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miraclewoozi · 1 year ago

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ODE TO A CONVERSATION (STUCK IN YOUR THROAT) - c.sc

Everything with Seungcheol has always been easy. Easier than with anyone else, anyway. (and it hits me — i don’t want anybody else touching you like i do, like i do, like me. is it okay? that i don’t want anybody else touching you like i do.)

pairing; choi seungcheol x fem!reader. genre; smut (MINORS DO NOT INTERACT) with a little bit of plot. friends-ish to lovers to (healthy) exes to fwb to -- warnings; writing early parts of this felt low-key pretentious but it was kinda on purpose because i was trying something stylistic and outside my normal?? so??? but on a real: swearing. alcohol consumption (they aren’t drunk at the time of having sex). reader is written to be wearing makeup. it's kinda just filth. proof read but all the words just melted together eventually (if i missed a typo, no i didn't <3) smut warnings under the cut! w/c; 6k. a/n; del water gap’s ode to a conversation stuck in your throat was my most listened to song last year. i now can’t listen to it without thinking about s.coups (i also just point blank can't stop thinking about s.coups) -- enjoy x

smut warnings: big! dick! seungcheol!, making out, fingering, oral (f rec), unprotected p-in-v sex (make good choices), lil bit of edging if u squint, overstimulation if u tilt ur head like 82º to the left, manhandling, soft-ish dom!cheol, lotta praise, use of pet names (babe, baby good girl, my girl, sweetheart), kinda possessive!cheol, jealous!cheol, biting and marking (hickeys, digging nails in), light light light light light crying/dacryphilia (not really, like there are Some tears in eyes but just to be safe ig)

Everything with Seungcheol has always been easy.

Easier than with anyone else, anyway.

You’d known him in passing for a long time before anything happened. A friend of a friend — someone you always smiled at and chatted with at social events, because he was easy to smile at, and so very easy to chat to. You can’t even remember which birthday or New Year’s party or Halloween bash or Saturday night jamboree was the first: they’ve since all just dissolved into one pleasantly foggy memory, and every time you saw him thereafter he made you feel so comfortable, so at home that it felt like the hundredth.

And it continued that way for a few years. Pleasantries exchanged in friends' kitchens, conversations across beer-garden tables. Catching up on each other's lives in a hallway outside the bathroom for handfuls of minutes at a time before one of you inevitably got tugged away by the friend you were waiting for. You were comfortable with him, around him: he just had that kind of energy. So on a big group night out one evening, when you found yourself feeling a little uncomfortable being flirted with by someone you had never met, you instinctively flashed Seungcheol a look from across the bar. He came straight over and immediately to your rescue; with him slipping all too naturally into the fake role of your unimpressed significant other, you realised that it was easy to be whisked away under his arm, easy to let him buy you your next drink, easy to let him kiss you breathless just to really drive the pretend point home.

Staring up at him after, feeling his drink-chilled hands cupping your cheeks, watching his gaze flicker between your lips and your eyes, you realised that igniting a spark had never felt so…

And it was easy to kiss him again later that night under the influence of a little too much wine and blanketed by a couple of lowered inhibitions. It was easy to giggle into the crook of his neck as he leaned against a stone wall, trailing his fingers up and down your arms, rambling about how he wanted to kiss you again and again and again and forever, maybe, because he thought your smile was beautiful and your lips were so soft and you tasted like cherries, and he liked cherries, and if you could kiss him every day he’d never have a reason to be unhappy ever again. It was so fucking easy to fumble in your purse for your phone, to let him put in his number, and when he asked you if he could take you out for dinner, when he messily typed a text message out begging the same question and sent it to you (‘so we both remember, tomorrow’), it was so, so easy to say yes.

Then, the first date? It was beyond easy. You talked and talked and laughed and laughed, each of you having a few cocktails with your food, never running short of conversation, never not finding little ways to touch each other both under and over the table. Arranging the second, and then the third, and inviting him up for a coffee after date number five was easy, and falling into bed with him was easy. Holding him close, your sweat-slicked bodies moving as one entity in the dark: it was easy, and the pillow-talk after about what this growing thing between you was, came so damn…

So you introduced him to your parents, and your other friends, and in turn he did the same with you. Two and a half years breezed by, then, and even the hard parts… Even the arguing and time spent away from one-another, whether he was sleeping out on your couch following an emotionally charged spat or trips taken as part of his job demanded he spend weeks at a time without you. The hard parts? By comparison to everyone before him, they were easy. Anniversaries and birthdays and Valentine’s days: he spoiled you, and you doted on him, and being together was just so–…

Even the day you decided to end your romantic pursuit, while impassioned, wasn’t hard. In part, maybe it was because it was a long time coming: you still loved each other deeply but your lives were so chaotic and different, and it wasn’t fair to keep waiting around for each other when it just clearly wasn’t your time. And in part, because he was so calm in how he held your hand tightly in his (even when he dried your tears), how he kissed your forehead, in how he told you that you deserved more than the life he could give you. And at the end of it all, when he promised to always be there for you, naturally you promised the same back.

Keeping that promise? Well. It was easy.

So what if it took a few weeks for things to feel sort of normal? If you had to remember how to greet him without offering your lips for a kiss or your arms for a hug? If you had to get used to sleeping alone, and waking up alone, all over again? The thing that mattered was that he was still in your life, and you were still in his: your relationship wasn’t broken, it was just different, and once the little transition period was over, once you were both used to your new normal… Being ‘just friends’ was kind of easy.

(Kind of, being the operative phrase.)

Six months post split, you mentioned to him in passing that you were going on a date the following day. As soon as you realised what you’d said, you regretted bringing it up, but without missing a beat Seungcheol lowered his drink and raised an eyebrow at you, excitedly asking you to tell him everything. The person’s name, what they were like, how you met them, where you were going. He didn’t feel like your ex-boyfriend, then and there: he felt like a best friend. So you told him every detail, and he listened intently, following up by requesting you text him when you got to the date and again when you got home so he knew you were safe. Of course, you said that you would. First, because it was sensible. Second, his requests were easy enough.

And the date went okay, all things considered: the guy was nice, if a little bit awkward, and you had a good time bowling with him and playing some games in the old arcade, but there just wasn’t a spark. Everything felt difficult. Forced. So when he was the one to say to you after that he’d had a nice evening but felt that maybe you should just be friends, you couldn’t help but feel relieved. Letting out a breath and giving a genuine smile, you agreed, thanking him for his refreshing candour, before bidding him good night and making your way back to your car.

You held your phone between your fingertips for a while as the engine ran and the heating started to kick in, slowly warming you from the outside, in. As you thawed, you bit the inside of your cheek absentmindedly, a potentially questionable decision planting itself in your mind. Your body didn’t mind how good of an idea your brain thought it was, though. Your fingers moved entirely of their own accord; finding and pressing Seungcheol’s contact name was so starkly different to everything else had been, all damn night. It was easy. His sleep-roughened voice drifting down the phone sounded so easy. Asking if he minded you swinging by his place for a coffee and a debrief felt easy.

Two hours later, writhing on his mattress, two orgasms deep with his head still buried between your thighs and one of his hands groping at your tit as if his life depended on it?

Fucking. Easy.

So then, started the pattern. Waking up the next morning absolutely swimming in one of his oversized t-shirts should’ve felt like guilt and a betrayal of all your self-growth, of your moving on, of your friendship. It should’ve felt uncomfortable and gross and maybe a little panic-inducing, but it never did. It was warm and cosy, it was familiar and comforting, and when he greeted you ‘good morning’ with a pillow to the face, you knew that nothing was ruined; rather, this was just another new difference to your ever-changing relationship with him. Waking up this way… Well, it felt—

Look, you’re only human. You both have needs. After spending two and a half years learning each other's bodies, being together in that way again came so, so…

After every date gone wrong, after every stressful week at work, in the midst of every family drama and friendship breakdown, you found yourself seeking respite in his apartment, between his bedsheets. In his tongue lapping at your pussy; in the head of his cock bruising the back of your throat until he spilled his release into your mouth; in the slow, deep, precise thrusts of his hips as he buried himself inside you over and over and over and over, taking your mind off the stress and concentrating only on making you feel good, on helping you forget everyone and everything else–…

And now?

Well, now, you’re on your way back from yet another miserable date.

About three months ago, you stopped even considering giving the taxi drivers directions to your own place. Now, when you slide into the backseat, you automatically reel off the address you always end up at after a night like this. When your dates only talk about themselves, or say something so wildly out of pocket that it makes your toes curl (and not in a good way), or exclusively go on and on and on about their ‘crazy’ ex partner, you’ve grown all too used to showing up pouting at your friend’s front door.

What?

Being greeted by his knowing smirk and him inviting you inside is familiar; stepping across the threshold and kicking off your shoes in the hallway feels just so… easy.

Flopping down on the couch is easy, and waiting for Seungcheol to come back into the living room with two gleaming glasses and a bottle of wine is easy. Shuffling closer until you have your head resting against his shoulder is easy. Sipping at a chilled glass of rosé with his arm around you, the tip of his finger rubbing tiny circles against the point of your shoulder, eyes fluttering at this perfectly normal, totally platonic, absolutely-not-leading-anywhere-this-time contact is…

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks a few seconds after you set your now half-empty glass down. Your lips curl a little into a grimace on one side and a soft laugh rumbles deep in his chest.

You swear you can feel it vibrate all the way down to your bones.

“What is there to even talk about?” you sigh. “He wouldn’t stop comparing me to his mother, strike one. Spent twenty minutes explaining the plot of my favourite movie back to me, strike two. And then, after all that, threw a tantrum when I swerved his kiss goodbye after he’d eaten basically a whole loaf of garlic bread. Strike three. You’re out.”

He laughs again, and you adjust your head to peer up at him but he isn’t looking at you. He’s staring off at the opposite wall, not even glancing down when his arm tightens to pull you even closer. On cue, you nuzzle your head down into the muscle beneath his t-shirt, and you sigh.

“What’s so funny?” you ask.

“Nothing,” he says breezily. “Just… You sure know how to pick ‘em.”

“I don’t deliberately go out with people one screw short of a toolbox, Cheol,” you grumble, lightly slapping his chest. “They always seem fine when we start talking.”

“Mhm,” he hums. You feel him move slightly and then his lips are being pressed to the part of your hair. You’re sure it’s supposed to be a little condescending, but it kind of tingles instead. But that’s just because of the way his breaths play over your roots. Isn’t it? “I know.”

“Trust me, I’d love nothing more than to find someone who—”

“Hey, I know, y/n,” he says again, still softly but just a little firmer this time. “It’s not your fault all these guys are dicks. But-…”

He trails off, tongue pressed lightly against his top teeth, and decides that maybe finishing this sentence isn’t the smart way to proceed. You wait a few seconds, just in case he changes his mind, and poke at his chest again when he doesn’t.

“But what?” You ask.

He shakes his head. “Nothing. It was a stupid joke. Don’t worry about it.”

“Tell me,” you whine. “You know I hate it when you do that.”

It’s his turn to sigh, now. “But…” he starts, pausing for a mixture of allowing his nerves to settle and for dramatic effect. “I’m not complaining: the worse your date goes, the better sex we have after.”

It momentarily stuns you into silence and you suck your teeth at the remark, shaking your head. But you don’t sit up, you don’t shove him away, you don’t argue the point he’s just made whether it was a joke or not. Because…

“I hate that you’re right.”

His hand slides down behind you until it’s wrapped around your waist, his bicep strong against your back and his fingers light as they fiddle with the fabric of your blouse.

“No you don’t,” he tells you, lips tweaking up on one side.

You sigh, burrowing closer into his chest. He’s wearing the cologne he knows you like most and it smells faint, worn, as if he’s had it on for hours, all despite being only dressed in basketball shorts and a white vest. His plans tonight started and ended with you, and showing up here wasn’t promised until you were on his doorstep. Something about knowing he wore it just in case triggers an all too familiar ache between your legs.

Giving in to it?

Ha.

It’s too fucking easy.

“Shut up,” you grumble. Your hand uncurls and your fingers splay over his chest, confessing your agreement and laying the foundations for you even if you deny what you want out loud. “Yes, I do.”

“Oh?” He asks at the exact moment you can feel his nails graze at your skin beneath your shirt. “Do you really?”

“Yeah.” You shift slightly, searching for just a crumb of relief from the press of your thighs, but it never comes.

“I see.” He flattens his palm against your side, the other hand tucking a piece of hair behind your ear, eyes not quite meeting yours as they fixate on the strands already sliding back to their former place against your cheek.

He gently clears his throat, tongue darting out over his lips for the most fleeting of moments, and when he speaks again, it’s lower, quieter, softer. “But if you hate it sooo much…” he ducks his head, close enough that his lips brush the corner of your mouth as he moves them. “Why are you here?”

He bumps the tip of his nose against your cheek, subtly turning your face so if you so much as shuffle, hiccup, breathe in too deeply, your smiles would meet. But they don’t. A hair’s breadth apart, you linger, eyes meeting his in a scorching challenge. One he doesn’t back down from. One he holds, and holds, and holds – waiting, for you, for his answer.

“Because,” you croak. Your throat feels dry, your eyelids suddenly heavy, lashes fluttering.

“Because?” he taunts, his chuckled exhale tickling the tiny hairs all over your skin.

You maintain his gaze still, and he chuckles, holding your chin between his thumb and forefinger. when you don’t speak for a few seconds more, he takes it upon himself to finish the sentence for you.

“Because you know,” he drawls, gravelly but still somehow heaven-sent and honey-sweet. “That no-one else does it for you the same way I do. Do they?”

You shake your head, the muscles in your neck tight as you wrestle with them not to surge forward and topple against him in a kiss. Seungcheol is an easily pleased man, but you know he loves a bit of a chase and it would be a little rude not to reward his hospitality by giving him one.

“Say it,” he urges. You’re acutely aware of how his breaths stop fanning against your face once the words are out of his mouth, but you don’t give him anything yet. “Come on. You could have any one of those idiots if you wanted them, but you don’t.” A pause. “Do you?”

You swallow hard, cheeks growing hot. You shake your head again, “No.”

“Because…”

And after one, two, three, four, five thundering beats of your heart—

“Because I want you.”

Seungcheol smirks as he pulls your chin up, finally bringing his plush lips down against your own. It’s soft. almost tender. Barely moving — just a press, but it sends waves of energy through you anyway.

“You’ve got me,” he says, pulling back an inch, studying your desperate eyes with his own. “Always gonna have me.”

And suddenly, it’s like his entire world might stop if he lets you go.

Both of his hands cup your cheeks as you shift up onto your knees, your own fingers grasping for dear life at his vest. He kisses you as if he could swallow you whole: hard and deep, breathing hot through his nose as his tongue works its way into your mouth and finds your own. You groan, and hearing the sound draws one out of him, too. There’s just something about kissing Seungcheol, and being kissed by him: you don’t even have to think. He just does. You just do. It’s easy.

His hands find the bottom of your shirt and he pulls upwards, separating from your lips to pull it over your head and toss it haphazardly towards the floor. He reconnects with you almost immediately, hands sliding down from your face to your exposed neck, to your shoulders, toying with the strap of your bra.

“You wear this for me, or him?” he asks, breathing heavily as he looks down at your covered tits, the red and white garment sitting pretty against your skin.

“Who d’you think?” you ask, equally fighting to gasp air into your lungs.

“Better not have been for fuckin’... Captain mommy issues,” he mutters, kissing you hard one more time before his lips attach to the side of your neck. “Never liked the sound of that guy. Thought you were too good for him.”

“S’that right?” You ask, tilting your head back and stuttering out a sigh, lacing it with wisps of a laugh. “You never said so.”

He sucks your skin into his mouth and you swear you can feel every capillary beneath the surface burst one by one, your body-heat climbing to almost unbearable territory. “You were excited,” he says. “Just ‘cause I don't agree with your choices, doesn’t mean I’m gonna be an ass about it.”

And for someone trying their best to cover your throat in as many bruises as possible (no doubt so that if you bump into the asshole from HR who took you out tonight when you’re back at work on Monday, he’ll see that you had a plenty good time without him), it… feels kind of sweet that he’d hold himself back in the name of your theoretical happiness.

“Too good to me,” you chuckle. You’ve long since released your hold on his vest and are now threading your fingers through his hair. He kisses and sucks down over your collarbone, grinning against your skin all the while.

“So?” he asks, tugging the top of your bra in between his teeth.

You glance down at him, biting your bottom lip at the sight. His pupils are blown-out, drowning his familiar warm, chocolatey eyes in black pools of desire. No lies, that’s always been your agreement. No lies. So you tell him the truth, pushing your chest up towards him and pressing his head down slightly so his top lip brushes against your tit.

“Wore it for you, Cheol.”

“Mhm. That’s my girl.”

He sits up straight and pulls you down to him, smashing his lips against yours again as his hands slide around your back, fingertips making quick work of your bra clasp. He pulls the straps down your arms, grunting at the feeling of your breasts relaxing against his own chest; the bra joins your shirt on the floor, and soon after follows his vest, your hands clawing at it to get it off him as fast as you can.

“Up,” he says as your hands trail over his stomach, fingers dipping into every groove of muscle, feeling how they ripple as he reflexively tenses them under your touch. “Now.”

You oblige, climbing off the couch and standing upright. His hand finds the back of your shoulder and he guides you around to the side of the sofa, promptly pushing you down over the arm-rest so your face meets the cushions you were both just sitting on. He pulls your pants down your legs and helps you step out of them, dropping down to his knees and kneading at your thighs with a guttural moan.

“Gonna make you forget all about him, y/n,” he says. “Make you feel so good you won’t even remember his name.”

“Please,” you gasp, feeling his teeth sink into your ass. “So-... fucking good to me…”

He adjusts the position of your legs, bumping them apart until he can settle on his knees between them. His nose drags against the crease between the top of your thigh and the bottom of your ass, his lips trailing kisses all the way from the outside of your leg to where your pussy is throbbing for him. He skips over it, though, nipping and licking at the back of your other thigh, until you’re rocking your hips back to try and push him into your core.

“Be a good girl,” he chuckles, thumbing over the wet-patch in your panties. “I’m gonna look after you. I promise.”

His tongue meets your wetness just a moment after, dragging over the fabric and making you whimper. Your hands scramble to clutch onto something, one grabbing the edge of the seat cushion and the other balling into a fist.

“Fuck, Cheol,” you hiss, feeling the heat from his mouth all over you. “Please – I need it. I need you.”

“Shh,” he says. You can feel his lips twist into a smile. God, you wish you could see him right now. “I’ve got you.”

When exactly his fingers tucked themselves under the waistband of your underwear, you’re not sure: all you know is that one minute, he’s breathing in your scent through the seat of your panties, and the next he’s yanking them down your legs and diving into your cunt like it’s his last meal on death-row. The sheer force of his hands gripping your thighs and his head burying itself between them makes you stumble forwards, the couch groaning as it shifts against the laminate flooring, and you cry out a wet sob of his name.

Who were you kidding, before, when you thought that this wasn’t going to go anywhere tonight?

The build-up to this started the second you told him about the date a week and a half ago.

But you can’t think about the mediocre pasta dish you ate this evening, or the moron who sat across from you at the table who kept checking his phone and glancing over your shoulder. You can’t think about how many times he went to the bathroom after receiving a text, or how he came back grinning cockily before he sat back down.

All you can think about is how deep Seungcheol’s tongue fucks into you. How he fucking slurps all the wetness your pussy can give him, how he groans and moans and chuckles every time he shifts his head forward and flicks the muscle over your clit. Your head is spinning and your eyes begin smarting at the corners when his nails on one hand dig harshly into the fat at the top of your thigh. It stings, but it feels so fucking good. Your knees are weak, you’re about to bite clean through your lip in an attempt to be respectful to Seungcheol’s neighbours, and your knuckles are sore from the force with which your fist is clenched.

Lord, he’s good.

“Don’t hold back,” he gasps, pulling away from you, a string of his own spit and your arousal still connecting him to your pussy. “C’mon, babe. I can feel you’re close.”

The loss of his mouth genuinely feels like the end of the world and you could buckle, in this moment. But he’s done this on purpose: he always does. He knows you. He knows the sounds you make and the way your body moves when you’re tantalisingly on the edge of your climax. His thumbs rub circles into your thighs and you just know he’s got the most obnoxious, insufferable grin on his face behind you while he does it: you can picture it, so perfectly. So easily.

The orgasm you didn’t quite reach starts to ebb away from you and you give a grumble of frustration, pushing up onto your palms to turn around and look at him.

“You’re such a bastard, Cheol,” you hiss, and he grins back at you, his lips swollen and shiny as he licks over them.

“Get that pretty face back down, baby. I’m not done.”

It feels like a delightful punch in the gut, so you do. You drop back down onto your elbows, feeling him shift his position but you can’t see to what; his body heat never leaves yours even when his hands aren’t on you anymore, so you know he hasn’t stood up or gone far. It’s only when you clear your throat that you feel him again. Sat down with his back to the couch, between your thighs, nosing at your clit to get you worked up all over again: his fingers trail over your folds, collecting your arousal, spreading your lips and tonguing between them. You whine for him, keening and confused but overwhelmed at the stark shift from before. How he touches your pussy like it’s the first time, like it’s the last.

He presses one long finger inside you, free hand pushing your hips into just the right position that he can suck your clit into his mouth. You feel yourself grinding down against his hand, begging him for more without having the words to ask for it, but Seungcheol doesn’t need to be asked. It’s intuitive to him. Eating you out could well be his day job. Another finger joins the first and he pumps them in and out of you at a pace you adore, his tongue flicking precisely over the bud in his mouth.

Your disappointingly lost orgasm from before starts to creep up on you again, and you know he knows it too. But this time, he doesn’t slow. This time, he doesn’t stop. He hums in the back of his throat: it’s permission, you realise, to come undone; burying your face further into the cushions, you let out a muffled series of expletives, sobs, moans of his name. You tumble over the edge with a broken cry, fingers curling into the couch cushions, and he only pulls away when your knees actually give out.

His strong frame is the only thing still holding you up by the time you’ve stopped twitching through the aftershocks, remembering how it feels to have full lungs and a working pair of eyes. You roll your head to the side as he slips out from beneath you, immediately sliding his arm around your waist and leaning over you to keep you steady. Through the material of his shorts, you can feel his hard-on poking at your ass: the fact that you’re this fucked and he hasn’t put his cock inside you yet makes your eyes water.

“Okay?” he asks, pressing tender kisses down the length of your spine. You just breathe, nodding with difficulty owed to your current position and the way all your muscles suddenly feel a hundred times heavier than normal. “Talk to me, sweetheart. You okay?”

“M’okay,” you say. “Just… gimme a sec…”

He keeps pressing his lips all over your back, hands rubbing soothing circles on your hips as you fully recover. You nod again when you’re a little more communicative, pushing up onto your elbows once more.

“Said I’d look after you,” he says. “And you were so good for me.”

“Yeah?” you ask, swallowing hard as you twist your spine uncomfortably to look back at him. Fuck it, maybe he’s the most gorgeous man you’ve ever seen. Is that some great secret? Is it such a crime?

“You always are, baby.”

He looks down at you again: at the shape of your body, bent so crudely over the arm of his couch. At your messed-up hair, your smeared makeup, your soft, dewy eyes. He bites his bottom lip, swallowing hard, running a finger from between your shoulder-blades all the way down towards your ass.

“Can I?” he asks, pushing his hips against you again, your still-soaked pussy smearing arousal all over the front of his shorts where it meets them.

“Please,” you nod, shifting your legs slightly to try and get more comfortable. He drops his shorts in a matter of seconds, cock springing free from their confines. It’s thick and veiny, leaking in his palm as he strokes it, one hand coming back to rest on your hip.

“Fuck, babe,” he sighs. “You’re doing so good.”

The head feels delicious against your swollen cunt and you gasp at the pressure of him sliding through your folds, leisurely lubing himself up with your arousal. It glides over your clit and you can’t contain the slight hiss that escapes you. He starts to say something, his voice just audible to you where you’re propped, but for some reason he stops short, and you don’t quite hear him anyway. There’s not enough time to dwell on it though: your eyelashes flutter closed when he prods at your entrance, pushing into you with hardly any resistance at all, and his unstarted, unfinished sentence is forgotten.

It’s still a stretch to take him and he eases himself deeper until his hips are pressed fully against your ass. He rests there for a moment, letting you adjust, letting your body mould to the shape of his own, and it’s only when you reach back with one hand to gently nudge against his wrist to give an okay that he starts to move.

“Good girl,” he says, quieter this time. Like he’s distracted. Like he’s contemplating. But you don’t ask, because you don’t really want to know: every drag of his cock against your walls feels like fireworks bursting over every inch of your skin, like being engulfed in flame, and nothing could take you out of how electric you feel. “Taking me so, so well.”

His hips start to thrust against you quicker, snapping so his cock buries itself deep but mercilessly quickly into your pussy. It’s only a matter of minutes until you’re clenching around him and when you do, Seungcheol – who you noticed early on into your relationship was one of the most vocal men you’d ever had in the bedroom – stops holding back the sounds you think back to when it’s just you and your trusty vibrator against the world. You swear that half the reason your sexual chemistry with him is so unrivalled is because of how loud you can both get.

You don’t know how long he’s fucking you for, sweat beading over both of your bodies and leaving you slick all over. What you do know, though, is that when he bends down over you, supported by one hand bracing his weight against the cushion by our head, he’s close.

He isn’t groaning and grunting anymore. He’s whining. So agonisingly hard and so painfully wound up that he could snap. His voice is little more than a whimper in your ear when his lips ghost over the shell of it, thrusts slowing as he tries to stave off his high just a little bit longer.

“Wanna drown in this pussy,” he says, eyes squeezed shut, jaw falling slack as you spasm around his length again. “Shit – I love y-... love this… love this so much-...”

And this time, you fucking notice.

This time, you hear him. You know what he said before, now. When you didn’t care, when you just wanted him to fill you up, when you just wanted to have him pound into you until your brain disconnected from failed romances and shitty dating apps and people who weren’t him. Because he started to say it then, too – started to say I love y–

And this time… you say it, back.

“I love you too, Cheol.”

Jesus, fuck.

Loving Choi Seungcheol is the easiest thing in the world.

He freezes, buried inside you all the way to the hilt, a bead of sweat running down the bridge of his nose and hanging onto the tip for dear life. His eyes shoot open, his head turns, and you meet his gaze by turning your own. He’s feeling everything. All at once. So are you. Arousal and need and fear – God, so much fucking fear – but love. Adoration, affection, endearment, devotion – shit, he feels it all, and it’s written in every line of his face, and when his lips move into a smile, when the corners of his eyes crease, when he lets it wash over him, it feels better than any orgasm he’ll have for the rest of his life.

Even the one that explodes through him when you start to grind yourself back on his cock and he lets go, fingers scrabbling to hold your hand, lips finding home on the back of your shoulder. He paints your insides with his cum, fucks it into you for as long as he can physically withstand. You don’t even have it in you to chase another climax of your own, too blissed out in the relief of your own feelings to feel inclined to try.

So, maybe there’s a reason you kept accepting dates with men you knew you weren’t compatible with.

Maybe there’s a reason you didn’t give those other people a real chance.

Maybe there’s a reason you always found yourself looking forward to the end of every night having dinner with a stranger.

Because all the roads lead you here. Because it’s easy being here – it’s where you belong.

He stays sheathed inside you for a little while longer, pressing kisses everywhere his lips can reach before he has to pull his softening cock from its home between your legs. You lament at the feeling of emptiness, even as his strong arms wrap around your waist and pull you upright for the first time in so long that your legs feel like jelly. It’s okay, though. He holds you against his chest, burying his head into your neck – there’s no way you’re going to fall.

(At least, no more than you already have.)

“I’ll give you everything,” he whispers to you, moving your hair out the way so he can press small, doting kisses to the line of your jaw. “I can give it to you. I was a fucking idiot before – I’ll give you everything I have. I don’t know if I can be perfect but anything you want–...”

“I just want you, Cheol,” you tell him. “Everything – screw all that. I just want you.”

“Be with me?” he asks. You nod, feeling him light up in a smile for the hundredth time tonight. Even though you can’t see it, you’re sure it’s as blindingly beautiful as the first smile he sent your way, all those years ago. (It was Joshua’s birthday. You remember that, now.) And the second. And every damn time since. “Forever, this time.”

“Forever, this time,” you agree.

Because spending forever with the man who lifts you into his arms and carries you towards his shower, so you can clean down and get ready for bed? Right now, it sounds so –

But everything with Seungcheol has always been easy. Easier than with anyone else.

thank u so much for reading! likes, reblogs, comments + feedback are all always so appreciated<3

#s.coups smut #svt smut #seventeen smut #choi seungcheol smut #seungcheol smut #s.coups x reader #j writes.#*#i am running into the woods and never coming back. i don't know who i became while writing this. it wasn't me it was patricia.#send help. i had one singular marble left. seungcheol has fucking FLOWN away with it. i have gone fully fucking insane.#good BY E

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