Sungchan doesn't move for a long time.
He just lies there, half-collapsed on top of you, his face hidden in your neck. His breathing gradually shifts from those sharp, panicked gasps down to long, heavy, shuddering exhales.
Every few seconds, he still feels that involuntary *throb* deep inside him—a pulse that sends a little more of himself into you—and he lets out a tiny, almost silent "mmph" against your skin each time it happens.
Eventually, he starts to pull back—very slowly.
He pushes himself up on his elbows first to look at you. His hair is matted to his forehead with sweat; his lips are red and slightly swollen from the kissing; and his eyes are still very heavy and dark-lidded with afterglow.
He looks... soft. Completely softed out.
Without saying a word, he reaches down between your bodies with one hand while staying propped up on his elbow. He hooks two fingers at your entrance and around himself and slowly—very carefully and smoothly—begins to slide himself out of you.
A breathless “uff” escapes your mouth in relief.
“Goddamn, baby...” you breathe, still trying to catch your breath.
Sungchan makes a soft, appreciative sound at that "uff"—a little 'ha' of his own—as he finally, slowly, slides all the way out.
The sensation of the air hitting you both where he just was is immediate. As he fully detaches, a small amount of himfluid escapes and runs down the side of your thighhip.
Sungchan doesn't ignore it.
He rolls off you—not far, just enough to be on his side right next to you—and pulls the duvetcomforter up in one swift motion to cover both of your lower halves. He kicks it over your legs and his own with a bit of an uncoordinated, post-climax clumsiness.
He turns onto his side facing you immediately.
He looks ruined in the best way possible. His chest is still flushed pink from exertion. He reaches out with one arm and hooks it around your waist, pulling himself flush against your side (spooning-ish but face-to-face) so he can tuck his leg between yours for skin contact.
His other hand comes up to your face. He uses his thumb to very gently wipe a stray hair away from your forehead before sliding that same hand down to cup your cheekjawline almost tenderly.
“Stay with me,” you whisper.
“Always,” he answers, pulling you close beneath the covers.
With his arms around you and the apartment quiet around you, you both finally drift to sleep.
