#which is to be expected- i wrote that fic between freshman and sophomore year of high school | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

jksangelic · 6 years

Text

peaches & piercings (m)

↳ 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)

“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.

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.

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.

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.

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.”

“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.

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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cooperjones2020 · 6 years

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Second City, chp. 12

Summary: Sometimes she worries she’s settling — for a smaller job, a smaller city, a smaller life than she’d promised herself — but that was before she found out Jughead Jones lives in Chicago. That was before she found out the final secret of Jason Blossom’s murder.

A/N: Alright, so. It's been seventeen months since I updated and my life has been turned upside down several times since then. I never intended to abandon this fic, or writing in general, and I still don't intend to but it's probably best to consider it on hiatus until further notice, as I can't promise it won't be another seventeen months before I update again. I actually had this chapter mostly written and was just sitting on it, but all further chapters are in much rougher shape so who knows. Same goes for NNK - nothing is anywhere near publishable for that one, sorry.

I do want to say how much I appreciate all of you who kept reading and commenting and checking in with me here. It does mean so much to me and I think about you a lot, even if I don't show up and do anything about it.

Also, hopefully it goes without saying but, this fic is canon compliant through season 1 only, so Hal is not the Black Hood--none of that happened.

ao3–>https://archiveofourown.org/works/11409360/chapters/40956119

All previous chapters of Second City and Nobodies Nobody Knows under the tag #second+city and on the Who Sings Heartache to Sleep series page on Ao3

12. In which Nancy Drew discovers modern technology

Jughead doesn’t approve of her plan, but he doesn’t have any better ideas to offer her so they go with it. Neither of them really has any experience investigating cold cases, and it’s not like she has the kind of technology available to her that she had at her old job — or that any evidence exists that such technology would catch.

After he’d surprised her last night, they’d gone to Pop’s. Of course. He’d come straight to her mom’s house from the airport, barely stopping at his own to drop off his bag, so by the time he got her out her front door, he was practically foaming at the mouth.

“Jug, why didn’t you eat before your flight?”

The look he gives her is so incredulous she barely restrains her smile.

“Betty, why on earth would I eat the soggy grey hockey pucks that try to pass for burgers elsewhere when I know I’m within, like, five hours of Riverdale.”

She realizes that his detour to her basement likely added an extra hour or so onto that ETA, that Jughead Jones willingly remained hungry longer than necessary to find her, but she pushes that thought firmly out of her mind.

Now, she’s in the Blue and Gold office of both past and present, pulling old editions of the paper they wrote out of an ancient filing cabinet — thankful at the miracle that they’re still there in the time warp that continues to be Riverdale. A freckle-faced kid who insisted he was a junior but looked alarmingly young had logged into the computer for them, so Jughead is behind her, looking for digitized copies. The kid didn’t know where the records from 2017 were, so they are left attempting to cover all bases.

The office hasn’t seen many updates since she’d last been here. They’ve replaced the computers, but even these models are several years out of date. They did get rid of the microfiche reader, though. So that’s something.

Betty Cooper, who spent her freshman year pining after the wrong boy, her sophomore year solving a murder, her junior year in a fog of depression, and her senior year learning how to be a person again, never intended to come back here. But somehow, here she is. Wherever you go, there you are. Like all adages, that one is also annoyingly true.

After an hour or so of fruitless searching, Jughead sighs and comes to stand behind her.

“What are we looking for, Betts?”

“The articles we wrote.”

“I know that, but why? What will they tell us that we don’t already know?”

“Something we don’t remember. I don’t know. It was a decade ago — there could be some detail that seemed insignificant at the time but now might help point us at my father, at what he might have been up to.”

She doesn’t know what kind of records there’d be anyway, but she’s determined to look.

“Betty, we know what we wrote. And even if there’s something that was insignificant then, I’ve read reread these editions until my eyes crossed in the course of book research. I’m pretty sure I have them all memorized at this point. Hell, there’s copies back in Chicago. I could have Mike or Mary overnight them to us if you wanted.”

“I just want to be able to check the facts. I want to make sure we have all the information we possibly can.” She tries to keep the petulance out of her voice. Her success is questionable at best.

Because, truthfully, she knows Jughead’s right. There’s nothing to find here. If anywhere, whatever there is to be found must be in the remains of her father’s office, in the crypt that is her childhood home, the crypt where he mother continues to cling to the memory of the Coopers pre-Jason Blossom, pre-Jughead Jones, and pre-Betty’s “rebellious streak rearing its ugly head.” Alice would never admit to it, fond as she is of her grandchildren, but Betty would bet that that last summer before the first time their lives all turned upside down was the last summer in which her mother was truly happy and her life was something under her control.

It’s becoming increasingly clear to Betty that this can only end in a showdown between her and her mother. That Alice Cooper may be the gatekeeper of the truth — a potentiality she both dreads and wishes for as, if not, she’ll have to confront that thought that maybe there is no truth to be had.

Hal Cooper is dead. All of this might turn out to be in vain. And she can’t — she won’t — accept that.

Jughead sighs again behind her, pulling her back out of her head.

“Okay, then let’s take a break before we go see Keller. Your brilliant mind won’t do us any good if you’re totally burned out when we get there.”

Last night, with the shock beginning to wear off and the pungent grease that seems to float in the air around the diner receding behind them, Betty tried not to watch Jughead walking beside her out of the corner of her eye. At least, she tried not to whenever his head was turned toward her. The sound of cicadas slowly overcame the buzz of neon as the trees lining Elm St. enfolded them in a hazy almost-darkness. Just as she was about to give up scanning his face for signs she’d told herself she’d forgotten how to interpret, as dusk stole the details of the moles on his cheek and threads of his expressions, she heard a rustle of foil down near his hands and he popped a square of gum in his mouth.

She narrowed her eyes at him and extended her hand. “What, you don’t think I should get to escape the fate of onion breath?”

He raised one eyebrow as held the package up for her to see — “Nicorette” just visible in the fading light.

Oh.

Huh.

“I…didn’t realize you’d quit.”

“Yeah, a few weeks ago.” He scraped his hand over the back of his neck and then forward to ruffle the waves of his dark hair. “So you’re welcome to a piece if you want, but you might not like how it makes you feel.”

She shook her head and they kept walking a block or two. Then her mouth opened of its own accord, “Freshman year of college, after some insipid party at which I stayed sober — I don’t remember why. Antibiotics, maybe? — the guy walking me home persuaded me to try one of his cigarettes when I told him I’d never smoked. After nearly hacking a lung out, I got the hang of it well enough to not totally embarrass myself. But when I got home, I puked for an hour. Ugh. It was worse than the 2023 Spring Break tequila incident.”

For a moment it was silent beside her and she felt herself begin to blush — what had motivated her to share that utterly useless memory? — Then Jughead burst out laughing, doubling up and gripping his stomach and guffawing so hard she thought he’d choke on the stupid gum.

But it was catching, because soon she was laughing too, careening into the hiccups that had always signalled the fraying of the tether of her sanity.

“He — he must have thought..” Jughead dissolved into giggles again. Jughead Jones. Giggles.

“Oh Betty.” She managed to swallow a hiccup and looked up to find soft eyes on her and all of her mirth suddenly evaporated. It was a look she just wanted to sink into and wrap herself up in, to push away the reality of what they were doing here.

She shoved his shoulder then, telling herself it was because he’d laughed at her. But the flat of her palm against the soft, gray jersey of his t-shirt ignited another sizzle in her abdomen she resolved to ignore.

They try not to talk about it, this giant thing sitting in between them, preventing them from reaching each other. Or, at least, Betty does. She’s not sure if it’s a conscious effort on Jughead’s part or if they’re just totally out of sync again.

But, still, it slipped in. At dinner, he’d made an offhand about Southside High and she said, “I get it, Jug, I do. You didn’t have any chips to play. And while I wish you would have told me, so we could have figured out something together, even if that something was our breaking up, my dad held all the power. The threat to FP— to your family — was bigger than our high school relationship.” She realized she meant it. Maybe she could forgive him after all. Maybe she already had. Maybe their friendship is still intact.

He kept glancing at her and then away again while they searched, as if he expected her to break down, but by that point in the night, she had no room for anything else but undirected anger. She’d let it carry her back to the basement after dinner, where she resumed digging through boxes and poking through excel files looking for passwords or safe combinations or financial records or something.

Anything.

Many hours later, when Betty went upstairs for a glass of water and was surprised to see the house cloaked in darkness, her eyes drifted to a handful of photos stuck in cork board illuminated by the under cabinet lights. A photo of the twins in the Blossom maple grove last winter shot an arrow straight through Betty’s brain.

Glass of water forgotten, she raced back down the stairs and barely caught herself from having to hurdle over Jughead’s head.

She did it. Jughead heard the click and looked up.

“It was—it was the date that Grandpappy Blossom killed Grandpappy Cooper.” He nodded but didn’t say anything as he pushed himself up and crossed behind the desk, to join her in her corner of the floor.

Beneath passports and birth certificates, manila folders containing the deeds to the house and the Register office and bills of sale for the Whyte Wyrm and other properties her parents had acquired and discarded over the years, Betty found a handful of newspaper issues her parents had saved. She handed them, one by one, to Jughead, who scanned headlines before stacking them neatly in piles beside his left hip.

When she picked up the next issue from the stack she’d pulled into her lap, her breath caught and she felt Jughead’s eyes land on her. The cover story was a copy of her Jubilee speech from that year. She remembered her parents justifying their decision to print it in the Register, not buying her arguments about special treatment because she’s their daughter — her dad had insisted.

Rereading it, she finally felt the anger and her energy begin to ebb away, leaving behind hurt and confusion and love for her father. She couldn’t help wondering what he saved this paper for — it it was a message and if so, for whom?

Eventually, she was forced to admit that the safe, too, seemed like a dead end. She sighed and set the newspaper and manila folder for the Whyte Wyrm transactions aside before locking the safe back up. Jughead returned to his side of the office, across the DMZ of the desk and beyond any arm-span that would have allowed her to reach him.

Sheriff Keller’s secretary had headed her off earlier in the week, but today she and Jughead get in to see him, down the long hallway lined in dark wood and seafoam green tile she’s seen so often, in real life and in the dreams that still sometimes creep in. Jughead remains in the doorway, but Betty hovers while Keller makes himself a cup of coffee. When he finally sits down, sighing as his bones settle, and she takes the rickety folding chair across from him, Jughead comes to sit beside her, folding his own long legs around the legs of his chair.

“I don’t have any new information, Betty. This case has been closed for years. We examined all the footage, from both cameras. Your dad never left the bar. Clifford entered and exited through the back door. There’s no evidence your dad even knew he was there.” It’s not unexpected, but still it sets her teeth on edge.

“But why would he just go into the Whyte Wyrm for fifteen minutes at 2:30 in the morning on a night it was closed. He wasn’t doing business stuff, he never even went into the office. And how could he not have heard the shot?”

“He said he didn’t. We had no reason to doubt him. Betty, your father was a good man.” It’s obfuscation wrapped up in a pretty bow of trying to make her feel better. What Sheriff Keller is saying is that Hal was one of the right kind of people. He owned his own home and his own business, had a picture-perfect family. What Keller is saying is that he didn’t do his job.

Betty feels herself begin to vibrate with anger again and a dozen years of repressed emotions and she can feel Jughead’s eyes on her, wondering if she’s alright. “And you just bought that? That he was in the bar but couldn’t hear the shot? You didn’t ever think to test it?”

The set of his jaw tells her Keller is getting annoyed with her now. That answering questions on done-and-dusted murder investigations was not how he’d planned to spend his Wednesday afternoon. “We have Clifford Blossom on tape, we didn’t need your father for the case against him.”

As usual, Sheriff Keller totally misses her point.

Jughead speaks before she can. “But you never thought that that might be too much of a coincidence? That a man who never frequented the Whyte Wyrm, except to check up on the accounts and always during the daytime, just so happened to be in the bar at the exact moment a kid was shot. A kid he was so upset about dating his teenage daughter that he literally sent her away. You never thought they could have been together before entering the bar and then split up so you couldn’t prove it?”

Keller stares at him, bushy eyebrows drawn down over his eyes. “Then why would he let himself be caught on camera at all?”

“I don’t know, maybe he was drunk and forgot all about the cameras. Hell, maybe, in the best case scenario, he and Clifford were together when Clifford got the call from Mustang and Hal didn’t know Clifford planned to kill his own son. Maybe he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. But you truly believe he didn’t know that gun went off? He didn’t spend months trying to hush it up only to swoop in as the white knight for my dad as soon as I found the proof he was there?”

The sheriff’s chair squeaks as he leans to one side and then the other, scans his eyes up to the ceiling and back down to a spot on the table where the decades have left a rusty mug-shaped ring.

“Jones, what’s the point of all this? Your dad’s out and Hal Cooper’s been dead for years — sorry, Betty.”

She doesn’t understand, has never understood, how her sweet and morally uncompromising best friend can have such a troglodyte for a father.

“The point is apparently Riverdale is just as corrupt and morally bankrupt as it always was. My God, how the hell do you keep getting elected? Let’s go, Betty.”

She lets him lead her out of the police station. Her mind still whirring with the sheriff’s incompetence as yet another roadblock, yet another of the same roadblocks as they’d encountered so many years before. So she gives Jughead the keys and lets him drive her back to her house.

It’s almost alarming how quickly they slip back into old habits, old ways of being comfortable with each other she thought they’d long since forgotten. They’re in the basement again, Betty going through more boxes and Jughead trying to crack the encryption on her father’s old external hard drive when it comes to her. “Juggie, we can test it!”

“What?”

“We need to know if my father heard the gunshot. We may not be able to prove whether he knew what Clifford was up to or if they were together beforehand, but we can prove he knew the gun went off and didn’t do anything about it. We can test it.”

“You want to set off a gun in the basement of the Whyte Wyrm?”

“Why not? Your dad runs it now, right? We can do it before they open for the night so no one will freak out. I know my mom still has as gun around the house somewhere. It might not be the same caliber though. Do different gun sizes discharge at different volumes?” Betty is absorbed in her own monologue, mind jumping ahead to all the variabilities of ballistics she can remember from a lifetime of watching too many crime procedurals.

“Betty, stop. We can’t just shoot a gun in the middle of a building. What would we even shoot it at? That’s gotta be against the law and after today, I don’t think Keller’s gonna be too willing to give us the benefit of the doubt. And he definitely won’t give FP the benefit of the doubt.”

She’d begun quickly re-boxing all the papers from her parents’ refinancing in 2011 but at Jughead’s words she freezes and feels herself deflate. “I guess you’re right. Never mind. I just — I thought it might be something after all of this nothing.”

“Wait. I have an idea. You’re a genius.” He kisses her forehead and runs out before she can ask him what he means.

#bughead fanfiction #riverdale fanfiction #bughead #betty x jughead #betty cooper #jughead jones #riverdale #mine #second city

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fabermemorialrink · 7 years

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some mistake, part 8

First part of chapter three! Also haha uh this is the last completed section of this fic, so I’m just going to leave it here for a while. I’m sorry!!! The next part is like 80% done, but I feel like this is a cleaner break point, because things turn weird again soon. But who knows! Maybe I’ll get it together for once and hammer out the rest! Anyway, thanks a million to all you beautiful people for reading!! You folks are the best. ♥ ♥

The first thing Derek does after dumping his bag in the new room he now shares with C is take off for the rink, to see if the guys are around. Chowder wasn't in their room, which figures, since he's been back for a few days already, but neither is he in the lobby with Tango and the rest of the new sophomores, or lying in the grass with Rans and Holtzy in the spot Shitty and Johnson claimed for them when Derek was a wee, impressionable freshman.

Ford, who’s sporting a new pair of glasses and demolishing Whiskey in a game of Guess Who, tells him Chowder went to visit a townie friend, and Derek almost crashes through the lobby doors in his hurry to get to the woods. C must already be chilling with Dex, probably gorging themselves on Bitty’s pie or skipping rocks with Lardo and Tater, which would kinda suck since Derek doesn’t know how to find his way in there alone. He waves a casual goodbye to the others as Holster reminds him about their first team breakfast tomorrow, and takes off. He hasn't seen either of his best friends for over two months.

To his surprise, they aren’t deep in the forest when he locates them. They're perched on a low, thick branch near Derek’s hollow, swinging their feet and eating the syrupy ice pops that the nearby convenience mart sells by the box. Chowder’s lips are stained purple; he grins around the plastic tube dangling from his mouth, bringing up one hand to shield himself as Dex flicks red droplets of melted cherry popsicle at his face.

“Don't even think about it-”

“Thought you liked my freckles, C. Don’t you want to match?” Dex snaps his tube forward, spraying more cherry syrup in Chowder’s direction.

“Not with you, goblin man,” Chowder whines, dodging and ducking like he’s in the Matrix. He loses balance, flailing as he begins tipping backwards. Dex tries to save him, grabbing onto C’s sleeve as he topples backwards off the branch, but only manages to get himself dragged down too. They land in a squawking mess of limbs.

Derek whistles in appreciation, strolling up to them while they thrash around like beached squids. “I can’t believe you just let Chowder die,” he tsks.

“Yeah, what the hell! Dropping the ball, Dex.”

“Maybe if the ball had laid off on bag nachos for the summer I wouldn’t have dropped him.”

“Hey, fuck you,” Chowder laughs, slapping his arm across Dex’s chest. “My body is a temple, and I can fill it with twelve hundred bags of Fritos if I want.”

“Christ, Fritos are revolting, C. Nursey, teach this boy something about nutrition, would you?” Dex asks, staring upside down through his lashes at Derek, who grins down at him.

“You eat pie for dinner! Every day!” Chowder yells.

“What’s that? You loathe Bitty’s pies? You never want to taste another one again in your life? I dunno, this’ll really break his heart, but if you really feel that strongly about it…”

Chowder starts with a wail that warps into a battle cry as he leaps at Dex, who tries unsuccessfully to roll away. The noise he makes when C sinks his nails into his hips is unreal; if Derek ignores the stray laughter, it sounds like he’s being dragged to hell.

“Alright, break it up boys, break it up,” Derek says as Chowder begins a tickle offensive and Dex’s leg twitches like he might kick someone’s teeth in by accident. He pushes his way in between the two of them and nudges Dex away with a foot before sitting himself on top of Chowder’s ass, pinning him in place. Chowder kicks his legs, trying to oust Derek from his spot, but gives up, lying defeated in the underbrush.

“This is blatant favoritism,” Chowder grumbles. “I don’t see you crushing Dex with your steel quads.”

“Hey, if we’re talking favoritism, at least Dex lets you into the trees with him.” Every time Derek asks Dex to join him, Dex just flips him the bird and circles the tree like an unhinged coyote.

“That’s because I don’t want you to break your damn neck, you dipstick,” Dex says as he finally crawls off the ground. “And you’re only like 5’ 9”, so catching you is easier than-” He stops short when Derek stands. Derek, who after two years can look him in the eye without tilting his head upward. For some reason, though, he stares half a minute longer, the skin around his neck starting to grow a heated pink. “When the fuck did you get so- so,” and he waves his hand distractedly around Derek’s general person, “uh, tall?” The word falls from his lips like he intended to say something else, and he claps his mouth shut.

“Well, Dex, it was early on the morn of July 11th when I woke crunched up in my tiny bed like a giant in the land of the-”

“Alright, smartass, I get it.” He backs away from Derek, still rosy and flustered, and busies himself with helping Chowder off the ground.

When they're all finally situated, Derek reveals the gifts he brought back with him. The first item he throws in their direction is a humongous bag of cotton candy, which makes them both brighten to an unholy level.

“Didn't you just have popsicles?” he asks dubiously as Dex parcels out a clump to Chowder and lets a strand of the spun sugar dissolve on his tongue.

“Pssshh,” Chowder says.

“Aight, then hook me up too,” Derek says. He opens up his mouth expectantly as Dex reaches out to give him a handful. Reluctantly, Dex pushes the cotton candy past his lips, to rest on his tongue, then snatches his hand back, turning colors again. Super weird.

But Derek leaves him be, dividing up the rest of his souvenirs. Gloves and a shark-shaped tea infuser for C; a scarf and tiny lobster keychain for Dex.

“Trying to buy our affection again, Nursey?” Chowder teases after they thank him.

“Nah, you know I just notice stuff that reminds me of you guys,” Derek says casually. Dex gets awkward about accepting gifts that aren't food, having hang-ups about being indebted to people and wasting money, but Derek has slowly managed to convince him that none of these gifts carry any burden or expectation. He tries to keep them less expensive and more thoughtful, in order to make things easier for his friends.

“Crustaceans remind you of me,” is all Dex comments on, face unsure if it's amused or exasperated, and Derek breaks into a grin.

“Of course they do! Orange and crabby.”

Dex looks like he's about to try and put him in a headlock, so Derek dumps the rest of the bag at his feet. It’s a collection of books that Dex expressed interest in reading; from the surprised delight on his face when he peeks inside, Derek’s hit the mark.

“They're for you to keep, though I wrote in the margins of some, and they're all a little beat up- not that you don't deserve new books,” and now he's spinning in circles, trying to explain this without coming off as a cheap douchebag, “but I thought maybe you'd like to see what I thought? I mean, obviously you'll form your own opinions, but-”

“Nursey, stop. They're great. Thanks, for everything,” Dex says, warmth lacing his tone as he thumbs down the corner of A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. His eyes flicker up to meet Derek’s, and they share a smile, leaving Derek feeling somewhere in between bizarre and normal.

He tries to forget about it, but Dex remains somewhat squirrely for the rest of the day, culminating in a really awkward clasp/hug when they depart for the evening. Chowder pulls Dex in for a hug, which runs smoothly as usual, but Derek holds his arms out until Dex brings it in and receives an uncomfortable chest-bump half-hug combo that fizzles out when they pull apart and Dex realizes he’s looking directly into Derek’s eyes. He scuttles back into the woods with a hasty goodbye, power-walking away with his arms full of books, leaving Derek to make baffled faces at Chowder on their walk home.

Derek is still stewing over it by tomorrow morning at team breakfast, when he's finally awake enough to ask Chowder what the deal was with yesterday.

“Dex is just worked up ‘cause you got taller and hotter over the summer!” Chowder tells him while inhaling cheerios. Derek almost stabs himself in the gums with his fork.

There were enough keywords in that sentence to grab Holster’s attention from all the way down the table, and he launches out of his seat to accost Derek while he chokes on his homefries.

"Nursey. Nurse. Derek, my bro, my precious d-man hatchling, what delightful news is this?!" Holster bellows, almost knocking Ollie out of his spot as he collides with the bench next to Derek. The plate of pancakes flies across the table like a frisbee, stopped only by Ford's quick hand, trained, no doubt, by hours and hours of expertly managing unruly wild-eyed theater kids.

Derek quits choking long enough to splutter out, "It's nothing, just Chowder being-"

"Nothing?!" comes the outraged rallying cry from Ransom, who crosses from the omelette station to their table in three long graceful bounds. He launches his plate aside to squeeze in next to Holster, which triggers a domino effect and squishes Whiskey to the very edge of the bench. The sophomore continues valiantly eating his toast as if he doesn’t have only half his butt on a solid surface.

"Sounds like way more than nothing to us!"

"Sounds like someone's getting a head start on winter formal, is what I'm thinking, Holtzy." Ransom says, looping his arm around Derek's shoulders and staring him down with his most intense co-captain stare.

"It sure does, bro."

Derek rips his eyes away from Ransom's hypnotic stare long enough to direct his glare at turncoat Christopher Chow, who continues smiling and vacuuming up cereal like he didn't just bodily shove Derek under several two-hundred pound buses. He barely has any idea of what's happening right now, and certainly isn't prepared to defend himself from his captains’ onslaught of (un)helpful support.

"Well, I dunno if he can go to formal," Chowder says, looking apologetic even as he throws gasoline onto the flames. "He doesn't go here, and he’s probably not big on parties. But I think Nursey should ask anyway!" Holster lights up like a Hanukkah candle and stumbles back off the bench in order to squish in on Derek's other side instead, leaving him flanked by both meddling seniors.

“Like always, actual genius C. Chow is completely right. You miss 100% of the shots, etcetera, you know the rest. If you need help asking-”

“We got your back. Nursey, you know we’re here for you,” Ransom says gravely.

“Yeah, of course. Thanks guys, but I'm, uh. I'm gonna sleep on it first.”

“Working up to it, eh? Well, you just let us know.” Rans claps him on the arm and starts tearing into his omelette; Holster watches Derek for half a minute more with two eggs bunched up in his cheeks, but also slaps him on the back eventually, and returns his attention to the table conversation.

Derek pointedly refuses eye contact with Chowder, who huffs a bit, and concentrates on slathering butter on his toast while he mulls everything over. Was Chowder right about yesterday?

Dex and Derek...they sort of joke around about it sometimes. Fake-flirting, pet names – Derek instigates it most times, just to see the glowing flush that overtakes Dex’s skin and the flash of teeth he shows when he snipes back. But when Dex isn't too busy rolling his eyes right out of their sockets he plays along, calling Derek ‘angel face’ and ‘pumpkin’ and ‘sugarplum’. It's just a harmless thing they do. It never means anything.

But yesterday, Dex had been genuinely flustered, and it makes Derek feel restless with questions.

“C. Chowder. Chris,” he hisses, resorting to kicking Chowder under the table until he stops talking to Tango about video games.

“Derek,” Chowder says, beaming, as he literally rips a banana in half. He always eats fruit in these weird-ass ways that Derek has chosen to accept as one of his few shortcomings. “What’s up?”

“Yesterday, with Dex...was he really- do you think he thinks that I’m-” Chowder chews and nods encouragingly while Derek flounders for words. He gives up and winds up demanding, “Am I hot now?”

“Like, objectively? You were always cute, in this quiet way, right? But I dunno, you really grew into your own over the summer,” Chowder says thoughtfully. He places his hand delicately to his chest and scrounges up a parental sigh. “Guess my boy’s finally growing up!”

“Four months younger than you, Christopher.” Chowder just simpers at him, some stray banana mush falling off his cheek. “I don’t feel different. I mean, yeah, we’re the same height now, but the other stuff-”

“Like I said, you were always cute! But you look more...grown-up now? And it really works for you, buddy! And it really really works for Dex, haha.” At Derek’s look of pure, overwhelmed disbelief, Chowder blinks, then takes pity on him, offering a real smile. “Nursey. Don’t tell me this is a surprise to you. He, like, always calls you pretty.”

“Yeah, but that’s-”

Chowder shakes his head as he folds his two banana peels into a stack. “Just a joke? You don’t see the way he looks at you sometimes; I know you’re besties and all, but sometimes he- how do I put this. He lingers? You’ll say something funny, or interesting, and he kind of traces your face with his eyes. And sometimes it’s like he’s studying for a test he needs to pass. Whoa, now I’m getting poetic, but seriously. He can be kind of intense. Pay attention next time, and you’ll see.”

Derek doesn’t need to wait until next time. He's already replaying memories, sifting through for any evidence that what Chowder is saying is true. It doesn't help that Dex spends a lot of time being intense about one thing or another, but pieces start to fit together, moments coming into clarity as Derek thinks about them longer. The way Dex’s amber eyes turn dark and pensive sometimes when he looks over at Derek, an unnamed heaviness passing between them. How the corner of his mouth unfolds into the curve of a smile on occasion, even when Derek isn't particularly amusing. How serious he sounds when he gives out a rare, unprompted compliment.

Derek doesn’t know what to do with this information. He needs more time to process it, so he turns his attention to the other matter that’s come to mind. “How do you see all of this stuff? It sounds obvious when you point it out, but it’s like I’ve been blind this whole time.”

“I just notice things. About you guys, about the team. I like watching people, seeing how they move and think. Maybe it’s a goalie thing?” he laughs.

“No, I get it. But- you’re a good friend, Chowder,” Derek tells him, because Derek likes people-watching too, but Chowder gets him and Dex both. He knows so much more about the people around him than he'll probably ever get credit for.

“Aw, thanks! You’re a good friend too. My question, though, is what are you gonna do about this? Not that you have to do anything! I just don’t want things to be weird.”

“I. Don’t know?” Derek says helplessly. “It’s flattering, but he’s my best friend, and I don’t- I’m not sure if either of us want anything else? It might not even mean anything; like, I’ve always thought Dex was cute, but that doesn’t mean-”

That doesn’t necessarily mean Derek wants to pursue a relationship with him. Dex is attractive, sure, but he's Derek’s best friend. Those two things don't necessarily make them romantically compatible. If Derek took the time to really consider it, could he honestly see him and Dex dating?

Could he imagine going with Dex to winter formal? Dex would probably hate it, grumbling about his two left feet, and the ridiculousness of hiring a DJ for a high school dance, and how preppy everyone looks. He'd chirp Derek for it too, while helping the hockey team demolish the refreshments table, but then compliment him later on some surprising detail like his choice of tie color or the way he's done his hair. Derek would wheedle until Dex agreed to a dance, the two of them swaying stupidly to a slow song, before Derek tries to put his dance lessons to good use. Dex could be convinced to stay for a few more songs, but they'd stay in the corner with the wallflowers, where the lights are dim and the white streamers hang in sweeping loops under silver and spangled balloons. They're about the same height now, broaching six feet, and Dex’s broad hand would rest heavy against Derek’s waist or shoulder, but it would probably link pretty perfectly with Derek’s own hand.

Could he imagine them going to the movies together, sitting in the back row of some noisy summer blockbuster and stealing overpriced raisinettes and nachos from each other? Dex would never spring for snacks, but he wouldn't be able to help himself from swiping food from Derek if Derek decided to be disgustingly extravagant and purchase five different boxes of chocolate. It would start innocently enough, Derek pressing caramels and junior mints into Dex’s hand each time he reached over, until his boxes were empty and he could trick Dex into holding hands with him the next time he reached.

Could he imagine trying to make dinner together? Or spending nights together in Derek and Chowder’s dorm room, Dex tucked in Derek’s away game sleeping bag on the floor next to them? They'd talk until morning about poetry and unsolved mysteries, stupid childhood mishaps and unimportant truths, and maybe when Chowder wakes up it’ll be to the sight of Dex curled up next to Derek on his bed (but he'll never tell).

Derek could take him to the amusement park with the team. Dex would probably like roller coasters like Ransom and Tango. Derek would force him to ride the teacups twenty times with him and Chowder, and drag him through the mirror house. He'd buy him funnel cake and corndogs and more cotton candy, fresh-spun and as pink as Dex's face would be if Derek tried to sit up next to him on the ferris wheel.

They could go explore the historical side of Boston, or tour the haunted houses of Salem, or drive east to Gloucester and Rockport to see the North Shore. They could roadtrip straight across to California, or to Niagara Falls, or to see the Grand Canyon – any of the places that Dex as said he'd like to visit someday.

Derek would take him home to Manhattan. Mama would love him, this prickly, weathered forest boy who she can feed and wrap in a cocoon of blankets. Mom would be more cautious, but dad would convince her, once they bonded over fleecing people in card games, and car maintenance and I Love Lucy. Dex would stay in the guest room, but Derek would sneak him into his room, where Dex would tease him about his choice in posters and the felt solar system mobile mom made for him when he was a baby, still hanging over his desk. They'd lie under Derek’s covers, listening to ATCQ and Run-D.M.C. before Derek gives him a rundown of the music of the last five years, since Dex doesn't know any songs more recent than the top of the charts from 2008.

He'd toss book after book from his shelf into Dex’s lap, recommending every single one despite all the protests. They would drag Derek’s comforter out to the balcony to watch the sunrise together, Dex leaning his head on Derek’s shoulder, his hair the same color as the sun-dyed sky brushing over Derek’s collarbone, and their hands tentatively linked together under the blanket.

Maybe by then Derek will have gathered up the nerves to kiss him.

...wait, hold up.

“Nursey, you in there?” Chowder asks gently as Derek lowers his forehead to rest on the table.

“Yeah, I’m here. Just need a minute to process some stuff,” he mumbles weakly back.

Dex would close his eyes, pale lashes fanning out to flutter against his cheeks in anticipation. Derek would lean in, his heart hammering in sixteenth notes, trying not to crush Dex’s fingers in his grasp. It would be soft, Derek thinks, though sometimes talking to Dex makes him feel like every part of him is burning, whether with frustration or fondness or amusement. They could kiss like a fistfight, but that first time, at least, would be gentle. As silly as it seems, Dex would probably taste like the pie du jour, and he would be warm – so warm and solid against Derek’s skin that he could ignite.

That’s how it would go, he thinks.

Okay, okay, cool cool cool. So he wants to date Dex. This isn’t exactly new; he’s always wanted to hang out with Dex outside of the woods, anyway, like besties do.

He also wants to kiss Dex, so there’s that. It's fine. So chill. Just the chillest.

“I think I might be fucked,” he finally tells Chowder, who nods sympathetically and gives him his glass of chocolate milk in solidarity.

“Like I said, you don’t have to do anything. But the possibility is there. Maybe you should take a chance.”

“Okay, I- uh. I’mma think it over a little longer.”

Chowder narrows his eyes. “Like a hundre-”

“Yeah, yep, like a hundred years longer. I don’t wanna mess everything all up?” Derek says, trying to express with his hands the breadth of this situation. “He’s really important to me, C. I can’t fuck this up.”

“No, I get it. Take your time. And when you figure it out, make sure to let my great-grandchildren know, yeah?”

Derek laughs and scrubs a hand over his face. “Sure thing, Chowder.”

He just needs time to sort it all out: his own feelings, Dex’s strange behavior and lingering looks, and that possibility of something more. He just needs a chance to work through this thing that feels so unexpected yet undeniable, before any more surprises come his way.

#nurseydex #nursey #dex #omgcp fic #some mistake #chowder #hey i love the frogs #awkward losers trying to figure out their ~feelings~

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peterjonesparker · 7 years

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If your still taking spideychelle prompt could you do a jealous! Michelle

!Loved your jealous Peter fic. You should do a jealous Michelle one .

Omg can you do one with Michelle getting jealous?!

Loved ur new fic!!! Was wondering is you would write a fic about spideychelle proposal????

hello! i hope this is okay! i tried to write this in many different ways but nothing ever really felt right. so, this isn’t just jealous!michelle. so if you’d like me to write more jealous!michelle that is more similar to the jealous!peter fic i wrote, let me know and i can write some small oneshots or something. (i have ideas for jealous!michelle that is similar to jealous!peter but nothing that was enough to make a whole fic.) anYWAY, i hope this is okay! and sorry it took so long!

five people who hugged michelle (ao3 link)

1. gwen stacy

When Michelle is a freshman in college, she has a bit of a crisis. She and Peter have been best friends for around two years now, and she’s been nursing a healthy crush on him for a bit longer than that. And in their whole friendship/crush existence, Peter has only ever liked one girl: Liz Toomes. (Which, if she’s being honest, Michelle probably had a crush on Liz too. So she gets it.) This is all a roundabout way of her saying that she’s been able to have a crush on Peter Parker and not do anything about it because their relationship to each other and mostly to other people always stayed the same.

But in their freshman year of college, Peter Parker gets a lab partner for intro physics. She seems like a kind, genuine, funny, good person. She’s friendly and intelligent. And whenever Michelle makes the trek to MIT to join Peter for lunch before lab, Gwen always asks how she’s doing and takes a genuine interest in MJ and her life. So, Gwen Stacy is exactly Peter’s type (if Liz is a crush to go by), and MJ has a mini crisis about it.

Peter and Gwen don’t start dating though. At least not for the first month or so of school. But MJ is worried. And then one Wednesday while she’s doodling in the middle of her freshman seminar (it focuses on human rights and MJ is actually a big fan of the class, but That Kid™ is speaking right now and he’s absolutely insufferable), she feels her pocket buzz. It’s a text from Peter.

the dork pedro: hey, are you free for dinner tonight

She schools her expression so as not to give anything away while her professor gets into a debate with Kid™ about how his point, while there is some argument to be said for it, is actually irrelevant in the real world and only works in a hypothetical world where greed and selfishness doesn’t exist.

michelle “if you save my name with any emojis I’ll murder you” jones: yeah sure, 6:30? I’ve got class until 6.

Then her best friend in the class, Jenna (bless her soul), is speaking up to note that the readings actually don’t support Kid™’s ideas and suggest that there needs to be a more active effort on the part of society to correct wrongdoings and hold people accountable.

the dork pedro: sounds good meet at my dorm room

Michelle doesn’t realize until after class that she spends the rest of it smiling. Jenna punches her in the arm and laughs at the expression on MJ’s face. “What’s got you all smiley and happy?” Jenna knows about Peter. At least, she knows that MJ’s half in love with him and has been since sophomore year of high school. Jenna also knows, at least she claims that she knows, that Peter Parker is head over heels in love with Michelle and if they don’t start dating before the end of this year then Jenna will shave her head.

“I’m getting dinner with Peter tonight.” MJ tries to act nonchalant about the whole matter because they’ve gotten dinner in the past. It shouldn’t be a big deal. But then Jenna’s face lights up and she grabs MJ’s shoulders and starts jumping up and down.

“Tonight’s the night! I feel it!” And MJ starts laughing, shaking her head and starting to walk away with a smile on her face. “Tell me how it goes, MJ!”

“Yeah, yeah.” She says over her shoulder. “Now go to class!” But when Jenna whistles loudly down the hall, MJ just smiles and skips for a second before walking to her next class.

And if Michelle puts on her nicest pair of jeans and uses her hands to brush her hair so it’s a little neater, well, no one can prove that. (Except her roommate who just laughs when she changes her shirt, but her roommate is sworn to secrecy so good luck getting that information from her.) MJ walks a little more quickly to Peter’s dorm. (It usually takes her about forty minutes to walk the two miles, but she does it in thirty tonight.)

She practically jumps up the stairs to his room and when she notices the door is slightly ajar, she pushes it open without a second thought because this is around the time he was expecting her. And then she sees Gwen. She’s sitting next to Peter on his bed and she has her arm around his shoulders and when she glances up to see MJ, she jumps. “MJ!”

But before either of them can say anything else, MJ is backing away, apologizing quietly before she runs out the dorm and down the stairs. She can’t really get very far because it’s dark and her tears are making everything blurry. So she settles onto a bench near the dorm in a small brick alcove. She pulls her knees up onto the bench and wraps her arms around them, feeling stupid as she lets her head fall between her knees. This is dumb. She’s dumb. She knew it was coming. She shouldn’t have been surprised.

“MJ?” While MJ likes Gwen well enough, she is the last person on earth she wants to talk to right now. (Well, second to last.) But Gwen sits next to her on the bench anyway because she refuses to take a hint when MJ doesn’t even look up. “I know saying ‘it’s not what it looks like’ feels like a lame excuse, but it’s true.”

Michelle takes a deep breath and looks up at Gwen, not caring that her tear-stained cheeks give away how much she cares. “I’m happy for the two of you, honestly. I just,” she sighs. God, this is the worst.

“You love him.” At Michelle’s shocked face, Gwen continues. “You’re not subtle. Neither is he, you know.” When MJ’s brows draw together in confusion, Gwen laughs. She has the decency to look sheepish when MJ scowls. “I’m sorry, it’s just that you two are so bad at this. He and I aren’t dating, okay? I’m gay.”

And, fuck. Honestly, how could MJ be so heteronormative? She’s bi for crying out loud! The only other person MJ sees Gwen with is that one girl Alex. She saw them holding hands once! God, MJ feels ridiculous. Gwen just puts her hand on MJ’s knee and chuckles. “We spend half the time during lab talking about his massive crush on you and how he plans to woo you. Tonight was supposed to be a special night.” Michelle’s eyes widen and Gwen smiles warmly. “I told him to stay in his room because I figured he’d mess this up somehow because he’s clueless, but you probably already knew that.”

Michelle doesn’t really know how to feel right now but she puts her legs back on the ground and pulls Gwen into a hug. She whispers quietly into Gwen’s hair, “thank you.” Gwen rubs her back and squeezes her a bit more tightly.

“I’m the one who should be thanking you. Hopefully now I don’t have to listen to how you’re never going like Peter the way he likes you.” Michelle pulls back with a laugh, wiping her cheeks and opening her eyes wide, trying to get rid of any residual tears. “Now go find him, please.”

Michelle smiles, standing up and thanking her one last time before sprinting back to his room. He’s sitting on his bed, face in his hands and shoulders sagging. MJ walks over and sits down next to him, hugging him tightly when he looks up at her. His arms wrap slowly around her waist and it’s a bit uncomfortable hugging while they’re sitting down but his warmth is intoxicating.

She pulls back slightly. “So, I hear you want to be my boyfriend.” Peter flushes, his ears turning red and his eyes widening. He looks too adorable, so Michelle just rests her hand lightly against his cheek. “Kiss me if yes.”

Peter leans in and their lips brush. It’s short and nothing too spectacular, but they’re both smiling and afterward Peter pulls her back into a hug, burying his face in her neck and kissing it softly. Michelle can’t contain the butterflies that are flapping around in her stomach. She finds she doesn’t really want to, either.

2. liz toomes

Michelle loves Liz Toomes. She’s one of her closest friends. After Liz moved to Oregon in Michelle’s sophomore year, they started talking more. Michelle would keep Liz updated on decathlon and ask her questions. Liz would tell Michelle about Oregon and being the new kid and tease MJ about her crush on Peter.

So when Liz tells MJ that she’s going to be in Boston for a conference next week, MJ is understandably very excited. Since Liz and Peter are fairly good friends now, the three of them arrange to get dinner together. Michelle is excited. Honestly, she is. But, there’s still a part of her that gets a little self-conscious. Because Peter and Liz joke around and Liz is so bubbly and alive and outgoing and charming and all these things that Michelle’s never cared to be nor has she wanted to be.

It’s not that Michelle doesn’t think she’s a pretty awesome person. Nor does she want to change who she is because of what she thinks Peter might want. She knows her loves her. She knows they’re happy. But she worries that Peter wants someone like Liz sometimes. That he might be happier with someone more like Liz. Which, she knows, is dumb. But she can’t help but feel sometimes as if he’s with him because they’re friends and they were attracted to each other and it was convenient and made sense.

Which is why she’s a little off at dinner. She’s a bit quieter and Peter and Liz joke together and MJ doesn’t contribute all that often. When Peter goes to the restroom, Liz turns and levels her with a serious look. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Michelle tries to play it off. She knows that it’s a lame response and that Liz will not accept it. Which is why Liz just raises one eyebrow and keeps looking at Michelle with the same look on her face. And MJ is trying to be more open and honest because Peter always says he never really knows what she’s thinking. So, MJ sighs and closes her eyes so she doesn’t have to look at Liz when she says something she knows Liz is going to disapprove of. “I get worried that I’m not going to be enough for him.”

She opens one of her eyes slightly so she can peak at Liz, but she doesn’t look incredulous and Fed Up™ like she had thought. She’s just smiling, warm and gentle. She reaches out and puts her hand on Michelle’s shoulder. “In all the years I’ve known Peter, I’ve never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you. It’s like you hung the moon and he’s going to spend every day worshipping the ground you walk on. He absolutely adores you, okay?”

Michelle pulls Liz into a hug so she doesn’t accidentally start crying in this restaurant. “Thank you for telling me I’m being dumb.”

Liz chuckles. “Of course, MJ.”

They’re still hugging when Peter walks back and he laughs a bit, asking, “I was gone for like five minutes. What happened?”

Michelle and Liz pull back from their hug, grinning at each other. MJ turns to Peter and kisses him on the cheek. “Nothing to worry about, loser.” He shakes his head and scoffs, but his cheeks are slightly pink so she figures Liz is right about everything, so she should trust her on this one.

3. may parker

At the end of their first semester sophomore year, Michelle and Peter start to struggle a bit. He’s going off on missions a lot more frequently and he’s starting to fall behind and it feels too similar to the beginning of sophomore year in high school and Michelle doesn’t want to feel like they’ve gone back. Michelle sees him less often, and it wouldn’t usually be an issue because they both get busy. But it’s been a week since she’s seen him and when they text the conversations are short. She reads online that Spiderman has been particularly active in the last two weeks, and Michelle doesn’t want to be upset, but she is. Hell, they haven’t even had sex in, like, a month. Which, for them, is a really long time.

It’s more than just the sex, though. Michelle misses Peter. She misses watching movies with him on the couch and cuddling when she’s particularly stressed. She misses him trying to make tea and failing, somehow, even though it’s honestly not that hard and we’ve talked about this three times this past week. She misses talking to him right before they go to bed and stealing food from his plate and having tickle fights. She misses him posing for her doodles and holding him when he cries after a particularly bad dream. She misses him. But she’s also upset at him.

So, over Christmas break when they’re both back in New York, when she arrives at his house to give him his present (which may or may not include a blowjob if she’s feeling generous and also maybe because she wants to have sex with her boyfriend because it’s been so long) and he’s not at his house, she scowls a bit.

May smiles, but Michelle knows that she’s also concerned. Despite this, she laughs. “Normally, I’d be offended at seeing someone so disappointed to see me!”

Michelle sighs, frowning a bit. She’s tired. Really, she is. “I’m sorry, May. You know I love you.”

May just puts her hand on Michelle’s shoulder and guides her inside. “I know. Come on it. He’ll hopefully be back within the hour.” May closes the door once Michelle is inside and directs her to the kitchen table. She walks into the kitchen and puts the kettle on the stove. “You like earl grey, right?”

Michelle smiles, nodding slightly. They’re silent while the water heats up and then the kettle screams and May brings over two mugs. Michelle lifts the tea bag up and down, watching the color spread in the water. They chat about how school’s been and what May’s been doing. She’s dating someone new. Michelle congratulates her. But then it’s been forty-five minutes and Peter’s not back. May reaches over and grabs Michelle’s hand. “Tell me what’s going on.”

That’s hard. Because Michelle doesn’t fully know herself, but she’s sad and upset and frustrated. But she loves him so much. “I miss him.” That’s really it, isn’t it? He’s not around anymore and she misses waking up and having him wrapped in her arms. “It feels like he’s always gone now. I just…miss talking to him and doing little things with him. It feels like I’m not as important as I used to be.” She leaves out the part where she misses sex, but it doesn’t really matter at this point, she doesn’t think. Besides, while she loves May dearly, she has no interest in discussing her sex life with the woman.

“Tell him.” May says it as if it’s all that simple. Michelle doesn’t want him to feel like he has to choose. Doesn’t want to make him feel like he has to give up this part of his life. May continues on despite the look Michelle is sure she’s giving May. “He cares about you. A lot. He will listen. It’s not unfair to tell him how you feel.”

Then there’s a crash in his room and he’s home. He comes out a few minutes later in his pajamas and gulps when he sees them. He looks a little worse for wear, but he’s okay. May stands, saying she’s going to spend the night with her girlfriend. She walks over the give Peter a kiss on the cheek. She hugs Michelle tightly before she leaves and whispers into her ear, “Be brave enough to be vulnerable.”

Then she’s gone and neither she nor Peter says anything for a moment. But Michelle takes a deep breath and quickly spits out, “I miss you.” He looks like he chokes on anything he was going to say and walks over, sitting next to her and grabbing her hands. Somehow this empowers her and she continues. “I feel like we don’t see each other or talk anymore. I miss just sitting next to you and doing homework. I miss laughing with you.” She looks down, blushing slightly. “I miss sex with you.”

He laughs, leaning in and kissing her cheek. “I’m sorry.” He kisses her forehead. “I love you.” He kisses her nose. “I miss you.” And then he kisses her mouth and she wraps her arms around his shoulders and pulls him tightly to her. It’s weird, sitting in their respective chairs and kissing. But it feels like deliverance so she doesn’t really care.

She’s smiling when he pulls back slightly. She glances down and runs her hand up his thigh. HE chokes on air a bit and she laughs. “I actually came here to give you your Christmas presents.”

“Presents?” He squeaks out and his voice is a couple octaves too high. She just smiles, feeling like a vixen when she slides off her chair to kneel on the floor in front of him. She yanks open his pajama bottoms and he gulps, head tilting back as he whispers out a quick, “Jesus Christ.”

She laughs again when he looks back at her, looking absolutely wrecked when she hasn’t even done anything yet. “Face it tiger, you just hit the jackpot.”

4. ned leeds

Michelle is absolutely livid right now. She’s wound so tight she’s going to snap at the next person who says a single word to her. She was at the meeting for queer students on campus when she encountered a woman who looked at her, confused and slightly upset. “Wait, don’t you have a boyfriend?”

Michelle had sighed. She had been asked this a couple times over the last few meetings. “Yeah, I’m bi.”

The woman just raised one eyebrow. “But you’re in a straight relationship.” And she’d already had a long day and she didn’t want to deal with someone implying she wasn’t gay enough to be at their queer meetings. So she’d picked up her backpack and stormed out. She didn’t care what this woman thought of her, she just needed to get out of that room.

She walks the mile to Peter’s apartment quickly because she’s about to burst into tears and she doesn’t want to do that in public. She just wants to see her boyfriend and hug him because she feels so fucking exhausted. But when she knocks on the door, he’s not ther. Ned answers because he’s visiting this weekend and then Michelle bursts into tears and Ned pulls her into the apartment and gives her a hug.

They stand like that for a couple minutes. Ned’s rubbing her back in soothing circles and whispering assurances to her. When the tears become less all consuming, Ned pulls back and asks, “what’s going on?”

Michelle takes a deep breath, trying to stop her tears. “A girl implied I wasn’t gay enough to be at a queer meeting.” And then her tears come more forcefully again and Ned pulls her back into a hug. Her shoulders shake and she buries her face into his neck, not caring that his shirt’s probably very wet on his shoulder.

“I’m so sorry, MJ. Oh my goodness.” He guides her to the kitchen counter and sits her down on the bar stool. He sits next to her and keeps rubbing circles on her back. “I’m sorry she was trying to erasure your identity.” Michelle just nods, taking deep breaths as her heart stops racing so quickly. “It’s not the same, but sometimes I feel like people don’t really accept my demisexuality. Like, I’m on the ace spectrum but some people don’t want to acknowledge that. Like, especially since I’ve found Betty. It’s hard because everyone just assumes I’m in a perfectly straight hetero relationship. And I go to queer meetings and people are always just like, ‘oh cool, an ally!’ And I want to shout, ‘I’m not an ally! I’m queer!’” He pauses, eyebrows furrowing. “Not that I wouldn’t be an ally. I don’t actually know what I’m saying right now but I should probably stop.”

Michelle laughs and hugs him tightly again. Ned’s her best friend too. She loves him. “You’re such a dork, Ned. I love you.” They hug until Peter comes home and she’s still crying a bit. When Peter notices, he rushes over and she pulls away from Ned to hug Peter. Because she missed him and she loves him too and he always knows how to make her feel better.

Peter guides her to the couch and covers her with a blanket. He kisses her on the head and then walks back into the kitchen to find Ned putting a kettle on the stove. “What happened?”

“Someone implied she was straight.” And oh god. This has happened too many times to count since she’d started dating Peter and he feels so badly. So when he walks back into the living room with a mug of chamomile tea (because it’s her favorite and it puts her right to bed and she needs her sleep), he pops the DVD for Frida into the DVD player. Michelle claps her hands together and smiles when she accepts the mug from Peter.

Peter slides underneath her so she’s laying her head on his lap and when Ned comes over she lifts her legs before resting them on his lap. She dozes off almost instantly, Peter rubbing circles on her temples. Her last thoughts as she starts to drift are that she loves these boys and the family they’ve become for her.

5. peter parker

It’s a week before graduation. Michelle is freaking out a bit. But she feels like she shouldn’t be. Because on all accounts, her life is pretty great. She’s going to Columbia to get her masters next year. Peter’s going to be working for Stark Industries in New York so they’ll be able to stay together. Her brother is moving to Jersey so he’ll be close. She and Peter are going to May’s wedding this summer. Ned’s going to fucking Stanford for medical school next year. Things are awesome, so she shouldn’t be freaking out.

But the other day one of the women who worked in her office proposed to her boyfriend. And it got MJ. Because she started thinking about Peter. She loves Peter. They’re going to be living together in New York. And MJ always hated the idea of marriage as a kid, but when she thinks about calling Peter her husband, her heart does little flips.

And it’s all she’s been able to think about for the past week. While everyone is panicking about moving to a new city or going to grad school or wondering what they’re going to do after college, Michelle has been sitting back, panicking because she’s in love with her boyfriend and she might want to marry him. She might want to marry him soon. She always thought she wouldn’t get married until her thirties. Because she was going to develop her career and settle into her life before settling down in that regard. But she and Peter have been dating for two years and they’ve already settled into each other. It’s not as if much would change. They’d just get tax breaks.

So MJ decides to call her older sister. But it’s one in the morning and she wakes her up and she’s not happy about it. “MJ, I swear to god if this isn’t an emergency, I’m going to kill you.”

“I think I want to marry Peter.”

Her sister doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then, slowly, as if she’s worried Michelle won’t understand: “And that’s a problem because…?”

And there’s the rub. There isn’t a problem, not really. She and Peter are doing well. She thinks they’re going to continue to do well. They plan their lives around being with each other now. She’s happy with him. It wouldn’t be a stretch if they were to get married. “I…I don’t know.”

Her sister sighs and Michelle can practically see her rubbing her hands over her eyes. “MJ, look, I don’t know why you’re scared. I don’t know if you’re worried you aren’t ready because you’re only twenty-two or if you think he’s not going to say yes or if there’s some other wild reason you think you shouldn’t ask Peter to spend the rest of his life with you. But if you want my take on things, I think if you decide you do want this, then you should ask. Because there’s no reality in which he doesn’t say yes and there’s no reality in which he isn’t happy with you.”

Her sister can’t see the smile on her face, so MJ manages to laugh despite the tears forming and says with a waver in her voice, “Thank you.”

The laugh on the other end of the phone is comforting still, even though Michelle is sure it’s at her expense. “Now can I go to sleep or is there an existential crisis I need to work through with you?” MJ laughs, thanks her sister, and they say their good nights. Before she hangs up, her sister says, “Congratulations, by the way. In advance.” And then her sister hangs up the phone. So, Michelle makes up her mind and that is that.

Then the issue becomes how does she ask? She knows she wants it to be private, like so many things with them are. But she also wants it to be special. Because he means a lot to her and she wants him to know she put a lot of thought into this.

Which is how she ends up waking up at three in the morning and heading to the kitchen the day before his graduation date. (She graduated a few weeks ago, but has stayed in Boston for his.) She steals one of his mugs and paints the words marry me? at the bottom. (She’d seen the image on Pinterest a few years back and thought it was cool.)

She wakes up slightly earlier than him and makes breakfast. Omelettes with prosciutto and spinach, his favorite. (She thinks it’s eh, but it’s easy to make and he groans after each bite and it makes her hot and heavy. They usually end up having sex afterward, but today she can’t do that. Well, at least not immediately.)

When he finally stumbles out of his bedroom and sees the omelette on his plate, he gasps. “Babe.” He walks over and hugs her tightly, kissing her on the cheek. “You’re the greatest.” She laughs, grabbing his shoulders and pushing him onto the bar stool.

“Now sit and eat before your graduation.” She puts a plate in front of him and hands him the coffee mug. She’s incredibly nervous. And she does her best not to stare each time he takes a sip of his coffee. She was worried he wouldn’t want to finish it so she didn’t put all that much in it.

She’s in the middle of talking about which color they should paint their bedroom walls in their apartment in New York when he takes a sip and then stares down at the bottom of his mug. She stops talking without realizing and he stares up at her. He tilts the coffee mug toward her and raises one of his eyebrows in question.

She bites her lip, looking down at the kitchen counter. Then she glances back up, smiling despite the nerves. “Wanna get married?” She asks, keeping her voice as steady as possible. “To me?”

And Peter jumps up so quickly the bar stool falls back but then he’s wrapping his arms tightly around her waist and lifting her up and spinning her around. She shrieks, even though it’s eight am and their neighbor works the night shift. (They’ll give him a pie later.)

He sets her down and kisses her smack on the lips. It’s sloppy and they both have morning breath but it might be the greatest kiss she’s ever had. “In case I wasn’t clear, yes.” Peter pulls her back into a hug. “A thousand times yes.” He starts kissing her neck and her jaw and MJ’s heart beats a mile a minute because she and Peter are going to get married.

Then Peter’s hand goes down her pants and she gasps, pulling at his wrist. “Peter, you’re going to be late for your graduation!”

He just kisses her and bites her ear before whispering, “my fiancé just proposed to me. Graduation can wait.” And his voice is really deep and husky and Michelle’s still turned on because Peter kept moaning after each bite of his omelette.

He smirks and continues on and Michelle throws her head back and moans. God, she’s so excited to call Peter her husband. And she tells him this. Many times. And Peter is only, like, ten minutes late for graduation. He’d kissed her cheek before he ran off and whispered into her ear, “It was worth it.”

God, she’s so in love with this dork.

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