I know it's not november but I wanted to write this ; ) Hope the Jimin girlies are happy😉
Bold writing is English. Regular is Korean. This came out wayyyy longer than I thought it would be.
𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚 — Two competitors, one bed, thirty days and only one rule: don’t cum.
𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 — Jimin x Black!reader
Warnings! FLUFF! established relationship, domestic bliss, competitive!Jimin, competitive!reader, NSFW! SMUT (18+), No Nut November, edging & orgasm denial, begging, oral (f receiving), fingering, praise kink, brat-taming (ish), soft dom!Jimin × switch!reader, explicit sexual content (18+), unprotected PIV (monogamous & tested; reader on birth control. Be responsible kids)
You should’ve known agreeing to this was a bad idea.
Not because you don’t have self-control; no, that’s not the problem at all. If anything, it’s the opposite. You could do this in your sleep if you had to, and you know it. You’re disciplined, and you’re good at committing to things you want to do.
But Park Jimin doesn’t play fair.
You would think after dating him for over a year now that you’d be used to it, but it still takes you by surprise sometimes how ruthless he can be. It’s like he’s got this sweet, bubbly exterior that he uses to lure you into a false sense of security, only to stab you in the back when you least expect it. Like a snake in sheep’s clothing.
And right now, he’s using that to his advantage.
He wakes up before you, as usual. You only know because the other side of the bed is cold when you finally roll over, reaching for him in that half-asleep, greedy way you always do. Instead, your fingers meet nothing but wrinkled sheets, still faintly smelling like his shampoo and skin.
The faint clink of ceramic carries from the kitchen, the low hum of the coffee machine sputtering to life. You groan, bury your face in the pillow for a second, then drag yourself upright. Your bonnet is still snug on your head, coils tucked away, and the oversized t-shirt you slept in slides off one shoulder as you shuffle down the hall, rubbing the sleep from your eyes.
Jimin, leaning against the counter in nothing but a loose white t-shirt and those damn grey sweatpants. The ones you’ve begged him not to wear around you. Because you hate the way they hang low on his hips, clinging in all the right places, modesty be damned. He's clearly trying to destroy you.
The morning light slants across his face, softening his sharp features, catching on the faint puffiness still lingering around his eyes. His hair is messy, sticking up in little tufts that make him look far too innocent for the games he’s been playing with you. Steam curls from the mug in his hand as he takes a slow sip, throat bobbing with the movement, lips parting just slightly when the coffee hits his tongue.
He turns at the sound of your footsteps, and the corners of his mouth curve into that smile. Sweet, almost shy, the kind of smile strangers might call angelic. But you know better. That smile is a mask—one you’ve learned to see through.
“Morning,” he says softly, voice still rough with sleep, the word rolling lazily off his tongue. His gaze flickers over you in an unhurried sweep, lingering for a moment on the stretch of bare thigh beneath your shirt before coming back up. And then, of course, that grin widens because he’s caught you staring.
You blink hard, forcing your eyes up from where the sweatpants dip scandalously low, trying to salvage what little dignity you have left. “You’re evil,” you mutter, skipping the greetings and diving straight into accusations.
His laugh is light, almost delicate. If you didn't know him, you'd believe him. “What?” He tilts his head, feigning innocence. “I’m just making coffee.”
“Liar,” you shoot back, padding further into the kitchen. The smell of roasted beans mixes with his cologne—the one that always lingers on his skin even after a shower—and the combination makes your chest tighten.
He’s made it his personal goal to torment you with every form of seduction he can think of. The only problem is that it’s working a little too well.
Every move he makes this month has intention. The stretch of his arms when he reaches for the top shelf. The way he lingers too close when you pass each other in the hallway. The offhand comments whispered low in your ear, designed to make your pulse race and your self-control crumble.
Because somehow, against all better judgment, you agreed to No Nut November. A dumb challenge, started as a post-coitus joke when Jimin teased you about your "lack of control" after you'd begged him for the third time in an hour, still gasping and spent in his arms. You shot back that he couldn’t last three days without touching you. The spark in his eyes when he said, “Bet?” should’ve been your warning. But you were feeling brave so you shook on it at the kitchen counter: no orgasms until December 1st, no matter what.
Now it’s a war. A slow, torturous, drawn-out battle of wills. Every second dripping with tension you can’t release.
And neither of you are backing down.
By the end of the first week, you’re running out of patience.
It’s not even subtle anymore—the way he’s been walking around, temptation incarnate. This is by far the most competitive he's ever been in the whole time you've dated him, and it’s both infuriating and endearing.
You’re not sure if he’s trying harder to break you or if he’s actually thriving off your suffering. Either way, it’s working.
But you're not one to back down from a challenge, and he should know that by now.
The two of you are curled on opposite ends of the couch, TV humming low in the background. A drama you’re not paying attention to plays in faint voices, the kind you usually get sucked into, but right now your attention span is shot.
You can barely focus on the phone in your lap, not when you know he’s just a reach away, looking far too tempting.
He’s sprawled across the other end, head tilted back, throat on display, Adam’s apple bobbing as he scrolls through TikTok with one hand. The other is lazily draped over his stomach, fingers tapping idly against the hem of his shorts.
You swallow hard, eyes drifting away from the screen to study the way his hair curls at the nape of his neck. The little patch of skin is begging for your teeth, and god, it takes everything in you not to crawl over there and do it. To lean in and press your lips to the soft hollow behind his jaw. To feel the way he shivers when you drag your tongue over his pulse, teeth grazing the thin skin.
You can almost taste him on your tongue.
Your gaze shifts, dropping lower, skimming over the dip of his collarbone, down his chest to where his shorts hang low. You can see the faint jut of his hip bones, just a thin line of skin before the fabric begins.
Your mouth is suddenly so dry. You swallow again, throat clicking, as you squeeze your thighs together, feeling the ache pool between them. The shirt you’re wearing has ridden up, exposing the top of your panties, and you know if he were to look over, he’d see how desperately you’re trying not to think about him.
His voice startles you out of your mindgasm, all smug and sharp. “You’re staring, jagi.”
Your head snaps back to your phone so fast you nearly drop it. “No, I’m not.” The lie comes out weak, and you can feel the heat licking up your spine already.
He hums low in his throat, the sound dipping low into his chest. You don't need to look to know he’s smirking. “Want me that bad already?”
You scoff, defensive before you can stop yourself. “Please. If anyone’s desperate here, it’s you.”
That makes him laugh. The one that scrunches his nose, makes his eyes disappear into crescents, the kind of laugh that usually melts you. Tonight, it just makes your pulse pound. He rolls onto his side to look at you, cheek pressed into the cushion, hair falling over his forehead in soft strands. His phone is forgotten, screen dimming as his gaze sweeps over you, head to toe.
When he speaks again, it’s all velvet and smoke, his tongue curled around the syllables. “Oh, really?”
“Really.” The word comes out too breathy to sound convincing. You clear your throat, try again. “You know you are.”
“Is that why you’re soaking your panties right now?”
“I’m not—” You cut yourself off, huffing out a groan. You’re not going to play into him, not again. So you settle back into the couch, pull your knees up to your chest, and scroll harder, like the aggressive motion of your thumb will prove a point. It doesn’t. Your heart’s still racing, and the heat in your face is a dead giveaway. “Go to hell,” you mutter under your breath.
He grins—slow, wolfish. “We’re already there.” You can feel his eyes on you even though you refuse to look. The weight of his stare is almost physical, dragging goosebumps across your skin.
Finally, curiosity—or maybe masochism—wins. You glance up.
Sure enough, he’s still watching you. Chin tucked into the cushion, lips curved, eyes half-lidded. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and your pussy clenches around nothing. You're so wet you wonder if he can hear it. He makes a show of letting his gaze fall to your legs, still tucked up against your chest. The shirt has ridden higher, and you know he can see the lace of your underwear. His eyes darken as his attention lingers.
“Stop looking at me like that,” you whisper, and it comes out weaker than you mean it to.
“Like what?" His voice is low now, teasing. Dangerous. Like the lilt of a blade before it cuts skin. His tongue curls over his teeth.
“Jimin.” Your head thumps back against the couch. You squeeze your legs together, trying to ease the ache. It doesn't work. If anything, it makes it worse. “I swear to god, if you don’t stop—”
He cuts you off with a laugh. “Stop what? You’re the one who keeps looking.” He wets his lips again, slowly, deliberately, and then pushes up to sit, twisting toward you. His foot slides along the couch until his toes brush your leg, and your breath catches.
“I don’t think I’m the one with the problem here,” you snap back, jutting your chin up in defiance.
He arches a brow. “Your pussy begs to differ.”
You open your mouth to shoot back a retort, but you can’t find the words. It’s like all your brain function just died, replaced by a singular focus that’s currently pulsing between your legs. His foot moves, inching up until his toes graze the bare skin of your thighs. Your breath hitches. The heat of him is almost searing.
He pretends not to hear, leaning in until you can feel his breath on your cheek, soft and warm. “Just ask,” he whispers, fingers dragging across the outside of your thigh. You want to give in—to grab his wrist and shove his hand where you need it. But instead, you sit there, paralyzed, watching the way his eyes darken as he leans in. His lips are so close you can almost feel them, the phantom brush of his mouth sending a shiver across your skin. “Ask me and I'll eat that pretty little pussy so good you won't remember your own name,” he murmurs.
You squeeze your legs around his hand, trapping it there as you choke on a breath. “You're a fucking asshole,” you hiss.
He nips at your jaw, a sharp little bite that makes you jolt. “And you’re so fucking wet for me.” He chuckles darkly, pulling back enough to look you in the eye. His smile is nothing short of predatory, a flash of teeth that sends your heart pounding. He drags his knuckles over your panties, making you shudder, then pulls his hand away. “You have no idea how bad I want to bend you over and fuck you until you can't stand, but I’m a man of my word, jagi. And you’re too stubborn to give up.” He winks, then stands, walking away before you can even think of a response.
You slump into the couch, hand on your forehead, and let out a groan as you hear the sound of his bedroom door close.
“Fucking hell,” you mumble, then collapse back against the cushions and let out the loudest scream into the cushions.
-------------------------
It’s 3 AM and you're awake.
And not for the reason you wish you were.
It’s the third week, and you’ve had enough.
He’s been pushing and pushing, and tonight you’re going to shove right back. You’re done being the only one suffering here.
The plan solidified in your brain as you watched the way he stretched after his workout, the way he let his hand linger over the bulge in his sweatpants when he thought you weren’t looking, and the way he kept eyeing you all night.
He’s trying to win this, and he’s getting dangerously close.
So, at 3 AM, you’re wide awake, staring at the ceiling as you listen to the faint hum of the AC, waiting for his breaths to even out, to deepen. Once you hear the steady rhythm of his sleep, you make your move careful not to jostle the mattress too much.
The room is dark, the only light coming from the sliver of moonlight creeping through the blinds. It casts his room in a faint glow, just enough to see by. You take a second to let yourself drink him in, the curve of his shoulder, the stretch of his back. He’s on his back, arms tucked under the pillow, sheets tangled around his legs. You let your eyes follow the line of his waist down to where the blankets dip low on his hips.
Fuck, he looks too good to resist. But you’re going to have to. You’ll get your moment, but not yet.
Your attention shifts back to his face. His mouth is parted, just slightly, lips full and pink, and his hair is falling across his forehead in messy waves. You can see the soft puff of his breaths, the steady rise and fall of his chest. His eyelashes cast long shadows across his cheekbones, and for a split second, you let yourself wonder what the hell you did to ever deserve this man in your life. How the hell you ended up with a man like this—someone so gorgeous, someone so sweet he makes your heart ache.
But that’s not why you're here, and you can’t let yourself get distracted.
You take a deep breath, steady yourself, then slip under the covers, quiet as you can.
And then, you go to work.
The first touch is barely there, the whisper of your fingertips against his stomach, just below his bellybutton. His skin is still warm from sleep, soft, and the muscles jump under your touch. You let yourself linger there for a moment, letting him adjust to the sensation before you drag your fingers lower, just under the hem of his boxers.
His breath hitches, a sharp intake, and he shifts in his sleep. You pause, wait a beat, then continue. Slowly, you let your hand slip beneath the waistband, palm flat against the jut of his hip, thinking of all the times he's done this to you.
The V is on full display, and you can't help but drag your nails over it, making him squirm. Your hand slides further, and you finally make contact with the curve of his dick, still soft in his sleep. Just a gentle brush of your fingers, barely wrapping around him.
You let your fingers trail up his shaft, following the path of veins, the familiar bumps and grooves you know by heart. You trace the shape of him for a long moment, just enough pressure to feel him pulse against your fingertips. The hair at the base is coarse against the sensitive skin of your knuckles as you wrap your hand fully around him, feeling him throb, his dick twitching as it fills out.
You pump him with slow, lazy strokes as he hardens in your grip.
He shifts again, the blankets rustling as he lets out a soft groan. Your eyes flicker up to his face, watching as his brows knit, lips part. His tongue peeks out to wet his mouth, a slow drag that makes you bite your own lip, and his hips cant forward into your hand, subconsciously seeking out the friction. He’s still asleep, lost somewhere in a dreamland where he’s not denying himself what he wants.
Your grip tightens, thumb dragging over the head of his cock, and this time he moans. The sound is so soft you almost think you imagined it, but then he does it again, his hips rolling to meet the upstroke of your palm.
You can feel him getting closer to waking up, and that’s when you decide to pick up the pace. You lean forward, letting a drop of spit fall from your mouth onto the head of his dick. Your hand twists as you pump faster, tight strokes that drag a longer moan from his lips. His brows pinch tighter, his head turning to the side, but he still hasn’t woken up. Not yet.
You twist your wrist as you speed up, swiping your thumb over the slit, feeling the wetness there. You spread it down his shaft, the slickness making your hand glide even smoother.
His dick is rock hard now, curved up against his stomach, and your eyes flicker down to take in the sight of him in your hand. He looks so good like this, so tempting that it takes everything in you to keep going. Not to crawl up there and sink down on him, to take what you want for once.
But you have a point to prove, and you’re going to make it. Even if it kills you.
His hips move faster, bucking up into your hand as you jerk him off. You press your thumb into his slit, making him shudder, and he lets out another groan, this time followed by a whine. And you know.
“Mm… mmn…” His brows knit, his head tilts to the other side, and his eyes flutter. “Fuck…” The word is so faint you almost don’t hear it.
You go faster, the wet sounds of your hand around him filling the otherwise quiet room. He gasps, and you watch as his eyes finally open. He stares up at the ceiling for a long moment, disoriented, confused. And then, his gaze snaps down to you. His eyes widen as he realizes what’s happening.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck—” he pants, hand fumbling for your wrist. His dick is swollen and red in your grip, so close, and when you glance up at his face, his jaw is slack, brows still knit. “Fuck, baby, fuck—I’m gonna—”
You tighten your grip just so, drag your thumb over his slit, and he cries out, a broken sound that punches the air from your lungs.
“Hi,” you say, all innocent, giving him one long stroke.
He lets out a shuddering breath, fingers wrapping around your wrist, but he doesn’t make you stop. Just sits there, frozen, staring down at you. “Fuck,” he breathes, “Fuck, I’m gonna come—”
You stop mid-stroke, keeping your hand still, and his expression crumples. “Oh god, don’t stop,” he gasps, “Don’t stop, please, please—”
You grin, slow and triumphant, then finally release your grip, letting his dick fall. His mouth drops open, eyes wide, and he gapes down at you like he can’t believe what just happened. “No! Fuck—fuck, why—” He cuts himself off, trailing off into a frustrated groan, and you just lean in to press a kiss to the tip of his dick.
“You made your bed,” you sing, then crawl out from beneath the sheets before he can even process what just happened.
“Wait, wait, wait—” His hand snaps out, grabbing for your wrist. "Don’t you dare leave, get back here—”
You glance back, already fluffing your pillow with exaggerated care, and shoot him a wink. “You should’ve thought of that before you started this,” you tease, voice all syrupy sweet just to piss him off.
Jimin sits up on his elbows, hair messy, cheeks flushed from frustration, “Y/N! get back here, I swear to fucking god—”
You flop down onto your side, tucking yourself into the blankets. “I’m going back to sleep. Night, babe.”
His groan is half-whine, half-plead. “Get your ass back here and let me finish, I swear I’ll fuck you so good—”
“Not part of the rules.” You pat the mattress next to you in mock sympathy, and he actually growls, flopping onto his back. “Night, Jimin.”
His head hits the pillow with a dramatic thump. “This fucking sucks,” he whines, voice muffled in the sheets.
You snort out a laugh, pulling the covers up to your chin and burrowing deeper, ignoring the pool of arousal soaking your panties. “Welcome to the club.”
He lets out another frustrated groan, then you hear the shuffle of his blankets. When he speaks again, his voice is low, strained, “You'll regret this,” and you grin into your pillow, heart pounding at the way the words curl around the edges of a threat and a vow all at once.
“Can’t wait,” you whisper, knowing full well he hears you.
---------------------------
They’re the one day a week you two always agree not to do anything.
No errands, no cleaning, no work. It’s a lazy day, usually spent sprawled out on the couch, alternating between mindless TV and long naps. Most of the time, you barely leave the apartment, ordering takeout and drinking too much wine and generally just enjoying each other’s company (fucking each other senseless, usually).
This month, Sundays are now the most important day of the week, the day you prove to each other just how much self-control you have. And you are winning, so help you God.
This Sunday is no different, except Jimin seems to have ramped up his efforts. If you thought he was being blatant before, it’s nothing compared to today.
You wake up to a lazy breakfast in bed. He brings you a tray, loaded down with all your favorites: pancakes, scrambled eggs, a side of bacon. And of course, there’s a glass of champagne right in the middle, because he’s a little shit who knows you better than you know yourself.
Then there were the flowers.
Not just any flowers, of course. Sunflowers. Your favorite, and he damn well knows it. There must be three dozen of them, spread out all over the apartment, and no matter where you move, you can’t escape the pure overwhelming love you feel for this man.
But the worst is the playlist.
Jimin’s been playing it all fucking day. You don’t even know where he found it, but you swear to God every song that comes through the speakers makes you clench, makes you think of him, makes you want to drag him to the nearest flat surface and fuck him stupid.
It’s a carefully crafted mix of all your favorites, the ones you guys fuck to, and some of his own. Unreleased ones he's made just for you because he's addicted to your sweet little pussy (his words, not yours) and needed an outlet to "express his emotions."
The lyrics a constant reminder of what you’re not getting, the beat so familiar you know exactly which songs make him moan the loudest. You can practically hear his voice wrapped around the words, speaking them right into your ear, making your skin burn with the memory of his touch. The beat of one song in particular is so similar to his thrusts that you can almost feel him inside you, the phantom drag of his cock making you wet.
You have to pause, standing still in the middle of the kitchen, just to take a breath as the familiar notes of “Filth” float through the room. Your eyes flutter shut as you feel a pool of heat between your legs.
He's really not making this easy for you.
"Smells good in here," Jimin says from behind you, and you nearly drop the spatula your hand.
You spin to face him, skin hot, and try to play it off. "Yeah, it's almost done."
He's just inside the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed. The shirt he's wearing looks like it's been glued to him, the thin fabric stretched tight over his chest, and it's taking everything in you not to stare. He cocks his head, lips curving into a lazy grin that makes your stomach flip, and then he's walking toward you.
Each step is measured, slow, eyes locked on you as he moves closer. And he doesn't stop, not until he's right in front of you, until there's only an inch between you. He leans in, bracing a hand on the counter beside you, effectively boxing you in.
His breath is hot on your ear, his lips so close you think you can feel them. But you know it’s all in your head at this point, and that makes it so much worse. "What's for lunch?" he murmurs.
Your voice is barely a whisper when you finally find it. "Chicken."
He hums, low, you feel the sound roll through his chest, right into yours, and you have to close your eyes for a second, trying to get a grip on yourself. When he speaks next, it's a little louder, a little more deliberate. "I'm starving," he sighs, voice dragging over the words.
You swallow hard, feel the tension coil tight in your belly. "Almost done," you say again, voice tight, "Just a couple more minutes."
"Good." His lips brush the shell of your ear. Your breath hitches as he leans his head into the crook of your neck, lets his nose slide along the skin there, breathing in the scent of you. You feel his lips part, the hot gust of his breath on your skin, and you can’t stop the little noise that slips out of you as he places a kiss on your shoulder, right where your tank top has slipped down.
The heat of his mouth is so familiar, so welcoming, and you find yourself leaning into it. It's just a kiss, just a brush of his lips on your skin, but it sends a bolt of heat straight to your core. Your pussy throbs, your thighs squeeze together, and your back arches involuntarily, pressing yourself into him.
His free hand slides onto your hip, gripping you there, pulling you tighter against him. You can feel him hard between you, thick and hot through his sweatpants, and your breath catches. He presses a kiss to your shoulder again, then to your neck, and another, a line of them up to your jaw. You can't help but tilt your head to the side, exposing more skin, and he hums low in his throat, pressing his teeth to your pulse.
“Jimin,” you gasp, barely recognizing your own voice, “We can't—”
He bites down, a sharp little snap of his teeth, and you feel your pussy flutter at the sensation. “I know,” he whispers, then pulls back, leaving you breathless. You turn, and he's already halfway across the kitchen by the time your eyes focus. “Just thought I'd say hi,” he throws over his shoulder, then disappears down the hall.
You slump into the counter, gasping for air, hand pressed to your chest. The playlist switches to another song, one you recognize immediately, and you can't stop the groan that slips out.
It's the one that played the first time you guys had sex. The one he'd made for you, a love letter in the form of beats and lyrics.
He'd played it on loop that night, let you ride him, let you take what you wanted while he whispered the words into your skin, his tongue dragging over every inch of you until you couldn't take it anymore. You'd come so many times that night you'd lost count, your voice hoarse by the time you finally collapsed, unable to move.
You're a woman on a mission when you march down the hall and shove the bedroom door open.
He looks up from his phone, shirtless now, sitting on the edge of the bed, blinking at you in 'confusion'. “Hey, is everything okay?"
You slam the door behind you. "Are you serious?"
His head tilts, a grin creeping across his lips. "I don't know what you're talking about," he says, voice low, sweet.
You stalk closer, stopping right in front of him, then grip the hem of your tank top, dragging it up and over your head. "I love you, you fucking asshole," you snap.
Jimin's eyes drop immediately, watching as your tits bounce free. "Mmm, I love you too, babe," he murmurs, still playing innocent.
You reach for his phone, tossing it onto the bed beside him, then grab his face in both hands, tilting his gaze back up. "I need you inside me right now or I'm going to fucking explode," you growl.
Finally, he laughs, head tilting back, the sound pure joy. "There she is," he chuckles, "I was wondering when you were gonna give up." His hands slide up your thighs, fingers digging into your hips. "I gotta say, I'm impressed you made it this long."
"Shut up." You shove at his shoulders, sending him sprawling onto the mattress, then climb on top to straddle him.
He just grins up at you, hands on your waist. "You gonna fuck me, jagi?"
"If you stop talking for five fucking seconds, maybe," you snap, then lean down to crush your mouth to his.
He kisses back, a hot, bruising press of lips, tongue already slipping into your mouth, and you moan into it. You rock your hips, grinding down on him, feeling his cock hard and thick even through his sweats. His hands slide to your ass, gripping you tight as you move, grinding his dick between us.
You pull back, gasping, and his mouth drops to your tits immediately, sucking a nipple between his lips. You whimper at the sensation, head falling back, rolling your hips faster. He groans against your skin, tongue dragging across your chest until he finds the other, lavishing it with the same attention.
His cock is trapped between you, so hard and hot, and you want it so badly you're nearly shaking with it. Your clit is throbbing, your pussy so wet you can feel it soaking into the fabric of your shorts. You need him inside you right now.
“Please,” you gasp, fumbling at his waistband, “Please, please, I need—”
He rolls you onto your back before you can finish, pressing your thighs open with his hips. You can feel the delicious pressure of his cock against your clit through his sweatpants, and you're so wet the fabric sticks. "Beg me," he growls down at you, voice rough, "Let me hear you."
"Fuck," you gasp, "Jimin, please—I need you, I need your cock so bad—" His hand slips under your shorts, and cups your pussy, cutting you off.
"Fuck," he groans, "You’re so wet for me, baby," his fingers are slick where they cup you, the heel of his palm pressing up against your swollen clit, “So desperate.”
“Of course I am,” you breathe, tears stinging behind your eyes, “You’ve been torturing me all month.”
He looks up through his lashes—soft, deceptively sweet—and then that sweetness snaps. His mouth firms. His hand drags your shorts and panties down in one impatient slide, and the rush of cooler air on your soaked skin makes your thighs tremble.
“Up,” he murmurs, voice rougher now, a command.
You lift for him, clumsy and eager, nerves buzzing all the way down to your toes. He peels the fabric off your ankles and tosses it somewhere over his shoulder, then palms your knee and pushes your legs wide. "Spread your legs for me," he says softly, almost a whisper.
You do it without a second thought, thighs falling open, and Jimin lets out a low moan. “Holy… baby.” He skims the back of one finger over your clit, feather-light, and your whole body jerks. “Been walking around the house like this? Dripping for me?” He leans down to press a kiss to your hipbone, then another to the crease of your thigh. His fingers are so close to where you need them, and you’re so sensitive, so desperate that it takes everything in you to keep from grabbing his hair and grinding his face against your pussy until he makes you come.
“Mmhm,” you manage to get out, head thrashing, “So wet for you, Jimin—” Your words dissolve into a whine as you feel his finger brush over your entrance, teasing.
He hums again, low, considering, and you glance down. The sight of him between your legs, so close to where you want him, is enough to make you cry. “Look at you,” he murmurs, finger still tracing idle circles around your pussy. “So pretty.” His head drops, a shadow falling over his eyes as he presses a kiss just above your slit. “So fucking perfect.” Another kiss, this one closer, his mouth so close you can almost feel it.
You whine, hips canting, trying to drag his mouth down. “Please,” you beg again, “Jimin, I need—I need—”
“Shh, shh,” he croons, soothing, his fingers sliding up to press against your clit, making your words dissolve into a sharp cry, “I’ll take care of you, don’t worry.” He circles your clit again, slow, lazy, and you spread your legs wider, thighs trembling. “Just let me have my fun first, baby,” he purrs, then leans back in to drag his tongue up your slit.
“Fuck!” Your back arches off the bed at the sensation, hands flying down to his hair. You fist it so hard he groans, and you feel the vibrations of it against your skin.
He pulls back just enough to murmur, “Language,” with a smile you can feel against you. Then he flattens his tongue again, this time lingering where you need it most, just to be mean. That playful sweetness he carried all morning is gone, replaced with raw hunger.
His tongue is merciless, circling and flicking over your clit with a precision that melts your brain. Heat coils sharp and fast in your belly as he locks you in place, one strong arm draped across your hips to stop your squirming. You writhe anyway, grinding helplessly against his mouth, but he only groans into you, loving the fight, your desperation feeding him.
He keeps going, sucking your clit into his mouth, tongue working you with relentless rhythm. Each pull makes you gasp louder, until the sound of your own voice drowns everything out. Your head falls back against the pillows, lips parted, eyes squeezing shut as if that could soften the intensity, but it doesn’t—it only makes you feel him more.
Your fingers fist in his hair, tugging hard enough to sting, but he doesn’t care. If anything, it spurs him on, his low moan vibrating through you, sending shocks of pleasure straight to your core. The sound makes you whimper, your thighs trembling against his shoulders.
And then—because he knows you can’t take another second—his fingers slip inside you. You’re so wet that his knuckles glide past your entrance with almost no resistance, the stretch dizzying in its suddenness. A strangled sound tears from your throat, half-moan, half-cry, as your back arches clean off the bed.
“Jimin—” you choke, breathless, already falling apart under the ruthless pace he sets.
“So tight,” he grunts, curling his fingers inside you. “So good.” He drags them in and out, spreading your arousal all over his hand, then adds another, pumping them in a slow rhythm that makes your eyes roll back in your head.
His tongue flicks over your clit again, quick and light, and you sob. He keeps you right on the edge, right where you can’t quite come, and you can’t help but grind yourself into his mouth. Your hips roll, thighs shaking, trying to push over that last little bit, but he won’t let you. He just holds you there, suspended in this constant state of arousal, until you’re nothing but a shivering mess on the bed.
Finally, his tongue slows, just a little, and his fingers stop their thrusting. He lifts off you just enough for you to hear him clearly. “You want to come, baby?” he murmurs against you, breath hot and sweet. His fingers drag out of you slowly, making you whimper at the loss.
“Yes,” you sob, “Yes, please, I—I need to, please—”
“Hmm,” he considers, his fingers slipping lower to circle your entrance again. “Beg me,” he demands, and you swear you can feel his smirk against your skin.
“Fuck,” you whine, head tossing, “Fuck you.”
He laughs, a dark sound that sends a shiver up your spine, and his tongue drags up your slit again, making your thighs clamp around his head. “Wrong answer,” he tsks, then pulls away completely.
“No!” You sit up on your elbows, staring down at him where he’s sitting on his knees between your legs. “No, please—get back here and make me come.”
He just grins, looking like sin personified as he licks his lips, his mouth glistening with you. “Not until you beg.” He reaches for your hand, pulling you upright. You move without thinking, allowing him to pull you into his lap where he sits back against the headboard. You settle onto his thighs, legs around his waist, and he grips your ass to pull you tighter to him. “I want you to beg me,” he murmurs again, fingers sliding into your soaked pussy with one smooth glide.
Your eyes flutter, a moan slipping from your lips at the feel of him. “Fuck, baby, please—”
“That’s a good start,” he croons into your ear, fingers pumping in a slow, easy rhythm that makes you writhe. “Now give me more, pretty girl,” his lips brush your ear as he speaks, then drag up the shell, making you shiver.
“More?” You barely manage to get the word out, still trying to catch your breath, and you feel his fingers still inside you.
“Mmm,” he hums against your skin, “Beg me to fuck that tight little pussy. Let me hear how badly you want my cock.”
You let out a whine, forehead dropping to his shoulder, and rock your hips against his hand. “Please—”
His fingers start moving again, this time faster. The heel of his hand grinds against your clit as he fucks you on his hand, and you cry out, nails digging into his shoulders. “Come on, baby,” he urges, voice low, “Say it. I wanna hear it.”
“Fuck, Jimin, please fuck me,” you gasp, “I need—I need your cock, baby, please, I’m so wet for you—I’ve been so wet all day, all fucking day—”
“Mmm, yeah you have,” he agrees, fingers twisting inside you, “Such a mess, soaking your panties for me like a little slut.” He curls his fingers, hitting that spot that makes your vision go white, and you buck into the sensation. His thumb finds your clit, rubbing it in quick circles that make your breath hitch. “Gonna ride my cock till you come, baby?”
“Yes!” Your answer is a sob, desperate, needy. “Yes, yes please—” His hand is merciless, fingers and thumb working in tandem, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.
“Come here,” he murmurs, then grabs the back of your neck to pull you in for a kiss. It’s deep, filthy, his tongue licking into your mouth with the same rhythm of his fingers. He moans into you, pulling his fingers out, and you break away with a gasp. “Condom?” he asks.
You shake your head frantically. “No, no, please don’t—I need to feel you.” The words come out in a desperate rush, and he growls low in his throat.
“Fuck,” he hisses, the word ripped straight from his chest, and then he’s shoving his sweatpants down, cock springing free, flushed and angry between you. He fists himself immediately, hand pumping from base to tip, spreading the wetness around his swollen head, and your pussy clenches at the sight of it. He's so hard for you—thick, veined, glistening with precum. It beads at his slit, threatening to spill over, and your mouth waters just looking at him.
He brings the head of his cock down to you, taps it against your slick folds, smearing your arousal over him with deliberate precision. Every soft slap makes you twitch. Then his hands are on your hips, fingers digging in as he drags you forward and up, guiding you over him until you’re poised right where he wants you.
The blunt head of his cock slips through your folds, catching against your clit and dragging down, and both of you groan at the sensation.
“Go on,” he urges, voice rough and hoarse like gravel, chest heaving under you. His eyes are locked on yours, wide and dark, hungry. “Take what you need.”
You don’t wait. You drop down before he can say anything else, sinking onto him in one long, steady glide. The stretch steals your breath, makes your body shudder as his cock fills you inch by inch, splitting you open in the most delicious way.
A strangled cry breaks from your throat as you bottom out, walls squeezing around him, milking his cock. Jimin swears low under his breath, the sound guttural, his hands clutching your hips so hard it stings.
“Shit—fuck—you’re so tight,” he groans, head tipping back against the headboard, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows hard. You can feel the thick throb of him buried inside you, the twitching pulse against your walls, and it’s so much, so perfect, you think you might actually cry.
Your head drops to his shoulder, lips brushing his skin as you start to rock your hips slowly, testing, desperate to take him deeper. Each grind makes your clit drag against his pelvis, sparks lighting up your body, and you whimper, clinging to him.
His mouth finds your throat, hot lips and sharp teeth scraping over your pulse until you moan loud enough to echo in the room. You roll your hips harder, chasing the burn, and he meets you with thrusts of his own, his cock punching deeper into you with every shift.
His hands are firm on your waist, guiding you, lifting and dropping you on him like you weigh nothing at all. He sets a brutal pace, making sure you feel every ridge, every vein as he spears up into you, as if to carve himself into your body.
Your lips crash together again, his tongue sliding into your mouth, stealing your whimpers, swallowing the shaky gasps you can’t hold back. He kisses you like he’s starving, like he can’t get close enough, and each moan you give only spurs him on.
“God, baby,” he groans into your mouth, breaking the kiss just long enough to pant, “you’re so fucking tight, so fucking perfect, I can’t—fuck—” His voice breaks, half-growl, half-moan, and the sound shoots straight through you.
“You feel so good,” you breathe, tearing away from his lips to gasp for air, nails clawing down his shoulders. “I missed your cock so much—”
Your hips ache with the effort, thighs trembling as he pounds up into you. He’s so deep you can feel him knocking against that tender spot, the sharp edge of pleasure-pain blooming in your core. It makes you sob out another moan, clenching around him, urging him faster.
“Fuck—yes, baby, like that,” he hisses, gripping your ass now, bouncing you harder on his cock. The sound of skin slapping fills the room, wet and obscene, your cries mixing with the ragged growls spilling from his throat.
Then his hand slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit with devastating accuracy. He presses down hard enough to make your pussy flutter helplessly around him, and you scream, your whole body jerking.
“Jimin!” His name tears out of you.
He bites into your throat, teeth sinking into the column of your neck until you know there will be a mark, a possessive brand you’ll feel tomorrow. You whimper, grinding down harder, chasing the feeling, chasing release.
“Just like that,” he hisses, breath hot against your skin, “just like that, baby—take it, take it just like that—” His voice is desperate, fraying at the edges, and it makes you tighten even more around him.
Then he slows for a split second, dragging you up his cock until only the thick head is inside, stretching you shallow, making your walls clench desperately at the loss—before slamming you back down with enough force to knock the wind from your lungs.
You cry out, the sharp glide stealing your breath. He does it again, and again, each thrust brutal and punishing. Your tits bounce with every drop, sweat slicking your skin, your breath catching in frantic little sobs. And all you can do is take it—shaking, clenching, unraveling—while he drives into you, determined to ruin you for anyone else. And you love every second.
His pace is relentless, his cock swelling inside you until you swear it’s going to tear you open. The drag is so good, so perfect, it punches a sob from your chest, and you cling to him, riding out the waves of pleasure-pain until you feel yourself start to come apart.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck—” he gasps, “Baby, I’m—I’m gonna—”
“Yes,” you moan, head dropping to his shoulder. “Come inside me—please, Jimin—I want it—”
He groans, biting down on your neck again as his hips punch up into yours, erratic, hard enough to make you see stars. His body shudders, the muscles in his arms going taut as he keeps you tight against his chest, your bodies so close it’s like you’re fused.
His cock pulses inside you, and you know the exact moment he comes. Your breath catches, eyes going wide as he spills into you, thick and hot, filling you until it’s dripping out around you. The sensation is so dirty, so fucking good that it drags a whimper out of your throat.
“Feel that?” he pants into your shoulder. “Feel me coming inside you?” He punctuates his words with another snap of his hips, his dick still twitching as his orgasm rocks through him. You clench down around him, milking every last drop, and he groans, “Fuck, you’re so perfect, baby—”
“I win,” you whimper into his skin, then bite into the curve of his neck, making him groan again.
“W-what?” he mumbles, still shivering from the aftershocks of his orgasm. You feel him relax under you, his body sinking back into the mattress, and you can't help but grin. “Wait, what?” he asks again, finally processing what you said.
You pull back just enough to meet his gaze, still grinning. “I win.”
His head tilts. “What are you talking about?”
You laugh, breathless. “You just came. Which means I win.” You press a kiss to his lips, then lean back, grinding your hips down, clenching your walls around him. “You came first.”
Jimin snorts, his eyes going wide, and then he's laughing. The sound is so beautiful, so genuine, it makes your chest tighten. “I see what you did there,” he pants through his laughter, then presses a kiss to your forehead. “I like your style.”
You smirk. “Yeah, I thought you would.” You settle against his chest again, closing your eyes as you bask in the glow of your victory.
He sighs, the sound so content you feel it all the way down to your toes, and he presses another kiss to the top of your head. “My turn.”
You don't have time to react before he's flipping you onto your back, settling between your thighs, and sliding his cock back into your pussy. You gasp at the feeling of him filling you again, at the hot trickle of his come as it drips down your slit. "What are you—"
He kisses you again before you can finish, his lips firm, demanding, swallowing any protest you might have. Then he pulls back, just enough to look you in the eye.
“Time for round two, baby.”
