Exes And Hoes

The Old And New

Jimin's frustrated.

No matter what he tries to pull, it doesn't affect you whatsoever. He'll even go as far to say that you don't give a fuck — which is devastating, because two hands alone isn't enough to even count the memories of shared intimacy.

Tossing his work aside with a grumble, Jimin clicks his tongue.

Your face, the way you talk, everything...

It's all just so different.

You practically used to beg for his attention but now you're as cold as ever, eyes sharp with constant hostility and caution the second he enters the room.

It's irritating.

How the hell is he supposed to wreak havoc if you keep shutting him out?

You're wrecking his plan without even trying; it should be simple, but it looks like with you things are always complicated.

He sighs.

Perhaps the equation is wrong?

Well, it shouldn't be hard for someone ranking of your intelligence to decode it because really, this isn't rocket science. It's more like kindergarten math: ex plus hoe equals sexual tension. The type that is just egging him on to tear your clothes off with his teeth; one that will turn him into an animal if he isn't careful.

He wants what nobody else but you can provide. Specifically, to avenge his title and pride that you destroyed all those forlorn years ago.

What exactly pushed Jimin to the edge like this?

Simple. You managed to beat a hoe at his own game, play the player, slap your wildcard on his pathetic ass. You used his favourite words in the worst way possible, because instead of it coming from his lips... It came from yours.

'Let's break up.' was what you said calmly, without a wink of hesitation.

When Jimin realized what this meant, it crushed him. You got to the punchline before him — he was the one that was supposed to toy with you, not the other way around.

So of course, there's this burning resentment that lingers.

Knuckles white from clenching, Jimin angrily pounds his fist on his desk. Lips dry and chapped, his gaze is left to flitter the vacant auditorium as his stomach churns to the whispers tickling his ears.

Just thinking about all the things he could do to you is the devil's torture. The fantasies are poisonous, toxic to his ego when he loses rationality just imagining you pressed up against his lip in a skirt shorter than his patience...

If not, you on the ground.

Down on your knees.

For him.

Begging for him like you used to.

Jimin bites his knuckle with an awfully amatory grin tugging his lips.

The image of you stomping down the hallway is as determined as ever, but today something's different — off. Your eyes are burning, pressed into small crescents compared to their normal lively almond roundness, and your fists are balled so tightly they're seeping colour.

Situated in the corner, Jimin's attention can't help but deviate from his cellphone to you.

You, the girl with a jaw clamped like an oyster.

You, that girl carrying books in one hand and blushing a fury-driven pink.

You, the girl who's notorious for dressing neatly, uniform now unkept and undone.