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#anyways sorry I’m a shitty human with subpar shitty words
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Words of a Feather 05/27/2021
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jksangelic · 5 years
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peaches & piercings (m)
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↳ rating: M
↳ genre: punk!jimin, e2l, college au, very explicit smut, one-shot, jimin is a whole asshole
↳ pairing: cheerleader!reader x punk!jimin
↳ warnings: explicit sexual content, unprotected sex, sub/dom themes, casual sex, be t r ay a l, alcohol (and weed? idk) consumption, oral sex (male receiving), squirting, thigh-fucking, kind of exhibitionism?, jimin is pierced (that’s all i’ll say), just expect the worst from me tbh
↳ summary: jimin, dipped in hair-dye and pierced in so many places that you just couldn’t keep track, doesn’t think you’re his “type”. you call bullshit.
↳ note: i reallyreallyreally hated this fic. loved the idea, hated how i wrote it. i’ve had this bad boy sitting in my archives for months and months and months and couldn’t gather the courage to post it until NOW! partially because this is an apology fic for my inactivity and more so because i just think i’ve read it too many times that at this point, i’m just being nit-picky and need to move on.
a special thanks to the lovely @14statelier whomst unwillingly received dong pics for the sake of this fic. i’m so glad i found someone as sweet as you to beta for me + become an even better galpal! love u always xx
also thanks to my gal @jungshookz, i’m pretty sure (78% positive) i sent her my idea via snapchat and was probably inspired by her in some way, per usual.
OKAY i’m done you can read now hehehe
↳ words: 11.6k
↳ parts: one | two (complete)
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“Jungkook, if you’re not going to throw it then get your grabby hands off my waist,” you warn, eyeing him as he stands behind you and delays in one-manning you into an extension or ogling your ass in your skirt.
           “You’re just so wobbly today, I’m waiting for you to chill out a bit,” he lies with a smirk. You smack his hand but exhale deeply as you firmly grasp his wrists and count.
           “1, 2!” With mutual timing, Jungkook dips down with you before heaving your body above, squatting to catch your heels mid-air, and pumping back up into an extended position. He’s right, you wobble a bit, calling out, “Bail!” and feeling his hands disappear beneath to re-catch your thighs and bring you down safely on your toes. You curse silently under your breath but pat Jungkook’s shoulder as a symbolic “thank you”.
“It’s too fucking early for this, I’m tired,” you say, only making excuses for yourself.
“Well, liven up. The doors are going to open soon and no freshmen want to join a failure of a cheer team.”
“Hey, stop bickering,” the captain, Suzy, orders, “Y/N, you’re fine to just handle the flyers, I’ll stunt with Jungkook.” You squish her into an exhausted hug.
“This is why you’re captain,” you coo.
With that, some of the staff open the gym doors, welcoming an intimidatingly large group of people in with smiles. You fake one yourself, ready to get this over with as soon as possible so you can go back to your dorm and sleep. Within ten minutes, you had a group of girls and a handful of brawny guys already watching Suzy and Jungkook’s exhibition, a mixture of oohs and ahs being rewarded. You handed each of them a thin, poorly-made flyer with pixelated clipart of a girl doing a toe-touch before they scrambled.
After a while, most of the initial commotion dies down and you people-watch each clueless face, thinking how adorable they are, so young and so lost, as if it weren’t you only a few months ago. You’re only a sophomore, but in your head that gives you enough authority to judge the freshmen.
You snap out of your daze upon boots clicking in the distance, soon revealing a man seemingly darting through the crowds to exit across the other side. You would’ve ignored him if it wasn’t for his peachy-tinted hair, long and slicked back atop and close-shaven near his neck, his thin but fit stature dressed in all-black, and the glint of metal, that you soon realized was a septum piercing, in his nose. He has a dark sleeve consuming his right arm and you wonder what eighteen or nineteen year old has a fully-developed sleeve.
Although his eyes were covered with chunky black sunglasses (in the gym, at that), the rest of his appearance sent your pierced-and-tatted-hot-boy alarm berserk. Suddenly awake, you wait for him to head closer to your booth before hopping next to him.
“Hi there, freshie. Care to take a tryout flyer for this year’s cheer team?” you ask with a pitch that’s much higher than your own, kindly handing him one of the shitty-looking papers. He mutters something under his breath that you don’t catch but speaks before you can ask him to clarify.
“Not a freshman. Do I look like someone who cheers? I’m just looking for the counseling center to turn in my transfer papers.
“Also, can you, like, give me some personal space?” he continues in a mock valley-girl tone.
You jump back, completely caught off guard with his sudden hostility and attempting to regain your composure by clearing your throat. Someone must’ve shoved a stick up his ass this morning.
“Oh, uh, sorry. Once you leave the gym, you head right, pass two sets of restrooms, head left, and it’s behind the big statue where the foyer is.” Your voice sounds much better.
His eyebrows rocket upwards over his glasses, completely frazzled by the number of directions you gave him, “Shit, okay. That’s a lot.”
“Here, I’ll just walk you,” you say, not giving him any time for him to probably decline. You don’t even question if he’s following you or not, the obvious clunkclunkclunk of his boots giving it away.
Unsurprisingly, the man doesn’t try to talk to you on the way to the counseling center. At most, he walks side-by-side, at least three meters between you for good measure. And even though it’s pretty clear he doesn’t want to talk, you ring him out a little more anyway.
“So, you’re not a freshman. Underclassman or upperclassman? And you’re a transfer? From where?”
Pass two sets of restrooms and head left.
“Senior. From Busan.” He doesn’t even show a hint of feeling. Emotion. Does this guy even breathe?
Straight until the statue in the foyer.
“Great. Well, it was nice to meet you, senior from Busan. I’m Y/N. If you ever need help or anything, feel free to ask me,” you deadpan, swiveling on your feet to salute him.
He leans on one hip, taking a hand with an incredible amount of rings on it and pushing his sunglasses over his hair like a headband. You certainly weren’t expecting a reveal of the kindest puppy dog eyes you’ve ever seen in your entire life. He almost looks permanently sleepy—eyes drooping flat on the lid. Your trance distracted you from his brief once-over, unpredictably impressed by your looks, if he had to admit it.
“It’s Jimin. Jimin, senior from Busan. See you around, cheerleader,” he says with a sly tilt of his lips before swinging the door open and slithering into the office. Past all the glitter and bright colors that poured out of that hideous uniform of yours, Jimin found you really cute.
Jimin waits patiently for the front desk to call him up, lounging in one of the hard, black plastic chairs that never failed to give his ass cramps. Though he didn’t seem like it to new faces around the campus, he was ecstatic to be starting college again in a whole new atmosphere. He even got to room with another male originally from Korea, Min Yoongi, in a small condo not too far a walk from the area.
He could even prospect cuties like you during his year, undoubtedly positive he could busy himself judging by the attention he’s attracted so far. All it would take is a hungry stare, a lick of his lips, an all-knowing smirk. It was easier here than it was back home, if not child’s play. He could have you in three hours flat. But then he thinks of you choosing the obnoxious cliché of college cheerleader and cringes at the idea of associating himself with such… American-ness. He could at least go for some sort of indifferent, grunge hipster that might actually have some thought to her. Yeah, more his style.
The woman at the front finally calls for him, so he arranges his papers and shoos away any daydream of hooking up with the girl in a tight skirt and ankle socks.
Taking the long route back to the gym, your imagination sputters through all the possible reasons why you should hate that guy, bad-guy radar ringing and shrieking and threatening to punch you square in the eye if you even think about it. Eventually, it comes to the conclusion that he was just new, he was probably having a rough moving-in, and you shouldn’t judge a transfer by their hair. Book by its binding? You don’t really remember how the saying goes in this situation.
“Hey, good job on snaking yourself out of flyer duty. What, did you bang Asian Hot Topic on your way?” Jungkook snickers.
“And did Cait break up with you because you can’t dom for shit? Hand me my jacket.”
He guffaws, practically throwing the clothing at your face, “We didn’t break up, asswipe. How am I supposed to act when she suddenly calls me ‘daddy’ without previous warning? I’m not ready to be a father.”
“Kook, you’re dumb as shit. Maybe I should bang Asian Hot Topic and give you pointers of how a real dom works their magic.”
Jungkook crosses his arms in denial, “Pfft, you don’t even know him. He could be a receiver for all you know.”
One, two, three seconds. You both chortle at the impracticality.
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You take one final look in the body mirror, adjusting the slinky grey dress and hanging an oversized burnt-orange corduroy jacket over your shoulders for that final touch of unnecessary, but fashionably-adept, garnish to your outfit cupcake. Not having enough time to do your hair, you sweep it over to one side and leave it as is.
“You look fine and you’re ten minutes late so get out already,” your roommate, Sara, whines. She practically pushes you out, slamming and locking the door for emphasis.
Waving off your discombobulated roommate, you start your trek to the humanities building (which is so far away) with a skip in your step. A new school year meant new people, new classes, more lunchtimes with subpar food and occasional parties that could potentially lead to you getting arrested. Who knows!
A new school year, however, didn’t mean that you would know your way to your new class apparently. Bummer.
It’s only by your fourth circle and a glance at your phone that you panic, fifteen minutes somehow passing in the midst of your scrambling. Pace quickening, you pull out your paper with sloppily written notes of what class room number was at which time, simultaneously half-jogging past classrooms and—
“Oof!”
You land straight on your ass.
“Ow, watch where you’re going stu—oh, it’s you.”
You look up groggily, pain stinging through your legs from the brunt of your fall and lazily making eye contact with a pair of puppy dog eyes. Jimin stands above you, rubbing his chin where, you suppose, your forehead made rough contact with and indiscreetly staring at your bright blue panties where your dress failed to cover.
Hopping up and dusting yourself off, you pick up your fallen bag and paper before glaring at him, “Sorry, I got lost and wasn’t paying attention.”
He scoffs, “Aren’t you the cheerleader? You’re supposed to be, like, the girl scout of the school, right? You shouldn’t be lost.”
You roll your eyes, “Yeah, well. I am,” you mutter to yourself, “I don’t even think there’s a 207 in this building…”
“Oh, 207? Intro to psych, right? That’s where I’m going too,” he admits, eyes blown wide. Welp, certainly not the highlight of your morning.
“Great. By the looks of the current time, we’re both lost and,” you wave around the empty corridor, “there’s no one who’s going to help us.”
“I’m not lost. I just woke up late,” he answers nonchalantly, a warm glow to his face like he couldn’t give two damns about his class.
“W-What? Then let’s go! Where is it?”
Jimin twirls and walks a different direction, mumbling, “I’m not your escort, rich girl.”
You prattle at his comment but follow him anyway. When you find the correct lecture hall, you groan at the fact that you already passed it several times. He opens the door quietly, not even bothering to hold it for you as you scramble to catch it. A couple of the back rows look back at you two, annoyed by the minor inconvenience.
“Well. Welcome to my 10AM psychology class at,” the professor booms through the hall and peeks at his wristwatch, “10:36. Go ahead and take these two free seats.”
Jimin shrugs and walks towards the front of the room, a quiet and embarrassed you tiptoeing behind him. Being this late and having to sit next to this ass wasn’t how you wanted your first day to go at all.
For the remainder of the 24 minutes until the first break, you skim over the contents that you missed in the syllabus and want to ram your head into the closest wall. Participation and attendance by themselves are 30% of your grade, homework and assignments (thank god) being a measly 20%, and the final plus tests and quizzes a hunking remainder of 50%. What even was this system?
During your ten minute break, you silently scroll through your phone notifications, setting it down irritatingly when the hall refused to grant you enough service to respond to any of them.
“Don’t have LTE, princess? Might as well watch paint dry without your phone to entertain you,” Jimin snickers beside you. You scowl menacingly at him and he giggles more.
“I don’t know what your problem is, but back off, Jimin. Sorry I don’t, like, play the electric guitar in my free time or whatever.”
He doesn’t respond immediately, still smiling and blowing bubbles with his gum, popping them quite obnoxiously, and quite intentionally.
“What, do you think I play the electric guitar? Are you stereotyping me as some sort of garage band drop-out punk?” he jesters.
“And do you take me for some sort of pink fuzzy consumerist? You don’t know me. Buzz off.”
Jimin had definitely tucked you into his mental folder of “tough gals”; his aloof tactic of flirting not seeming to penetrate that pretty skull of yours. He could just take the path of least resistance and approach you normally, but where was the fun in that? You were too interesting a specimen to just use-and-discard.
Jimin suddenly thinks you look attractive with furrowed brows and pouted lips. It was most definitely working for you, so he lets it slide for now. When class ends, you all but bolt before Jimin can even look your way, sure he’d find another surface flaw to pick at.
You suddenly think of what all of the adults in your life have said during your upbringing: people that went out of their way to bully you were either jealous or had an embarrassingly crushing “thing” for you. Jimin, on the other hand, was just annoying.
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Of course, to your dismay, class isn’t the only time you ever saw him. You weren’t totally stupid. The campus didn’t stretch for miles and you were bound to see him sometime and have to deal with the efforts of avoiding the man at all costs but fuck were you praying to whoever controls your Sim above that they would grant you some mercy.
“Just tell him to fuck off if he’s so far up your ass,” Jungkook argues, crushing his juice box in one gulp and biting his massive cafeteria burrito.
“You don’t get it, Kook. I have. So many times, in so many different instances. Did I tell you about the time I thought he was helping me get a textbook from a tall shelf but he ended up taking that last one for himself?” You angrily rip a bite from your limp sandwich. You really did hate Turkey Thursdays.
“Eh, first come, first serve. Maybe he didn’t know you were trying to grab that one.”
“My ass, Jungkook. He claimed that if I really wanted it, I would ‘do something in fair exchange’ for it. I’m not looking to going into prostitution anytime soon.”
“Respect sex workers,” Jungkook criticizes.
“Oh, no, totally. Sex work just isn’t my forte.” Kook shrugs.
“Okay,” you continue, “how about the time I went to IKEA to buy that ceiling lamp and was obviously struggling to one-trip everything from my car? The dumbfuck passed by and asked if I needed help, so I was like, ‘Yeah! Sure, it would definitely make up for the time you asked for sex in lieu of my psych book,’ but instead of helping me carry anything he took my coffee, drank some, and left.” Jungkook starts a rebuttal but you cut him off short, “Then he showed up to my work the other day, god knows how he even saw me in there, and started taking a video of me when I wasn’t paying attention!”
“What the hell,” your friend sports a face of disgust, “like, he’s stalking you?”
You scratch the back of your neck, “Well, not exactly? I think he was just maybe—see, A$AP Rocky may or may have not been playing on the speakers, and I didn’t know anyone was in the shop! So. I don’t know. I started—”
“Started rapping with a rolled up poster as your microphone,” he deadpans. Finishing your horrid sandwich, you crumple the saran wrap and chuck it at his eye, satisfied when we wails exaggeratingly.
“Maybe that’s just his way of flirting with you, he’ll get bored eventually.”
“I think he just hates my guts and thinks of me as an equal to the gum under his thick, goth boots,” you mumble.
“Does it matter? So what if Danny Phantom doesn’t like you?”
“He’s causing a problem though. Besides, everyone cares if someone doesn’t like them. It’s bullshit if they tell you otherwise; bullshit or a lack of sympathy.”
“So what are you going to do about it? Because I’m totally your friend and all but I don’t necessarily want to hear about your boy problems all the time.” You harrumph at his negligence and slump back into your seat.
There really wasn’t anything you could do about it; it wasn’t bad enough to the point of distressing tyranny. You simply couldn’t befriend the guy, it was obvious he didn’t want that. You would just have to pray to all things good that he would eventually lose interest, stop harassing you out of kindness, or have a change of heart and treat you like the saint you were.
If only it were that easy.
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Sylly-week kicked ass, to say the least. Even two days prior the hectic week from hell, your body aches from partying while your wallet cries from all the textbooks and supplies you paid for.
Sara slept beside you, forehead stuck to the desk with her laptop stuck on some sort of half-assed document and you couldn’t fathom a better picture to represent college.
Although it was already around 11, you hop out of bed and throw on your windbreaker from cheer and some spandex, shuffling into a pair of your sneakers and bolting out of your room with your bag. The amount of sodium and sugar you consumed from Cup-O-Noodles and off-brand cookie dough bites made you feel disgusting, and you know running a quick mile at the gym would get your blood pumping enough to make you: 1) feel better about yourself and 2) put your ass to sleep.
The walk is short, the air still a little heavy with heat but cool enough for you to be comfortable in a long-sleeve. Some tired students exit the library, really the only other people you see at this hour. You would’ve thought it creepy if the campus wasn’t so well-lit and played background music through the announcement speakers. If you died or got kidnapped, at least it was to some groovy jazz.
You swipe your card across the sensor beside the athletic building door, waiting for that subtle beep before the gears clank and allow you to heave the door open. Immediately, the smell of sweat poorly masked with air freshener fill your nostrils and your adrenaline builds. You’re no body builder, but a run certainly sounded nice right about now.
You practically skip through the halls, rounding a corner to enter the weight room before you stop in your tracks to see someone in the room across. You squint suspiciously, peachy hair striking a very strong familiarity to…
“Jimin?” you whisper to yourself. You shouldn’t be surprised that he’s at the gym, but you are because he isn’t. He’s in the dance studio. Before you bolt, your eyes glue to his sensual movements, legs gliding across the floor and body free-flowing alongside the bass-filled music. No previous bias could deny that he looks like an angel in his room, dancing smooth as meringue and practically skating across the floor despite those clunky black boots of his; and powerful, hitting every note and beat with intention and vigor. You’ve never seen anyone dance like this.
After a few seconds, you render that you’re spying on him and continue walking, nervously scuffing your sneakers down the linoleum and immediately, and unfortunately, catching his attention.
He first sees you in the mirror. Ignores you. Then realizes it’s you and turns into the most ungraceful bag-of-bones as he scurries to pause the music and chases you down the hall.
“Hey!” he yells, grabbing your elbow.
“Don’t touch me,” you strike back, jerking your elbow out of his grasp and staring him down.
He looks apologetic, genuinely worried for a second before he breathes deep and tries again, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to grab you like that. Um, why are you here?”
“Um, because I can be? I was going to go to the gym, dickwad.”
It takes all of his patience not to insult you, “Okay. You’re right. Were you… were you watching me?”
You give him a sickeningly-sweet smile, “Don’t flatter yourself. I was just passing by.”
He nods solemnly, straightening his tank as if it wasn’t already wrinkled and damp with sweat, “Okay. Okay, cool.” He starts to turn before he keeps going in a 360.
“Can you keep this between me and you? That I was here? That I was here and I was—”
“Dancing?” you ask quizzically, “Why does it matter?”
His eyebrows stitch together in frustration, “Y/N, do I look like I’m a dancer?” He gestures to his piercings and his sleeve, waving his hands about in so many different places that your lewd curiosity wonders what he looks like naked—for the sake of knowing how many piercings and tattoos he has though, obviously.
“I think you look like a dancer. Just not a contemporary dancer. Did you take ballet?” you half-tease, crossing your arms and beaming slyly at him.
Jimin huffs, impatient, “Will you just keep it locked somewhere in that airhead of yours?”
“What’s in it for me, Jiminie,” you pout, “what do I get as reward for keeping your secret?”
He falters a moment, licking his plump lips and walking dangerously close, “You want a reward? I don’t take you as that kind of girl, Y/N.”
He must be delirious, eyeing him so and shoving him away, “Ew, no. I just meant, like, be nice to me from now on. And help me with psychology. That class is nothing but a memory test.”
He blinks dumbly from your rejection; who ever rejected him? He waves it off.
“Okay. I can be compliant. I won’t treat you like the rich bitch you are, and I tutor you on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Deal?”
“I’m not a rich bitch. I have student loans like the rest of the student population, thank you very much. Deal.”
You smile at each other devilishly, ready to part ways before bursting out with an instant, “Wait!”
Jimin looks over his shoulder curiously. Damn, you could really see how toned his shoulders were in that shirt.
“There’re dance majors here, is that what you transferred for?”
He turns all the way, leaning sideways against the wall and sighing, “Honestly, yes. But my family thinks I’m transferring to finish my business degree and that I would have better opportunities here. I really did it because there’s some great studios in the area but—” he catches himself rambling, “I don’t know how they would feel about my grand decision.”
You shrug, “You’re a great dancer, Jimin. Honestly, you could open your own studio here if you wanted to. You do have great opportunities.”
His sleepy eyes stare you down, a half-smile drawing itself out before he can take it back. “Give me your phone,” he orders.
You don’t know why but you do.
He dials into it with his overly-accessorized fingers, giving you a moment to get a closer look at his septum and the abundance of ear-piercings he sports before he hands it back. You’re pretty sure one of them is Gucci and you bite back a chuckle. Rich bitch.
“That’s my number. Text me when you’re free on study days.”
And with that, he re-enters his room and resumes the music.
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The first time Park Jimin meets with you at a Starbucks on a Tuesday, like he instructed, you thought you somehow managed to get yourself stuck in the Twilight Zone.
“Hey, it’s Y/N. My last class ends at 3 on both days and there’s already a quiz this Friday. Help.”
 You sent the text without emojis. He didn’t deserve any.
You had barely got to Instagram before he texted you back. With multiple messages.
 “u text like a gramma”
“but ok”
“starbucks at 330? i’ll buy”
 You giggled to yourself at his joke, sending a single “(:” and putting your phone to sleep.
 To your disbelief, he really did buy you a cheese danish and a tall, iced, caramel macchiato. You sip it gingerly while he pulls his things out of his bag: a couple mechanical pencils (the industrial, expensive ones), a 1-inch binder organized by subject with dividers, and notecards. You grab them and hold them up like it’s evidence from a leading murder case.
“Notecards? You are way too organized and functional.”
He snags your pastry before you can grab it and takes a huge bite, “Yeah, but ih’s gonna het you a bedder ghrade.”
Whining, you get it back after his second bite, somehow only half remaining.
“Okay. Let’s get started. It should only be a vocab check because that’s really all he’s asked us to study so far. We’ll start with my wonderful notecards,” he waves them in the air for effect, “and see which ones you do and don’t know.”
You nod, waiting for the chaos to begin. Who were you to tell him that you haven’t actually studied any of the vocab yet? He holds the first one up. Abductive reasoning.
“Uhh… is that like, something detectives use on kidnapping cases?”
“Wh-What? No. Well—are you thinking of ‘abductions’? Abductive reasoning is being able to use the two states of induction and deduction alongside your intuition to reach a conclusion,” he pauses and tilts his head a little, “ I guess the best analogy is giving out a verdict on a criminal case. Without being 100% sure, they use the evidence to tie together as many different points as they can to come to a conclusion. So, I mean, you got it wrong, but you can easily remember the definition with that.”
You’ll take what you get (majority of his reasoning went through one ear and out the other, anyway), wiggling your eyebrows in justified approval. Jimin laughs at you, eyes squinting to slits and shaking his head. He takes notice that you aren’t wearing much makeup today, your cheeks and the bridge of your nose a tad red with irritation and a bit dry where the sun burnt and eyes daintier without so much eyeliner on them. You threw on a tank and some workout shorts and look like the epitome of… comfortable, in your head. Jimin thinks you look effortless.
“Park?” you wave your hand in front of him.
He catches himself staring and jumps out of his seat, chair screeching across the tile.
“Sorry,” he coughs, “I’m going to take a whiz.” Stupid. He practically trips over himself to get to the restroom.
You watch him hurry to the back. He probably had much better things to do than help you study in the middle of the afternoon. A couple of younger girls watch him as he passes, giggling like a pack of fangirls and combing their hair out of their faces. If they only knew.
Did he even have a girlfriend? Most likely not, right? He only just transferred here and despite his well-endowed looks, he was still intimidating. Like a giant “don’t touch, I bite” sign constantly hung around his neck.
He comes back shortly, and before you can deduct that you would rather save the embarrassment than to quench your curiosity, you ask, “Are you dating anyone?”
“Because you get a lot of followers,” you reason, shamelessly pointing out the girls who ogle his tattooed biceps. They giggle again when he looks their way. God, so many giggles.
He rubs the back of his neck nervously and that intrigues you, “No, I’m not dating anyone. I think if it weren’t for my… accessories? And the fact that I’m foreign, girls wouldn’t like me as much.” You find tiny comfort that he’s single but squish the thought away.
“How ‘bout you? Dating that guy on your team?” he retorts.
“Who, Jungkook?” you snort, “No. He has a girlfriend and he’s all brawn over brain. I’m not dating anyone, actually. I don’t like guys that are so competitive to win females strictly for the points, and there’s a lot of that here. S’gross; we’re not animals.”
“We kinda are,” he argues, but smiles understandingly.
“Okay, but not in the way where your possible significant other has to perform an instinctual mating dance?”
He juts up an eyebrow, “Really? Because I could easily arrange that.”
For the first time, you both laugh. At the same thing. Who knew that Jimin could dance of all things? And pay for your food? And actually be a nice guy who’s really smart? Thinking about it, today has gone so polar-opposite of what you expected that you contemplate if this is Jimin’s identical twin that just happens to have the same piercings and ink that bully-Jimin has.
Twilight Zone.
“Okay, let’s continue,” he says, resuming the queue of notecards.
“Define abulia.”
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“Hello? Earth to Y/N?” Jimin waved a hand in your face.
“Hm? Sorry, say it again.”
Jimin packed up his supplies, then grabs yours and tucks them into your bag, “I said, ‘Are we going to your place right now?’ You said you picked up Black Panther on DVD so I want to watch it.”
“Oh, yeah, sure. Cats and shit.”
You both stand up and stretch, the rest of the students in the lecture hall slowly filing out. Midterms were already approaching, which meant that you and Jimin had known each other for quite some time now. His tutoring was ditched weeks ago after you were finally comfortable with the material and able to comprehend what the professor was saying without Jimin to interpret. At first, meeting up stopped completely. You two would talk occasionally during class break and that’s all, and after a while, you just figured your deal was completed and Jimin finished his case and you both separated onto your different ways.
But then Jimin had asked if you wanted coffee at the same Starbucks you had first studied at, but for no specific reason. Just to hang out. So, you did.
Hanging out once or twice for coffee turned into twice getting lunch turned into four or five times lazing about your dorm, and now, you were just completely, wholesomely, friends. It was hard not to be on edge at the contrast of current Jimin to hell-on-earth Jimin, but you took what you could get.
“Is something on your mind? You’ve been spacing out for a long time,” he prods, taking your bag himself and throwing it over the same shoulder his own bag was on. The
walk to your dorm building was short but you could feel your feet dragging from sudden exhaustion.
“I think I’m just tired? I’m fine. Ready to Black Panther it up and all that jazz,” you chuckle. He takes the hint and resorts to quietly humming to your room rather than talking. That’s one thing you liked about him, he always knew when your mind just needed simple white noise.
Unlocking the door and jostling it out of its stickiness, you make a running jump to faceplant onto your bed. The mattress dips next to you when Jimin sits.
“I know you like cheer and all, but I think you need to take a break,” he says.
“Easier said than done. And I have mandatory captain conditioning in 3 hours,” you groan, propping your head on the palm of your hand to watch Jimin as he eats a stale bag of chips that he found on your nightstand. His face contorts in repulsion and throws the bag away.
“Okay, well, you’re not going. Tell them you’re sick. Let’s watch some DC movies and eat popcorn and have, like, a girl sleepover but I’m not a girl and I don’t want to spend the night,” he says, counting each point on his fingers.
“First of all, you lunatic, it’s Marvel not DC. Second, I don’t have popcorn. I can’t just skip conditioning because if I gain one pound Jungkook will sense it with his nose or something and attack me.”
“What,” he says in disbelief, grabbing your waist with one hand and squeezing a little, “you’re fine. You’re not going today and that’s final.” It’s not very often he touches you and as much as you try not to show it, you feel your face heat and mouth gape open and closed, ready to combust. You don’t particularly know why; guys touch you all the time (not in that way, thank you very much) but when it was Jimin, it was like you had been raised feral and failed to receive any means of human interaction.
He notices, taking his hand away as quick as he placed it and looking at the floor. Despite your lack of proper reaction, you would be lying if you said you didn’t feel a little twinge of disappointment. God, you’re so confusing to yourself.
“How about you? Your vampire ass won’t dance in sunlight so you must be tired too. How long do you normally dance for when you’re in the studio?”
“Well,” he lays flat on his back and stares at your popcorn ceiling (your dorm building was extremely outdated), “I try to workout at the actual gym in the morning before I get ready for class, and then I dance from 11 to whenever I feel is enough during the weeknights. That is, if no one’s there.”
“Why do you even follow this whole path of disliking mainstream trends and ‘rebelling against the world’? Isn’t that tiring? Aside from dance, do you, like, make your own skateboards and go to secret underground bars or something?” you tease. He rolls his head towards you in annoyance and mouths a “ha ha”.
“No, I just. I don’t know. I don’t like people telling me what to do or where to go or how to look,” he showcases his tatted arm. “This is all mine. I don’t want to be another puppet controlled my whole life to consume and work off a never-ending debt just so I can only live comfortably when I’m old but too old to actually live.”
“Wow, bro. That’s deep,” you pretend to smoke a pretzel stick. He continues anyway.
“Recently I made some friends that are in one of my labs. They’re from Korea too. If I’m not studying or working or hanging out with you, I’m probably with them. Partying or something,” he says, stealing away your “cigarette” and crunching on it loudly.
“Woah, you work? How do you find the time to do that?”
“Kinda. Nothing official, I just tutor people sometimes. Charge them by the hour and make some decent pocket change for food or whatever.”
You contemplate. How come he’s never charged you for your tutoring before? You ask him, studying his side profile and admiring his jawline when he talks. Flexing then easing; taut then relaxed.
“Because we had a deal. We agreed that I would help you in psych as long as you kept my secret, in which you did, so I figured that was good enough. Besides, you’re too cute to charge. I look like a bad boy but I’m not evil.” You giggle, resembling a middle-school fangirl and exaggerating a flattered stature.
Jimin laughs again, light and refreshing staccato notes that you could honestly listen to all day. It was therapeutic in its own crackhead way.
You’ve been unintentionally staring at him more and more often, Jimin finally taking notice within the last few minutes. He knew how to read a girl; how revealing they make themselves to impress him or how their eyes dim in any sort of suggestion that his hands should somehow find place on their body. But with you, he has no idea what that stare means. For the most part, you carry yourself so independently to the point of being standoffish and Jimin just can’t figure you out. He sought the day you would give in and beg for a night with him just like most of the other girls in his classes did, and when you didn’t, he wanted to know why. Not out of inflated ego or need to get into your pants—okay maybe because of that initially—but even more so that he just needed to dissect you. Know how to get you going, what kind of person you really are, which was completely different from what he originally imagined.
You were talking amidst his thoughts, not paying attention to the strings of sentences that fell out of your lips and before he knew it, he held himself directly above you, hands on each side of your head and staring right down into your disordered doe eyes.
“What makes you so different?” he asks aloud, more to himself than you. Puzzled and not under the impression that it was a rhetorical question, you shake your head.
“I don’t u-understand. What are you doing, Ji—”
He tucks a loose strand of yours out of your face, causing you to hiccup. “I feel like when I think I know you, I’m actually far from it.”
You don’t particularly know what you’re supposed to say to that.
“You didn’t ever need to get to know me. You just needed to make sure I kept your secret,” you play along. Knowing it wasn’t really the whole case, your own statement stings a little. If it weren’t to save his own ass, would he even be here right now?
Like he read your mind, he answers, “Why would I be here? I haven’t needed to help you in weeks. I’m with you all the time because I want to be. Because I—”
“Because you…?” you trail on, heart beating so hard you swear he can hear it. You wanted him to say it, maybe that’s what was keeping you from confirming your feelings. You needed validation; that this wasn’t just you or that this was some one-sided longing because you doubted someone like him could ever like someone like you.
“Can I kiss you?” he asks instead, so hesitant and delicate and worrisome all in one question and you ponder if this is the same boy you first met at orientation.
“Please.”
He dips down slowly, eyes half-closed in anticipation of what your face looks like so close, pausing an inch away when you shut your own. You feel his warmth near your mouth, waiting for that first touch, any contact, until it seems like it’s been far too long. When you peek, you see nothing but his perfect… cheekbone? He stares, jaw stuck open and eyes fluttering, at the intruder in the door before swinging himself off the bed and coughing awkwardly.
“Oh, Sara. I didn’t know you were coming home so early today,” you squeak out. You sit up yourself, brushing off nonexistent dust from the bed and watching Jimin gather his things in a rush and squeezing past a concerned Sara in the doorway. He doesn’t even turn back, ears stinging red and peeping a quick, havetogotextyoulater. Great, the asshole left you to face your roommate alone.
“Was that Jimin? Park Jimin? The fucking transfer student?”
“Oh my god, Sara, what’re you freaking out about?”
Dropping her stuff in the middle of the room, she shrieks annoyingly and grabs your shoulders, “Are you seriously fucking with the Park Jimin? Y/N. Nuh-uh. No way. Do you know what you’re getting yourself into?”
“Chill out! We’re just friends. He tutors me sometimes.” Not quite a lie.
She eyes you and deadpans, “Yeah, I didn’t know tutoring also included a one-on-one session of how to have sexual intercourse.”
“You’re so dramatic,” you remove her hands, which were digging crescents into your skin, and pretend to arrange your bed, “we haven’t even kissed. You just walked in at an inconvenient time.”
Sara sighs, rubbing her temples and sitting on your bed, “Look, babe. Just be careful. I’ve been to parties with him and have heard some awful things. Shit you expect from a movie where the girl gets fucked over because the guy doesn’t know how to keep his dick in his pants. I just want the best for you, okay? He’s not as sweet as you might think he is.”
He isn’t sweet at all, you said internally. But still, your heart clenches at her words. Sure, he acts like a dick, and you shouldn’t be surprised if he really does get around as much as Sara suspects; but there was just some sort of denial that lingered. If he really was such a player, why would he have stuck around with you for as long as he has, as platonic as it has been until now?
“I… I didn’t know that. I’ll be careful,” you assure her.
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All it took was a squinty-eyed smile and a tiny caress to the small of your back on the way into the lecture hall for you to completely melt into his hands. You were simply putty, magically molding into some gross, odd-smelling ball of love just because of the almost-incident yesterday. You can practically feel the radiating disappointment from Sara if she knew how easily you gave yourself up for him.
His face reoccurs in your daydreams for days, all the way up until the weekend comes up from behind and smacks you on the ass.
“Focus,” Jungkook taps you through you skirt again. Oh, or maybe it was Jungkook.
The stadium speakers blared with announcements and you’re brought back to the world of clashing helmets, captain’s orders and Jungkook’s strong hands residing on your waist for partner stunts.
You didn’t need to be reminded, you were much more stable than you were weeks ago. He throws you in the air during the signaling note of the band and catches your right foot with ease above him, keeping you stable as you pull a heel stretch and present a pretty smile. The crowd roars along, inspiring the team and singing along with the cheers.
By the end of the game, you’re exhausted, tearing down paper signs from the concrete walls and shuffling your poms into your bag in a hurry.
“Hey, are you going to the feed after? Everyone’s going, I could give you a ride,” Jungkook offers, but you shake your head.
“I’m pretty beat. I’ll go next time.” He shrugs, finding more interest in catching up to someone who is interested than trying to convince you otherwise. By the time your clean-up is done, most of the fans are gone, the stadium a comparable difference of quiet than how it was only twenty minutes ago.
“You’re sure taking forever,” a sudden voice pipes up. Outside the gate stands Jimin, all-black tank and jeans, per usual. “You looked great out there.”
You smile, suddenly awake and jogging towards him, “What’re you doing here? I thought you didn’t like football.” During all your rushing do you realize that you relax around Park, time always seeming to slow down in his presence and you dissolve into his effect.
“I don’t. Such an American moneymaker. They’re all cons.” He takes your bag like he always does, leaning against the gate and looking excited, “Mind if we stop by my place? I have something to show you. It’s not far, probably only a 5 minute walk from here.”
You nod before he even mentions how long it takes to get there, heart palpitating at the thought that he’s inviting you over. You’re sure you smelled from cheer and you probably looked like the opposing team warmed up suicide runs over your sweaty body, but you nod.
“Were you here the whole time? Or just towards the end?” you ask, slightly insecure towards the fact that he could’ve been watching you cheer.
“Was here since halftime. Got Yoongs to watch with me at the gate where I was before for the most part. He left halfway through fourth quarter though, said he got tired from seeing others exert themselves so much,” he chuckles at the thought, eyes squinting and crooked tooth visible from the side. Your heart swooned, you were even starting to notice the little things. How he acted. His habits. What he did and didn’t like.
You were in fucking deep.
“I did get to see you cheer though,” he answers your unspoken inquiry, “you looked pretty, Y/N. It’s like watching a whole ‘nother person compared to how you act outside of uniform.” You’re still stuck on the word “pretty” and nod along like you’re listening.
“You should see how people look at you,” he draws on, “like they’re entranced. Even when you were just relaxing on the sideline, not doing anything, you stand out.”
“Oh my god, Jimin, where is this even coming from? One more compliment and the world might explode from the paradox you’re creating.”
He shoves your shoulder lightly, laughing at your tomato-red face, “What do you mean? I can’t compliment you?”
“No that’s not—I just mean. You know. You used to hate me and now you shower me with praise like I’m the best person in the world. It’s just crazy how much our relationship has changed. And… And yesterday—”
“Yo, can’t believe you really stayed for the rest of the game,” a raspy voice outbursts. You just realize that Jimin stopped you in front of a house, presumably his house, as a mint-haired ball sits on the porch. He inhales from his cigarette and exhales through his nose before throwing it underneath his boot.
“Hey, Yoongs. This is Y/N. Y/N, Min Yoongi, my roommate. Has a bad smoking habit and have only recently gotten him to smoke outside.” Jimin snickers, offering a hand to lift Yoongi off the step and welcome him into some bro-hug.
“You smoke too, bastard. Just did it ‘cause I knew you were bringing someone home tonight,” Yoongi retaliates, eyeing your figure. Shivers run down your spine at the comment.
Jimin coughs unexpectedly, then anxiously laughs as he pulls your arm behind him and into the house, “We’ll be in the living room. Go sleep or something.” Yoongi only clicks his tongue in response.
“Sorry,” he says once your inside, “he can be a little too personal sometimes. He’s really nice once you get to know him.” You shake your head, giving him a comforting smile that eases the tension in his shoulders.
He settles you on the couch, host-like politeness apparent when he asks if you want anything to drink, tells you where the bathroom is, and hands you the tv remote before disappearing to find his laptop. His home was cozy, minimalist furniture often in gray, black, and an occasional blue spread throughout the rooms. You weren’t sure if the boys were attempting to be modern or if college tuition only allowed them this sort of set-up, but nonetheless, it was way nicer than you expected.
“Back,” Jimin plops onto the couch right next to you, Apple laptop unlocked to a default background. He looks to you briefly before setting up some page on Google, “Have you signed up for your classes for next quarter yet?”
He looks different, your eyes scanning over his face to figure out just what it is, “Basically, just gotta confirm and pay and whatnot. Have you, Jimin?”
It’s his septum, you discover, that he’s taken out. He looks handsome either way. Propping the laptop suddenly on your lap, he beams, “Yeah, go ahead and take a look.”
You scroll through the page, humming to yourself, “Mhm… Mhm… Accounting, business 101, contemporary repertory… God, you’re going to hate sociology with Doyard, she’s a complete psycho!” You trail, giggling at his misfortune. Once you’re done, you meet his discontent face.
It takes a few takes from his face to the screen, back to his face, until oh shit!
“Wait does ‘contemporary repertory’ mean something important?” you squeal in rushed excitement. “Is that a dance thing? Are you taking a dance class here?” Before he can even explain, you shut the laptop and safely place it on the coffee table before tackling the man, withdrawing an oof from his lips.
“Easy, girl. Please don’t break me before I even get to show up on the first day.”
“Jimin, this is amazing. You’re finally doing something you want to do, during regular hours, at that!” You nuzzle into his warm chest, “I’m so happy for you, Jimin. I hope you have fun.” His heart clenches at that; how could you be so fucking caring about him? He knew you’d be surprised, but not genuinely happy for him. His hand glides over the skin between your midriff and skirt, an inkling of a gasp floating out of your throat.
“Sorry,” he whispers, moving his hand higher and locking eyes with yours. Time is always slow with him but now, it’s like it was screaming at you to take the opportunity. Unwinding one of your arms from around his neck, you smooth his hair up so you can see those prepossessing eyes.
“You can touch me,” you confirm just as softly. His features harden and you hope you didn’t read the situation wrong.
“I… I never got to kiss you that night.”
“Then you can kiss me now, if you’d like,” you say, pleading in your voice and it’s all he needs to hear before he burns his lips into yours. “I can’t tell you how much I’ve wanted this,” he pants between suckles to your bottom lip. He kisses like he dances: powerful and in perfect control with his body, molding it to yours and massaging the skin he just apologized for touching only seconds ago.
You cup his face and look down at him with sultry prowess, “I want you, Jimin. I’ve always thought about this, hoping you would just make a move, idiot.” You dive back into him, his moans prominent when you lick and nip at his lip. He lowers his grip to your ass, squeezing and pushing his hips into your own.
“Well, I’ve always thought about fucking you in this cursed uniform,” he growls, forcing a giggle out of you. Grinding down into him for effect, your mouth travels to his ear so you can state a small confirmation.
“I’m flexible, babe. I’m all yours.”
He hums his praise, latching his mouth onto your neck, laving and peppering blues into your skin before he carries you off the couch. You wrap your legs around him instinctively, “Where are you taking me?”
Heading into a hallway and taking a sharp left, he kicks his door open, “I don’t know about you, hot stuff, but Yoongs doesn’t need to see you getting dicked down in our living room,” he jests. When he lays you back onto the foot of his bed, you briefly scan his room and find it hard to believe that it’s relatively clean, the posters on his walls the only thing that seemed cluttered. This guy was your high school self’s wet dream. Scanning him promiscuously, you chuckle.
“I can be into it,” you drawl playfully.
Earning an unimpressed scoff, he fingers the hem of his shirt, “You’re mine,” he sheds it in a swift pull and throws it to the side cockily. Marveling at each detailed divot and curve of muscle, you can’t help but bite your lip in frustrated anticipation. “Unless, you don’t want me,” he finishes with a tilt of his head. He knew what he was doing, simulating innocence to draw you out of your transfixed stupor to hear those three words string from your mouth. You reach out to touch his abs, tracing over linework of ink and watching him shiver from your touch. Knowing exactly what he wants to hear, you gaze into oblique eyes and mouth the words, “I do want you”.
Goading him on, you lay back and extend your legs above you, shuffling your spandex tantalizingly slow over your skin. Jimin whistles at your show, staring at the white g-string you sported under your skirt and wandering his hands over the supple skin you expose.
“Jesus, you fucking tease. Leave the skirt.” Tittering at his request, you dig your heels into his back to propel him down towards you, his ringed hands keeping himself afloat and a winning smile winking down at you. Bless your heart you didn’t faint right then and there.
He kisses you like a man starved, lips burning hot with desire and aching to be bit—so you give him that. Sinking your teeth gently into the flesh, he punishes such action with a slap to the underneath of your thigh, then holding it close to the side of his abdomen and rolling over with you on top. Practically suffocating from lack of air, you dislodge yourself, quite reluctantly, from his mouth and soothe his complaints with brief kisses to his thick neck.
“Why didn’t we do this—ah, before?” he pants. Sucking a particularly tender spot of his jugular, he moans out and bucks into your hips. You continue your way down, leaving no inch of skin untouched until you reach where his skin ends and the nuisance of clothing began.
“You don’t make things very easy for me. Can I suck you off?”
“Fuck, don’t ask. Just do it. Turn around, though, I’ll finger you at the same time,” he offers, propping himself up on his elbows as you readjust yourself with your head towards his bulge and your ass facing him, knees keeping you up on one side of his torso. “Perfect,” he commends.
Unbuckling his ridiculously tight jeans, you hook your thumbs under the denim and whisper a quick, “Up,” to pull them off when his hips lift off the mattress. Your pride inflates at the sight of his bulge resting in the crook of his thigh, adorned by simple black boxers that hugged him in all the right spots. All but drooling at the member, you place a loving kiss where you know his head resides, mouthing at it gingerly and soaking the material with your saliva.
He ruts into your face as he watches such indecency, “You know, I should probably tell you something,” he says rather seriously, shuffling your skirt up above your ass and mischievously prodding at your sex with his thumb.
“Hmm,” you mumble, sliding his boxers down enough to suck at the pink tip that oozed of precum and spreading the liquid around with your tongue. The bitterness that came with it was all welcomed, slightly sweeter than others you’ve ever tasted and you appreciated it much more when a man this good-looking was laid out before you.
He groans, “Ever heard of a Jacob’s Ladder? Fuck, right there, underneath a bit…” You suck and nip at the skin of his frenulum, knowing he was bound to like small dosages of pain mixed with his pleasure—a guess all too correct when he cries out in ecstasy and gives your ass a light spank.
“A Jacob’s what?”
“Just—just look at it. If you don’t like it then I can just take them out,” he sighs, all too impatient to give you a rundown of whatever a Jacob’s hoo-ha entailed. You perk a brow at his vocabulary, halting your mouth and sliding his boxers the rest of the way down.
If you weren’t riled up before, you were hot, ready, and willing to beg on your knees to be stuffed with Jimin and his… accessories. You understand the term “ladder” now, three rungs of metal pierced on the underside of his shaft and glinting up at you with intimidation. You hope Jimin can’t see the now overflowing amount of arousal oozing out of your pussy, squeezing thighs together in a useless attempt of hiding yourself.
“Fuck, didn’t that hurt?” you question, hovering fingers over the balls of silver that protruded on each side in complete awe.
“Of course it did, honey. It’s all worth it, though. It’ll make you feel good too. Need me to take them out?” You shake your head a little too vigorously, earning a chuckle and his middle finger to slide in between your folds unexpectedly. Yiping at the sudden entrance, you cast a glare over his shoulder with his only response being the curve of his digit.
“C-Can I lick it? Can it get infected if you don’t use a condom?” you bombard him with questions, entirely unfamiliar with the subject and entirely enamored by it.
“It’s all healed up, baby. You can do whatever your little heart desires with it. And I would oh so much prefer going bare,” he confirms, and your heart flips at his pet name for you. That, and the thought of his thick, pierced cock penetrating you condom-less.
You wrap your lips around him once more, unafraid to take more and more of his length until you feel the cold metal—your stopping point. Call it your lack of experience, but you prefer not to catch your teeth on those piercings today. You make up for it by sliding a hand back under his scrunched boxers, fondling his balls as you bob diligently. He curses and struggles to keep his body still, digging another digit between your legs to slow your own ministrations. When it works and you moan around his cock, Jimin can’t help but want to play a little game.
“Should I give you a challenge, babe? It’s super simple. Whoever makes the other cum first gets to request something. Anything. Deal?”
“Deahl,” you muffle, swirling your tongue lavishly around his crown. Everything with Jimin was much more… intriguing. Even your first time having sex was turned into some lusty escapade of unexpected metallic embellishments and cheeky gambles. It made you feel something in your veins, wanting more and more of whatever poison Jimin was.
Taking a breath, you lick broadly over his entire shaft and scarcely taste the titanium—more than anything, it was just cold. Jimin shudders at the feeling, punishing you with a third and final finger and pushing downdowndown into a spot all too sensitive for you to focus.
Try as you might, your now pathetic attempts of sucking him off is all forgotten in your own haze of chasing your orgasm. Instead, you rest your head on his hip and writhe against his hand, fucking back onto it while he simultaneously prods your g-spot over and over again until you see stars.
“Giving up already? You were doing so well for a while, you could’ve won,” he lilts.
“Jimin, please make me cum. Oh god,” you wail, legs straining for just that final push…
“Is this what you want?” He slides his thumb across, swiping whatever he could collect and using it to knead at your neglected clit. It’s all you need, pleasure washing over you in tandem of near oversensitivity, a near scream tearing through your lungs that only comes out in ragged whines against his leg.
“Beautiful, sweetheart. Fuck, you’re ruining my sheets over here,” he criticizes, removing his hand with an obscene squelch and moving around in the bed.
The torpor you caught yourself in didn’t render what he was saying, just letting him move you about so your head rests on his pillows while he places himself between your legs.
“Jiminie,” you babble, “fuck me.” He strokes your hair away from your face and smiles, that cute puppy smile that turns his eyes into crescents. The rest of him, though, is purely sinful. Hair sweaty and pieced to perfection as his body taunted you with toned muscles.
“I don’t think you’re ready, honey,” he answers, “even though you’re dripping in your own cum.” He leans back and stares at your pussy without embarrassment, pulling your knees together and watching the juices flow even more. “I should put it to use.”
You peer up at him, curious as to whatever the hell he’s dreaming of over there and inexplicably stunned when you see his dick between your legs. “J-Jimin, what are you doing?”
“Shh, just keep them closed tight,” he orders, fucking himself between the lips of your heat and the warm skin of your thighs. You can’t help but ravish the sight of him as he slicks himself up, eyeing you down as his hips roll into you agonizingly slow. His piercings graze against your nub occasionally, warmth once again growing in your stomach.
“Fuck, you’re so soft and so wet. Who did this to you, hm?” You moan maniacally, angling your hips as to catch him and push inside, but he only laughs degradingly and intentionally misses.
“You think I’m going to fuck you if you can’t even answer this simple question?” he sneers. “Answer like a good girl, then I’ll fuck you into oblivion.”
You scramble for words, initially incoherent and struggling. “Jimin! Shit, Jimin. You made me this way. Ah, you m-make me so wet, so please put it in, put it in and—ha, aah!”
He shoves his length in like it’s all he knew what to do, your ankles to his shoulders so he can drink up your moans with his reddened lips. He was right—the piercings didn’t feel like any dick you’ve received before, it was so much better. This was pornographic, it was so good. He all but pistols into you, his cock grazing places previously untouched. Indulging in his heaven sent strokes, you cry and groan at each relentless thrust.
“Hush, baby, Yoongi’s going to hear your pretty self,” he warns, but you don’t give a shit. If anything, you moan louder with a know-all glint in your eye, testing Jimin’s patience. “Brat,” he spits.
He pounds into you repeatedly, completely removing himself before filling you up again and again and again. Between the pressure to your g-spot and the added stimulation from his Jacob’s Ladder—your stomach heaves, an unfamiliar feeling washing over your abdomen contrary to anything you’ve ever experienced.
“Oh, Jimin, wait!” you sob, halting his hips from another brutal shove a little too late. The second he pulls out, your second orgasm (and first ever untouched orgasm) of the night reigns over, briefly showering his lower stomach in your own wet arousal.
“Holy shit, that’s so fucking hot. Did you just… squirt on me?” he growls, not taking the time to hear your answer as he lifts you into his lap, legs wrapped around his muscular back and arms gripping around his shoulders for dear life.
He sinks back into you deliciously, filling you to the brim with your added weight and rutting up into you to chase his own release. Everything is soaked and sticky, Jimin’s ragged breathing and groans so close to your ear that you’re sure it’ll be engrained into your memory forever, his thrusts so deep inside you wail once more.
Consequently, the banging on the wall next to you comes as no surprise, Yoongi’s angry, “Shut the fuck up!” clear as day. Jimin waves it off.
“Don’t listen baby. Moan louder for me. Tell me where you want my cum.”
The slaps of skin become louder; it wouldn’t be long before Jimin came. “Inside, Jiminie, please. Cum inside me, pump me full,” you squeal, lust sparking inside you knowing that his roommate could hear you getting fucked senseless.
One, two, three more aching pounds before he spills into you, his pretty moans music to your ears. You flop back as soon as he takes himself out, suddenly aching all over from how much he stretched your legs and groaning at the pain.
You slap his eager hand away when he fingers his cum back into your abused lips, “That hurts, idiot.” He smiles and sucks your intermingled cum off his fingers with a pop.
“We taste good together,” he husks. Fuck. “By the way. You came first. Stay the night?”
You oblige with or without the pressure of the bet, dog-tired from your beating and not even fathoming the trek back to your own room. Jimin takes charge in your state of haziness, washing you off in his shower, replacing your uniform with a t-shirt of his own and laying you beside him on his mattress (sheets replaced and refreshed).
“You have piercings in your dick,” you state in the middle of the quiet.
Jimin snorts at the outburst, looping an arm around your side and melding his body to yours, “Yeah, is it weird?”
“… Robot dick,” you whisper, words cracking at the face of your laughter.
“Oh my god.”
“So, when you’re going through metal detectors at airports and whatever, do you have to tell them that the metal’s in your penis? Do they have to check?” Titters are awarded with light jabs to your side, which are then led to screams and kicks to his legs.
Yoongi bursts through Jimin’s door, brows stitched together in heated anger parallel to the flames of hell, “I swear to fucking god, if you two don’t quiet down I’ll mount your heads on my wall, it’ll make a great decoration.”
“What the hell, what if we were naked? Don’t just go busting through—”
“Yeah because you obviously care if I know you two are fucking. ‘Don’t listen, baby! Tell me where you want my cum, baby!’” Yoongi mocks. Pillows are flying and insults are thrown as you watch them bicker sleepily, all fading into white noise as you begin to drift off.
Sleep itself feels like a blink, so exhausted that you don’t dream. Waking in the same position that you were last conscious in, the only difference in picture is the fact that: A) the sun is shining through Jimin’s skylight and B) Jimin is no longer in bed with you.
But before you can even question where he’s run off to, his sly self sneaks back into the bedroom, shirtless and face clean from washing up just now. You don’t even hide the fact that you look down to check out his tight briefs, metal detector in your brain trying to scope it out.
“You’re awake. Sorry if I was loud,” he smiles, crawling on top of you as you stretch out like a mangled cat. You shake your head, combing his hair back with your nails as he dips down into your chest. “I like when you wear my shirts.”
“That’s pretty stereotypical,” you whisper out, voice low and raspy from your slumber. This isn’t fair, you think, he got to brush his teeth already.
He sits up and gives you A Look, making you giggle and giving you the leverage to feel up his abs as he flexes haughtily.
“I can get used to this,” you purr.
“I bet you could,” he mumbles into your neck, nipping at the places he already marked last night. He doesn’t push, just relishes in your warmth and fondles you carefully as you continue to wake up and it makes you shiver.
“I wish you would’ve done this a long time ago,” you sigh.
“You hated me.”
“You didn’t make it easy for me to like you,” you retort, gasping when he bites your collarbone, “Now—Now I like you.”
He stops abruptly and pulls away, landing on his side with an elbow and tilting his head towards you, “Well, I hope you don’t start liking me too much.”
You squint, “W-Why? Don’t tell me this was just a one night stand or anything.”
“No! I mean, not just one night or whatever. I just—this is just casual, right?”
You all but bite your tongue to keep from lashing out, “What do you mean ‘casual’? You didn’t say anything about ‘casual’.”
“Oh, Y/N, c’mon. Did you really think we should date? Look at us, baby. We’re just not… each other’s types, you know?”
It’s about time you get up, shoving aside his warm blankets and grabbing your soiled uniform from the floor, “No, Jimin. I don’t know. I thought you were being genuine with me.”
“Hey, no, don’t leave,” he grabs your arm before you leave his bedroom, “Okay, there was some miscommunication. I’m not trying to be mean. Can I just… I don’t know, think about it? I’m just not used to this.”
Looking into his eyes for some sort of confirmation, your tensions subside. “I’m not a toy. If you don’t want to be with me, just say it.” The hurt he feels in your tone breaks his heart, for once. Would he really be willing to try something he knows won’t work?
For you, maybe.
“I do like you, Y/N. Just give me some time.” He pulls your arm once more, hoping you’ll stay. But you draw the line and pry his hand off politely.
“Of course I’ll give you time. I’ll see you later, okay?” He nods understandingly. He can’t feel butthurt when he’s the one putting you on ice, he knows that. So Jimin watches you leave in his shirt, mind clouded more so than when you arrived.
a/n: yay! you made it through the first part! if you liked it, feel free to let me know or ask any questions to the characters! xx, selene
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