MY LOVE SONG; han jisung x reader
in which. tutoring the star of the school's rock band wasn't in your plans, mainly because you can't stand han jisung and you've always avoided being in the same room as him. however, if you do this, you will finally have enough credits to apply for a stanford's scholarship. it's just for a couple months, anyway. it won't be hard, right?
pairing. rockstar!jisung x schoolnerd!reader
author's notes. i don't see enough fics with my beloved han so i thought i'd contribute to the scarse collection we have. love u remember to stan han the goat xx
warnings. smut (mdni!), sex at school (not in public tho), said sex is not protected (don't try at home), some french talk, dom!jisung x sub!reader, fingering, cum eating, double pov here and there
the soft pitter-patter of the rain on your car hood is the only background sound that fills the space around you, accompanied by the mindless tapping of your fingers on the steering wheel and the warm breeze blowing out of the heating. the wipers steadily remove the cascade of rain on your windshield, and the automatic clock under your odometer has just ticked fifteen minutes past 9. which means that you're late for your french class, and ms. delacroix will kill you, if you don't show up in the next twenty minutes.
your right foot comes down as you abruptly press the brake and violently halt the car, for the tenth time since you left the house. you rest your head on the steering wheel, defeated. who even gives these people a license? at this point, you have accepted the fact that there's nothing left to do to try and make it to class in time.
as your old and sprightly car moves into the slow traffic, destiny plays a cruel card on you. a lucid black motorcycle stops alongside your car, hesitating on the slick wet road. you know who's driving it, the raging irritation pulsing in your body has already revealed it to you. he (yes, he) revs the engine, playing with the handles like he knows how much he's irritating you. then, with a loud sound, the biker vanishes, surpassing many cars and getting a head start on you and the other unlucky drivers. it seems as if he did it on purpose, just because he wanted to show you something. you don't know what, but your guess would be that he recognised your car and decided to piss you off first thing in the morning.
the only thing that you do know, as you carefully press the gas pedal to follow the endless line of cars in front of you, is that you hope han jisung and his stupid motorcycle get run over by a truck.
by the time you get to class, you're almost totally drenched from head to toes. your hair is partially sticking to your neck, and you're pretty sure your shoes shouldn't look like you threw them in the ocean and then picked them up and wore them.
ignoring your classmates' curios looks, you try your best to walk to your seat without making too much noise in the process. ms. delacroix is looking at you like she wants to kill you with her french dictionary, but fortunately, she doesn't say anything. however, you're not foolish enough to believe that she'll let this go unpunished: she probably just needs more time to think about a way to torture you.
sitting next to you is your best friend, minho. he totally sucks at french, which is funny because he's not even that stupid. he's just lazy when it comes to certain things, and he's always said he feels like french is not a priority in his life. as you shrug your disheveled jacket off your shoulder, you watch him mindlessly doodling something on the corner of his textbook. the only sign of acknowledgment that comes from him is a nod, to which you respond. he can't say anything to you, and viceversa: if a word that doesn't concern the lesson is spoken in this class, you'll get punishment. speaking from experience, by the way. there have been countless times in which you and minho had to stay behind after classes to clean up something, help the janitors, one time even working as models for the art club.
sighing, you open your textbook and try your best to catch up on the lesson.
when the bell rings, twenty minutes later, minho and you get up simultaneously. he gives you a look, which means 'what the fuck happened' and you answer him with another look that translates to 'i'll tell you later'. he rolls his eyes and heads for the door, before turning back to wait for you.
fuck. you almost made it. you close your eyes, shoulders dropping, and motion to minho to get to his next class. he shakes his head, tho, brows furrowing.
'that's okay, minho you can stay and listen' the teacher intercepts your exchange of looks.
minho, who was leaning on the doorframe, straightens up and walks back to you. his presence is comforting, as always. at least you'll have an eye witness when your teacher will inevitably beat you to death with the french lexicon book.
'you were late today. you know what that means' she says, leaning back into the chair. she's so having fun, right now. you grit your teeth, biting back a snarky remark.
'i don't care about your motives, you know very well i expect my students to be on time to my classes' she proceeds, narrowing her eyes.
you hope she gets hit by a moving truck outside of school.
'however, you're also one of my top students' she says. where is this going?
'i will forgive your behaviour of today, and won't give you a disciplinary note, if you tutor someone' she finishes, rising back up and placing her hands on her desk.
minho shifts next to you.
'doesn't look that bad' he murmurs, and you agree. i mean, tutoring someone won't be easy, or funny, but at least you'll be free of any disciplinary notes.
'okay. who's the person?'
you freeze. minho snorts, in a bad tentative to stifle a laugh.
'he's my worst student in the entire school. he won't pass his finals if he keeps this kind of attendance up' she explains.
'isn't there anyone else available to tutor him?' you ask, desperation slipping through your words.
'i believe you're the most adapt person for this job' she says. compliments are rare from ms. delacroix, and in another occasion you would have surely appreciated it however, right now, the only thing that you would appreciate would be the earth opening in half and swallowing you.
'i'll give you extra credits if you help him'
this catches your attention. extra credits. exactly what you need to reach the goal to apply for a stanford scholarship. stanford, your dream college.
minho elbows you. you turn to him, brows raised. he tilts his head to the side.
'that's awesome. will you tell him? i fear i'm too busy to stop by the band classroom'.
could it be possible to kill someone with simple willpower? surely, if you put enough effort in your thoughts, han jisung would end up vanishing into thin air or tripping and falling from a fifteen-story building.
out of all the people in this goddamn institute, he had to be the worst french student. maybe, if he stopped spending all of his free time in that goddamn band class, he would find that studying can actually serve some other purpose than just making you fall asleep.
your airpods are playing a casual shuffle of your main playlist as you wait behind after class for everyone to go home. minho has insisted to be with you through this challenging situation, but you knew he had to study for a chem test, so you sent him home. now, you're regretting it: there's no one to stop you from smashing a guitar on han's head.
still wanna try, still believe in good days, that's what sza is singing into your ears as your steps carefully guide towards the band class. this song usually works with soothing your agitated nerves, but it seems that this time around, nothing will work.
your hand hesitates on the handle. if you open the door, and go in, there's no turning back. you're going to have to do this, whether you like it or not. there's a still chance to go back, though, back to the parking lot, to your car. you can still go home.
right as you begin to think that enduring two months of tutoring with han jisung is not worth the effort, the door springs open. on the other side, stands no other than said horrible french student. his hair is messy today, arranged in a wavy look that makes him look like the guy-next-door, and at the same time like the classical teenage heart breaker. either way, you know that it is just a well constructed façade: he's still an asshole, behind the rockstar look.
'cherry baby, if you wanted an autograph, you could have asked. no need to hover like a stalker behind the door'
you snap out of your thoughts, and the murdering intent flows back into your mind.
'i told you to call me by my name, han'
'giving you a nickname means that i believe you're special to me, didn't you know this?' he asks, leaning into the doorframe.
peaking behind his shoulder, you realise the classroom is empty. even better: no eye witnesses for when you'll strangle jisung with a cable.
'no shit, cherry. but i'm also very good with my hands' he says, grinning.
'you know, about the fact that i'm the main guitarist of the band?'
'go tell that to one of your girls. i'm not here to talk about your hands' you spit back.
'i can sign your arm if you don't have any paper lying around' he keeps going, unbothered by your clearly enraged face.
'if you don't shut your mouth, han, i will punch you'
'oh, so sassy, cherry baby'
he's smiling now. you want to wipe that smile away. idiot.
you explain in short what ms. delacroix asked you to do, and by the t ime you reach the part about how you're going to have to spend at least two nights a week together, his eyes light up.
'ok, so, if i start getting bad grades in like, everything, you'll spend every night of the week tutoring me?' he beams.
'no. i'm going to spend every night of my week beating the shit out of you with your stupid guitar'
ice drips from your words as you answer him.
'you look adorable when you threaten to beat me to death, has anyone ever told you this?' he says, tilting his head to the side. a curl falls in front of his eyes, and your fingers inexplicably itch to put it back into place.
'tomorrow. 5pm' you say, shortly, averting your gaze from that rebel strand of hair and focusing on an indefinite point in the texture of his shirt.
reaching into your backpack, you pull a pen out. then, without a warning, you grab his left hand and yank it towards you. quickly, you scribble your phone number on his palm, then put the pen back into place.
he looks at the digits on his skin.
'what the fuck is wrong with you?'
there are certain kinds of things one cannot live without in one's life. for some, it is food, shelter, the things a body needs- those that are often taken for granted. for others, it is art, in its deeper meaning that could be summoned with a simple word.
han jisung has long settled on the inevitable truth that he needs art to live, and more specifically, he needs to create, to make his life somewhat worthy of being remembered by others.
like every good artist, he respects the stereotype that to create, you need a muse. whether that be a physical thing, a landscape, an album, or a person, it is a necessary requirement to fulfil the artist status.
fortunately for him, he didn't need to look too hard to find his muse. the first time he landed eyes on you, he found his source of light and inspiration. funny how the world works, right? his muse is also the same girl who despises his guts.
if only you could see behind his façade, you would surely see just how much pure adoration he holds for you. but, in all truth, there's actually no need to uncover his masks: your presence lingers in between every line of his songs. every lyric he wrote in these years, every note he carefully orchestrated in his sheet music, holds you.
he took it upon himself to never reveal this to the world, and especially to you. he feels like this is something that is far too intimate, and he doesn't want to burden you with the fact that your mere existence is enough to keep him going, to keep him doing music. still, his heart aches to spot you in between the crowd at his concerts.
the sun shines its warm rays through the windows of the public library, crashing onto the wooden floor and bathing your skin in vitamin d. the clock ticks its unstoppable rhythm up on the wall, separating past, present and future with neat movements. seen from the outside, this arrangement looks peaceful enough. however, it is very far from being harmonious.
'han. oh my god. do you even know what a french article is?'
'there are articles in french?'
your head slips from your hands and falls on the table with a quiet thud.
'being in my presence isn't enough for you? now you want to be payed to?'
you look up from the table, and meet han's eyes. he's leaning back into his chair, shoulders relaxed and posture slightly too confident.
'when was the last time you opened a french textbook?'
he actually thinks about the answer.
'uh- i think, sophomore year?'
you feel a strong, impending urge to scream in his face.
'han. we're in senior year'
'my name's jisung, cherry baby'
he's teasing you, and you know it. what you also know is that you shouldn't react to his teasing, because the only reason he's doing it in the first pleace is to get a reaction out of you.
you open your mouth to tell him exactly how you're going to punch the life out of him if he doesn't stop acting like a dick, but suddenly, you freeze.
an idea has popped into your mind. no, not an idea. a stroke of genius, in all honesty.
'do you have any paper in your backpack that carries the lyrics of your songs? any song, actually' you ask him, frantically.
he straightens his back at that, and a dark cloud obscures his usually bright eyes. but it's only a moment, and the cocky façade is back up, like nothing happened.
'why?' he asks. he's smiling, but his voice is somewhat wary.
'look. it's a waste of time being here and forcing grammar rules onto your stubborn brain, right?'
'is this your way of telling me i'm stupid?'
'i've never had any problem calling you straight-up stupid, did i?' you arch a brow.
'yeah, you're right. so what? you're going to choke me with the lyrics of my songs?'
a laugh escapes your mouth. wait. did you just laugh? did he actually say something funny? no, it was probably just a little cough.
'listen to my idea. we're going to take the lyrics to your songs, translate them into french, and then, when i see that you're starting to get the hang of it, then-' you stop, because you hadn't really thought this through, unfortunately. you're just going with the flow here.
'this seems much better than memorising grammar schemes, to be honest. but what will happen when i'll eventually become the next best french student?' he says, the corners of his mouth tugging up into a smile. he starts to look through his backpack, rustling between a few books, his laptop, and papers that were probably left there to rot for months. finally, he pulls a wrinkled piece of paper out, and you recognise his handwriting on it.
'this is the last song i've written, actually. we still have to perform it though, so hardly no one knows about it, besides the guys, and now you. maybe my mom, now that i think about it' he says, trying to smooth the harsh wrinkles down.
'ok, that's good. now, please, summon the few braincells you have left and stick with me through this. if it works, you owe me a favour' you say, twirling your pencil.
'i'll make it up to you, don't worry' he smiles, pushing his tongue against the inside of his cheek.
you look down at the paper. something stirred in you at the sight of that, but you blame it on the rush of adrenaline caused by your new idea. yes, that's surely just some chemical reaction.
it's funny how some people take ages to warm, and others simply make you feel like you're at home in their presence. lee minho fits into the second category, radiating a certain kind of warmth that never failed to soothe you.
lying on his bed, you're both doing what seems to be your favourite activity: he's scrolling through his phone, and you're reading. re-reading, to be precise, because the novel in your hands is one of your all time favourites. the atmosphere is still, peaceful, and holds the familiar feeling of comfort you always feel next to minho.
until he decides to shatter it.
'how did the session go?' he asks, casually.
'he's a total idiot when it comes to basic grammar rules' you start, slowly, hands fidgeting with the pages.
'but he's got a surprisingly good lexicon. i don't know where he learned it, or why he doesn't use it, but it's good to know he's not completely ignorant. also, i came up with a genius idea to help him do better'
you explain your plan, and minho smiles.
'i'm surprised you didn't straight up slammed a book into his face' he says. you laugh.
'i can't say i haven't been tempted to, but those extra credits look too good to just give them away'
you resume your activities, falling back into the comforting state you exist in with him.
is it possible to find absurd comfort in activities that very much strive away from your usual field of choice? you tend to be a creature of habit, rooted in the few and certain things that bring you not only steadiness, but a quiet joy. those have always been neatly enlisted into your brain: being with minho stood first, and reading followed right after. something that almost nobody knows about, though, is that you find complacency in writing. no matter what the topic is, whether it be a journal entry, or a to do list, it is sufficient to hear the pen scratch against the paper to mitigate your nerves. so, yes, these are the things that you need more than anything else, more than the basic needs of a body to survive: to live, you need to write. to create, more specifically.
absurdly enough, ever since you started your tutoring sessions with han, a certain nerve in your body stirred awake.
'okay, so, what is the french correspondant for beautiful?'
'uh- no, don't tell me, please. it's- it's beau?'
you smile, almost unvoluntarily.
'yes. see, here you're referring to the mysterious girl who's been twirling in your thoughts for days now. you're describing her as beautiful, so you should use the feminine correspondant' you say, voice quiet, pen circling the term.
his brows are furrowed, but not in angry way: he does it when he concentrates hard, simultaneously biting his bottom lip ever so gently.
'uh. belle, okay' he says, nodding. he takes the pen from your hands (skin brushing, a little current of electricity passing from his body to yours) and writes the word down.
when exactly did you start learning his habits? between the cracks of your unbearable hate for han jisung, his substantial being started to slip through, in leaks ever so undistinguishable. the way he wears his hair, the way he tilts his head when he's trying to not lose focus, how he's always got a spare plectrum in his wallet, how he puts extreme care in choosing the lyrics for his songs. furthermore, how his eyes shine when he talks about music, or how he often swaps rings but never once takes the one on his middle finger off, his handwriting, and how he seems to enter a higher dimension when he writes. fundamentally, you're just translating lyrics here, but he still looks like he's uncovering a statue from a marble rock.
'what's your favourite song?' he asks you one day, seemingly out of the blue.
you chose to have your usual study session in the park today, because the sun is too warm and the weather too good to force yourself to stay inside the library. you texted han about the new arrangement, and he came well prepared: he brought a plaid with him, and a box of cherries.
'for my cherry baby, obviously' he said, looking almost offended when you asked him what those were for. you rolled your eyes, but truthfully, your heart skipped a beat in your chest. when did you start enjoying being called that?
the rays are shining pure and strong when he asks you that question. his hair is shining under this light, and his skin looks even more honey-like, almost as if he was born to live under a constant sun.
you tilt your head to a side, reaching to get a cherry from the box. he leans over, holding it in his hands and offering you one. automatically, you take it.
'i change songs every now and then. as of recently, my favourite one is good days' you answer, enjoying the rich taste of the cherry.
'and you? what's your favourite song?' you ask, tilting your head back in a tentative to absorb as much vitamin d as possible.
han fears his heart will burst out of his weak ribcage if you don't stop looking so etheral under this light. your hair is shining, and your face looks so sublime in this position, eyes closed and head tilted back to absorb the rays. he sighs, unvoluntarily. if only he could lend you his eyes, you would never feel an ounce of insecurity in your life again, that's most sure.
'as of now, it seems i can't stop listening to sex, drugs, etc., by beach weather' he finally answers, after a strange pause. you hum under your breath, recalling the song in your head. it used to be one of your favourites, too.
'okay, let's get back to work now'
'killjoy' he mutters. but he's smiling, so he's totally unbelievable.
the invitation comes unexpected, a weekish or so after your picnic/study session/tan session. at this point, it's been a month since you started tutoring han, and his presence has become a steady one in your life. you find yourself writing about him, at times. nothing too serious, in all honesty, but isn't the simple act of putting your thoughts into paper and realising they revolve around him enough?
'come to my next concert'
you close your locker with a thud. han is leaning into the wall, waiting for an answer. people are walking in every direction around you, flowing in and out of their personal dimensions to interact with each other at times, but you don't see them.
genuine question, indeed.
'i want you there, cherry baby' he says, simply.
your heart has accelerated its rhythm.
'even just to show you how good i am at playing the guitar' he proceeds to say.
you scoff, and roll your eyes.
'yeah, sure. when is it?'
you nod. at this point, there are no plausible excuses left to not go: it's clear to everyone and their mothers that you don't want to smash a guitar on han's head anymore. well, not all the time, which is practically the same thing.
'minho can come too, if that's what you're thinking about'
'well, then. i guess i'll be there'
he smiles, then, a toothy smile that looks so absurdly sincere and mesmerising that you're taken aback for a moment.
the crowd in the school's gym feels at once overwhelming and perfectly right. minho has interlocked his fingers with yours, and you're making your way past pressed-up bodies. the lights are low, almost non-existent tonight, which only contributes to the general atmosphere. han told you to get to the first row, because he 'wanted to see you'. clearly, he underestimated the number of people that would be present tonight.
still, you're never not determined.
pushing and elbowing here and there, you finally get to said first row, panting slightly.
'for fuck's sake, if someone else bumps into me, i will start a fight' grunts minho. he's got his 'touch me and you die' expression on, which makes him look like one of those cats that hiss one second and the next they're back to minding their business.
'i'm sorry' you say, suddenly very much uneasy at the thought of having brought your best friend to a place he might not like.
'don't. i swear i'm enjoying myself. plus, i've been wanting to come to one of these concerts for a long time now' he answers, drifting his gaze to the stage.
'why haven't you, then?' you ask, confused by his statement.
'you couldn't seem to stand han. so, i decided to not attend his concerts in solidarity. we're in this together and all those things, you know?' he says, casually.
'minho...' you murmur, so low he's surely not heard you in between this clamorous crowd.
he turns back to look at you, and his irritated look is wiped away.
'i'm happy you got to know han. you seem much more at ease with the world ever since you began tutoring him'
heat flushes your cheeks. minho is very rarely wrong with his verdicts, maybe because he's naturally very good at reading people, or maybe because he knows you like his pockets. this time is no different, indeed.
one single, striking chord breaks the rustling crowd in half with a shock. the sound reverberates into your eardrums, electricity seeping under your skin and onto your bones. suddenly, you feel like you belong in between these people, like you were meant to follow the path that was driving you to stand here, first row at a rock concert.
a moment later, the stage goes from empty to full. you recognise the guys in the band, one who you believe is called hyunjin is in your english class, and another one, bangchan, is the possibly best football player the school has had yet. but your eyes don't linger for long on their figures, because they are undeniably attracted and averted by his energy.
han is standing on the left, right beside chan, the main vocalist. hyunjin is right behind him, adjusting the chords of his bass, while another guy of whom you don't remember the name takes place at the drums. all of these things are registered from your peripheral vision to your brain automatically, because your main focus is on han.
the concert begins, and at first, you understand why these guys are so popular. the crowd moves and dances, some also sing along with chan and han, the lyrics and arrangements all coming together to form the perfect picture. laughter spills out of you, like champagne contained far too long into a bottle. minho is having fun, too, which looks weirdly right for his usually quiet persona: he's jumping up and down next to you, and his enthusiasm inevitably overflows you.
han spots you in the crowd. his eyes land on you, right as they're preparing to sing their next song. he smiles, then, as if he didn't think you were really going to be there, but you are, and suddenly the few feet separating you from the stage feel like infinite miles.
he taps his mic, and clears his throat.
'okay, so. the next song is new, we've never played it before. take it as a gift before you go home, yeah? i wrote it about a girl who's been inspiring me far longer than she thinks. we present to you, cherry baby'
the chords play into the air, softening the crowd's mood with their delicacy. this is something different, you realise, nothing like what you've been hearing until now. chan has stepped away from the mic, and he's smiling as he picks up a stray guitar that was sitting in the corner. he's not singing this one, you grasp.
han keeps his eyes on you as he begins to sing. your defences, which have been crumbling to useless pieces for weeks, are now completely shattered by the depth of his gaze. it's in this moment, where he sings you a song, that all the pieces finally click.
belle. the mysterious girl.
how he always seemed to be writing about someone in his songs.
how he looked at you when you said you would come to his concert.
it's you, you realize. you're the someone he was writing and singing about. the same way he's been seeping into the ink that fills your poetry, you've taken place into his musical chords.
two muses finding each other in the middle of the universe.
the gym is empty, now, because besides the fact people are swaying around and enjoying your song, there's no one on the entire planet earth but you and han. as the rhythm picks up, the bass chimes in, and the song takes a turn. but still, han looks at you.
people cheer so loudly the roof threatens to break under the sound of their joyous screams.
steps weigh down on the floor as they make their way towards the exit.
the lights dim a bit lower.
chan, hyunjin and the drummer step away from the stage, patting han on the shoulder.
you faintly hear minho tell you he's going home, and are you coming too?
maybe you told him not to worry, because he's gone now.
how would you know? you're enveloped in a haze too deep to be broken by ordinary things.
your lungs fill in with air, and your steps willfully guide you towards the stage. han has his back turned, and he's adjusting the instruments. he didn't notice how you were still standing there, the only soul who dared wait behind.
he turns at that, and looks amazed enough to see you standing on the stage.
it may be the third time in all his life that he's used your full name to acknowledge your presence.
'you named the song after me'
his posture stiffens. he's in defensive mode, shoulders locked and eyes wary.
you nod, then. your mind and body are slowly pulling out of the haze, and now you feel that your feet are firmly planted on the wooden stage, the air smells like a mixture of fumes, alcohol and joy and you're standing four feet away from han. too much.
you're looking at him, now. the more your eyes bathe in his, the more his body stirs awake.
you find each other in the middle. the middle of the stage, as well as the middle of all living things.
his mouth crashes on yours, with a shocking bolt of electricty waking you up. his hands find their way on your waist, but they're just passing through, because immediately after they're flying up to your face and are now cupping your cheeks, raising your face to get more access.
it's overwhelming, and at the same time so good. so fucking right. every single preconception falls away and inhibitions take place. your hands tug at his locks, and he groans at the touch, biting your bottom lip. he fits so well against you, bodies pressed up in a deathly valzer.
he's walking back now, pulling you with him, and a moment later he's sitting down on the drummer's chair, bringing you down. you're straddling him now, breaths catching and mouths devouring each other.
his hands squeeze your thighs, in a famelic grip that has a whine escape your throat. you feel him smile against your lips, ever so cocky. his hands go even further up, and he's grabbing a handful of your ass now, simultaneously tugging you closer to him.
your skirt rides up your legs, and as you think you shouldn't have worn this almost useless piece of fabric, han moves a hand away from your ass and makes his way between your legs. he breaks off the kiss right as his fingers graze the texture of your panties, which is already embarrasingly wet just by him kissing you.
he bites his lip as he looks into your eyes, a silent ask.
your whine is enough to drive him over the edge. he impatiently moves your panties to the side and slides one finger in. you gasp at that, sucking in a breath and biting a moan back. his touch is so unbearably slow, he's torturing you and he knows it, judging by his smile.
his curls have fallen in front of his eyes again, and he looks more than simply handsome as he slides another finger in, and this time there's no opposing to the moan that escapes your mouth.
his voice is low, rough like he's been waiting his whole life to touch you like this. to feel you shatter under his touch, crumble into a million pieces at every curl of his fingers inside your core.
you gasp. there's no way it's happening, not so soon, but he's actually really fucking good with his fingers, he wasn't joking.
your head falls down on his shoulder as you cry out a moan, coming undone on his fingers, riding them to the last drop.
'that's okay, baby, that's okay' he's reassuring you, but suddenly he removes his fingers from you, and is it possible to miss his touch already?
you watch him suck on his fingers, licking every single miserable drop away like he's starving and this is the best meal he's ever eaten in his life.
he's getting up from the chair (a small part of you feels sorry for the mess you just made on the poor drummer's seat) and tugging you with him. his intention is to probably get to somewhere more private, but unfortunately, karma has its own timing.
he's looking at you, and walking back, so he doesn't see the line of cables behind him, and hilariously trip over them. even better, he's holding your hand, so you immediately fall down with him, and now you're both on the ground. you snort, trying not to laugh, but fail miserably when he giggles first.
'oh, fuck i just lost my reputation' he whines, still laughing.
'what reputation?' you giggle along, and for a second your chuckles are the only sound that can be heard throught the quiet silence that fills the gym.
han rises on his elbows, and a second later his body is hovering over yours, heat radiating off his skin. you're not laughing anymore, because you're tugging at his hair and your mouths are crashing into each others' again.
your skirt vanishes into the void, possibly landing somewhere around you, as he positions himself between your legs. his hands squeeze your waist, and you're sure to find the signs of his love the next day.
he breaks off the kiss, foreheads damp with sweat, gazes lingering.
'baby, please- i want to be inside you, now'
his voice is urgently soft, like he's trying to fight back his deepest desire in fear of possibly hurting you. even now, his primary need is your well-being.
it must be his lucky day, though, because you're nodding, as eager as him.
'yes- yes, jisung, please fuck me'
he groans, and his last piece of façade falls away at that.
clothes are truly an unnecessary impediment. they mainly work as a barrier between bodies, but thankfully, they're also very quick at disappearing.
han's skin is even warmer now, covered in lean muscles that reveal a kind of strength that doesn't need excessive display to exist. you hope that there will be many more occasions to gaze at his perfect body because now, he's slipping inside you.
his cock somehow fits perfectly inside of you, and even more so when he starts thrusting into you. each roll of his hips is as much agonizing as his fingers were, and you know that he's taking his sweet time in fucking you. after all, you did make him wait for a long time.
your back naturally arches under his thrusts, and you've long abandoned the fight to push your desperate moans back. your nails drag down on the skin of his back, harder with every slam of his hips into your devastated core.
stars fall from the night sky and descend upon you with a sudden crash as he draws one last, protracted thrust into your body, filling you up. you gasp, his lips find yours in a long kiss as you come undone with him a second too late.
love has its strange ways of showing itself. it exists between pages of books, as well as in a landscape, and sometimes in songs, too. for you, love is han jisung, in all his wonderful being. how he makes you twirl in his arms, how he always brings fresh cherries when he's coming over at yours. how he devours you and then softly kiss your forehead. how he always dedicates you at least one song at his concerts, how he falls asleep in your arms.
love is being loved by him.
