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Reset (m)

Reader x Park Jimin

Rated m for graphic sex

Word Count: 10, 226 words

Summary: We are made of the pieces of what we remember, and we hold in ourselves the hopes and fears of those who love us. As long as there are memories to call our own, there can be no true loss. But Park Jimin has no such privilege.

A really HUGE thank you to my lovely britt @mintyoongee and nhi @ohmanholyjungkook for so kindly betaing for me!!!

I highly recommend that you listen to Reset by Tiger JK while reading this! :>

The elastic of your hair tie tugs at your ponytail as you reach to tighten it, but the sting on your scalp is nothing compared to the churning pit in your stomach. The gathering perspiration on the palms of your hands is way too slick to be attributed to the heat of the midday sun alone, and you consider retreating back to the safety of your dorm instead.

The shade of the indoor sports centre provides no respite from the sweltering weather, but the sight of the other students already gathered and starting their own warm ups sends panic pulsing through your veins. The incredulity of the situation makes you want to scoff: you, the most unathletic person ever, actually signed up for a volleyball elective. If not for the uni’s regulation that each student fulfil a minimum of 1 sports module, there’s no way you’ll ever willingly indulge in any physical activity more strenuous than running for the bus.

You chuck your bag into the lockers near the stands, trying to stall for time as you tighten the hold of your ponytail one more time before smoothing down the front of your shirt. Maybe it won’t be that bad, you try to convince yourself. Volleyball is just a more intense game of don’t let the balloon hit the floor; so how hard can it be?

The sound of a whistle blowing and shoes squeaking across the indoor court puts an end to your musing, and you slam the door of the locker closed before heading to the centre of the court with all the other students. Most of them seem to be dressed in sports jerseys of some sort, donning sweatbands and kneepads that make them look like actual professional players. A cursory glance around confirms that you’re one of the few students not sporting such extra accessories, and you curse inwardly for not choosing a more beginner friendly sport like track and field or basketball.

The coach himself clears his throat, sporting a weathered and tanned complexion befitting an athlete. His arms folded across his chest only seem to emphasize his large frame as he stands at least a head taller than the crowd of students in front of him. He casts a brief glance over the class of less than 20 people, and you can actually feel his gaze linger on each of his student’s faces for a few seconds before moving on, as if committing them to his memory.

“Welcome to Volleyball 101, my name is Coach Kang. I already know some of you from the school team, but to all the new faces, welcome! As you may already know, this class is graded upon improvement and not skill level, so newcomers, please do not feel intimidated. So without further ado, let’s get started!”

His easy-going demeanour sets you at ease a little, and you watch as he picks up a ball and begins to demonstrate the most basic skill: bumping. Even though most of the students around you already seem to know this, they mimic him nevertheless, and you do the same. Extending your arms and bending your knees, you try your best to copy his exact posture as the ball glances off the mid section of his forearms with a gentle smack. After a few demonstrations, Coach Kang instructs you to pair up and grab a ball each to practice bumping back and forth.

You’re so focused on trying to remember the exact posture and positioning of your arms that by the time you manage to snag yourself a ball, everyone’s already more or less paired up. You hesitate a little, wondering if you should join a pair instead when there’s a tap on your shoulder. You turn around slightly, only to be met with a boy who’s not much taller than you are.

“Hey, want to pair up?” His voice is surprisingly high pitched, but it fits well with the slightly rounded cheeks and crescent moon eyes as he flashes you a cheerful grin. But his most outstanding feature has to be his sunset coloured hair that falls across his forehead in perfect waves, making his pearly white skin take on even more of an iridescent glow. His soft tangerine locks strike a chord of recognition in you; you’ve seen that bright head of orange many times in the front row of your Psychology lectures, always sitting by himself but you’ve never spoken to him before today.

“Sure.” You follow him to an empty space before tossing the ball at him. “Um, I’m not that good at this, so why don’t you go first?”

He catches the ball easily and spins it deftly between his hands, and you can already tell that this isn’t his first time playing. You keep your eyes glued to the ball as he tosses it high into the air, letting it fall before extending his arms. It glances off his forearms without making much of a sound, unlike the resounding smacks coming from the students around you. The ball flies toward you in a high arc, and it’s obvious that he’s going easy on you, giving you plenty of time to react and prepare yourself to return the ball.

The ball approaches quickly, and you try and mimic the coach’s posture from earlier. You can feel the weight of his gaze on you as you get ready, and suddenly there’s an overwhelming need for you to do well and impress the boy with the sunset hair. The impact of the ball makes you wince a little, but you grit your teeth and the ball bounces back towards him, slightly lower than you intended.

His delighted expression lights up his entire face, and he gives you a pleased smile. Your return serve is a little too low for him to bump back, so he catches the ball instead. “You’re not too bad! But try to bend your knees more, that way the ball can go higher and you don’t need to use as much strength.”

This time he tosses the ball into the air with one hand and uses the other to serve, using the palm of his hand to direct the ball towards you. You follow his advice and bend your knees as you receive his serve, and the ball deflects off the surface of your lower arms perfectly and arcs back towards him.

“That was great! You’re a natural at this,” he receives your ball effortlessly, and his praise makes your cheeks heat up, but you try to play it off as exertion. The two of you bump the ball back and forth for a while, and even though you’re not great at aiming your returns just yet, his quick reflexes manage to save the ball from hitting the floor each time. His impeccable control of the ball ensures that it always flies perfectly in your direction, giving you plenty of chances to practice your bumping skills.

Before long, Coach Kang sounds his whistle, signalling for the class to gather. You catch the ball in mid air and wait for your partner to approach. The way he runs a hand through his silky coral hair makes your heart skip a beat, but the lopsided smile he gives you makes you even more short of breath.

“Thanks for the tips, they were really helpful,” you say as you both make your way to the centre of the court. “You play really well too.”

“Me? Ah not really, there are others who are so much better.” His bashful grin is partially hidden as he reaches to tousle his hair again, and his little habit is already becoming endearing. “Oh I’m Park Jimin by the way.”

“Psychology major right? Me too, I’m _____.” His slightly shocked expression is conveyed through the widening of his eyes, and you can’t help but smile at the unrestrained way each and every emotion flits across his face. “Your bright head of hair is a little hard to miss.”

He rewards your wry comment with a bubble of laughter, a sound resembling the gentle tinkling of wind chimes fluttering in the breeze, once again reaching to brush his fringe out of his eyes.

Your conversation ends abruptly as you reach the other students in the middle of the court, and Coach Kang starts summing up the lesson. But you can’t concentrate on a single word of his lecture, too absorbed in the boy with the sunshine smile and sunset coloured hair to match.

Coach Kang divides the group of students into half by walking down the centre, but you’re so distracted that you remain rooted to the spot, blocking the coach’s path. Jimin quickly pulls you to his side with a hand on your wrist. You’re unprepared for the sudden movement and collide into his chest, but he only steadies you with a hand on the small of your back and a concerned look. Cheeks burning with embarrassment, you straighten up and give his bicep a light squeeze in thanks.

Your half of the group seems to be moving onto the opposite end of the court, and you follow in their stead. Unable to forget about the firmness of his solid chest and the defined feeling of his bicep, your eyes are only on Jimin as he walks a little ahead of you. His fitted white shirt is drenched with sweat, and the fabric of his exercise shorts molds to the lower half of his body like a second skin, revealing the harsh lines and sculpted muscles of his thighs.

It’s not until you take up your position beside him that you realise Coach Kang has set up a modified practice game to end off the lesson. He tosses the ball to the opposite side, and you watch as a tall, slim girl with bright fuchsia knee guards serves it perfectly over to your side, clearing the net with plenty of room to spare. A boy on your right receives it and the ball arches in your direction. With extended arms, you reach to hit the ball over the net, but it ends up going vertically up instead.

As you stare in vain at the ball, Jimin suddenly appears in your line of vision and sends the ball over the net with a neat spike, and the sound of his palm hitting it reverberates through the sports centre. Coach Kang lets out a cheer, obviously impressed, as one of the newer players on the other side messes up and causes the ball to fly out of the court.

A few of the girls on your side throw looks of admiration and adoration toward Jimin, but he only lowers his gaze toward the shiny floor of the court shyly. Just as your side is getting ready to serve, he glances up just a fraction in your direction and his shy smile is transformed into a megawatt grin as he shoots you a thumbs up.

The game wraps up with your side winning by a few points, and Coach Kang dismisses everyone with a blow of his whistle. Wiping beads of sweat from your forehead, you see that Jimin already has a few girls gathered around him as he makes his way to the stands for his bag. You consider approaching him to thank him for being your partner, but decide against it and head for the lockers instead.

The next time you see Park Jimin, you’re horribly late for a Thursday morning Psychology lecture. You partially blame the late night trying to finish the stack of readings given last week, but also your aching muscles and bruised forearms from the day before. For some reason, the lecture hall seems to be filled to the brim today, so you can’t make yourself inconspicuous and snag a seat in the back row. The group of friends whom you usually sit with are nowhere in sight either.

You scan the rows and rows of sleepy students for an empty seat, coming up short until you see a head of orange hair in the front row. Trying your best not to attract the attention of the professor and ignoring the irritated glares of students who are actually awake and paying attention, you manage to slide into the seat next to Park Jimin safely.

The surprise on his face gives way to a genuine smile as he angles his laptop in your direction so that you can catch up on what you’ve missed. You get to work, quickly setting up your own laptop and copying down whatever’s on his screen. When you get to the bottom of the page, there’s a string of words that definitely did not come from the professor.

Your eyebags look horrible. I’ll have to charge you for my notes btw.

A hand flies up to your face, and you gingerly pat the area around your eye, wincing at the puffiness you find. Jimin catches you in the act, and his eyes crinkle up as he succumbs to a fit of silent laughter. You roll your eyes at him, but a smile tugs at the corners of your lips.

Sorry we can’t all be Mr Perfect.

He raises an eyebrow and types back.

So you think I’m good looking?

You can practically see the smirk on his face even though your eyes are on the screen of his laptop, but you refuse to acknowledge it. You return your attention to the lecture, which is coming to an end since you missed almost half of it.

When the professor wraps up the lecture by assigning more readings, you close the lid of your laptop with a sigh and indulge in a stretch. Jimin turns to you with a faux serious look on his face, folding his arms over his laptop.

“We need to discuss your terms of payment, _____. I can’t have you freeloading off me.”

The unexpected hilarity of his words along with his mock accusation makes you giggle a little, and a grin threatens to break through his austere façade too. You reach for your lecture handout and scribble a short IOU note with your name on the bottom corner before tearing it off and handing it to him.

“Will this be enough? Or should I sign a contract too?” Your teasing lilt finally pierces through his stern demeanour, and he breaks off into a series of giggles that threaten to take over his entire body as he reads over your note.

“Hmmm, I guess this will do. But I’ll claim it anytime I want, so you’d better be ready.”

“Anytime, Park Jimin.”

You’re a little less apprehensive when the following week’s session comes around. After completing some preliminary stretches on the stands, you reach for your bag and dig around for the pack of knee pads you’d just bought the week before, but after a few minutes of rummaging, it’s clear that you somehow forgot to bring them.

A small cough makes you look up from the contents of your bag, only to be met with an apprehensive Park Jimin. In one hand he proffers a pair of knee guards, and the other runs through his glossy amber hair nervously. You reach out gratefully and take the guards from him, and you’re just about to thank him when he turns abruptly and jogs back to the court to continue his warm ups.

His odd behaviour makes you frown a little, but you don’t have time to ponder over it as you hastily tug his guards on over your knees and replace your shoes. By the time you head down to the court, everyone’s almost gathered in front of Coach Kang already.

“Welcome back guys! Today we’ll be learning how to spike. Jimin-ah, can you assist me in demonstrating this?”

You watch as Jimin makes his way to the front and positions himself a slight distance away. Coach Kang tosses the ball high up into the air, and in a fluid motion, Jimin sprints a few steps such that he’s directly under the ball, launching himself into the air with a deadly spike that sends the ball rocketing toward the end of the court at breakneck speed in a display of raw strength and power.

A chorus of cheers and applause break out, and Coach Kang himself nods in approval. Park Jimin’s trademark shy smile is once again accompanied by a downward gaze and a careless ruffling of his hair that has some of the girls sighing in adoration, but you can’t deny that it has your heart rate speeding up a little too.

After going through some of the finer points of the spike, Coach Kang disperses everyone to try it out on their own. You get hold of a ball and make your way to an empty spot to practice timing the descent of the ball together with your jump, but it’s harder than Jimin makes it look. A few near misses later, you manage to get contact with the ball, but instead of sending it flying across, ends up only a few feet away.

“That’s good, but you should try to swing your arm with more force too, and let the momentum guide you.” A familiar voice sounds beside you, and you turn to find Park Jimin at your side. He demonstrates with a phantom ball in his left hand, and you study the motion of his right hand as it swings into the spike.

Bending to retrieve the ball, you sneak a glance at his face, unable to find even a single trace of the mischievous and flirty boy from last week. Instead, the expression on his face looks tense, and he nibbles on the flesh of his plush lower lip in what seems like… nervousness?

Straightening up, you brush it off, deciding he’s simply in his ‘athlete’ mode right now. You hold the ball out in front of you with your left and toss it into the air, waiting for the right moment before jumping up to hit it with a swing of your right arm. The ball travels a little further this time, still no match for Park Jimin’s powerful spike, but an improvement nonetheless.

“Not bad,” he says encouragingly. “You just need to practice a little more to embed it in your muscle memory.”

You feel his eyes linger on your figure for a touch longer than necessary, and a wave of self consciousness threatens to overwhelm you. You turn and step a few paces away to try again, hyper aware of the weight of his gaze as you throw the ball into the air and prepare to strike it. There’s an almost palpable tension in the air between the two of you, nothing like the easy camaraderie shared last week in the lecture theatre. It’s almost as if you’re meeting for the first time.

You’re so distracted by this change in dynamics that you hit the ball with your curled fingers instead of your open palm, and the stinging pain travels all the way down your arm. Your first instinct is to yell out in pain, but you grit your teeth and cradle your injured hand close, gingerly flexing your fingers to assess the damage. You can barely straighten the appendages enough for you to get a good look at them, but when you try to force them apart, a warm hand on your wrist stops you.

Park Jimin has one of his own hands wrapped around the wrist of your injured one, and the other supporting it and nestling it to his chest, as if it were his own injury. His hands might be small, but for the amount of tenderness and care they possess, they dwarf your own in comparison. You watch him study your injured fingers carefully; sunset strands of his fringe obscuring coffee brown eyes that are intensely focused. Gentle puffs of his breath on the palm of your hand distract you from the pulsating pain in the joints of your fingers, and his proximity makes each breath feel as difficult as wading through quicksand. You start to pull away a little, fearful of attracting attention, what with the two of you standing so painfully close in the midst of so many people.

“It’s fine, there’ll be bruises but it’s nothing serious.” He releases your hand to look at you with a gaze as liquid as melted caramel. For a second it feels as if this is the same Park Jimin you sat beside in the lecture theatre last week, the same boy whom you have an IOU with, the same one who said he’d claim it at any time.

But that moment is gone when Coach Kang jogs over in concern, and Park Jimin takes a step back. You can almost see his walls going back up as if they were the walls surrounding an impenetrable fortress.

“I’m okay, it’s just a bruise,” you tell Coach Kang, eyes still on the boy with the sunset hair who can’t seem to meet your gaze.

“Doesn’t look too bad, but you’d better sit out the practice game just to be safe. Get some ice on that asap.” Coach Kang confirms your injury with a grim nod of his head.

So you’re relegated to the bench with bruised fingers and an icepack for company. Watching Park Jimin in his element on the court is an art in itself, from the way he manoeuvres around the court with both speed and grace to the way he receives each ball with such precision and ease, but your mind keeps straying to his hot and cold behaviour.

When practice ends, you peel off the sweaty guards and stow them in your bag and take a deep breath before approaching Park Jimin. He’s taking off his own guards and dabbing at his sweaty face and neck with a blue towel, but he meets your eyes when you come to a stop in front of him.

“Hey, um… thanks for your knee guards. Can I get your number so that I can return them to you after I wash them?” You almost want to slap yourself at how much that sounds like a lame pick up line, but you paste a smile on your face instead.

He acquiesces with a small smile and cards his fingers through his damp tangerine hair, pushing the strands back, but to no avail when they just flop back onto his alabaster forehead. “Sure. It’s no problem at all.”

You dig out your phone and hand it to him and he enters his number together with his name. “I’m Park Jimin by the way.”

A little nonplussed at his sudden introduction, you almost drop your phone as he hands it back to you. He seems to be waiting for you to say something as his mocha eyes scan your face, but when you don’t, he stands.

“Text me, yeah?” And with that, he heads towards the exit of the sports centre.

That night, you sit in front of the washing machine in the laundry room of your dorm, watching Park Jimin’s blue knee guards spin round and round as your own thoughts circle around in your head.

His behaviour is beyond odd, you decide. It’s not normal even for someone who’s socially awkward or wary of new people, especially with his whole unnecessary introduction at the end. It’s almost as if he doesn’t even remember the events that transpired between the two of you the previous week. It’s almost as if he doesn’t remember you.

You give the washing machine a kick in frustration. Or it could be your need to constantly psychoanalyse everyone around you as a Psych major. Maybe the boy with the sunset hair is just a little forgetful and doesn’t care enough to embed you in his long term memory. On a wave of impulse, you reach for your phone and pull up a new message to Park Jimin, typing with your injured fingertips.

Hi Jimin, are you free tomorrow at lunch? I still owe you your knee guards.

You pause to read the message again once over before hastily adding your name at the bottom, seeing as there’s no way he’ll know this is your number and sending it before you can regret.

The washing machine doesn’t even get to complete its spin cycle before a reply pings back:

Sure.

It’s an ambiguous reply that doesn’t tell you anything at all, and you give the poor washing machine another kick.

You can’t focus at all in Psych the next morning. Every time you resolve to focus on the professor’s slides, your eyes catch the orange head of hair in the front row from your vantage point in the back row. Your friend gives you a nudge when you’ve apparently been zoning out for the last 5 minutes, and you jerk upright, hitting your knee on the underside of your desk and wincing in pain.

The noise draws a few concerned looks from those around you, but they soon turn their attention back to the professor as he mentions that the following content will be tested on the midterm.

He’s rambling on about something called anterograde amnesia, and you have to keep a conscious effort to glue your eyes to screen as you mindlessly take down whatever’s on it for notes. As a result, you don’t even absorb the material at all, but you reassure yourself that you’ll catch up on your own once this whole mess is sorted.

The ‘mess’ namely being a certain Park Jimin.

When the lecture ends, you spring up from your seat and head for the aisle immediately, carelessly waving your friends a hasty farewell and bracing yourself for the flood of students heading in the opposite direction. The head of orange takes its time before finally rising and turning in your direction, and Park Jimin looks a little surprised to see you waiting for him.

It takes a while before he reaches you, and he greets you with a wave that nearly causes him to drop his laptop. Stifling laughter at his clumsiness, you scoop it out of his arms, resisting the urge to pinch his reddening cheeks as he grins in embarrassment.

“Let’s go, slowpoke. I’m starving.”

“Thanks for these again,” you slide a paper bag across the table to him, and Jimin shoots you an amused smile.

“You didn’t have to return them so quickly. And you didn’t have to treat me to lunch either,” he gestures to the burger and fries.

You’re at the popular burger shack that students flock to after lectures, so it’s a little noisy but there’s no mistaking his words. He doesn’t even mention the IOU you gave him last week, and you watch as he unwraps his burger and takes a ravenous bite of it. When he catches you staring, he reaches for a napkin to hide his chewing self consciously, and once again he can’t seem to look you in the eye.

“I wanted to thank you properly,” you unwrap your own burger, hoping he buys your shitty excuse for wanting to see him again. “And besides, I still owe you from last week.”

At the mention of last week, Jimin stiffens, pausing in midbite. “What did you owe me for last week again?”

His tone is unnatural, sounding overly casual to the point of being forced. It’s totally unlike the Park Jimin who wheedled you into writing him an IOU that he seemed so eager to cash out. It’s much too significant to be attributed to a simple slip of the mind, and there’s a stubborn, niggling thought tugging at the back of your mind but you force yourself to continue eating as if it’s no big deal.

“Did you forget already? I even wrote you an IOU. I’m kinda hurt to know I mean so little to you.” You crack a joke in an attempt to smooth things over, since Jimin still looks tense in his seat opposite you.

“Oh! No of course I didn’t forget!” His entire demeanour relaxes, and relief floods his voice, along with a bright smile that illuminates his entire face. He pulls out his wallet from his back pocket. Unzipping the coin compartment, he retrieves your IOU note that’s folded neatly and presents it to you.

Pretending to be offended, you roll your eyes at him and slide it back across the table.

“You forgot about it, so I guess this meal doesn’t count. Better luck next time, kid.”

He attempts to hide his smile as he takes the note back, but whether he’s laughing at your playful jab or in anticipation of ‘next time’ is impossible to tell. He carefully folds the note back into his wallet with utmost care, making sure not to wrinkle it.

“Next time for sure,” he says, almost to himself, with fingers brushing the top of the note that sticks out. “Now that I have your phone number, you realise it’s even easier for me to claim it right?”

And he’s back, Park Jimin with his endearing little hair ruffle and a smile that could light up the night sky.

“Anytime, Park Jimin.”

The next volleyball session rolls around, and luckily, your fingers are nearly fully healed. You adjust your knee guards in anticipation when Coach Kang announces that you’ll be playing a full 6 on 6 game in preparation for the midterm assessment, and he pulls out Park Jimin and the girl with the fuchsia knee guards to be team captains.

He awards Jimin the first pick, and he seems to be having a little difficulty in remembering the students’ names while picking. He has to resort to pointing and gesturing instead, repeating the name of each team member back to them as they join his side. His hands are constantly threading through his hair in his frustration, and there are lines creasing his brow. Soon, it comes down to the last member in his team and his eyes hover over you and another taller girl with a slicked back ponytail who looks like she’s born to play volleyball, and it’s his pick.

But when Park Jimin looks at you and the girl beside you with absolutely no recognition in the mocha depths of his eyes at all, the awful realisation hits home: he doesn’t remember you at all. You can only watch with bated breath as he takes in the other girl’s taller and leaner stature before gesturing toward her, and since the other team already has enough players, you’re left to warm the bench with a couple other newbies. Coach Kang assures you that you’ll be swopped in to play at some point of the game, and tells you to familiarise yourself with the rules while waiting.

As you watch him introduce himself to his team and struggle to remember all their names, the niggling suspicion that’s been there ever since that lunch comes creeping to the forefront of your brain. It’s impossible to ignore this time when you’re sitting on the bench with nothing to distract you. You’ve already had multiple encounters with him, each one more meaningful and poignant than the last, not merely a few hi-bye situations that would excuse his behaviour entirely. No matter how little you mean to him, he should at least remember you as the IOU girl, judging from the way he keeps the note in his wallet like a precious artefact, almost. Combined with the lesser, but still significant signs: introducing himself again, forgetting the IOU note, not remembering a single one of your classmates’ names.

He must have some sort of memory lapse.

It can’t be an entire memory wipe, since he always remembers and recognises you in Psych lecture the day after volleyball elective. And he seems to have no problem remembering to meet you for lunch after you texted him last week. It’s only the week after that all traces of his memory are wiped. The entire situation is confusing, too many maybes here and there that add up into a huge question mark. But with inadequate information, it’s impossible to confirm anything further than a hypothesis.

It’s definitely some sort of short-term memory lapse, but you can’t recall the exact term for it.

A whistle interrupts your thoughts as Coach Kang calls a few of the players from each side to swop out, and you head in to take their place.

Jimin comes up to you to direct you to your new spot, and as expected, there’s not an ounce of recognition in his eyes. Despite that, it still hurts to see him looking at you as a complete stranger, but you force a smile and provide your name for him, seeing a look of relief take over his slightly strained features when he doesn’t have to ask you for it.

You head to your spot at the bottom corner of the court, trying your best to keep your head in the game and off the boy with the sunset hair who doesn’t remember you.

A whistle sounds and the game begins with a serve from the opposite side, but its impossible to concentrate on the game when your eyes seem to be glued to the back of Park Jimin’s head, watching his sunset hair flounce with every lunge, leap and dive he makes. Your spot is perfect for a newbie since the front row of three manage to volley the ball back over before it even has a chance to reach the back row, and you’re left feeling even more frustrated and useless than when you were warming the bench. You continue to aim your glare at the back of Jimin’s head, willing him to turn around and look at you, willing him to remember-

“Heads up, back row!!!” A strained shout cuts through your jumbled thoughts, and you’re barely able to tear your eyes away from Jimin to see the ball arching toward the far end of the court, your end of the court. It feels as though your feet are rooted to the spot for a moment, your leaden arms unable to move a single inch as the ball approaches head on. You’re barely able to regain control of your limbs and try to position yourself to receive the ball when the boy in your row slams into your side, catching you off balance.

An excruciating pain engulfs your left ankle and you can’t help but let out a choked sob as you land on your right knee heavily. The shooting pain in your ankle clouds your mind and you can feel your throat start to close up as the agony threatens to consume you.

The game screeches to a halt and everyone else stops and stares as Park Jimin dashes over and falls to his knees by your side. With one arm around your waist, he gently coaxes you into a sitting position with your injured ankle stretched out. The boy in your row and Coach Kang, who runs an experienced hand over your shin to the swollen ankle, are quick to surround you as well.

Even a gentle probe sends shockwaves of pain through your system, and you bite your lip in order to prevent a whimper of pain from escaping. Coach Kang tells you to keep your sock and shoe on to control the swelling, ordering for the boy who slammed into you to run and fetch an ice pack. Jimin shifts from his position at your side to kneel at your feet. With hands supporting your calf, he raises your ankle to rest on his shoulder in one smooth, easy movement.

“Jimin, it’s okay, you don’t have to do that, I’m fine,” you make a move to shift your leg off his shoulder, acutely aware of the other students watching now that the initial shock has worn off. But the slightest movement makes you wince, and Jimin halts you with a hand on your thigh.

“I think you’ve caused enough trouble today right? And our team was winning too!” His grin makes his eyes curve into crescent moons, and his hand that rubs soothing circles into the flesh of your thigh, along with his jovial tone, take away the sting in his words. After a few minutes of applying the ice pack, Coach Kang deems the swelling to have gone down enough for Jimin to help you back to your dorm.

There’s something soothing about being on Jimin’s back and having his body so close to yours that the pain in your ankle has subsided to a dull throb now. Wrapping your arms loosely around his neck and perching your chin on his shoulder, you can see the glistening of his perspiration from the game still on the nape of his neck along with the darker rusty copper shade of his damp hair, but the scent of him isn’t sweaty at all. Rather, it’s a relaxing mix of a clean, spicy scent that must be his deodorant and an underlying hint of his natural earthy essence.

“You must think I’m a really clumsy person. I bet you’re secretly laughing at me for signing up for this elective in the first place, but it’s not like I had a choice. Uni regulations and all.” There’s a tinge of defensiveness in your voice.

He lets out a chortle of laughter that ripples through his entire body, causing his rhythm of light-footed steps to falter a little. “Why would I do that? Do I look like the type to laugh at others’ misfortunes?”

“You helped me last week and now this week too… at this rate I’ll never pay off my IOU,” you say as you direct him across a street and into the building of your dorm. At the mention of ‘last week’, his body involuntarily tenses up again, and you can feel every hard muscle under you taut with tension.

He flexes his grip on the backs of your thighs, playing for time before he answers. “Um, last week?”

You reach over his shoulder to hit the button for the elevator. This time, you know better than to put him in a spot, so you just gloss over his question. “Yeah, I can’t believe I sprained my fingers trying to spike a ball.”

His fingers loosen slightly around your thighs as he steps into the elevator and waits for you to press the button for your floor.

“Yeah, I didn’t peg you the type to have a tendency for self destruction,” Jimin says as he steps out of the elevator and heads for your doorstep. You burst out in laughter as you slap his shoulder, reaching over to unlock the door and push it open.

Park Jimin deposits you gently on your bed and makes sure you’re comfortable, arranging the blankets of your messy, unmade bed, removing your shoes and tending to your ankle. When there’s no more fussing left to do, he faces you and runs a hand through his hair, ruffling those gorgeous tangerine locks and biting his plump lower lip. You’re pretty fluent in reading Jimin’s body language by now, or at least good enough to recognise that his hair tousling is a sign of his nervousness.

“You’d better recover soon, I still have my IOU to claim.”

“Anytime, Park Jimin.”

You decide to give up on attending lectures for the remaining two days of the week, opting instead to remain cooped up in your room. It’s not until you’re struggling to get around your room in an effort to function normally that the answer comes. You accidentally knock over a pile of your psych notes, and the bundle at the top of the stack catches your attention. It’s a handout from last week’s lecture, titled ‘Anterograde Amenesia’.

Remembering your promise to catch up on last week’s content, you start skimming through the slides, highlighting the more important lines to help you focus better. But when you stumble across the words ‘short term memory’, you pause to read the whole paragraph again.

Anterograde amnesia is an inability to recreate new memories after the event that resulted in the amnesia. What results is an inability to record or store new memories. Range or length of short term memory varies from individual to individual, from as short as one week to as long as a year or more.

One week.

The final piece of the missing puzzle slides into place, the realisation gnawing at your heart and all of a sudden there are tears in your eyes, and you’re sobbing uncontrollably for the boy with the sunset hair and the sunshine smile who has no control over his own memories.

But the boy who can’t remember you remembers to visit you every day for the rest of the week to bring you your notes.

You’re more than a little surprised to see his cheery grin and silky, coral hair greeting you at your door on Thursday evening. When he ushers you back to your bed, insisting that you keep off your feet to let your ankle heal properly, all you want to do is engulf him in the tightest hug ever, as if that could somehow help him to regain every single memory he’s ever lost, to fit the missing pieces of him back together. As if you could somehow soothe the confusion that accompanies when he wakes up in cold sweat at the start of a new week with no idea where he is or what he has to do, the overwhelming loneliness every time he mistakes an unfamiliar face for a familiar one. The repeated trial and errors until he stopped trying to fight past the insurmountable force that prevents him from remembering, stopped making an effort to remember people, isolating himself from the rest of the world.

Until now.

He’s rambling on about the day’s lectures and tutorials, worrying over your still swollen ankle. When you tug at his arm and shift to the edge of your bed in a clear invitation, he hesitates a little, but obliges at your imploring gaze. You nestle into his side and he autmatically pulls you in close.

“Thank you, Park Jimin.”

“What? I thought you’d be cursing at me for bringing you homework.” The tell tale creases around his eyes deepen as he chuckles at his own humour. You roll your eyes in response, but can’t help smiling at this dorky, unguarded side of him.

The intoxicating warmth of his body, combined with the painkillers you took earlier starts to lull you to sleep, and you nod off with your arms wrapped tightly around him, as if to reassure yourself that Park Jimin is here, that he remembers. And you’re not sure if it’s just the figments of your sleep induced haze, but he holds you just as tightly, as if to anchor himself to a reality that he doesn’t want to forget.

Park Jimin leaves sometime on Friday morning for classes without stirring you from your deep sleep. It’s only when you awake well past noon that you realise his absence, but a note from him tells you that he’ll be back soon, and true enough, he makes a reappearance in the evening, this time bringing food with him.

It’s not till you’re digging into the creamy truffle infused angelhair pasta that he stops chewing to watch you. He abandons his fork to brush strands of his tangerine hair off his forehead, and that action of his has you pausing to raise an eyebrow at him.

“You look like you have something to say,” you reach for a napkin as he avoids your eyes earnestly.

“Um, I hope this doesn’t sound weird or anything… but can I visit you again on Sunday? Even though I won’t have any notes to bring you, but…” He’s mumbling his words, glancing down at his lap as his fingers fidget with the lid of his plastic container. His shy nervousness is beyond endearing, and you reach out to pinch the apples of his cheek gently.

“How is that weird when we practically slept together last night? You’re too cute I swear.” The tension on his face melts away at your words, and you tease him by squeezing his cheeks together for a second.

“Ah I’m not cute! That’s not a compliment, I’m a grown man, you know.”

You lean forward to brush your lips against his nose.

“But I like cute guys. Especially cuties like you.” It’s obvious from the way he throws his head back in absolute rapture how much of a sucker he is for compliments. His laughter fills your entire room, and contentment fills you to the brim at the sight of Park Jimin truly and genuinely happy.

You know deep down the reason Jimin asks to visit you again on Sunday night, but when he shows up outside your door, you try your best to hide it. Instead, you greet him with an innocent peck on the lips before leading him inside.

You watch him as he approaches you and slides under the covers, turning to fit his body against your back as he slides his arm around your waist under your shirt. The feeling of skin on skin tingles through your entire body, and it’s clear that Park Jimin isn’t in the mood for giggles tonight.

His rough, calloused hands run over the dip in your waist, dancing over the curves of your body with a feather light caress. Park Jimin’s touch is almost reverent, as if he’s trying to commit every single inch of your body to his memory. He presses his nose to the base of your neck, inhaling the scent of your hair as his breaths send shivers down your spine. With your hands over his, you guide them up from your belly to the underwire of your bra before turning to face him.

You only have a second to take in the fully blown size of his pupils before the feeling of his velvet lips upon your own steals your breath away. He tastes like longing and regret with a hint of sweet matcha that’s so intoxicating, and it’s almost as if you can feel his desperation to hold on to every detail and stow them where his own memory can’t rob him. Jimin sits up to throw a leg over your waist so that he can straddle you, and you chase the taste of his lips and the wet laves of his tongue that has you tangling your fingers in those tangerine locks of his.

You scoot back a little to tug the hem of your shirt over your head, and his eyes devour the sight of you in your navy lace bra before his hands run along to the back clasp, searching your face for permission before undoing the hook and pulling the straps off your shoulders. Mesmerized, his eyes are filled with nothing but veneration as he drinks in the sight of your breasts for a moment, and his mouth descends upon a rosy bud like a man starved. Cupping the neglected breast in his other hand, he runs a thumb over the nipple until it pebbles, and you throw your head back as he worships you like a goddess.

Jimin pulls away for a second when your hands tug at the hem of his shirt to pull it over his head, and then promptly goes back to peppering open-mouthed kisses all over your breasts, leaving blooming orchids of violet and indigo in their wake. Every press of his lips to your heated skin is purposeful, his gaze devouring you whole; in front of him you’re a blank canvas waiting to be brought to life by every stroke of his tongue. With a gentle nudge from him, you reluctantly tear your hands away from the expanse of his smooth chest and chiselled abs and lay back against the pillows as his sinful lips wander lower and lower until they linger at the waistband of your shorts. He sends you an overconfident smirk, as if he knows you’re soaking just from a few brief touches and the sight of him from this angle makes you kick off your underwear and shorts as he pulls them down your legs.

His hands are on your knees, applying gentle pressure until you give in and let your legs fall apart, baring yourself to his heated gaze. Even the sensation of his bated breaths upon your soaked core has you dizzy with need, and you lift your hips toward his lips.

“Jimin please,” your voice comes out in a breathless whine, and your begging is rewarded with a rough lick from the bottom of your slit, and a harsh suck on your clit that has you sobbing.

He alternates between broad licks with the flat of his tongue and concentrated suckles on your sensitive nub that has you thrashing beneath the firm grip he has on your thighs. Jimin clamps a hand over your hips, anchoring you to the bed and slides one, then two fingers into you with his free hand. The slight stretch resulting from his thick fingers and his direct attack on your clit catapults you to the edge embarrassingly quick, and you’re a moaning mess.

You’re all too aware of your arousal completely soaking Jimin’s mouth and chin, but he’s licking and sucking at every bit of it like he wants to gorge on you forever. You’re so close now, and all it takes is a rough scrape of his teeth across your clit to send white-hot sparks of electricity coursing through your entire body and you’re barely able to gasp out his name in the throes of your pleasure.

His talented fingers beckon inside you to help you ride out the remainder of your orgasm, but his eyes are fixated on your face as you come down from your high. When you’ve stopped pulsing around him, he withdraws his fingers and sucks at them, not wanting to waste even a single drop of your sweetness.

“You taste so good baby. Exactly like I’d imagined.” He gives you a shy smile that juxtaposes the filthiness of his words as he flops down beside you, drawing the covers over him and holding them up for you to join him.

“Wait, who said we were done? What about you?” you narrow your eyes when you realise he’s about to go to sleep just like that.

“No I’m okay, just come to bed,” he says with a feigned composure, but you notice that his knuckles are near white from how tightly he’s holding on to the covers and keeping them away from the lower part of his body.

“Don’t be an idiot, Park Jimin,” you roll your eyes at him before flipping the covers up from the other end, only to reveal the uncomfortable looking tent in his jeans. You tug the paisley print covers from his grip and move to straddle him so that your core is situated directly over him.

“_____, it’s really okay, you don’t have to do this, I won’t remem-” You shut him up by crashing your lips onto his and rocking your hips to grind onto him, a plethora of desperate moans falling from his lips.

Pulling away, you deftly unzip his jeans and pull down the waistband of his boxers. His flushed member springs free from its constraints, and before he can protest, you take the steely length of him and pump him up and down, digging your thumb into the slit.

His hands fly up to grip your hips with such intensity, forming petals of plum and midnight hues. Park Jimin is reduced to a whining, incoherent mess as you rise onto your knees to position him at your entrance.

You take your time teasing him, running his cock up and down your slit, letting his head dip in ever so slightly. Meanwhile, you revel in the pleasure of leaving your own mark upon him, teeth, lips and tongue imprinted all over the pristine expanse of his neck and chest. His whines continue to linger in the depths of his chest until he’s nearly sobbing with need.

“Please _____, I need to cum so badly,” he gasps as his hips rise repeatedly to try and sink himself inside your wet heat.

With trembling fingers you brush aside the mess of his sunset fringe across his forehead to reveal his fucked out gaze as he begs with another chorus of whines. You give in to the pressure of his hands as they pull you down toward his cock, and sit down on him fully.

Jimin lets out a long moan and you’re enthralled by the creamy expanse of his throat as he throws his head back. The burning stretch of his cock reignites a spark in your lower belly and you dig your nails into his shoulders.

“Fuck, you’re so tight and wet, do you like how my cock fills you up? Just like that, hmmm?” The slew of filthy words spewing from that sweet mouth of his should shock you, but at this point you’re too far gone and it only causes you to clench around him as he rocks his hips up.

His hands on your hips guide you to bounce and grind onto him, and each of his thrusts feel like a sledgehammer as the head of his cock repeatedly brushes against your sweet spot deep inside. Even though you just came a few minutes ago, the fluid motions of Jimin’s hips and his dulcet moans have you on the edge of another orgasm again.

“Jimin, I’m so close, please I need-” You can’t find the breath to finish your sentence, but he knows exactly what you need as he skims past your thigh to pinch your clit.

“That’s it _____, cum for me like a good girl. Wanna feel you squeezing my cock so badly baby,” he increases the pace of his fingers on your clit, and with a few well aimed thrusts, you come apart for him, and his name rips through your throat.

Pure bliss blankets all your senses and you’re left clinging onto his solid form beneath you as euphoria consumes you entirely. The feeling of your walls fluttering around him sends him over the edge as well, and Jimin grasps your hips to bottom out inside you, holding you still as his warm release coats your walls.

You both remain entangled in the other’s embrace as the high slowly dwindles. Pressing a kiss to your forehead, he encircles your waist delicately as you climb off and collapse next to him. He immediately turns to you and spoons his body against yours.

“Finally paid off that pesky IOU,” your voice wavers a little, whether from the aftermath of Park Jimin’s talents in bed or the inescapable reality that dawns ahead, it’s impossible to tell. The way his arm surrounds your waist with his palm flat on your lower belly sends a rush of despair coursing through your chest as you remind yourself that in just a few hours, you’ll be strangers again, entirely indifferent to you.

His lips are pressed against the nape of your neck, and you close your eyes as a tear threatens to escape when you feel them purse into a smile.

“You wish. You still have so many unwritten IOUs. I haven’t forgotten about them.”

Except he won’t remember when morning comes.

A bittersweet smile crosses your face as you stroke his fingers that strum over your belly.

“Anytime, Park Jimin.”

His breathing steadies into an even rhythm along with the rise and fall of his chest behind you surprisingly quickly. The red letters of the digital clock at your bedside tell you that it’s already well past midnight, and since you have no idea when his memory reset takes place, you figure it’s better to be safe than sorry.

You gingerly remove his arm from where it drapes protectively across your waist with extra caution so as not to wake him. Figuring he’d probably not want to wake up next to a complete stranger who also happens to be naked, you sit up and reach for your shirt that you tossed onto the floor and pull it on. But your fidgeting stirs a movement behind you, and you freeze and stand up immediately, holding your breath and hoping he’ll go back to sleep.

“Where are you going? Come back to bed,” Park Jimin’s sleepy voice sounds from the muffled depths of his pillow, but when he doesn’t feel the bed dipping beside him, he forces himself awake and turns to regard you with eyes barely widened into slits.

You turn around to face him, dread like a leaden weight in the pit of your stomach as you watch him run a hand through his messy tangerine hair, causing it to stick out in all directions and rubbing the sleep from his eyes with the other. You expect him to sober up any moment now, to completely freak out to find himself naked in an unfamiliar bed with a stranger staring at him.

But he only gives you a lethargic half smile.

“_____, come back to bed, it’s cold without you.”

“Wait, you know my name?”

“Considering that we just had sex, I’d be a pretty shitty guy if I didn’t right?” His half smile widens into a teasing smirk as he regards your half naked form. Self consciously, you cross your arms across your chest.

“Has your reset not kicked in yet? Maybe it’s too early? Or-”

“I can’t remember anything other than the fact that you’re ____, my IOU girl and that you’re utterly gorgeous.” He doesn’t seem at all surprised that you know about his memory reset, and when you don’t respond, he reaches out and tugs you back into bed.

“You know that I know about your memory?” You allow yourself to be pulled back under the covers with him, still cautious and ready to back away to give him space if needed, but he only strokes your cheek with a calm smile.

“I was hoping you’d figure it out somehow, and I was waiting for you to mention it. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I just wanted to give you something you’ll remember, even for a short while. I just wanted the boy who can’t remember to never forget me.” You worry your lip with your teeth even as you slowly start to relax under his touch.

“I’ll never forget you now. Because this helps me remember.” He extends his hand palm side facing you, and upon closer examination, you see a scrawl of words covering it. The main area is taken up by a replica of your very first IOU note to him, complete with your name and signature and it looks like it’s been traced over several times. Around it there are smaller scribbles of your name and the location of your dorm among other things, but they’re all related to you.

Tears brim in your eyes as you read each word on his palm, painstakingly written in an effort to inscribe you into his memory.

“When I saw you at our second volleyball lesson, I had this feeling like I knew you already, that’s why I was so nervous when I approached you to give you my knee guards. I thought you were just another one of my misrecognitions. But I couldn’t keep my eyes off you that entire lesson, and I didn’t know why. When I got your text that night with your name at the end, things clicked and everything felt right, and when you mentioned the IOU from the previous week, it triggered my memory a little. I swore to myself that I’d come up with a way to remember you, but obviously it didn’t work by the time our third lesson came.

“When you kept mentioning the IOU on the way back on Wednesday, it gave me an idea as a way for me to remember you by, so every day I kept writing out your note on my palm. I wanted to see if this method worked so I asked if I could visit you on Sunday, since my memory always resets at midnight.”

His revelation is met with silence as you desperately try to sift out your thoughts and emotions enough to form a coherent sentence.

“I’m sorry,” your voice is choked up with emotion as you meet his liquid caramel gaze. “I’m sorry you have to go through this,” you say in a near whisper, caressing the ink stained surface of his palm. The defaced skin of his hands only serve to emphasise just how much effort he expends into a simple task like remembering, one which most people take for granted. This is something in which it’s impossible for you to help him with, and the thought of having to wake up each week and watch him lose chunks of his memory, precious fragments of his life, is almost unbearable.

But Park Jimin only smiles and kisses the remnants of your tears away.

“Don’t be. Now each time I see you, you happen to me all over again.”

A/N: Firstly, THANK YOU for reading this far!!! I’ve honestly been working on this for so long and I’m so glad it’s finally done :’) Here’s my first attempt at something a little more angsty, and the whole memory reset thing really intrigued me when I stumbled across it online one day.

As always, all comments are really appreciated ❤️

slightkpopobsession88

Like I'm so emotional right now, this is so beautiful and honestly tearing up cause it makes me so upset.

#this is amazing #everybody must read #holy shit #I just wanted smut and then this masterpiece.