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But You're a Cheerleader! [NSFW]

Day One: Nerd x Popular Trope

for #daisy's 12 days of tropemas <3 event!

Summary: General chemistry 1 might actually be the bane of your existence. You don’t have time for a class to be this hard, not when you’re already juggling the maximum number of credit hours they would let you take on top of a packed competitive cheer schedule. So you get desperate, and you take the walk of shame to your university’s learning commons, and submit your application for a tutor. What you hadn’t expected was for your tutor to be so cute, and for him to spark some sort of chemistry with you outside of the classroom. You’re not going to complain, not when it all comes to a head one night at a house party before finals week and you end up with your pretty little tutor underneath you in bed.

Warnings: nerd x popular trope, nerd!sub!jisung, popular!dom!reader, penetration (reader!receiving), quickshot Han Jisung, the glasses stay on, overstimulation (Jisung!receiving), semi-public sex (other people are in the house), swearing

w.c.: 8.8K

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You know I had to do it!!! Nerdsung is so special to me <3 Gross little loser with glasses and poorly shaved stubble (you know the Jisung picture I’m talking about…) is my foil. I know this has been written before, but that’s the fun of this event! Putting my own little spin on it. Sorry that this didn’t actually come out on day 1??? Literally so technology stupid that I fumbled using tumblr dot com. Forgive me everyone…Added a few thousand words as an apology <3 Anyways, I hope you enjoy, and happy almost day 1!

You’re failing chemistry.

You didn’t want to admit it to yourself at first. In all honesty, you still don’t want to admit it.

Because you pride yourself in being smart. In actually having a head on your shoulders. You’re a competitive cheerleader, the treasurer of your sorority, an honors student, and hell, you’re the student representative on the school board. You’re that guy that everyone knows vaguely for some reason, and you like to think that you’re well-liked amongst your social circles.

And somehow, despite all of your efforts, you’re failing chemistry.

General chemistry 1 was not a course you necessarily wanted to take. It was tedious, long lectures from a geriatric professor whose tenure needed to be challenged, and recitation periods with a jittery TA who clearly cared more about their Phd than how their students did in class. Which was fair, you suppose, but still didn’t make your life any easier. And the lab was no saving grace, with shitty rubrics that don’t actually tell you anything and a five page minimum procedure for every. Single. One. You were pretty sure you were going to tear your hair out at this point if the TA looked over your shoulder again and made a confused sound at what you were doing.

You’d try everything you could think of to pass this class on your own, but, much to your chagrin, you couldn’t take this class as a pass/fail course, because it was required for your major to graduate. Which meant the grade had to be good, or else it would tank your GPA into the depths of hell. You could say goodbye to your academic scholarships, and your spot on the cheer team (and your dignity).

In your time of need, halfway through the semester, you had given up, trudging across campus to the library and doing the walk of shame to the learning commons, which, of course, was at the far end of the first floor. You figured the only people who actually had to use the learning commons were idiots who didn’t actually try in their classes - the kind of desperate where you have to look your fellow students in the eyes and ask for not just help, but paid help. Plus, while you were a bit of a “nerd” yourself, the people that they usually hired for these positions had questionable hygiene on a good day. You shuddered, but trudged on, your shattered pride worth passing this god damn chemistry class.

There’s a mousy girl with a kind face sitting behind the front desk as you walk up, and she smiles at you as you approach. You realize with dread that she’s in the honors society with you, and you pray that she doesn’t recognize you.

“Hey, you!” she chirps, and you internally groan. “How can I help? Are you looking to become a tutor?”

You wince, shaking your head. “Unfortunately, no. General chemistry 1 is kicking my ass, and I can’t afford to fail it. Do you guys have any tutors who are free for that subject?”

“Oh, a million,” she responds, head bobbling as she nods, “Though some of them are, like, terrible. Let me try and hook you up with a good one.”

“You’re a lifesaver,” you say, a grateful smile crossing your face, “I owe you big time.”

She waves you off with a laugh, scrolling through some sort of database on the ancient computer perched in front of her. The light in one of the private rooms behind her flickers, and you’re stuck fiddling with the zipper of your coat while she searches.

“Scale of 1 to 10, how piss-poor?” You quip back, and she laughs.

“You’d hate Minho-oppa, he’s actually kind of a jerk,” she starts, fingers slowing down, “But he’s smart. If you can deal with his piss-poor personality, you’ll learn a lot with him.”

“Oh, like a solid 8. If his students didn’t get excellent grades after working with him, I would’ve thrown a fit about keeping him on our team. But I don’t think he’s the perfect fit-aha!”

She practically jumps out of her seat, grinning at you from behind the desk. You raise an eyebrow and tilt your head, prompting her to go on.

“Jisung. You would love him. Super shy but very sweet, like, adorably so. He’s one of our newer ones but he got an A in gen. chem, looks like. Plus, he’s got a lot of availability!”

“Jisung,” you say, rolling the name in your mouth, “Okay. I’ll give him a shot. What do you need from me?”

She slides a form across the desk, and waves vaguely towards a cup of pens. You thank her quietly and fill it out quickly. It’s the usual nonsense - your name, your email, your phone number, your consent to be messaged and how the university isn’t liable for any trouble you have with your tutor - and you’re sliding the paper back to her. She types something on the computer, and then gives you a double thumbs-up and a bright grin.

“He’s been notified! You should be hearing from him soon. You let me know if he isn’t treating you right, and I’ll come after him.”

You laugh good naturedly, and give her a small nod. “I will. Thank you, seriously.”

The next morning, your phone buzzes in your pocket, an unknown number, and you can already tell that honors society girl was right about him being kind of adorable. He’s tripled texted you, and it’s both extremely formal and like he’s never talked to a person ever.

From: Unknown

>Hey there! This is Jisung, from the learning commons?>And hopefully you’re the person looking for general chemistry 1 tutoring!

>If you’re not then please ignore this. Or tell me actually so that I can get the right phone number!! That would be cool and awesome

You snort, already picturing what this guy looks like in your head. You save his contact as “Gen Chem” and text him back with one hand, letting him know when you’re available this week to hopefully meet.

You’re in a little bookstore/cafe right outside of campus three days later, right after the dinner rush has died down. The sun is just starting to slip past the horizon, casting a golden light in through the big windows at the front of the store, as you slip into the building. Jisung had let you know that he had already set up camp at one of the booths on the right. You glance back down at your messages, searching for a guy in a “pink hoodie and glasses” (very descriptive, Jisung) who looked like he was waiting for someone.

Your eyes land on someone tucked in the last booth, and oh. You're embarrassed by the way that heat immediately crawls up your neck, because he’s cute. Dangerously so, the kind of cute that makes you want to make some very bad decisions. His glasses are slipping down his nose and a little crooked, and his lower lip catches between his teeth as he types something on his computer, and suddenly, you’re thinking about how it would feel to be biting into his lower lip.

Focus, you think, shaking your head a little bit and willing your feet to carry you over to where he’s sitting. You slip your headphones off, shove your phone in your pocket, and shape your mouth into your friendliest smile, praying the heat of your ears can be blamed on the cold nip of autumn air you caught on your way over.

“Jisung, right?”

His head snaps up, and he looks at you like you’re not real. His mouth opens and closes uselessly a few times, his eyes flickering up and down a few times before landing back on your face. Your smile stretches a little wider, a little more genuine, and you speak again.

“Unless I’ve got the wrong cute guy in a pink hoodie and glasses.”

“C-cute? Uhm, no, right guy! That’s me. Hi, I’m Jisung. Hi.” He stammers out, shifting his computer and notebooks to make room for you to place your stuff down on the table. He knocks a pen off the table in his haste, and you try not to giggle at the way he winces, leaning down to pick it up. You slide in across from him easily, unzipping your bag and sliding out your laptop, ignoring the way your heart somersaults when his eyes find yours again.

“Hi,” you say, introducing yourself warmly, “I’ve never done anything like this before. What do you need from me so that you can help?”

You watch his nervous energy morph into something more defined, more controlled, as he slips into his tutor role. “Well, do you know what you’re struggling with? Because we can start with what you already know, or if you want, we can start from ground zero and rebuild. Sometimes people have the fundamentals wrong, and that’s what’s holding them back from understanding what’s happening now, y’know? I want this to be about you, not about me. We’ll build all the instruction around what you need and how you learn.”

The first session flies by easily, Jisung surprisingly professional once he’s slipped into tutor mode. He knows when you need him to slow down without you telling him, and there’s something about the way he describes things that make some of the confusion turn into something that might actually make sense.

It helps, too, that whenever he sees your face start to morph into understanding, or whenever you get a question right, he gives you a blinding grin, like he’s genuinely so happy that you’re learning from him. It’s so cute that you stumble over your words the first few times it happens, your fingers twitching as you imagine reaching across the table and pinching his squishy cheeks. He doesn’t seem to get why you stammer though, instead encouraging you by leaning in closer, murmuring little words of praise about how you’re “so close” or “on the right track”. He’s so sweet that you almost feel gross finding him cute, but also, you’re human, and you don’t think anyone else would be fairing any better than you are when they’re sitting across from Han Jisung.

You start seeing him around campus more now that you’ve met him. You see him tucked into the same worn booth at the student union every morning when you’re going to get your coffee, computer already open and an absurd amount of open notebooks sprawled across the table. You see him in your psychology lecture as you walk down to your seat in the lecture hall, and when he catches your eye, you make sure to give him a little wave and a smile. His contact name changes from “Gen Chem” to “Han Jisung” to just “Jisung”, and he’s pinned at the top of your messages before you even really realize it. You see him walking with the same boy all of the time, who you later find out during one of your sessions is his roommate, Minho, the tutor that the desk girl told you was “mean”. You relay this information and he laughs, warm and open, eyes crinkling in a way that makes you want to kiss where the skin bends and folds.

“Sounds about right,” he had responded, snorting and shaking his head, “I love my hyung, but he actually is kind of mean sometimes. He means it in a good way, though!”

Now, with finals right around the corner and a cheer competition somehow every single weekend, you were running on empty. You looked forward to your sessions with Jisung, but you could tell by the worried crease between his eyes that he could tell you were running on fumes at this point. He had even insisted that you don’t even pay him your last session, voice genuine and earnest.

“I don’t think you can really be mean in a ‘good way’, Sung,” you had responded, skeptical, “Though if he’s your friend, then he’s my friend too, I suppose. I’m not sorry that I chose you over him.”

“You chose me?” he had said, cheeks dusting pink, and you had to try to hide your flush when you told him yes.

“You’re not even awake enough to remember anything we talked about today,” he had reprimanded gently, “No use charging you if you didn’t actually learn. You need to learn a better sleep schedule.”

“Says you.”

“Hey!”

Things always ended up like that with Jisung. It was just so easy to talk to him, to be around him. He’s not what people would think your “type” would be, not the athletic, jock type who you could be arm candy for. You don’t quite know when he became your favorite person, but you know for a fact that he is. Your friends had started to notice the way your eyes would drift when you’d be walking around campus, looking for the familiar shape of him hunched over his computer or the way his too-big hoodies draped over his frame.

“Looking for someone?” your friend had asked you the other day, voice teasing.

“No.” you had responded defensively, and she had just sent you a look.

“Who’s the lucky guy?”

You had huffed and diverted the conversation, but it stuck with you. You had been sure when you had seen Han, that your attraction to him was surface level, and it would stay as such. But the more time you spent with him, the more it stuck with you that this might actually be something real this time.

And that scared you shitless.

That’s why you were at this shitty party in the first place. It’s a Saturday night, your cheer team had gotten back ripe at 5 o’clock this very morning after a Friday night showcase, and you were ready to get plastered, throw yourself at the nearest semi-attractive guy, and pray that you don’t accidentally moan out Jisung’s name instead of his when you drag him into one of the empty bedrooms in this giant house.

You weren’t even sure who’s house this was, but whoever owned this place was loaded. A spiral staircase, a ridiculous chandelier, a loud rug in the main dining room (apparently there’s a second one, but you’ve yet to find it), and so much alcohol that the smell of it mixed with sweat almost made you nauseous. Had this been your first rodeo, it probably would have.

You’re wrapped up in something tiny, and while the walk up the winding road from the Uber had been freezing, the warmth radiating off of the sea of bodies in this opulent house was making the little number you had on well worth the twenty seconds of cold you had to endure. You like the way this outfit made you feel, and by the way you'd had more than a few appreciative eyes dragging over your body, you weren’t the only one who liked it. You press yourself into the makeshift dancefloor (complete with a shitty disco ball and all) and everything blurs together for a while. There’s lots of hands and bodies everywhere, and it takes you a while before you can even manage to keep yourself near enough to just one person to even consider who your target would be tonight.

The guy you’re making eyes at now, as the beat of the bass pulses through your veins, isn’t bad looking. In all honesty, you think he’s quite attractive - sharp cheekbones, pretty lips, hair somehow still looking soft despite being mixed with sweat - but for some reason, your body isn’t reacting. His eyes haven’t really looked at you, not really, too focused on the way the fabric of your too-short shirt stretches across the skin of your hips. It creeps up every time you twist just right, and you let yourself sink into the way he can’t look away when it does. And then his hands are on you, and he’s pulling you back, and you can feel the weight of his hard-on through his jeans, pressing right into the seam of your ass, and-

And you’re wrangling yourself out of his grasp, feet carrying you away before you can stop yourself.

Turn back, turn back, turn back turn back turn back! you scream at yourself internally, but that nauseous feeling is back in your stomach, and it has nothing to do with the two very tiny sips of alcohol you had out of your friend’s cup earlier. You pass her now as you press your way to the bathroom, certain that you’re going to throw up for some god forsaken reason - well, you know the reason, but you’re not willing to admit that to yourself just yet. Because you would never be able to let yourself live down the fact that you were feeling sick to your stomach because the boy you were grinding against on the dance floor wasn’t in a stupid baggy hoodie and dumb glasses, and didn’t have the prettiest smile you’ve ever seen-

You kick whatever couple was making out in there out of the bathroom, and they have the decency to look at least a little embarrassed at being walked in on. The sight of them makes you feel sick all over again, and you think the one sees it on their face, because they send you a slightly concerned look as they drag their partner off into the crowd by the wrist. You realize vaguely that this is the friend of one of the girls on the cheer team with you, that she could alert your friend of your rightfully concerning state, that she could be the downfall of your facade to hold it together.

No matter. You were alone now, in this huge bathroom that had two sinks, a tub, and a walk-in shower that was almost the size of your entire room. You take a look at yourself in the mirror and inhale, a quiet sound. Your eyes are wild, your hands are shaking, and your lower lip is swollen from how much you’ve been biting it.

“Fuck, okay,” you murmur, taking a few deep inhales as you stare at yourself, “Get it together. Get it together, won’t you?”

You slap your cheeks twice, shake your head violently, and turn on your heel to leave the too-big bathroom that made you feel like you were suffocating. It was a shoebox and a mansion all at once, and you had to be out of it.

You duck and weave through bodies, feeling the splash of alcohol on your skin as a particularly drunk girl from your team tips her cup on your arm as she tries to say hello. You give her a tight-lipped smile and keep moving, legs carrying you all the way to the beautiful barn doors that lead to the back door. Your fingers come to slide it open, to escape, when you hear it.

The unmistakable sound of Han Jisung’s laugh, bright and loud. Everything else becomes white noise, a blur of greyness and nothingness, as you spun around to search for the source of it. You think for a moment that you’re really just so pathetic that you’re hallucinating him right now, but then as you complete a second full spin, your eyes catch him.

You know why you didn’t see him the first time - he’s wearing something that you’ve never seen him in before. He has a tight black shirt on, the way it stretches and ripples across his chest and biceps making it look like a compression shirt. His usual black sweatpants that he admitted hadn’t seen a washing machine in nearly two weeks had been replaced with a nice pair of washed jeans, a boring black belt slipped through the loops. His fingers are dancing on a red solo cup, which is filled way too high for a guy who looks like he’s been here since the party started. You catch the peek of what looks to be a tattoo peeking out the dip of the neck of his shirt, and your head spins again, but from something else, this time.

And suddenly he’s moving, striding over to you in clumsy little steps. He bumps into someone and you watch his mouth form a million apologies at once, head bowing and bobbing frantically as the other person waves him off.

Because damn, how did you not know that Jisung had a sleeper build? If you were actually drunk you would have been literally drooling all over the place at seeing him like this. Even now, he still has that familiar shape of anxiety and nerves, his glasses still perched on the slope of his nose, and it makes you even more endeared to him. The first rush of genuine attraction slips into your veins without your permission, and you think about going outside again, about avoiding the center of the problem standing right in front of you, but you’re not fast enough, because Han’s eyes have already peeled away from whoever he’s talking to and found yours.

It’s like you short-circuited. You feel like a stupid teenager, the blush crawling down your cheeks and spreading into your neck at an incredibly more embarrassing speed than it ever has before. He smiles at you, all toothy and sweet, waving at you enthusiastically. You can barely kickstart your brain enough to get your hand to move and wave back, every movement feeling like you’re dragging your body through molasses.

“Hey!! Didn’t think I would see you here,” he says, nose crinkling as he grins in a way that makes you want to sink your teeth into him and bite, “Didn’t you have a competition?”

You catch the way his eyes slip off your face for a second, dropping down to the swell of your chest and the skin of your thighs peeking out below your shorts, the way it makes his eyes get a little hazy and his cheeks get a little pink. You’re so focused on his face, on watching him watch you, that you almost jump when his eyes jump back to yours, concern swirling in his irises.

“You okay? Hello, this is Han Jisung, calling from Earth-”

You let out a snort before you can choke it back, the sound dissolving into a helpless (and embarrassed) giggle. He gives you that sheepish, warm smile he always does, that little edge of disbelief still sitting in the shape of his face, like he’s surprised you think he’s funny.

“‘m fine,” you hum, leaning closer to him to ‘talk’ so that you can smell the faint cologne clinging to the collar of his shirt, “It’s just loud in here. A little overwhelming, you know? And comp was last night, we got back this morning.”

“And the first place you wanted to be was a shitty house party, of course,” he teases, eyes crinkling at the corners when you roll your eyes at him, “Seriously, what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be getting your beauty sleep?”

“Shouldn’t a nerd like you be studying?” you bite back, though there’s no real venom in your tone. “Finals are coming up, you know.”

“Minho-” he nods his head back to the conversation he ditched, who is staring at the two of you with a kind of burning intensity you can’t place “-insisted I get out tonight. Said something about one last hurrah, and also threatened to air fry my textbooks so…I had no choice, really.”

“Mean in a good way,” you hum, sticking your tongue out at this Minho character, “I see the vision now.”

“Did you just-” he laughs, real and genuine, the kind of laugh that always made your whole body feel like it was made of bugs.

“He’s never going to let that go.”

“Good,” you say, though the thump of the bass picks up, and you’re barely able to hear your own voice anymore, “Gotta start off on the right foot.”

You can see him laugh, but you can’t really hear it anymore, all of the sound in the room swirling into some sort of evil cacophony. Han must catch the way you wince, because he lights up, grabbing your wrist without a second thought and dragging you off towards the insane spiral staircase. He yells something back to you, drink sloshing in his hand, but you’re too distracted by the noise of the room (and the way that the punch is trickling over his long, thick fingers) to actually hear whatever he was trying to tell you.

The two of you trip up the stairs, bumping into couples pressed against the banister and people just trying to get away from some of the sound. You think you apologize, but everything is fuzzy, the only thing in focus is the stupid cute boy in front of you, whose fingers feel warm and nice against your wrist. He takes a sharp left at the top of the stairs, then a sharp right, and then he’s pulling open doors and guiding you up another set of stairs, and by the time you get to wherever he’s taking you, you’re lost.

“Ta-da!” he says triumphantly, pulling you into something that looks like a bedroom.

You just raise an eyebrow at him, and he pouts, letting you go to bolt off further into the room. You slip into the room fully, sliding the door closed behind you gently as you take in the room you’re in.

You peek your head out the window to find an expanse of strangely flat roof, and an extremely proud looking Jisung perched on it.

It’s yet another opulent room, the kind that looks like no one’s touched it in years but a maid, complete with a giant queen sized canopy bed and a bookshelf full of books that look like they might turn to dust if you touch them.

“C’mere!” you hear Jisung call out, and your eyes are drawn to the window in front of you, curtains now billowing, and you realize with startling clarity that Jisung must have climbed out the window, because he’s no longer in the room with you. His voice is a little muffled, but you’re drawn to it anyways.

“Found such a cool spot earlier,” he says, starting to ramble, “And I thought of you right away-I mean-I thought you would like it! Yeah, because you talked about it once. Wanting to see the stars, I mean. You said you wanted to go stargazing? And I know this party isn’t ideal, but uh-well…I just thought maybe you’d still want to see? With me? If that’s okay??”

You’ve climbed your way out the window by the time he stops rambling, cheeks flushed and glasses slipping down his nose as he looks at you with those big boba eyes of his. Well, looks past you - he can’t seem to make eye contact with you right now, not after his little outburst. In a moment of boldness and perhaps stupidity, you reach out and press a finger to the bridge of his glasses, sliding them back up into place for him. He gawks at you, hand clenching and unclenching at his side, and you have to pretend like you don’t want to jump his bones right this instant as you slide to sit on the roof next to him.

Neither of you say anything for a moment. You’re lost in the way the moonlight makes him look like he’s glowing, in the way he can’t seem to stop himself from looking at you back. You’re close - too close, shoulders brushing and breath mixing together between you. You will yourself to say something, to say anything, but the words get caught in your throat, stuck and tangled there. You feel sick again, but not like you did before. You think the only cure to the swirling in your gut would be to feel Jisung’s lips against yours.

He makes a choked sound in his throat when you lean closer, your eyes dropping to his lips and then dragging up the flush of his cheeks and the curve of his nose to meet his eyes again. His lower lip catches between his teeth, and your tongue flicks out subconsciously, licking your lips as you watch him.

“Can I?” you hum, the way your voice breaks giving away your desperation.

He nods once, solemnly, shiny eyes pleading you to close the gap. His fingers tentatively dance across the cold roof below you, until they’re brushing against yours. You close the gap, sliding your hand on top of his, and lean in again, closer and closer. You stop just short of his lips, noses brushing. You can faintly smell the dull edge of alcohol on his breath and sweat on his skin, mixed with the hint of that dull cologne you caught earlier, but you don’t press in yet, revelling in the way his eyes slipped closed already.

“Words, Sungie.” You murmur, and he shivers when the breath of your words brushes his skin.

“Please.”

That’s all the confirmation you need to close the gap, and god, it’s everything you ever wanted. Out here, under the glow of the stars dotting the sky, there was nothing but the two of you. His lips are nervous against yours, his hand twitching under yours when you tilt your head to deepen the kiss. He whimpers and it makes you press closer to him, knee brushing his. You only pull away from him to part for air, a quick inhale just to satiate your screaming lungs before you dive back in to kiss him senseless all over again.

He tastes like the shitty punch downstairs and the hint of something sweet, the lip balm on his lips tasting faintly of strawberries when you sweep your tongue across it. The longer you kiss, the more confident he seems to get against you, nerves melting into something needier as he presses back into you with just as much fervour as you’re giving him. When your tongue comes to swipe at his lips again he lets them part, lets your tongue explore the expanse of his mouth and tangle with his tongue. His tongue peeks into your mouth, experimental, and you let him guide the kiss. He’s not good, necessarily, movements clunky and nervous, but he’s so eager that it sends a spike of heat through you anyways, warmth pooling in your abdomen. You can feel the way your arousal is starting to seep out of you, the way your underwear starts to feel a little damp through your tiny shorts.

When the two of you pull away from each other you’re sure you’re a mess. Your lips feel swollen and raw, and your skin feels like it's on fire, despite the nip of cold air on the roof.

“Wow.” He says, breathless, the word tumbling out of his mouth without his permission.

You just lean forward to press your forehead to his, equally breathless, a swirl of emotions you aren’t willing to name yet sitting heavy in your stomach. He leans in too, and for a moment, the two of you just sit there, pressed against each other under the stars. Your fingers are still warm on top of his, and you squeeze, just once, and he presses a little harder into you.

You pull away only to look at him, studying his face quietly in the glow of the aftermath. He won’t really look at you, eyes searching the area around your face but never looking right at you. You bring your free hand up to grab at his chin gently, guiding his face to look at you.

“God, you’re perfect,” you say, words slipping out before your brain can stop them, “Thank you.”

“Thank-thank me?” He looks at you, incredulous. “You just-you-I can’t even form sentences right now! You’re so-” he motions wildly with his hands, eyes wide and glassy “-you know?”

“Right,” you say, a laughing edge to your tone, “And I’ll take being-” you let go of his face to mimic his motions “-if you keep being perfect.”

He flushes a pretty pink, mouth curling at the corners into a shy sort of smile. You lean forward to kiss it, a quick, chaste kiss to each corner before you press a longer, lingering kiss right to the center of his mouth. He leans in as you lean away, chasing your mouth, until he’s swallowed your lips in another kiss. He kisses you like he can’t believe you’re real, like you might just disappear if he lets you get away from him for even a second. The kisses twist into something hot again, desperation lingering in every swipe of the tongue and scrape of teeth, and you force yourself to pull away before you start pawing at his pants out here in the open.

“Not out here,” you pant out, lips red and glossy from a mix of his spit and yours, “Back inside?”

“You want-with me?” You send him a look, and he scrambles up, nodding. “Okay. Okay. Inside. Yeah, let’s-here, I’ll go in first, help you through! I’m a real gentleman, you know-”

“Yeah?” You cut him off before his cute rambling makes you leak through your shorts, too, “Do all the ladies call you that?”

“Hopefully uhm-hopefully just you!” He squeaks out, before practically catapulting himself back into the house through the window.

You hear a faint “ow!” followed by the shuffle of limbs, and Jisung is peeking back out the window at you, glasses skewed on his face and hair a little messier than before. You do your best not to laugh at him and accept the hand that he offers you, slipping back into the room with far more grace and ease than he did.

The air is thick with words unspoken, with what ifs and maybes that you don’t think you’re ready to address yet. Instead, you slip your top off, tossing it onto the thick armchair in the corner of the giant room (who needs an armchair in their bedroom??). Han visibly short circuits, mouth agape and opening and closing uselessly as he drinks you in. His eyes are greedy, dragging over every square inch of your exposed skin until you’re shifting in place, nervous.

“You too,” you say, sudden shyness clinging to the edges of your words, “I want to see you.”

“I-you-okay!” He squeaks, yanking the hem of his shirt out of where it’s tucked into his jeans.

He clumsily pulls the top over his head, the collar catching his glasses and leaving them dangling off one of his ears. He tosses his shirt to sit with yours on the armchair, and when he goes to take off his glasses, you glide over, grabbing his wrist and stopping him.

“Leave them on.”

You don’t elaborate, and he doesn’t need you to. The way his ears burn red and his mouth parts into a little ‘o’ tells you all you need to know. You let your fingers brush his cheek as you use both hands to fix the glasses on his face, letting out a content hum when they’re sitting on his nose just right again.

You watch his face as you let your hands drop from his face, fingers splaying across his broad shoulders. When he whimpers, high and needy and in the back of his throat, as your touch gets firmer, more explorative, you let yourself continue your path downwards. The muscles under his skin are solid, tensing and rippling when he shifts to press into your touch. The room is quiet, sans the sound of your breathing and his little noises when you brush a sensitive patch of skin. The junction where shoulder meets neck is particularly sensitive, and you make sure to run a light touch over that spot just to watch him jump and whine.

Of all the people you would have expected to have secret tattoos, Han Jisung was not one of them, but you’re damn grateful he has them. The piece that spreads out in dark ink across his upper right chest and shoulder is calling your name, and you first let your fingers drag across it before leaning forward and tracing the lettering with your tongue. His head falls back when your tongue makes contact with his skin, but his eyes stay open, laser-focused on your every move. His hands still hang uselessly by his side, digging into the fabric of his jeans when your teasing touch is just a bit too much.

“When did you get these?” you say against his skin, the hum of your voice in his body sending a jolt of heat through him.

He tries to answer, he really does, but when one of your hands drops and starts tracing the letters that run up his side, it’s like he’s forgotten how to. A mix between a moan and a choked word tumbles out of his mouth when you let your nails lightly drag over it, goosebumps raising on his skin everywhere you touch.

You pinch his side and bite right into the compass on his chest, faux glaring up at him. “C’mon, Ji, when’d you get these?”

“I don’t-hrk! Don’t remember,” he huffs out, head lolling, “Maybe, maybe five or-hah-five or s-six months-oooh, sh-shit-ago?”

“Y-yeah? You think so?” He says, heat dusting his neck and upper chest a light pink.

You hum appreciatively against his skin.

“Looks good on you,” you say, pressing a kind kiss to the place you bit, which now holds the indents of your teeth on it, “Makes you even hotter.”

You hum again, an affirmative sound, before your fingers teasing the tattoo on his side slide to his belt buckle. You don’t fiddle with it yet, just let your fingers rest there, sending him a questioning look.

“Can I?”

“Yeah, yeah, yes, of course?? Duh?? Go ahead, do whatever you want, you’re so unreal-mmph!”

You cut him off with an amused kiss, a little disappointed in yourself that you’re somehow even more turned on by his rambling, but you let it slide. Your fingers focus on undoing his belt for now, the buckle clinking gently as you wrestle it open. You don’t even bother pulling it from the belt loops, instead undoing the button at the top of his jeans and unzipping his fly. His hips buck up into your touch, barely there enough to have brushed where he needs you the most but enough for him to long for it. He whines when you pull away from him, eyes searching your face as you take a step back.

“Take those off and meet me on the bed, won’t you?” You say, a cool dominance sinking into your tone.

It’s not usually your style to take control like this, but there’s something very intoxicating and tempting about the idea of guiding Jisung through it, bending him to your whims and wants. He’s just so pliable, following your every direction like it’s gospel.

He nods frantically, mumbling something quietly to himself that almost sounds a little like a motivational speech to himself. You turn and slide yourself out of your too-small shorts and your underwear in one swoop, wincing when a sticky trail of arousal smears down your leg as you do. You don’t look back at him, partially because you already know he’s going to follow you, but also because you know whatever control you’re holding right now is going to break the second you get a good look at him, flushed and naked and ready for you.

You climb up onto the canopy bed with ease, wincing when a thin layer of dust puffs into the air when your weight sinks into it. You suppose it’s for the best that no one uses this bed after what the two of you are going to do on it, but it still makes you cough a little as you breathe it in.

Ignoring the scratch of the dust in your airways, you slide up until you’re on your back near the headboard, head pressed into the pillows at the top of the bed. Your hair splays out across the silky pillowcases, and only now do you allow yourself a proper look at Jisung. And you’re very glad you waited until you were seated, because you’re quite certain that your knees would’ve given out if you’d seen him still standing. Another gush of arousal seeps out of you, and your thighs try to twitch closed on their own.

He looks so good in the moonlight, all sharp edges and muscle. You don’t know how he ever hid himself from you before, the tension of skin over firm muscle hard to miss as he stumbles over to the bed. Between his legs lies his straining erection, bobbing with every step he takes, red and flushed and leaking almost as much as you are. You would be embarrassed for him if it wasn’t so hot to see how desperate he was for you. He wasn’t particularly long or thick, sitting somewhere in that average range, but the way it curved just slightly upwards made you drool a bit, knowing that he’s going to hit that sweet spot inside of you perfectly.

He hovers near the side of the bed hesitantly, fingers stretching through the air to reach towards you but stopping, hovering like he needed your permission to even touch. If you were less desperate yourself you might make him beg, but the idea of waiting any longer to have him on you wasn’t all that appealing, not when you’ve been picturing this moment in your head for the past few months.

“C’mere,” you motion, legs spreading wide to make room for him, “Need you, Sungie. Need you.”

You make sure to whine out the last word, dragging out the vowel in a way that had him biting his lip and dragging himself onto the mattress with you. He settles between your legs, fingers just brushing the skin of your hips, before he looks up at you again for permission. You huff, exasperated with his hesitance, linking your legs behind his back and dragging him forward until his arousal is pressed right against yours. The contact is so delicious that it has you throwing your head back and him falling forward, hands coming to catch himself on either side of your head. His glasses are getting foggy around the edges now, the humidity of sweat and sex in the air enough to blur the glass. He lets out what you could only describe as a wail, hips rutting against you uncontrollably as he seeks more of that delicious friction.

His precum smears and mixes with yours, a hot mess coating both your entrance and his dick with the mixture of your arousals. He thinks this might just be how he dies, pressed against you in some random guy’s house. He thanks the lucky stars that Minho dragged him out here tonight as his tip catches the ring of your entrance, making both of you moan. The sound echoes off the walls, and your mouth falls open again when he presses down with more force, the pressure too much and somehow not enough.

“Sungie. Kiss me?” You moan out, hips bucking up to glide the two of you together.

He kisses you so hard your teeth clack together, but neither of you can care, not when everything feels so good, the thrum of pleasure burning hot through both of your veins. He’s loud, louder than you, and you try and swallow his sounds as best as you can. Not that anyone would find you out here, in this secluded corner of the house, but a sick little part of you wants these sounds to be yours and yours alone. Whatever this is will happen again - you’re going to make sure of it - and while you’re not ready to say it just yet, you want to be his just as much as you want him to be yours.

“Please, please, jagiya, can I? Can-hic! Can I put it in, please?” Jisung whines against your mouth, pace getting inconsistent as he ruts against you like an animal.

You nod against him, foreheads pressing together as he looks down, trying to guide the buck of his hips to slip his cock into your waiting entrance. But everything’s too wet, the mess of your arousals making everything too slippery, and Jisung whines, bucking more frantically now.

You let out a broken sound when his tip catches your entrance and shlicks back up, your tightness too much for his cock to slide in without some guidance. And you want to be patient, to let him try, but you can’t do it anymore. You need him so bad that every bit of your judgement is clouded, the only conscious drive left in your brain telling you that you needed his cock to stretch you open now.

Your legs lock around him once again, and before he can even open his mouth to question you, you’re using your body weight to throw him sideways, effectively flipping your positions. You land on top of him, arousal pressed directly on top of his aching cock in a way that has his hips arching off the bed into you.

You lift your own hips just enough to reach a hand down to grab at his member, guiding his tip to your entrance. You hold the base as you sink, slow and teasingly at first, entrance only swallowing the tip. You hover there for a moment, only the fat head of his cock inside of you, and let your walls flutter around him, revelling in the way it makes his head fall back and his mouth fall open.

“Jagiya.” He sobs, and then your name, and then useless babbles when you slam down, taking him all the way to the base.

It knocks the air out of you, the curve of him pressing directly into that spot inside of you that makes you see stars. Your vision spins for a second, fireworks exploding behind your eyes, and you have to press a hand to his chest to steady yourself. The muscle under your fingers twitch, and you can feel the rapid drum of his heartbeat against your fingertips, making you clench down around him.

“Ohmygod,” he sobs, eyes rolling back, cock twitching and swelling inside of you, “You feel-oh my god. I can’t-can’t, I’m gonna. Can I? Please please please, can I?”

“Already?” you tease, though the breathiness in your voice reveals just how close you already feel, too. “As long as you let me keep using you-ooooh, fuck-using you to get off, you can come whenever you want. Wanna feel you filling me up nice and full.”

He hiccups at that, glasses fully foggy on his face now, barely sitting on the tip of his nose. His cheeks are flushed a deep pink, and his fingers are digging into the sheets below you with so much strength you fear they might rip. While you sit for a moment and adjust to the way he stretches you open, you lift your hand off his chest and use both hands to guide his to sit on the meat of your hips. They don’t do anything at first, just rest, warm and hot against your skin, but when you clench again, they dig deep into your skin, hard enough that you know you’ll have bruises tomorrow.

The idea of his mark on your skin makes you giddy, and it’s what gets you to start bouncing, slowly at first, letting him really feel the slide of your walls around him. He groans, the sound tearing out of him from somewhere deep and low in his chest, almost animalistic. You’re already feeling the coil inside of you starting to wind tight, so worked up already from all of the build-up that you’re not sure you’re going to last long enough to really use him after his orgasm.

That’s what you thought, but with a silent scream, Jisung is coming, warm spurts of cum filling you up. He comes so much, still twitching and leaking into you as you continue your pace, desperate to get yourself off now, too.

“It’s too much,” he sobs, hiccuping and digging his fingers into your hips to try and pry you off of his sensitive cock, “Too much! Can’t, I can’t, it hurts, please-”

“You told me-hngh-you told me you could take it,” you respond, hips picking up their pace, his arms too weak right now to get you off of him, “So you’re going to. I’m gonna come all around your cock, okay? So take it like a good boy, fuck, that’s it, that’s-hah-that’s the spot. Just-hrk! Jus’ sit still and look pretty, there you go jagi.”

You shut up before your words become totally incoherent, simply letting your pleasure morph into whimpers and moans as you roll your hips in a circle, dragging his cock, still hard inside of you (you’re not sure he ever went down), against that spot inside of you again and again and again. This is no longer about him, about the two of you, it’s about using him like a human dildo and getting yourself off.

There’s fat tears rolling down his cheeks now, drool slipping out the corner of his swollen lips, and you reach a thumb up to wipe away the tears, cooing when his head tilts to press into your touch. The way his whole body just gives in to you, his willingness to let you keep pushing him past overstimulation, is enough to make you tip over the edge.

“I’m gonna come, you’re gonna make me come, Jisung!”

With a shout of his name on your tongue you let go, gushing around his length and soaking his dick and his thighs with your come. His eyes roll back as you do, and if you were any more present in the moment, you would feel the weak twitch of him inside of you as he comes a second time. You think you black out for a second, falling forward to press your face into the curve of his shoulder. You sink your teeth in as your high rolls through you, the shockwaves almost too much, as he grinds up into you to work you through it. You’re everywhere and nowhere all at once, until the sting of overstimulation starts to creep up your spine and you have to press his hips into the bed with your weight to keep him from continuing.

You slide off of him, both of you hissing as his soft cock slides out of you, along with a slick mixture of both of your cum. Your legs feel like jello, and it takes far more effort than you would like to admit to lie down next to him. He rolls over into you once you do, shifting so that his face presses into your chest. Your arms come to drape around him automatically, one hand reaching to run through his hair and the other running soothing circles into his back.

“Thank you.” He says, after a while of comfortable silence. “For this, I mean. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” you huff, poking at the muscles in his back, “You’re not some charity case.”

“Well I’m me, and you’re, well…you’re you,” he says, like that explains everything, “I don’t-guys like me don’t get chances with people like you.”

“What, hot, sexy nerds who have a good dick game don’t want to sleep with people like me? I see how it is.” You tease, though there’s a sharp edge to your words. “Be so for real, Sungie. I should be thanking you.”

He buries his face into your chest, mumbling something about how “unfair” you are, and you just laugh, bending your head to press a kiss to the crown of his head.

“We should probably get moving,” you say, trying to break the tension that’s building in your chest, “I’m not sleeping in this freak ass house. I can’t do it.”

“We can go back to mine!” Jisung offers, and then flushes when your head snaps to look at him, “I mean. If you want to? Minho and I have separate rooms, and oh my god, this was just a hook up, wasn’t it?? Sorry, you uh-I can just-”

He detangles himself from you, trying to slide off the mattress, avoiding eye contact with you as he continues to ramble, so quietly that you can’t actually hear what he’s saying.

“Jisung.” you say, firm and sharp, grabbing his wrist before he can get any further.

He glances back at you, the hint of something hopeful in his eyes.

“I’d love to.”

And if you stick your tongue out at Minho again as the two of you limp out of the party, well, no one would be the wiser.

I hope you enjoyed! Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated ♡

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