Work Text:
Written for those who love hard. And those who think they are hard to love.
“Dude,” Taehyung says, voice low but unmistakably amused, eyes still on his phone. “That hot freshman’s staring again.”
Jimin doesn’t respond. His focus stays fixed on the screen in front of him—though “focus” might be generous. His laptop glows pale across his face, highlighting the slack, exhausted set of his features. He hasn’t typed anything in nearly ten minutes. His fingers hover above the keyboard, frozen.
Taehyung nudges him with one foot under the table. “You hearing me?”
“I heard you.”
“And?”
“And I’m ignoring you.”
Taehyung scoffs. “He’s not even pretending to glance around this time. I think he’s waiting for eye contact so he can propose or something.”
Jimin lets out a slow breath and reaches for his drink, half-melted and watery now. The straw makes a sad noise when it slides through the lid. “Tell him I’m married to my thesis.”
“He doesn’t look like the type who’d care, honestly.”
Jimin drags his gaze up from the blinking cursor that’s mocking him, expression pinched, neck stiff from hours spent hunched over.
It’s not the first time Taehyung’s mentioned the guy. For the past two weeks, the same student’s been showing up within a ten-foot radius of wherever Jimin parks himself in the library. Never disruptive. Never even tries to speak to either of them. Just always… there.
And now, as Jimin lifts his eyes, there he is again.
Black hoodie, the sleeves shoved up to his elbows, exposing a forearm that’s inked halfway down, dark lines vanishing beneath the fabric. His jeans are tight and torn at the knees, his boots planted with the casual confidence of someone who knows how much space he takes up and doesn’t want to apologize for it. Broad shoulders, solid frame—built like he lifts, regularly, but his face doesn’t match the rest. Strong nose, sharp jaw, but then—big, wide eyes. Gentle. A little too soft for the rest of him. His lip curls when he notices Jimin looking, not smug, just… pleased. Oh, he has a lip piercing.
He doesn’t glance away.
Jimin freezes, caught.
Then, with carefully measured disinterest, he turns back to Taehyung. “He caught me looking.”
Taehyung immediately stands, squinting dramatically in the direction of the freshman. “Cool. Let’s lie about it.”
“What are you—”
Taehyung lifts a hand and waves past the freshman’s shoulder, grinning like he’s just spotted someone he knows. The boy turns to look behind him, confused. Finds nothing. When he turns back around, there’s the slightest lift of his brow, like he’s mildly impressed at the effort.
Taehyung sits back down with a pout. “He didn’t buy it even for a second.”
Jimin stares at him. “Was that necessary?”
“At least I tried. Also, respectfully, the guy is hot and clearly interested, and I am not about to let your lack of social stamina ruin a potential hookup.”
Jimin shakes his head, returns to his laptop. “I look like a sleep-deprived swamp rat. He’s not interested.”
“Jimin.”
“No.”
“You have that little angry thing going for you. Some people are into that.”
“He is not into this.” Jimin gestures vaguely to himself. “My skin’s breaking out, my hair is criminally greasy, and I smell like Shin ramyeon.”
“Sounds kinda hot to me.”
“I'm going to block your number.”
Taehyung grins and leans back, arms crossed, watching Jimin try—and fail—to refocus.
The blinking cursor is still there. Taunting.
With a sigh, Jimin opens a new document, saves a fresh backup, emails it to himself, and sends another copy to Taehyung without warning.
Taehyung glances at the ping on his phone. “You know, if I die and your thesis ends up on my laptop, I hope someone assumes that we were sickeningly in love.”
“I hope they assume I was held hostage.”
From the corner of his eye, Jimin sees the freshman check his phone, thumb idle over the screen like he forgot what he picked it up for. His mouth twitches at the corner, and when he glances back up, he’s looking back right at him.
With a smirk.
Jimin presses his knuckles to his mouth and exhales slowly through his nose. Pretends to read a sentence. Doesn’t take in a single word.
♡
Midterms are over, and for the first time in weeks, Jimin breathes like he’s finally allowed to.
He submitted the paper, triple-checked the confirmation email, and collapsed into bed without brushing his teeth or taking off his jeans. When he finally wakes up nearly twenty hours later, the sun is leaking through the curtains and his head doesn’t feel like it’ll split in half anymore.
His dorm is a mess though, so he spends the first hour putting it back in order—folding laundry, bleaching five different mugs, fishing out three highlighters and a pair of socks out from his sheets. The second hour is self-repair: scalding shower, skincare, his good exfoliator, and a full-body shave. Some would call it overkill, but to him it’s a necessity to feel human-shaped again.
By noon, he’s dressed and borderline smug about it. Black ribbed tee, silver hoops, the jeans that make his ass look great. Ratty hoodie stays behind, replaced by a soft cardigan with long sleeves and deep pockets. He catches his reflection in the mirror and doesn’t grimace, which feels like a win.
Good timing—he’s got somewhere to be.
Post-midterm lunch with Taehyung.
It’s nothing fancy, just a shared ritual. Greasy cafeteria food, shameless gossip, and a few uninterrupted hours of being completely unproductive together. Jimin gets to the food hall early and claims their usual window table. His tray loaded with a large bowl of bibimyeon, two slices of pizza, and a lemonade. He’s earned the right to double-carb in peace.
He’s half-positioning his chopsticks when Taehyung crashes into the seat opposite him, tray hitting the table with enough force to make the cutlery jump.
Jimin doesn’t look up. “You smell like cleaning products.”
“I slept on the floor,” Taehyung groans, rubbing his face with both hands. “My body is not okay. I submitted my final five minutes before the deadline. I saw spots. Even Hobi was worried.”
“I’m surprised he let you out, you look like a fresh corpse.”
“Thanks.” Taehyung slumps forward, glaring. “I almost didn’t come.”
“You could’ve rescheduled.”
“I said almost. Don’t be dramatic.”
“I’m not,” Jimin mumbles with a pout.
They eat. They talk. The usual rumours circulate—someone hiding a cat in their dorm until it escaped during a fire drill, a student caught trying to key Professor Han’s shitty Honda Jazz—easy conversation, low effort. A familiar rhythm they both slip into without thinking.
It’s good. Until Taehyung stills. He’s halfway through a bite, spoon paused mid-air when his head tilts in that familiar way.
Jimin sighs. “What now.”
Taehyung doesn’t answer immediately. His mouth twitches.
Jimin sets down his chopsticks. “What.”
“Don’t react,” Taehyung says. “But guess who’s next to us.”
Jimin doesn’t need to guess.
“He was three tables back,” Taehyung continues, quieter now, voice laced with amusement. “Now he’s here. Sat down two minutes ago.”
Jimin doesn’t move. He feels the shift in air, the presence just off to his left. And the quiet. Not silence, exactly—just the kind of stillness that comes from someone listening.
He knows that kind of attention. Intentional. Fixed.
Taehyung leans closer, grinning. “You’re not even going to look?”
“No.”
“He’s close enough to hear everything we’re saying.”
“I know.”
“So what now?”
Jimin lifts his lemonade and sips slowly while holding Taehyung’s gaze. He’s not exactly a fan of being stared at, but today he looks good and feels even better, so why not have a little fun? He puts his drink down and leans back, crossing one leg over the other. Then, louder than necessary, he says, “So. Did I tell you about Minho?”
Taehyung blinks. “Which one’s—oh. That Minho.”
“The one who cried.”
“Oh god, right. What even happened there?”
“We hooked up once” Jimin says, tone flat. “He was nice. Got clingy.”
Taehyung raises a brow, grinning. “Clingy how?”
Jimin keeps his eyes on his friend and tries his hardest not to smirk. “He said he loved me after I blew him.”
There’s a pause. The sound of someone shifting at the table beside them. The faint rustle of paper. A tray being nudged forward.
“And then,” Jimin adds, tapping the edge of his pizza crust, “he bought me lingerie.”
Taehyung coughs, loudly. “He what?”
“White lace,” Jimin says, calm as ever. “Strappy. Not a terrible choice, but—”
He glances sideways. Just briefly.
The freshman’s mouth is open mid-bite, sandwich halfway to his face, blinking like someone hit pause on his motor functions.
“—white’s not my colour.”
The silence sits heavy for a moment.
Jimin turns back to his food and adds, like it’s nothing, “I prefer black.”
Taehyung cackles. There’s a small clatter beside them. The sandwich has made contact with the tray.
Jimin doesn’t react. Just takes a slow bite of his now cold pizza, unbothered.
Across from him, Taehyung is biting down a grin, vibrating with second-hand glee. “You’re so evil.”
Jimin shrugs. “He sat down here.”
♡
The library is quiet in the way Jimin likes best—sterile overhead lighting, a steady clack of fingers on keyboards, and a general sense that everyone around him is either dying or already dead inside. His favourite table is mercifully unoccupied. Back wall. Two outlets. Good airflow. No reason for anyone to approach him unless they actively choose violence.
He’s reviewing material for Applied Stochastic Processes and Probability Modelling, which sounds more impressive than it feels. The equations aren’t hard, not exactly, but they’re written in that frustrating way academia favours—convoluted on purpose, like understanding the material is a quest in itself. He’s underlining a particularly dense passage about multidimensional distribution patterns when the chair across from him scrapes backward with a high-pitched screech that echoes through the meditative quiet like a gong.
Jimin looks up.
And then looks back down immediately, stomach already twisting with something unpleasant.
Of course it’s him.
The freshman in his usual getup of black on black on black like a cliché alternative kid from 2007. His hair’s messy, falling in waves just long enough to frame his face, and he’s staring. Again.
Jimin keeps his gaze on his textbook and pretends that his space was not just invaded.
He’s used to people looking. It comes with the territory— he knows he can be considered pretty when he cleans up, has a better than good figure and kind of androgynous features. But this is a little much. This boy doesn’t look away. Not when Jimin shifts. Not when he clears his throat. Not even when Jimin starts highlighting the same sentence for the third time.
It’s unnerving.
He tries to focus. The words blur. His highlighter creaks under the pressure of his grip, and the paragraph he’s been staring at for the past five minutes makes less sense each time he reads it. He bites down on his lower lip, jaw tight. It’s no use. He’s completely distracted.
Eventually, he drops the pen and lifts his eyes, sharp and exhausted.
The boy startles just slightly, like he hadn’t expected to be caught so directly. His eyes go wide for half a second, then his face splits into a grin—open and entirely too pleased with itself.
Jimin just stares at him, completely unimpressed.
After a long beat, he asks, “Is there something on my face?”
The boy sits up a little straighter. “No,” he says, smiling even harder now. “There’s nothing on your face.”
Then, before Jimin can respond, he stands from his seat, bows—a full ninety degrees—and says, “Jeon Jungkook. First-year Fine Arts major.”
He drops back into his seat like nothing about this interaction is remotely strange.
Jimin blinks at him, more confused than anything else.
“I—” he starts, about to introduce himself out of reflex.
But Jungkook cuts him off without missing a beat. “Park Jimin. Second year. Applied Mathematics and Statistics.”
That stops Jimin short. He stares at him for several seconds, trying to decide if this is some kind of elaborate prank or if he’s genuinely being stalked.
Eventually, he nods once. It feels safer than asking how Jungkook knows that.
There’s a pause, just long enough for Jimin to consider returning to his notes and pretending this conversation didn’t happen.
Then Jungkook licks his lips and blurts all too eagerly, “You’re really, really pretty.”
The words hang between them like static.
Jimin lifts his eyes back up and stares at him.
He blinks once. Twice. Then inhales slowly and replies, “Thank you,” because anything else would hint at reciprocation. His voice is clipped and polite, and he looks back down at his laptop immediately, resisting the urge to pull his hoodie over his head and disappear into the floor.
His ears feel warm, must be the heating.
Jungkook doesn’t seem bothered by the lack of enthusiasm. He’s bouncing one leg under the table, lopsided smile still in place indicating that the compliment wasn’t just a random lapse in judgement.
A moment later, he leans in just enough to make Jimin’s neck tense.
“Would you mind giving me your number?” he asks. “Or your Instagram? Kakao? Email, even? I’m not picky.”
Jimin looks up from his laptop, one brow lifted.
“What for?”
Jungkook shrugs. “I’d like to get to know you.”
Jimin adjusts his glasses, gaze flat. “We don’t have any classes together.”
“That’s okay,” Jungkook replies. “I was thinking we could get coffee.”
Jimin doesn’t move. His hands are still on the keyboard, but he’s no longer typing.
He isn’t dense. He understands exactly what Jungkook is implying.
“No.”
The grin on Jungkook’s face morphs into a pout. “But you don’t even know me.”
“Exactly.”
Jungkook huffs, but smiles at him again. “I’m nice. I can be charming. I’ve got decent posture and great taste in moody music.”
Jimin is already reaching for his bag before the younger can finish his sentence.
He doesn’t say anything—just closes his laptop a little harder than necessary and starts gathering his things in clipped, efficient motions. His charger is tangled, his notes are a mess, and he very clearly does not care. He mutters something under his breath that sounds like a curse and shoves everything into his bag like the room is on fire.
Across the table, Jungkook watches him with his chin in his hand, eyes tracking every movement with unfiltered interest.
He doesn’t say anything as Jimin hoists the bag onto his shoulder and all but power-walks toward the exit, posture stiff and ears visibly red.
Jungkook just smiles to himself, smug, and keeps watching until Jimin disappears around the corner.
♡
Jungkook knew Seoul would be big and loud and fun, and the city has done nothing to disappoint him yet.
Everything here moves fast—cars, people, thoughts. Noise is a constant undercurrent. Colour blurs. Conversations happen mid-step, phones pressed to ears, drinks balanced in hand. No one lingers. Everything pulses with urgency, like the whole city is trying to outrun itself.
He likes it. He likes feeling like one face in a crowd of millions, like no one’s paying attention unless he wants them to. It’s different from where he grew up in Gijang, a quiet pocket of Busan where the sky isn’t scarred by skyscrapers and you could actually smell the seasons shifting. His parents—two eccentric, full-time artists— never once pressured him to do anything traditional like law or medicine. They just hugged him at the train station, told him not to die of starvation, to wear sunscreen, and to keep being weird.
And he does.
He eats three bowls of rice a day, sometimes more. Paints his nails different colours and wears almost exclusively black clothes, with the exception of his love for Kuromi socks. The dorm he got is barely wider than his wingspan, but it gets good morning light. His neighbours are quiet, and none of them care when he sketches in the hallway. He even made friends within the first week.
He’s adjusting. Thriving, even, if he were to say so himself.
Well, most of the time.
But today kind of sucks.
Jungkook’s slouched at a corner table in the library, hunched over his sketchbook, failing miserably at his “live study” assignment. The page has been blank for over forty minutes. He loves people-watching. Loves sketching strangers, their details, the way they hold themselves—but doing it in public makes him feel weirdly invasive. Creepy, even. Like someone’s going to catch him mid-stroke and call security.
Still, he tries. His eyes drift across the room, sweeping over a parade of tired, bent-backed students. Most of them look half-asleep. A few are actually drooling onto their notes.
Even the loud group at the far end of the room can’t hold his attention. Five guys that look his age, hunched over one phone, laughing too loudly at whatever video their ringleader is showing off. Every few seconds, someone smacks the table or mimics something with an over-the-top expression.
It’s all so… fake.
Performative. Predictable. Boring.
Jungkook sighs. His stomach grumbles. Maybe he should just go. Get food. Hit the gym. Abandon the assignment altogether and ask Jin or Namjoon to model later—
A sudden scrape of a chair behind him cuts sharply through the quiet.
He doesn’t turn at first.
Then a rush of movement passes by, fast and aggressive, and something in the air shifts. Jungkook blinks, his spine going instinctively straight.
He looks up—
And time slows.
A boy storms across the library floor, pale pink sweatshirt pulled tight across his back, boots clicking against tile like punctuation. He’s small—compact—but every step is loaded with intention. Like he’s aiming straight at the heart of whoever pissed him off.
It doesn’t take long to find out who.
The loud table stops laughing when he arrives. The boy grabs one of them by the front of his hoodie and yanks him forward just enough to assert dominance, and speaks—quietly. Venomously.
“This is a library,” he says, voice low but absolutely lethal. “Not a fucking night market.”
The guy opens his mouth to clap back but snaps it shut when he receives a violent shake.
“I don’t care how funny your stupid little video is,” the boy goes on, tone never shifting. “I have a paper due in three days, and if I have to hear one more second of your obnoxious wheezing, I will bury each of you so deep in the ground they won’t even find bones.”
Silence slams down like a curtain in the library and Jungkook’s jaw actually goes slack.
The boys nod obediently, too stunned like the rest of the space to act out or argue.
The pink-sweater boy nods and dusts off the sleeves of his sweatshirt like the mere act of speaking to them left residue behind, then turns and stomps back across the room without a backward glance.
Oh. Oh, fuck.
He’s beautiful.
Full lips, soft cheeks, sharp eyes under thick-framed glasses. His mouth is still set in that furious line, but there’s something about him—something confident and unshakable, like he exists in a league of his own and doesn’t particularly care if anyone joins him.
Jungkook watches, stunned, as the boy slides into the seat directly behind his own. He drops into his chair gracefully, posture straight, opens his laptop with one hand, and immediately begins typing with single-minded fury. Not a glance around. Not a twitch of insecurity. Just full-on academic assault.
Jungkook’s grip on his pencil goes slack. He can’t help but stare, eyes wide and breath forgotten.
This guy. Whoever he is. Whoever just marched into Jungkook’s afternoon like a small, furious apocalypse—
He’s perfect.
It’s not just the looks. It’s the sheer, effortless disregard for anyone else's opinion. The way he moved, like there’s no version of the world where he isn’t in control. Jungkook’s fingers twitch.
He fumbles for his sketchbook, yanks it closer, and starts to draw.
Fast. Messy. Rough strokes. Glances over his shoulder every few seconds. Eyes, brows, lips, hands. The way the boy pushes up his sleeves again when they slide down. The way his neck tenses when he pauses mid-thought. The way he chews on a plump bottom lip when he’s reading.
He fills four pages in under an hour.
Different angles. Pursed lips. Clenched jaw. The curve of his spine over the laptop. One half-finished drawing of his fingers mid-keystroke, and a sketch of his expression when he briefly reaches for his coffee without looking.
And then—
Before Jungkook can convince himself to actually approach him—
The boy snaps his laptop shut, gathers his things with military speed, and walks out of the library without glancing back.
Jungkook sits there, blinking, heart hammering.
No name. No student ID. No department stickers. Not a single hint.
But he’s determined to find him.
He starts asking around.
Short. Rage issues. Smart. Pretty. Really, really pretty. Sharp tongue, permanent frown, probably hates everyone.
It doesn’t take long.
“Oh,” a noona from his foundation class says, eyebrows rising, “you mean Park Jimin? He’s kind of legendary.”
Second year. Applied Mathematics and Statistics. Top of his class. Brutally smart. Brutally honest too. No time spared for niceties. Made someone cry during a debate and didn’t even blink. Doesn’t date. Barely socializes. Has one close friend, Kim Taehyung—a second-year theatre student who once delivered a monologue from Death Note in a final and got extra credit for it.
Apparently they’ve known each other since childhood. Always together.
Doesn’t matter.
The more Jungkook hears, the more he becomes interested in Park Jimi and the more he sketches. The more he sketches, the worse it gets.
He has to talk to him. Even if it means public humiliation.
♡
He’s not stalking.
Not technically.
Jungkook tells himself that often enough, it might as well be a mantra. It’s not obsession. Not really. It’s more like... focused observation. Quiet appreciation. A necessary commitment to his craft. Character study, if anyone asks. Nothing weird about it.
He’s got a people-study assignment due, after all. And if the only person he’s studied for the last three weeks happens to be a foul-mouthed stats major with a coffee addiction and the emotional range of a buzzsaw...That’s just him being consistent.
At first, it’s genuinely accidental.
He times his library visits around his own schedule and just happens to end up near him. Not too near. Just close enough to hear the way Jimin’s fingers hammer the keyboard like it owes him money. Close enough to see how his eye twitches when someone coughs too loud. Jimin wears oversized hoodies like armour and thick glasses that slide down his nose. He doesn’t look like someone who enjoys being watched.
Jungkook watches him anyway. Religiously.
Then comes the afternoon he leaves the café and spots Jimin walking toward the math building. He doesn’t follow, exactly. He just keeps walking in the same direction. Watches the way Jimin’s messenger bag bounces against his hip, how he curls his fingers into his sleeves. Tells himself it’s for reference. Form. Motion. Body language. All that good artsy stuff.
That night, he fills five pages with sketches.
By week four, it stops being accidental. He knows which area of the library Jimin prefers. Which corner of the quad he claims on sunny days. Which café on campus makes his Americano just right. Jungkook doesn’t hover—he’s not that insane—but he definitely orbits. Within visual range. Just enough to feel the gravitational pull.
It’s not weird. It’s routine.
Until Jimin’s friend, Taehyung, starts giving him looks.
The first time, Jungkook is pretending to sketch the campus fountain. Jimin’s sitting across the quad with his laptop open, expression pinched as usual. Taehyung walks by in leopard-print pants and oversized sunglasses, pauses just long enough to flash a silent thumbs-up, then keeps walking. Jungkook wants to sink into the concrete.
The second time, he’s wedged between two stacks in the library, sketching Jimin’s profile with surgical precision. When he looks up, Taehyung is standing at the end of the aisle with arms crossed and an expression that says, I know what you’re trying to pull here.
Still, Jungkook maintains it’s harmless.
That delusion lasts until he’s lying across Namjoon’s couch one evening, recounting the precise the curvature of Jimin’s ass, when Namjoon finally cuts in.
“Okay,” he says, setting down his mug. “You need to stop.”
Jungkook looks up. “What?”
“You’re obsessed.”
“I’m not—”
“You’ve spent the last thirty minutes undressing him with words.”
Jungkook opens his mouth. Closes it. Frowns.
Across the kitchen, Jin’s rooting through Namjoon’s barren cupboards. He turns, holding a single expired packet of ramyeon like it’s Exhibit A.
“You’ve been here three times this week talking about this boy,” he says. “At first I thought it was a crush. Now I think you need supervised therapy.”
“I’m not stalking him,” Jungkook mutters. “I’m just... interested.”
“In what?” Jin asks. “His credit card details?”
“Just his looks.”
Namjoon lifts an eyebrow. “Alright. Where is he right now?”
Jungkook sits up automatically. “Probably—”
He freezes.
Namjoon stares. Jin stares even harder.
Jungkook throws himself back against the couch, arm over his face. “I hate you both.”
“You’re going to get a restraining order,” Namjoon says, tone disturbingly calm.
“I haven’t even talked to him since the first day.”
Jin perks up at that. “You met?”
Jungkook nods. “Briefly.”
“And he didn’t pepper spray you?”
“He was... fine.”
Namjoon tilts his head. “Did he smile?”
“No.”
“Did he ask your name?”
“Also no.” Jungkook sighs. “But I gave it to him anyway.”
Jin laughs, slow and cruel. “Oh, you’re so screwed.”
Jungkook stares at the ceiling. “Yeah. I know.”
"I've heard about him." Jin leans back against the counter. “Word is he doesn’t date. Ghosts people. No warning, no explanation. Just silence. It’s brutal.”
Jungkook hums. “Perfect.”
Namjoon squints at him. “You’re a masochist.”
Jungkook doesn’t even hesitate. “If he wanted to step on my neck, I’d thank him for the honour.”
Jin cackles loudly and Namjoon just gets up and leaves the room.
Jungkook stays where he is, grinning like someone already halfway to hell, thinking about slouched hoodies, vicious typing, and the sharp curve of a mouth that hasn’t smiled at him once.
He doesn’t even know more than five things about Park Jimin.
But he will.
♡
The first (well, technically second) time Jungkook tries, he keeps it simple.
They cross paths outside the math building. Jimin’s exiting with earbuds in, mouth set in that sharp, unmistakable don’t-fucking-talk-to-me line. Jungkook, standing nearby with a half-eaten protein bar and his signature sketchbook under his arm, times his approach like it’s fate and not five days of mental preparation.
Jimin slows when he sees him looking. Pulls one earbud out.
“Yes?”
“I was wondering if you wanted to get coffee sometime,” Jungkook says, bright like he hasn’t been rehearsing this for three days. “Or bubble tea. Or water, honestly. I’d settle for just standing next to you while you insult me.”
Jimin stares.
Jungkook smiles wider.
“No,” Jimin says, calmly. Ruthless.
The earbud goes back in.
Jungkook nods like this is fine. Like rejection in broad daylight is good for his immune system.
He tells himself he’ll try again later.
---
It becomes a pattern.
A week later, he finds Jimin again—this time outside the library. Jimin’s got a stack of books in one arm and his phone in the other, thumb flying across the screen.
“Hey,” Jungkook says as he steps in front of the other, hovering close, but not close enough to be in swinging range.
Jimin stops too, but doesn’t look up. “What.”
“Thought I’d offer you dinner. As a friend.”
“We’re not friends.”
“We could be. If you stopped glaring at me like I’ve keyed your car.”
“You talk too much and I don’t drive.”
“That’s part of my charm.”
Jimin finally glances at him. “Your charm is exhausting.”
Jungkook grins, unabashed. “You noticed. That’s progress.”
Jimin turns and walks around him like he’s a traffic cone.
Behind him, Taehyung materializes out of nowhere like he’s been summoned by the energy of his bestie humiliating someone. He’s eating a banana and shaking his head.
“You’re really committed to being ignored, huh?”
Jungkook doesn’t flinch. “It’s called the long game.”
“You’re the first person I’ve seen hit on Jimin without getting publicly annihilated.”
“He hasn’t told me to die yet. I’m taking that as encouragement.”
Taehyung squints. “You’re either very brave, or very stupid.”
“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”
Taehyung claps him on the back and strolls away, already laughing.
---
Two days later, Jungkook switches tactics.
They’re on the same floor in the library. Jimin’s at his usual table, hoodie sleeves rolled up, typing away as usual. His vitamin drink matches the peachy colour of his hoodie. His frown is lethally pretty.
Jungkook doesn’t approach. He just sits a few tables away, diagonal but close. Waits until Jimin glances up—barely a flicker of acknowledgement—and smiles.
Jimin immediately looks back down.
Jungkook considers that a win.
He tears a page out of his sketchbook, writes his number neatly across the middle, and slides it onto Jimin’s table on his way to the vending machine. It’s pretty smooth, and he’s proud of himself for not tripping on air.
When he returns, it’s gone.
For five whole minutes, he feels like a god.
Until Jimin walks past him on his way out—pauses for half a beat—and drops a neatly folded square of paper onto Jungkook’s table without breaking stride.
Inside, written in pristine handwriting:
No. But points for audacity.
Jungkook presses the note to his chest like it’s a love letter.
---
The next time it happens, it’s late.
They’re waiting at the campus bus stop after dark. Jimin’s leaning against the pole, Taehyung beside him scrolling through his phone. Jungkook jogs up, hoodie askew, breath uneven.
“Okay,” he says between exhales. “Hear me out.”
Jimin doesn’t turn his head. Just lifts one eyebrow.
“We don’t have to call it a date. Let’s call it... a parallel activity in a shared space. Mutual sitting. Food proximity. Optional conversation.”
Jimin exhales slowly. “Is there a point to this?”
“One drink. Ten minutes. No flirting.”
“You’re incapable of that.”
“I’ll do it badly, on purpose.”
“You already do.”
Taehyung lowers his phone. “Honestly, this is better than Netflix.”
Jimin ignores him. “Still no.”
Jungkook stands straighter, steadier now. “You’ll come around.”
“Unlikely.”
“You like a challenge.”
“I like silence.”
Taehyung grins, eyes still on his phone. “You like him.”
Jimin doesn’t dignify that with a response. Just stares at him with the kind of look that’s probably killed lesser men.
Taehyung shrugs. “What? I’m just here for moral support.”
“To whom?”
“Myself.”
Jungkook leans back against the bus stop pole, smiling slow. “I’ll try again next week.”
Jimin doesn’t roll his eyes. Doesn’t walk away. Doesn’t say anything at all, in fact.
He just looks at Jungkook.
But this time, he doesn’t look away.
♡
Two weeks before Christmas, Jimin is one spreadsheet away from throwing himself into an active volcano.
Campus is drenched in the kind of forced festivity that makes his skin itch—tinsel taped sloppily to bulletin boards, drooping string lights struggling to stay lit, and the distant wail of Mariah Carey echoing across the reading room from someone’s Bluetooth speaker three tables over. People are walking around in knitted reindeer sweaters and novelty socks, posing under half-dead pine garlands and pretending this month isn't hell incarnate. The air outside smells like burnt sugar, cold metal, and the sharp wet scent of decaying leaves.
Jimin hates it.
He’s hunched at his usual library table, sleeves pushed to his elbows, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose, his laptop fan whirring so loud it can almost challenge a small jet engine. His fingers hover over the keyboard, caught in that frustrating middle ground between wanting to scream and wanting to give up entirely. His screen is a disaster: three tabs of raw data that refuse to align, a half-finished analysis paper with glaring red notes in the margin, and a broken formula that now defies both mathematical logic and his own will to live.
He’s not tired in the normal sense of the word—he’s tired in the way that makes the world feel two degrees removed from reality, like everything is slightly too loud or slightly too bright, like his thoughts have to swim through mud just to form. All he wants is to finish this cursed paper, submit it, and disappear onto a train bound for Busan where his parents will feed him into a coma and not let him get up until the new year.
But right now, his entire body feels like a slow glitch. His focus is shot. His ears are hot, his coffee is cold, and if this spreadsheet gaslights him one more time, he's going to walk into the sea.
He’s muttering quietly under his breath—nothing coherent, just soft, rhythmic profanity—when someone clears their throat beside him.
At first, he doesn’t bother to look up, too far gone to care, too tired to be polite. But the pause stretches, and eventually, he lifts his head.
Jungkook is standing there, posture hesitant, like he’s about to be throat-punched. He’s holding a takeout cup with a crooked sticker from Jimin’s favourite café—the one just outside of campus that actually steams their milk properly—and in his other hand, a small paper bag, warm at the bottom and smelling faintly of almond and butter.
Jimin stares at him in silence.
“I thought,” Jungkook says softly, barely above a whisper, “you could use this.”
There’s no smirk today, no cocky lean or playful lilt in his voice. Just wide, dark eyes that look a little sleep-deprived, pink cheeks from the cold, and hands that shake a little as he holds the cup out like it’s something fragile.
Jimin doesn’t take it immediately.
He glances at the coffee, then at Jungkook’s fingers wrapped around it, then at the boy himself—hoodie rumpled, hair wind-blown, looking almost sheepish. He looks tired, too, in that heavy, behind-the-eyes kind of way that Jimin knows all too well.
Still, he’s here. Offering something. Standing steady in the face of Jimin’s silence, like rejection’s already factored into the equation and he’s trying anyway.
So Jimin reaches out and takes the cup from his hand.
Their fingers brush, brief but warm, and Jungkook swallows like he’s holding something back.
Jimin doesn’t thank him. Doesn’t offer a smile. He just sets the coffee beside his laptop and opens the bag with careful fingers. Inside is a croissant—still warm, soft, plain, just the way he likes it. No almonds on top. No powdered sugar. Just buttery layers of freshly baked pastry. He tears off a piece slowly and slips it into his mouth.
It tastes like comfort. Like home. Like someone paid attention.
He breathes in slowly through his nose and lets it out, the tension in his spine easing just slightly as he chews.
Jungkook hasn’t moved.
Jimin glances up again, expression unreadable. “You’re annoying.”
Jungkook blinks but doesn’t flinch. “I know.”
“You don’t give up.”
“No.”
Jimin takes another bite, chewing slowly, his voice softer now. “I don’t date.”
“I know,” Jungkook says, his tone still quiet, still steady. “I don’t care.”
For a moment, nothing moves.
Then Jimin shifts his laptop slightly to the side, enough to make room for another pair of arms, and gestures toward the empty chair next to him with a barely-there tilt of his chin.
Jungkook doesn’t move at first, like he’s waiting for a punchline. When none comes, he slowly pulls the chair out and lowers himself into it with a kind of cautious reverence, like he’s afraid too much noise might ruin the moment.
He doesn’t reach for his phone. Doesn’t speak. Just sits there, elbows resting lightly on the table, eyes focused on Jimin like he still can’t believe he’s sitting here at all.
Jimin doesn’t acknowledge him again. He just eats the rest of the croissant in silence, typing a few notes between bites, then opens a tab and pulls up Love Island without comment. One earbud goes into his own ear. The other, he drops in the middle of the table between them.
He doesn’t look up to see if Jungkook takes it.
But he hears the soft shift of the cord, the slight tug as Jungkook leans in and settles beside him. Closer than before. Not touching, but undeniably present.
And for the first time all day, Jimin doesn’t feel quite so on edge.
He sips the coffee. Watches two grown men argue about loyalty while standing shirtless in a fake villa. Pretends not to notice how Jungkook’s shoulder almost brushes his own.
It’s not a date. Not even close. And Jimin tells himself it means nothing.
It’s just a boy with a croissant, a little persistence, and the good sense to stop talking when Jimin clearly doesn’t want conversation.
But still—
He doesn’t ask him to leave.
And he doesn’t move away.
♡
Jimin gives Jungkook his number two days before winter break.
No fanfare. No comment.
They’re both in the library when he does it, no surprise there. Jimin waits until Jungkook leaves his table for the bathroom, then walks over to his table and picks up the other boy’s sketchbook. He scribbles his number and name underneath a rough sketch of his own face before gathering his things and walking off without waiting for a reaction.
Jungkook doesn’t text right away. He lasts exactly three hours and forty-two minutes, which, by his own estimation, is an act of divine restraint.
Jungkook, [16:13]: did you poison my coffee
Jungkook, [16:13]: asking for my stomach
Jimin, [16:17]: if you died it would’ve made the news
Jimin, [16:17]: so no
Jungkook, [16:18]: so that’s a yes in spirit?
Jimin, [16:19]: i consider it daily
After that, it doesn’t stop.
They text through their respective commutes home for the break. Jungkook sends a photo of his overstuffed duffel bag, zipper threatening to burst. Jimin replies with a blurry shot of his sneakered feet on the bus floor, captioned: already regretting this. Jungkook sends him a Spotify playlist titled “for when you want to hate the world quietly”, which Jimin opens it, pretends to hate, then saves in full.
By the time they’ve both landed back in their childhood bedrooms, the thread between them feels like something alive.
Jungkook texts in bursts—excitable, unfiltered, always oversharing. Jimin responds in dry one-liners, pointed sarcasm, the occasional question when he’s caught off guard. It’s easier this way. Jungkook isn’t looking at him. There’s no wide-eyed staring, no soft grin, no impossible patience. Just a blinking cursor and the freedom to choose when to reply.
And Jimin does reply. More often than he means to. With more honesty than he usually allows.
They start with the surface-level stuff: weird childhood snacks, cursed middle school haircuts, awkward class presentations they’ve never emotionally recovered from. But the tone shifts gradually. Majors. Anxiety. Parents. Expectations. Jimin admits he’s not great with people. Jungkook admits he talks too much when he’s nervous. Jimin calls him shameless. Jungkook says he’s not wrong.
It’s good. Easy.
They figure out they’re both in Busan. Different neighbourhoods. Not far.
The next day, Jungkook tries.
Jungkook, [11:02]: we should hang out
Jungkook, [11:02]: like… in person
Jimin, [11:04]: i know what “in person” means in Jungkook speak.
Jungkook, [11:04]: so… that’s not a no??
Jimin, [11:06]: it’s not a yes either.
Jungkook, [11:06]: i can work with that
Jimin doesn’t reply after that. He doesn’t need to. Jungkook keeps going anyway.
Jungkook, [16:25]:coffee?
Jungkook, [16:25]: i swear i’ll act normal
Jimin, [16:32]: you don’t know how.
Jungkook, [16:33]: okay but what if i try
Jungkook, [16:33]: like, bring-you-another-croissant levels of try
Jimin, [16:34]: you already did that.
Jungkook, [16:35]: this time i’ll bring two
Jimin rolls his eyes in the dark of his room and leaves it on read.
It turns into a kind of game. Jungkook keeps asking multiple times a day—sometimes directly, sometimes absurdly. Jimin brushes him off each time, but his responses soften. They come slower. Shorter. Less cutting.
Then, one morning, it’s grey outside. His parents are out buying groceries with his younger brother. The house is quiet, and Jimin’s on the floor of his bedroom, legs curled under him, hands wrapped around a cup of too-sweet instant coffee.
His phone buzzes.
Jungkook, [09:18]: what if it’s not a date
Jungkook, [09:18]: just you
Jungkook, [09:18]: me
Jungkook, [09:18]: and a mutual agreement to lie about what it is
Jimin stares at the message for a full minute. Maybe longer.
Then he types.
Jimin, [09:22]: fine
Jimin, [09:22]: but only if you shut up about it for the rest of the day
The reply comes instantly, as if Jungkook’s been waiting for the moment his whole life.
Jungkook, [09:22]:
Jungkook, [09:22]:i’m
Jungkook, [09:22]:not
Jungkook, [09:22]:talking
Jungkook, [09:22]:i’m already silent
Jungkook, [09:22]:so quiet
Jungkook, [09:22]:this isn’t even me texting
Jungkook, [09:23]:this is a mouse
Jungkook, [09:23]:the mouse is very respectful
Jungkook, [09:23]:and so chill
Jimin sighs, tucks his phone under his pillow, and drinks his coffee like it didn’t make his chest go warm.
Later, when his mother eyes him over the dinner table and asks why he’s smiling at his phone, he just shrugs and says nothing.
She hums and doesn’t comment.
Just smiles the way mothers do.
♡
It’s not a date.
That’s the rule.
Jimin even clarifies it over text the night before. And again the morning of, this time with more emphasis. Jungkook responds with a thumbs-up and three hearts. Jimin doesn’t reply.
The sky is clear when they meet at the outdoor rink, a brisk chill riding the breeze. The place is crowded with families, couples, too-loud teenagers in matching scarves. It smells like roasted chestnuts and sugar syrup. Festive. Annoyingly so.
Jimin’s already regretting this.
He’s standing stiffly by the skate rental booth, gloved hands buried in his coat pockets, when Jungkook appears—black parka, silver earrings, beanie pulled low over his ears, a paper takeaway clutched in his right had. His face lights up the second he spots Jimin, mouth pulling into that goddamn grin.
“You came,” Jungkook says, bounding over like an excited puppy. “You look warm. And grumpy.”
“I am both,” Jimin mutters.
Jungkook hands over a cup of hot chocolate, just… offers it with no explanation, like this is something he just does. Jimin takes it because his hands are cold, and because it smells too good to resist.
“I thought this wasn’t a date,” he says flatly, sipping.
“It’s not,” Jungkook replies, chipper. “It’s an exercise in public humiliation. You’re about to see me ice skate.”
“You invited me,” Jimin deadpans. “I don’t even like skating.”
“Exactly,” Jungkook beams. “You’ll hate it so much you’ll just have to be amazing at it.. This is a flawless plan.”
Jimin just stares.
Jungkook coughs. “Anyway. Let’s get skates.”
They shuffle into the rental area and lace up on a bench together. Jungkook’s done in under two minutes, bouncing slightly in place. Jimin takes longer. He glares at the skates like they owe him money.
“I haven’t done this in years,” he says.
“You’ll be great.”
“I won’t.”
“I’ll catch you if you fall.”
Jimin glares. “You’re going to be the first one on your ass.”
Jungkook looks delighted. “I’ll do it if it makes you feel better.”
They make it onto the rink. Jungkook takes off immediately, wobbling for half a second before finding his rhythm. He circles back and skids to a half-stop in front of Jimin, grinning.
Jimin hasn’t moved.
“You okay?”
“No.”
“Need help?”
“I will push you into the wall.”
Jungkook just offers his hand.
Jimin doesn’t take it. But he does start moving, awkwardly, slowly, arms out for balance.
Jungkook skates backwards beside him, hands tucked behind his back, trying and failing to look casual.
“See? You’re doing great.”
“I’m not.”
“You haven’t died.”
“Yet.”
They circle the rink once. Jimin doesn’t fall, but he looks constantly prepared to. Jungkook chatters the whole time—gentle teasing, bits of trivia, small stories from childhood—and every now and then, Jimin catches himself watching the way his face moves when he laughs.
After their second lap, Jimin stops by the railing, breath puffing in the cold. He’s flushed, chest rising and falling beneath his coat.
Jungkook stops with him.
“This isn’t terrible,” Jimin admits.
Jungkook places a hand dramatically over his heart. “You wound me with your praise.”
“I didn’t say it was fun.”
“No, no, I heard it. ‘not terrible.’ That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
Jimin rolls his eyes, but it’s lighter now.
They skate a little longer. Jimin even manages a turn, just once, and Jungkook whoops so loudly a small child nearby jumps.
And when they finally leave, cheeks pink, hands aching from the cold, Jungkook walks him to the nearest bus stop, chattering the whole way like he’s afraid silence might break the spell.
Jimin doesn’t say much.
But when they stop outside bus stop, he looks up—just briefly—and says, “You’re not as bad as I thought you’d be.”
Jungkook looks stunned for a second.
Then: “That’s it. I’m printing that out and framing it.”
Jimin exhales a small laugh.
And right before he turns to go, Jungkook calls after him—
“Hey. What about a second not-date?”
Jimin doesn’t look back.
But his voice floats over his shoulder, clipped and unreadable.
“We’ll see.”
And Jungkook?
Jungkook beams like the sun.
♡
It’s past midnight when Jimin gives in and hits FaceTime.
Taehyung answers immediately, camera angled up his nose, hair pushed back by a headband, a tub of kimchi balanced on his knee. Not surprising, his mother did make spectacular kimchi.
“Well, well,” he says through a mouthful. “If it isn’t the ghost of my cold-hearted best friend.”
Jimin scowls at his screen. “Don’t start.”
“Oh, I will start. I’ve been waiting for this call like it’s season thirteen of a drama no one asked for but I’m too invested to stop watching.”
Jimin sighs and flops backward onto his bed, the phone propped against a pillow. His childhood bedroom is clean and quiet, fairy lights still hung from years ago twinkling faintly along the walls. It should feel comforting. Instead it feels too still. His thoughts are loud.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he says flatly.
“With what?” Taehyung asks, as if he doesn’t already know.
Jimin doesn’t answer.
Taehyung leans closer, squinting. “Is this about your little winter wonderland not-date?”
Jimin closes his eyes. “It wasn’t a date.”
“But it was,” Taehyung says cheerfully. “There were skates. Hand proximity. Mutual eye contact. Holiday vibes. Very Netflix special. I’m proud of you.”
Jimin groans into the pillow.
“Okay, okay,” Taehyung laughs. “Tell me what happened.”
“Nothing. We skated. He didn’t fall. I didn’t stab anyone.”
“Progress.”
Jimin looks at the ceiling. “I liked it.”
“What?” Taehyung gasps, lowering his chopsticks.
“I liked it,” Jimin mutters.
“Oh my god.” Taehyung slaps a hand over his chest. “Somebody call the press. Park Jimin experienced a genuine positive emotion in the company of another human being.”
“I’m hanging up.”
“Don’t you dare.”
Jimin glares. “You’re the worst.”
Taehyung bites into a piece of radish, chewing thoughtfully. “So what’s the problem?”
Jimin hesitates. “He keeps texting me.”
“Right. Because he likes you.”
“Yeah, well. He doesn’t know me.”
Taehyung levels him with a look. “He’s been orbiting you for like a month. I think he has a decent idea.”
Jimin shifts under the blanket. “You know what I mean.”
Taehyung quiets. The teasing slips just a little.
“You’re worried he’ll change his mind.”
Jimin doesn’t answer.
Taehyung sighs. “Jimin, I love you, but you’re not hard to like.”
Jimin snorts. “That’s a lie.”
“No,” Taehyung says firmly. “You’re difficult. You’re blunt. You’re picky and moody and allergic to joy. But you’re also loyal as hell. You remember tiny things about people. You make the best food when someone’s having a hard week. You’re smart. And pretty. Annoyingly pretty.”
Jimin’s throat feels tight. “Don’t.”
“I’m serious.” Taehyung sets the kimchi aside. “I know it’s easier to keep your walls up. I know it feels safer not to expect anything. But Jungkook isn’t just some guy trying to sleep with you.”
Jimin’s ears go a little pink. “I know that.”
“He’s sweet,” Taehyung says. “And grossly sincere. And you’re lucky. Because he sees you. Even when you’re trying not to be seen.”
Jimin doesn’t speak for a long time.
Then, quietly, “I don’t know how to show someone I like them.”
Taehyung softens, smile gentle now. “You don’t have to show him anything. Just let him stay.”
“I’m not good at this.”
“I know,” he says. “But you’re trying. And that counts.”
Jimin sighs again. Scrubs a hand through his hair.
Taehyung grins. “And if he breaks your heart, I’ll kill him.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“I’ll make it look like an accident.”
“I believe you.”
They sit in companionable silence for a while, Jimin tracing the seam of his blanket, Taehyung humming something tuneless under his breath.
Then—
“You really think he likes me?” Jimin asks, almost too quiet to catch.
Taehyung grins again, warm and smug. “Jimin. That boy would drink your bathwater.”
Jimin groans.
And finally—finally—laughs.
♡
It’s late morning and the house smells like roasted barley tea, sandalwood incense, and Jungkook’s mother’s ongoing love affair with citrus essential oils.
The winter sun filters softly through the large windows, casting sleepy golden stripes across the wooden floors. There’s half-finished art leaning against every surface—canvases with swirling abstract patterns, sun-bleached palettes, jars almost bursting from the sheer amount of different sized rushes shoved into them. Someone’s forgotten a sketch of a naked man’s back on the dining table.
Jungkook is seated at the low breakfast table in a hoodie and sweatpants, hair still damp from a rushed shower, half a slice of toast in one hand, tea cup in the other, and that look on his face.
His mother narrows her eyes at him over her bowl of granola.
“You’re smiling,” she says, suspicious.
“I’m always smiling,” he says around a mouthful.
“No. This is your boy smile.”
His father lowers his tea cup. “It’s the same smile he had in third grade when he liked that kid from the drama club.”
“Jinyoung,” Jungkook says automatically.
His mother snaps her fingers. “The one with the eyelashes.”
His father nods solemnly. “You have a type.”
Jungkook groans, hiding his face behind his cup. “I hate living here.”
“You love living here,” his mom says sweetly. “Now tell us about him.”
“There’s nothing to tell,” Jungkook lies, which is impossible, because he cannot lie to these people. They invented him.
“Ah,” says his dad. “So it’s serious.”
“No, it’s not—he barely even tolerates me.”
“You say that like it’s not a dream come true for you,” his mother mutters, pouring more tea.
Jungkook hesitates, then sighs. “His name is Jimin. He’s a second-year. Stats major. Terrifying. Beautiful. Emotionally repressed.”
“Definitely your type,” his father mumbles with a smirk.
“Literally the most emotionally constipated person I’ve ever met,” Jungkook nods dreamily. “But he let me take him ice skating yesterday.”
His mom raises her brows. “A date?”
“Not a date. He was very clear about that. It was a parallel social activity in a shared recreational space.”
“Sounds romantic.”
“I brought him hot chocolate.”
His father claps his hands once, like the plot of the drama just thickened. “Did you fall?”
“No,” Jungkook says proudly. “But I offered to fall. You know, to make him feel more comfortable.”
His mother hums. “And how did he take it?”
“He told me to fall on purpose if I was going to be that annoying.”
There’s a pause.
His mom grins. “He likes you.”
Jungkook nods, mouth full of toast again. “I think so. I don’t know. Maybe. He gave me his number. We text like, all day. He’s kind of—” He pauses. Swallows. “—he’s kind of funny, actually. And sharp. And when he softens a little, it’s like—”
He stops again. Rubs the back of his neck.
His mom’s smile softens.
“Like watching spring come early?” she offers.
Jungkook huffs a laugh. “Yeah. Something like that.”
“Looks like our Jungkookie is smitten,” his dad says while reaching for a piece of buttered toast.
“I know,” Jungkook mutters. “It’s gross.”
They eat in comfortable silence for a bit. His mom refills his cup. His dad tears the label off a new jar of homemade ink.
Then, casually— “Don’t push him,” his mother says.
Jungkook looks up.
“People like that,” she continues, “who’ve built whole identities out of being hard to love… it’s not that they don’t feel things. It’s that they don’t know what to do with it when it’s real.”
“I know,” Jungkook says. Quiet now. “I’m trying to be careful.”
His dad points a brush at him. “Be patient. But don’t let him string you along forever. You’re worth being chosen too, you know?”
Jungkook nods.
And then grins, picking up his phone. “He hasn’t texted me back since last night.”
“So you’re going to stare at your phone until he does?”
“No,” Jungkook says. Already opening the chat. “I’m going to send him funny memes.”
“Bold strategy,” his dad says, grinning at his wife who rolls her eyes at him.
Jungkook hits send.
Then rests his chin on his palm and waits.
♡
It’s nearing midnight, and Jungkook’s lying in bed staring at the faint, flickering glow-in-the-dark stars still stuck to his childhood ceiling.
The house is quiet. His mom went to sleep hours ago, curling up in her hammock chair with a book she never finished. His dad disappeared into the attic to meditate or paint or re-organize their vinyl collection by mood again.
Jungkook, meanwhile, is rereading Jimin’s last text.
Jimin, [18:44]: thanks for the meme. I showed my brother. He loved it.
Jimin, [18:44]: i laughed too.
Jimin, [18:44]: don’t let that go to your head.
That was four hours ago.
No follow-up. No opener for another conversation. Just enough to make Jungkook smile—and enough to make him wonder if this is how it’s going to be now: slow trickles of barely-there affection, careful crumbs. He doesn’t mind, not really. He knew what he was walking into from day one. Knew that Jimin was careful with his feelings like they were currency.
Still. Sometimes it’s hard to tell how close is too close, and how far is too far.
He thinks about calling. Then doesn’t.
Then does anyway.
The phone rings four times before Jimin picks up with a quiet, “You okay?”
Jungkook sits up, startled. “Yeah. Shit. Sorry. Did I wake you?”
“No. I was reading.”
“Anything good?”
“Not really.”
There’s a beat.
“I can hang up,” Jungkook offers.
“You called,” Jimin says. “Might as well say something.”
Jungkook laughs softly. “Right. Okay. I was just thinking.”
“That’s dangerous.”
“Shut up.”
He smiles. Then shifts the phone to his other ear. “I was wondering… if this—being apart—makes things easier for you. Like, not having to see me all the time. Or feel like you’re expected to do something.”
Jimin doesn’t answer right away.
The silence isn’t uncomfortable, just… full. Like he’s chewing on the words.
Eventually: “A little,” he admits. “It’s easier not to overthink when you’re not staring at me.”
“Fair,” Jungkook says, voice lighter than he feels. “My eyes are intense.”
“They’re hopeful. It’s worse.”
That makes Jungkook laugh, for real this time.
He drops onto his back again, staring at the ceiling. “I’m not trying to pressure you into anything, you know.”
“I know.”
“I just like talking to you.”
“I know that too.”
Another pause.
“I’ve been thinking too,” Jimin says quietly.
“Oh?”
“Yeah. I don’t want this to feel like I’m just stringing you along.”
“You’re not,” Jungkook says quickly. “You’re just—”
“I am,” Jimin cuts in. “Kind of. But I don’t want to keep doing that.”
Jungkook’s breath catches, but he doesn’t say anything. Just listens.
“I was gonna wait,” Jimin adds, voice a little hesitant now. “Till we got back to Seoul. But… I don’t know. There’s a Christmas market downtown. The fancy one with all the lights and the mulled wine. My mom keeps asking if I want to go with her and I keep saying no, but—”
He trails off.
Jungkook blinks.
Then sits up, stunned. “Are you asking me to go with you?”
“It’s not a date,” Jimin says quickly. “It’s just—You. Me. And the mutual agreement to not talk about it.”
Jungkook grins so hard it hurts. “You’re such a romantic.”
“I will hang up on you.”
“I’d cry.”
“Good.”
“Pick me up at seven?”
“I’m not picking you up. Meet me there.”
“Jimin.”
“What.”
“I’m really glad you called it not-a-date. It makes my heart do this weird thing where it skips and explodes at the same time.”
“Hang up.”
“Okay.”
Jungkook doesn’t hang up.
He listens to Jimin breathe for a few seconds longer.
Then whispers a quiet “Goodnight, Jimin.”
A soft, resigned sigh.
“…’Night, Jungkook.”
♡
Jimin doesn’t get dressed until an hour before he’s supposed to leave.
Not because he’s lazy—he’s been thinking about it all afternoon—but because if he gets ready too early, it feels like he’s anticipating something. And if he anticipates something, it becomes real. And if it becomes real, he has to admit he might be—god forbid—excited.
He is. Of course. But no one needs to know that.
Especially not Taehyung, who has already sent seven texts and one voice note that was just breathy laughter followed by: you’re gonna fold like a napkin, bestie.
Jimin stands in front of his closet for too long. He wants to look nice. But not too nice. Effortless nice. The kind of nice that says I’m not trying, but also, you’re lucky to see me outside of sweatpants.
He ends up in a long camel coat over a soft grey turtleneck, slim black jeans, and boots that look like they mean business. His scarf is navy, knotted once. His hair is pushed back. He looks—presentable.
He looks good.
Too good?
He frowns at his reflection, then grabs a different scarf and stands there for five minutes weighing the emotional tone of navy versus charcoal.
Eventually, his mother pokes her head into his room, curious, “If you stare at yourself any harder, you’ll turn into a mirror.”
Jimin jumps. “I’m not doing anything!”
His father, somewhere in the hallway behind her, adds, “Do you need a ride?”
“I’m taking the bus.”
“It’s not snowing, is it?”
“Appa—I’m fine.”
“So… are you meeting someone?” His mother asks innocently. Jimin doesn’t buy the innocence, this woman birthed him, after all.
He doesn’t answer, just adjusts his scarf.
“You’re glowing,” she says. “Is it the pretty boy you’ve been texting all week? I saw you looking at his pictures.”
“I’m not glowing,” he mutters.
“Your ears are red.”
“They’re cold.”
“You haven’t worn cologne in months.”
“I—” He stops. Sniffs his wrist. Shit. Busted.
There’s rustling from the doorway and his mom steps fully into the room. “I like when you get like this.”
Jimin lifts a brow. “Like what?”
“Lively.”
He blinks.
“Go have fun,” she says, and pats his cheek gently. “Don’t think so much.”
He doesn’t reply. Just nods once, throat tight.
---
Outside, the evening air is cold and crisp, all glittering windows and low chatter. The city feels different in winter—lighter somehow, despite the weight of coats and holiday noise. Jimin keeps his hands in his pockets and his gaze low as he walks, boots clicking against the pavement, pulse just a little faster than usual.
He’s early. Three minutes early.
Which, in Jimin Time, is practically thirsty.
He tells himself he’s just punctual. That it has nothing to do with the fact that this is their first real meet-up he initiated. Or that Jungkook texted I’ll see you soon with a heart emoji and Jimin didn’t delete it on sight.
He’s not nervous.
No he’s not.
He’s just been thinking about mulled wine and overpriced churros all day.
Not about some hot boy with a cute smile.
That’s it.
Totally fine.
♡
Jungkook gets there ten minutes early.
Which he tells himself is practical—it’s good to scout the space, pick a corner to meet, mentally prepare himself for the always-there potential of Jimin walking away the second he sees him.
The Christmas market is packed. Strings of warm yellow bulbs crisscross overhead, casting everything in a glow that makes the snow-dusted pavement shimmer. Couples walk past holding paper cups and tanghulu skewers. There’s music playing somewhere—jazz, by the sound of it, with too many sleigh bells—and someone’s trying to convince strangers to buy hand-knitted scarves in ugly Christmas colours.
Jungkook, dressed in a thick wool coat, layered scarf, and boots polished within an inch of their life, is pacing.
He’s gone through three different scenarios in his head—one where Jimin ignores him completely, one where he shows up just to cancel in person, and one where he somehow looks better than anyone has ever looked in winter daylight and Jungkook forgets how to breathe.
It’s the third one, obviously.
He sees him from across the street—slight frame, clean lines, coat swaying with every step, face mostly hidden behind a charcoal scarf. His hair’s styled back off his forehead, skin dewy under the golden light, and he’s wearing an expression somewhere between focused and mildly annoyed.
He’s beautiful. Devastating.
Jungkook actually says “Oh, fuck” out loud.
Jimin spots him, slows his step just slightly.
Then stops in front of him. “You’re overdressed.”
Jungkook opens his mouth. Closes it. “So are you.”
Jimin blinks. “You look like a Hallmark love interest.”
“Yeah? You look like you hate joy.”
A beat.
Then Jimin—barely—smiles. “Perfect.”
And just like that, the tension breaks.
They walk side by side into the crowd, a comfortable distance between them. Jungkook makes a joke about how his mom would go nuts over the handmade candle booth and Jimin hums like he’s judging the scent from ten feet away. They stop for hot drinks—Jimin gets mulled wine, Jungkook gets something involving cinnamon and a syrupy liquor he immediately regrets.
“You’re such a child,” Jimin mutters after one sip.
“It tastes like Christmas threw up in my mouth.”
“And yet you’re still drinking it.”
“I’m committed.”
They wander past stalls with sugar-dusted pastries, wood-carved trinkets, delicate ornaments. Jimin lingers at a stall selling delicate pressed flower bookmarks, fingertips hovering over the glass. Jungkook watches his eyes—how sharp they are when he’s focused, how they soften when he forgets to keep his guard up.
They don’t talk much. Just drift in sync, quiet and comfortable.
At one point, Jungkook says, “You know, I wasn’t expecting you to ask me out.”
“It’s not a date,” Jimin says reflexively.
Jungkook nods. “Of course.”
A pause.
“But if it were,” Jimin says slowly, “you’d be doing okay so far.”
Jungkook nearly chokes on his drink.
“Okay,” he coughs. “That’s… good. That’s really good.”
“Don’t get cocky.”
“Too late.”
Jimin’s smirk is there, but it’s just a little softer.
And for a while, they just walk.
Jimin’s hand brushes his at one point—just barely, just once—and Jungkook doesn’t dare reach back.
But Jimin doesn’t move away.
Doesn’t say anything either.
Just finishes his wine and watches the lights overhead, scarf hiding most of his face, ears pink from cold or something else.
And Jungkook thinks—this is a good start to something.
Something a lot more.
♡
The market winds down with frost in the air and the smell of burnt sugar clinging to their coats.
They don’t say anything when they leave the lights behind, just walk quietly down a quieter side street, Jimin’s breath fogging in front of him as he slows beside a narrow restaurant front—wooden sign, steamed-up windows, handwritten note in the window that reads no loud couples or drunk uncles.
Jimin peers inside. “They do sundubu jjigae.”
Jungkook leans close to the glass. “I could use a palette cleanser.”
Jimin glances sideways at him. “You’re the one who ordered the cinnamon sewer water. You brought this on yourself.”
“So is that a yes?”
Jimin’s already pulling the door open.
The place is cramped and steamy, narrow tables pressed close, warmth clinging to every surface. They find a table near the back, half-lit by a red neon beer sign buzzing softly in the corner. The jjigae arrives quickly—bubbling, pungent, rich with spice—and they’re both quiet for the first few bites, heads down, noses pink from the cold.
Jungkook breaks first. “I’ve never seen someone look hot while blowing on tofu. And yet here we are.”
Jimin lifts a brow, unimpressed. “You’re flirting with me over soup.”
“Is it working?”
“No.”
Jungkook leans forward, grinning. “You know you like me.”
Jimin doesn’t respond immediately. He chews, swallows, wipes the corner of his mouth with the edge of a napkin. “You’re very persistent.”
“That’s not a no.”
“It’s not a yes either.”
Jungkook grins wider. “You are enjoying this.”
Jimin meets his gaze across the table—brief, razor-sharp. “Maybe I just like watching you embarrass yourself.”
“Okay,” Jungkook says, slowly, “you must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and—”
Jimin’s hand slams down on the table. “Absolutely not. You are not going to Mr. Darcy me.”
Jungkook wheezes. “Let me finish!”
“You’re lucky I haven’t stabbed you with my spoon.”
“I did get you to smile, though,” Jungkook says. His voice drops, softer now. “I like it.”
Jimin looks down at his bowl.
Jungkook watches him in the low light, steam rising between them. Then, quietly adds, “You don’t have to say anything. I just like seeing it.”
Jimin stares at the broth like it personally offended him. “You’re the kind of person who falls in love with someone because they pass you a napkin.”
“Only if they pass it with flair.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“You’re beautiful.”
The spoon in Jimin’s hand falters just slightly. Jungkook sees it—sees the flicker of something like panic, maybe vulnerability, maybe something he can’t name yet.
And then—
Then Jimin looks up, deadpan, “So are you into degradation kinks or are you just like this with everyone?”
Jungkook stops.
Stares.
“I—what?”
Jimin shrugs, takes another bite. “You get weirdly excited when I insult you. Or when I talk at all. It’s a little suspicious.”
Jungkook gapes. “Are you flirting with me?”
“I’m asking questions.”
“You’re terrifying.”
“And yet you keep showing up.”
Jungkook leans in, voice lower now, teasing. “You keep calling me ridiculous, but you haven’t run away once.”
“I’m still deciding if it’s worth the effort.”
“But you’re deciding.”
Jimin doesn’t reply, but there’s a flush rising up his neck now, half-hidden by his scarf where he hasn’t taken it off, and his eyes—sharp as ever—linger too long on Jungkook’s mouth before flicking away again.
Jungkook counts it as another win.
The conversation slips after that—tilts into something looser, warmer, edged with heat. Jungkook makes a crack about taking Jimin skating again just to see if he’ll fall into his arms. Jimin mutters that Jungkook would trip him on purpose. Jungkook says guilty. Jimin says knew it. Jungkook says I’d carry you home.
And Jimin, quiet but sure, replies, “I know.”
Jungkook nearly drops his spoon.
They don’t talk about what that means.
Not yet.
But when they leave the restaurant, the air biting, their hands find each other almost naturally, neither of them moves away.
And when Jungkook jokes, “So… is this still not a date?”
Jimin doesn’t say anything.
He just glances over.
And smirks.
♡
Jungkook’s not sure what does it—the way Jimin talks with his hands when he’s annoyed, the flick of his wrist as he gestures at some invisible injustice, the flush in his cheeks from the jjigae or the cold, or maybe the falling snow catching in his hair like the universe decided to romanticize him on purpose.
It’s probably all of it.
They’re walking side by side, close enough that their arms brush sometimes, and their hands are still joined—still—like it’s nothing. Like it’s normal. Like Jimin didn’t think twice before curling his fingers around Jungkook’s and just keeping them there.
He hasn’t mentioned it. Hasn’t looked down once. But he’s still holding on. Fingers warm. Grip light but sure.
And Jungkook?
Jungkook is losing his mind.
It’s been weeks of this. Weeks of chasing, hoping, pressing his hand against Jimin’s wall just to see if it would give. Of laughing too loud and texting too often and waiting for the moment Jimin would pull back too hard to follow.
But he hasn’t.
Not tonight either.
Tonight Jimin’s talking a mile a minute about something—probably about how mulled wine is a scam or how capitalism has ruined the holiday feeling—and all Jungkook can think about is how his mouth moves. How expressive he is without meaning to be. How he walks like he’s always a little annoyed at the world but makes space for Jungkook anyway.
It’s fucking unreal.
Jungkook’s chest feels too full. He keeps sneaking glances at Jimin’s profile—his sharp jaw, the way his breath fogs in front of him, how his lashes flutter snowflakes away like they’re nothing. And that smirk—the one that slips out when he’s saying something rude and thinks he’s gotten away with it.
And the thing is—Jimin’s not even being soft right now.
He’s annoyed. Cold. Probably tired from being around cheerful people in close proximity all day.
But Jungkook’s heart is still doing that awful, fluttery thing in his chest like it wants to climb out and live somewhere in the folds of Jimin’s scarf.
He swings their hands once—tentative, testing.
Jimin doesn’t flinch.
He just keeps walking, still ranting, but his fingers squeeze back.
He’s holding my hand, Jungkook thinks. He’s letting me hold it. In public. With people around. And snow. And lights. And I’m going to actually combust.
The ache becomes unbearable.
So when the bus stop comes into view, glowing with cold light in the distance, Jungkook panics a little. He doesn’t want the night to end yet. Doesn’t want Jimin to let go. Doesn’t want to watch him step onto a bus and vanish back into that locked-up place in his head.
And before he can think—before the fear wins—he moves.
Their hands tighten and he tugs. Quick, sharp, just enough to steer Jimin off the sidewalk and into the narrow space between two buildings, lit only by the distant street lamp and the faint shimmer of snow.
He doesn’t speak.
He just pushes Jimin back gently against the wall and kisses him.
It’s instinct more than anything. Weeks of wanting packed into a breath. His hands settle on Jimin’s coat, one pressed flat to his chest, the other curling in the fabric near his shoulder. He leans in, not rough, not rushed, just sure—like this is the moment he’s been waiting for since the first time he saw Jimin threaten someone in the library.
Jimin doesn’t move.
He freezes. Still as stone. Mouth unmoving.
And Jungkook’s stomach plummets.
He pulls back fast, heart stuttering painfully, throat already thick with embarrassment. His breath ghosts in the cold space between them.
“I—I’m sorry,” he says, voice too quiet. “Shit. I didn’t mean to—your bus—your bus is here.”
He steps back, stumbling a little, already turning to leave, to disappear, to pretend he didn’t just blow up whatever fragile thing they’ve been building with one reckless move.
But then—
“I’ll get the next one.”
Jungkook stops. Blinks. Turns back slowly.
Jimin is still there, eyes dark, mouth parted slightly, chest rising and falling under his coat. His scarf is crooked now, snow caught in the curve of his collar, and he’s looking at Jungkook like he’s trying to decide his next move.
And then he moves.
Fast, decisive. Grabs the front of Jungkook’s coat, fists the fabric to tug him down, and kisses him.
Hard.
The world falls away.
Jimin kisses like he’s angry about it—like he’s annoyed it feels good, annoyed he wants more, annoyed he waited this long. It’s deeper than the first, rougher, and Jungkook makes a noise in the back of his throat, shock melting into something molten as he presses back, hands sliding up to cup Jimin’s jaw.
And suddenly, it’s not just a kiss. It’s permission.
It’s Jimin choosing him.
It’s a yes.
They pull apart just barely, breath mingling between them, noses almost brushing.
Jungkook searches his face, eyes wide, barely daring to breathe.
Jimin swallows. “Don’t ever do that again without warning.”
“I—I didn’t think.”
“You don’t do that to me without warning.”
Jungkook laughs, breathless. “I thought I ruined everything.”
Jimin rolls his eyes. “You’re dumb.”
“But you kissed me back.”
“I got caught up in the moment.”
“You’re still holding me.”
“Don’t push your luck.”
Jungkook grins. And then—just because he can—leans in again and brushes their noses together.
Jimin lets him.
And neither of them say a word when their hands find each other again on the walk back to the stop.
♡
Taehyung spots them from across the floor.
He doesn’t approach right away—just watches, phone in one hand, iced tea in the other, coat sliding halfway off his shoulder as he lingers beside the bookshelves near the back.
Jimin’s at his usual window spot. Back straight. Face set in that blank, murderous calm he wears when he’s knee-deep in equations. His laptop is open, notebook spread open beside it in neat columns of furious handwriting. Everything about him reads don’t talk to me unless you have death insurance.
And yet—he’s not alone. He’s here too.
Jeon Jungkook.
Same hair, same boots, same everything. Except now he’s closer. His chair is angled slightly toward Jimin’s, knee pressed near his. One arm casually slung behind the back of Jimin’s chair like it belongs there, like it’s muscle memory by now.
Taehyung tilts his head.
Jungkook’s sketching. Not talking. Not fidgeting. Just… present. Calm. Entirely at ease beside the human embodiment of a caffeine-fuelled murder threat.
Jimin reaches for something and Jungkook shifts, just slightly, handing over the pen cap Jimin dropped without being asked. Jimin takes it, no eye contact, no words—just a nod, subtle and automatic. And then goes right back to typing.
Taehyung’s mouth stretches into a slow grin.
Oh, this is new.
He waits a minute longer—just enough to watch Jungkook lean over and murmur something too low to catch. Jimin doesn’t reply, but he lifts one eyebrow. Jungkook grins. Jimin’s lip twitches. Not quite a smile. But not not one either.
That’s his cue.
He saunters over and drops into the seat across from them with a flourish.
“Mimi,” he sing-songs, peeling off his coat. “You look... unbothered. Alarmingly so.”
Jimin doesn’t even blink. “That’s because you’re not talking yet.”
“Touché,” Taehyung says, and then turns to Jungkook. “Jeon.”
“Taehyung,” Jungkook says, chipper as ever.
“Still here.”
“Sure am.”
“You must really love sketching this particular corner of the library.”
Jungkook’s lips twitch. “Incredible lighting.”
“Mmm.” Taehyung hums, eyes cutting to the way their chairs are nearly touching. “Lots of, uh, inspiration.”
Jimin types something a little too hard.
Taehyung turns to him with a sweet smile. “So. You let him stay now?”
“He’s quiet.”
“Right. That’s new.”
Jimin keeps typing. “He feeds me.”
Taehyung’s brows lift. “Oh?”
“He brings snacks.”
“So does my grandmother.”
“Yours doesn’t have a lip ring.”
Jungkook tries—and fails—not to smirk.
Taehyung leans forward, resting his chin on his palm. “He’s really close, you know.”
“He always sits like that.”
“He’s using your chair as an armrest.”
“It’s not my chair.”
Taehyung grins. “It’s not not your chair.”
Jimin finally looks up. Eyes sharp, voice deadpan. “Do you want something or are you just here to provide commentary?”
“I’m just observing,” Taehyung says, all innocence. “Like how your elbow’s brushing his. And you haven’t moved it.”
“It’s called space efficiency.”
“Sure. Sure. Efficiency. That’s what we’re calling it now.”
Jimin exhales slowly. Jungkook is smiling into his sketchbook, visibly trying not to laugh.
“And you,” Taehyung says, pointing at him. “You’re looking very smug today.”
“I’m just drawing,” Jungkook says, turning his page like he’s not having the time of his life.
“Uh-huh. Just sketching. Just sitting next to my best friend like you didn’t spend all of last semester following him around like an overgrown stalker-puppy.”
Jungkook laughs.
Jimin glares. “You’re annoying.”
“And you’re different,” Taehyung says, eyes narrowing with the satisfaction of a puzzle falling into place. “Your posture’s looser. Your resting bitch face is, like, three notches softer. You haven’t hissed at me once since I sat down.”
“I will start.”
“You’re glowing.”
“Get out.” Jimin hisses through his teeth.
“You’re letting him touch you,” Taehyung hisses back.
Jimin glances sideways at Jungkook—just a flick of his eyes, subtle as a breath—but doesn’t move. Doesn’t argue.
Taehyung leans back, arms crossed. “And he hasn’t asked you out yet?”
Jungkook perks up. “Should I?”
“Not if you want to keep your kneecaps,” Jimin mutters.
“Oh no, he’s in love,” Taehyung says delightedly, already texting Hoseok wait til I tell you what I just witnessed.
And across the table, Jungkook just smiles into his sketchbook.
♡
Jimin doesn’t remember exactly when Jungkook became a fixture in his daily life. He just is. Always there, drifting in like gravity, shoulders brushing his when they sit too close, voice soft when the world gets too loud. It’s not intentional. Not planned. But it’s consistent, and that’s what matters.
Consistency builds trust, and Jimin is not very trusting.
He notices how Jungkook doesn’t ask for attention—he just gives it, without conditions. Like on that night when the rain had soaked through Jungkook’s hoodie and left streaks in his sketchbook pages, and he stumbled into the library with wet hair and frozen hands, only to find a coffee waiting at their table. Jimin doesn’t look up when he nudges it over, doesn’t say anything about the scarf he peels off his neck and pushes into Jungkook’s lap either. But Jungkook wraps it around his fingers, quiet and reverent.
Later, Jimin wakes up from an impromptu nap with a crick in his neck and a sore jaw from grinding his teeth through equations, only to find a crumpled protein bar beside his hand and Jungkook’s dried hoodie tossed across his shoulders. There’s a tiny smear of charcoal on the wrapper—evidence that Jungkook had been drawing, even then.
He doesn’t ask what it was.
But he figures it out a few days later, when he catches Jungkook watching him across the table, eyes fixed not on his face but the way he’s holding his coffee cup. “You’re staring,” Jimin says, not even looking up.
Jungkook hums, unbothered, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “You draw me again?” Jimin asks, dry. Jungkook only grins. That’s answer enough.
He doesn’t press further, but when he finds a sticky note wedged into his folder the next day—your hair’s impossible to shade properly. Stay still next time. –jk—he doesn’t throw it away.
Sometimes they fall asleep near each other. On the floor of Jungkook’s dorm, legs tangled under open textbooks and half-eaten takeout containers. Other times it’s outside, stretched on the campus lawn when the sun’s warm enough to make spring feel real again. Jimin closes his eyes and tries to remember what it was like to enjoy silence alone. It used to be his favourite thing. But now, he finds it softer when Jungkook’s beside him—especially when he wakes with his head tipped onto Jungkook’s shoulder and realizes the other hasn’t moved in the past twenty minutes.
“You could’ve shoved me off,” Jimin mutters, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
“Nah,” Jungkook murmurs, watching him fondly. “I liked it.”
Jimin scoffs, throws a bent blade of grass at his face. But his ears are red, and Jungkook doesn’t miss it.
None of it is talked about. Not the way their fingers brush when they walk side by side. Not the nights Jimin sends photos of his dinner—usually something burnt and tragic. Not the way Jungkook starts bringing two coffees instead of one. Not the way Jimin never corrects people when they assume Jungkook’s his boyfriend. He doesn’t confirm it either. Just shrugs, like the answer’s too complicated for strangers to understand.
And then there’s the time Jungkook finishes a sketch and hands it to him without ceremony.
It’s not polished. Not like his class submissions. Just a pencil rendering on thin paper—quick lines and smudged shadows, but undeniably Jimin. Captured in a rare moment of stillness, jaw slack with sleep, hair a mess over his forehead. Jungkook doesn’t say anything. Just slides it over the table, eyes down.
Jimin stares at it. Then folds it in half and tucks it into his notebook.
“Fix the mouth next time,” he says without looking up. “It’s too soft.”
Jungkook smiles and doesn’t argue.
♡
They’re just outside the arts building when it happens. Jimin leans against a pillar near the stairs, hands stuffed in his pockets, waiting for Jungkook to finish talking with his professor about some exhibition piece.
He doesn’t mind waiting. Usually.
But today the breeze is sharp, cutting, and the spot he picked is in direct earshot of two girls from Jungkook’s course. He’s seen them around, but doesn’t know their names—Jiwon and Bora, maybe. They’re standing by the steps, not trying to whisper.
“Oh my god,” one of them says, “have you seen Jungkook’s new insta post? The selfie?”
“Are you talking about the one he posted last night?” the other sighs. “His hands. His jaw. I swear to god, I stared for an hour.”
Jimin rolls his eyes. He’s heard this kind of thing before. Jungkook gets attention. He’s hot. He’s talented. It’s not news.
But then—
“Ugh, I still don’t get what he sees in Park,” one of them says, laughter in her voice. “He’s so cold. I tried talking to him once and he looked at me like I insulted his mother.”
“He always looks miserable,” the other agrees. “I mean, Jungkook could literally date anyone.”
“Right? Like… he’s so warm. And he’s always making an effort. You’d think he’d want someone who actually gives a shit back.”
Their voices trail off as they walk past, laughter fading.
Jimin’s stomach sinks.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t react. Just keeps staring out over the courtyard like he didn’t just hear every word.
But the words stick.
Not because they’re particularly cruel—but because they hit too close to the doubt already wedged in his chest. It’s not new, this voice. It’s just louder now. Why does Jungkook try so hard? Why hasn’t he gotten tired yet? Jimin’s not easy. He’s not warm. He doesn’t coo or blush or even give much away.
So what the hell is Jungkook getting out of this? Out of him?
He’s still stuck in that spiral when Jungkook jogs down the steps toward him, cheeks pink from the overly warm classroom, hair a little messy from running a hand through it.
“Sorry,” Jungkook says, a little breathless. “That took longer than I thought. Professor Lee won’t shut up once he starts talking about negative space.”
Jimin hums, not really hearing him.
Then Jungkook’s hand reaches for his.
It’s instinctive—he always does it now, like muscle memory—but this time Jimin pulls his hand back, pretending to adjust his jacket.
Jungkook stops.
Then gives a nervous little chuckle. “Cold hands?”
Jimin doesn’t respond.
The walk back to Jimin’s dorm is quiet.
Too quiet.
Jungkook tries to fil the silence the way he always does—chattering about something he saw on the way over, a café near the intersection, a cute cat. Jimin nods occasionally, offers a hum or a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
And Jungkook notices.
Halfway there, he slows. “Hey,” he says, voice gentler now. “Did something happen?”
Jimin blinks. “What?”
“You’ve been quiet. I mean, you’re usually quiet, but—” He scratches the back of his neck. “This feels off.”
Jimin exhales, gaze fixed on the pavement. They stop near the side entrance of the dorm building, where the shadows fall longer and fewer people walk past.
He opens his mouth, then closes it. Then tries again.
“Wouldn’t it be easier,” he says, slowly, “for you to be with someone who… isn’t like me?”
Jungkook freezes.
Jimin doesn’t meet his eyes.
“I mean,” he continues, trying to keep his voice flat, “you’re friendly. People like you. You make everything easy. You don’t need someone who’s this—” He gestures vaguely, like the word difficult is too ugly to say out loud. “This much work.”
There’s a pause. Just long enough to feel sharp.
Then—
“You’re kidding me,” Jungkook breathes out, not angry, but stunned.
Jimin still won’t look at him.
But Jungkook steps forward, hands clenched at his sides. “Do you think I’m here because it’s easy?”
Jimin’s jaw tightens but he glances up.
“I’m not,” Jungkook says. “I don’t want easy. I want you.”
And before Jimin can pull away again, Jungkook crowds into his space—grips his jaw, thumb grazing the edge of his cheek—and kisses him.
It’s rough. A little messy. His mouth greedy, hands sliding down to Jimin’s waist, gripping tight like he’s afraid Jimin might vanish.
Jimin gasps into it—surprised—but doesn’t move.
And when Jungkook pulls back, breath ragged and eyes wide and wild, he searches Jimin’s face.
“I don’t want someone else,” he says, voice low and firm. “I want the guy who makes me work for every smile. Who doesn’t say much, but when he does? I remember every word.”
Jimin swallows hard. There’s a sting forming behind his eyes.
“You don’t have to be easy,” Jungkook says, mouth hovering just over his. “You just have to be mine.”
Jimin doesn’t answer.
But this time, when Jungkook leans in again—slower, deeper—he closes his eyes and kisses him back.
---
Jimin doesn’t say anything.
Just tugs lightly at Jungkook’s sleeve—barely more than a brush of fingers—and turns toward the entrance of the dorm building.
Jungkook follows.
The walk to Jimin’s room is quiet. Not awkward, not tense—just charged. Everything feels sharper. Every step, every breath, every glance. Jungkook’s heart is still thudding loud in his ears, and he’s trying not to stare at the way Jimin keeps running his tongue across his bottom lip like he’s still feeling the shape of that kiss.
When the door shuts behind them, Jimin drops his keys onto the desk and shrugs off his jacket. Doesn’t look at Jungkook. Doesn’t say a word.
And Jungkook waits.
Lets the quiet settle. Watches him move—mechanical, precise, like he’s on autopilot. He pulls off his hoodie, revealing the soft stretch of his undershirt, and peels his socks off one at a time before curling up onto the neatly done bed, back pressed against the wall.
He doesn’t invite Jungkook over.
He doesn’t have to.
Jungkook toes off his boots, then crosses the room and sits at the edge of the bed, body angled toward him but not touching.
Jimin watches him from under his lashes, arms folded tight.
Jungkook hesitates, then reaches out. Fingers gentle, grazing over Jimin’s knee before curling there, steady.
Jimin breathes in a shaky breath. “I didn’t mean to say that. Earlier.”
Jungkook nods. “I know.”
“I just—” Jimin bites the inside of his cheek. “Sometimes people say things that already live in my head, and it makes it harder to ignore.”
“I get it,” Jungkook says. And he means it.
Jimin shifts, hand sliding to rest atop Jungkook’s.
Their eyes meet.
And then Jimin leans forward—hesitant, searching—and kisses him again.
It’s softer now. Slower. Less about the ache, more about the admission. The way Jimin’s lips move like he’s learning him, like this isn’t just want, it’s need. Like this is something he’s been afraid of for a long time and is finally ready to look in the eye.
Jungkook kisses him back with the same care, one hand sliding up to cup the side of Jimin’s neck, thumb grazing the soft skin just under his jaw. Jimin exhales into his mouth, and when Jungkook’s fingers tangle in the hem of his shirt, Jimin lifts his arms—lets him tug it off and toss it aside.
Their breathing gets heavier. Not rushed—just dense with everything they aren’t saying.
Jungkook’s mouth drags down Jimin’s throat, slow and reverent, like every inch is sacred. Jimin’s hands slide under the back of his hoodie, splayed over warm skin, tugging him closer, until Jungkook is half on top of him, their legs tangled, hips aligned.
It’s slow.
Messy.
Grindy.
Jimin tilts his head back, fingers curling in Jungkook’s hair, and when Jungkook groans low against his neck, Jimin feels it vibrate down to his toes.
They don’t say anything. Just breathe. Just move. Hips pressing, lips parting, hands wandering with more affection than hunger.
When Jimin gasps and presses his face into Jungkook’s shoulder, Jungkook only holds him tighter.
He doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask.
Because this isn’t about getting anywhere.
It’s about being here.
After a while, the movement slows. The heat cools just enough. Jimin lets his head drop back onto the pillow, hair mussed, mouth swollen, chest rising and falling beneath Jungkook’s palm.
Jungkook hovers over him, eyes searching.
Jimin looks up at him, eyes dark but soft. Then, quieter than anything else that’s passed between them tonight:
“You’re still here.”
Jungkook blinks.
Then presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth.
“Yeah,” he whispers. “I’m not going anywhere.”
And Jimin—who never believes promises, who always flinches from permanence—lets himself believe it.
♡
Thing’s shift gradually.
Jimin doesn’t change all at once, and he certainly doesn’t announce it. There’s no dramatic shift, no grand confession, no tearful epiphany.
Instead, there’s a steady softening.
He starts smiling more. Not the tight-lipped smirk or the sarcastic curve of amusement he wears like armour, but real, warm ones—small, fleeting things that Jungkook catches and locks away in the confines of his most precious memories. He starts leaning into touch too, rather than just tolerating it. A brush of fingers when passing notes. A hand on Jungkook’s wrist when he’s trying to explain something with too much animation. Once—just once—he even hooks his pinky with Jungkook’s under the table during a study session and doesn’t let go until they pack up.
He starts showing up in ways Jungkook never expected.
A text waiting after class: you okay?
A post-it on his sketchbook: don’t overwork. You get stupid when you don’t sleep.
A bag of his favorite seaweed crisps dropped into his lap with no explanation.
And Jungkook—he tries not to make a big deal out of it. He doesn’t want to spook him. He’s already ruined too many good things by reaching too fast.
But he notices everything.
So when the bad grade comes—midterm portfolio, a careless mistake, one too many unfinished studies—he shrugs it off at first. Pretends it doesn’t sting.
But Jimin notices.
Of course he does.
They’re sitting side by side in the library, legs pressed together, Jungkook barely listening as Jimin mumbles something about matrix transformations. And then, without warning, Jimin closes his laptop.
“You’re upset.”
Jungkook freezes. “I’m fine.”
Jimin doesn’t respond. He just reaches into his bag and pulls out something—a small plastic-wrapped package, bent slightly at the corner. Inside - Jungkook’s favourite bread roll from a bakery two subway stops away. The one that sells out before noon. The one Jungkook offhandedly mentioned, once, weeks ago.
Jimin sets it on the table between them. “You’re allowed to be disappointed.”
Jungkook stares at it.
“And,” Jimin says, voice even, “you’re one of the most obsessive, creative people I’ve ever met. So maybe the grade sucks. But you don’t.”
There’s a pause.
Then Jungkook makes a strange noise—somewhere between a laugh and a whimper—and turns toward him.
“You have no idea what that means, coming from you.”
Jimin just raises an eyebrow. “I literally said it.”
“No, I mean—” Jungkook huffs, biting the inside of his cheek. “Forget it.”
Jimin watches him for a second, quiet.
Jungkook hesitates, fingers curling over the edge of the table. Then, before he can lose his nerve:
“Be mine.”
Jimin blinks. “I’m right here.”
“No, fuck—I mean be my boyfriend.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Jimin’s face gives nothing away.
Jungkook’s stomach tightens.
He expects hesitation. A deflection. A “don’t ruin this.”
But Jimin just stares at him for a long moment—eyes unreadable, fingers tapping lightly on the table. Then—
“Okay.”
Jungkook blinks. “...Okay?”
Jimin shrugs. “Yeah. I mean, I already see you more than anyone else. You’re annoyingly consistent. And I like you. So.”
Jungkook’s mouth parts. “That’s it? You’re just—agreeing?”
“I’m allowed to agree.”
“I just didn’t think it would be so easy.”
“It’s not,” Jimin says, dry. “I just decided to stop making it harder.”
Jungkook grins—big and boyish and too wide for his face. “Wait. You’re my boyfriend now?”
Jimin deadpans, “Did I not just say yes?”
Jungkook leans in, kisses his cheek. Once. Twice. Third time near the corner of his mouth, which makes Jimin squirm and push at his shoulder, hissing we’re in a library.
Jungkook just giggles into his shoulder.
“You’re really mine now,” he murmurs.
And Jimin, cheeks faintly pink, doesn’t say anything.
But the faint smile on his lips doesn’t fade for the rest of the day.
♡
They don’t announce it. Jimin was very particular about his ‘no’ when Jungkook suggested a couple’s selfie for his Instagram.
But it’s not a secret.
Jimin is sitting across from Taehyung and Hobi, sipping on an iced Americano even though it’s still cold outside, scrolling through a document on his phone. He’s only half-listening as Taehyung rambles about a disastrous group project while Hobi steals fries from both their trays with zero shame.
Jungkook arrives ten minutes late—hoodie splattered with paint, hair messy, cheeks pink from the wind—and drops a kiss to the top of Jimin’s head before sliding into the seat beside him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Jimin barely reacts. Just sips his drink. Doesn’t look up.
Taehyung stops mid-sentence. “Wait.”
Hobi freezes, eyes wide.
“Did you—?” Taehyung gestures. “Was that a kiss?”
Jungkook blinks. “Uh… yeah?”
Jimin doesn’t even flinch. “He’s clingy.”
Hobi drops his fry. “Are you two dating?!”
Jimin sighs. “Yes.”
“Oh my god,” Taehyung gasps. “It finally happened.”
“I told you,” Hobi whispers, smacking his arm. “Didn’t I say it? I knew this was gonna happen!”
Taehyung looks at Jungkook with pure awe. “And you’re alive?”
“More than ever,” Jungkook grins.
Jimin groans and slides down in his seat like the table might swallow him.
Taehyung leans across, practically vibrating. “You have to tell me everything. Did you ask? Did he kiss you first? Was it a hostage situation?”
“Please stop talking,” Jimin mutters.
“He’s blushing,” Hobi sings.
“I’m not.”
“You are. It’s cute.”
Jimin steals a fry and throws it at them.
---
Later that evening, Jungkook invites Jimin to come hang out at Namjoon and Jin’s place, mostly as a casual thing—game night, tea, whatever—but part of him knows it’s more than that.
It’s an introduction.
Namjoon opens the door in slippers and a hoodie that says Existential Dread is My Cardio. Jin is already in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, poking at the pot of bubbling ramyeon with his chopsticks and a scowl.
“Jungkook,” Jin greets, not looking up. “Tell your hyung he’s beautiful or I’m cancelling dinner.”
“You’re stunning,” Jungkook says automatically.
Jin turns with a pleased smile—then freezes. Sees Jimin. Raises an eyebrow.
“Oh, is this who I think it is?”
“Jimin,” Jungkook says, a little too fast. “He’s, um—my—”
“Boyfriend,” Jimin says flatly.
Jungkook nearly trips over a shoe.
Namjoon grins into his tea.
Jin blinks. Then smiles, slow and dangerous. “Oh. Oh. You didn’t say he was hot.”
“I did!” Jungkook insists. “You didn’t believe me!”
Namjoon clears his throat, visibly trying to reset the tone. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Jimin. Jungkook talks about you a lot.”
Jimin tilts his head. “That sounds like a warning.”
Namjoon grins. “It is.”
And somehow—shockingly—Jimin and Jin fall into sync almost instantly. One minute they’re side-eyeing Jungkook together over dinner, the next they’re roasting Namjoon over his tragic sock choice and sharing petty dorm gossip like they’ve known each other for years.
Jungkook watches from the couch, a little stunned.
“He’s great,” Jin whispers later, catching Jungkook in the hallway. “You did good, kid.”
Jungkook glows for the rest of the night.
---
The next morning, his phone buzzes.
Yoongi [8:23]: congrats on being persistent
Yoongi [8:23]: proud of u i guess
Yoongi [8:25]: let me meet the icicle you melted sometime
Jungkook grins into his pillow, still in bed, and immediately texts back:
Jungkook [8:28]: he’s not an icicle he’s just emotionally refrigerated
Jungkook [8:28]: but yeah, soon
♡
It’s late. The streets outside are quiet and the lights in the dorm building are mostly out. Jungkook’s room is dimly lit, bathed in the soft blue glow of the laptop screen balanced at the foot of his bed. Some indie horror flick is playing—something low-budget and mostly forgettable—but neither of them is really watching it.
Jimin is nestled between Jungkook’s legs, back pressed to his chest, blanket pooled over both their laps. He’s warm and quiet, eyes half-lidded, the steady beat of Jungkook’s heart behind him threatening to lull him to sleep.
Jungkook’s arms are loose around his waist, fingertips tracing idle shapes over the cotton of Jimin’s shirt. It’s casual. Comfortable. Natural.
But Jimin’s not focused on the movie. Not really.
He’s thinking.
He’s been thinking for a while now.
About how easy this has become. About how he doesn’t tense anymore when Jungkook touches him, how he leans in without thinking. How his brain, once quick to resist, now quiets in Jungkook’s presence. About how it feels like home, in a way he hasn’t known with anyone else.
He shifts slightly, hand finding one of Jungkook’s and curling it tighter around his middle.
Jungkook hums. “You okay?”
Jimin nods. “Just… thinking.”
“Dangerous,” Jungkook teases gently, nose brushing his hair.
Jimin rolls his eyes. “Shut up.”
A beat of silence. Then, quietly:
“I like you.”
Jungkook stills behind him.
Jimin breathes in slow. “Not just—like, I like like you. Obviously. I just… I’ve been thinking.”
He hesitates.
“I know I’m not the easiest person,” he says. “I’m moody. I get overwhelmed. I take forever to say anything nice. But you never push. You just… wait. You’re so patient, and stupidly kind, and you remember every small thing I tell you, even the stuff I say once and forget five minutes later.”
Jungkook doesn’t say anything. But his hand squeezes gently. Jimin continues, words spilling like a burst dam.
“And you’re good at stuff. Like really good. You draw like your hands are magic. You make me laugh even when I don’t want to. You always know when to say the right thing, and when not to say anything at all.”
He doesn’t turn around. Just keeps talking. “I don’t say this because I’m not used to saying it. But I notice. Everything.”
Behind him, Jungkook lets out a shaky breath.
Jimin finally glances back. “...Are you okay?”
Jungkook’s face is red. Like, full blush. His eyes are wide, lips parted, jaw slack.
Jimin blinks. “What’s wrong?”
Jungkook swallows hard. “You can’t just—say all that.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” Jungkook mumbles, hiding his face in Jimin’s shoulder, “you’re turning me on.”
Jimin stares. “...By talking?”
“You were praising me, Jimin. Like—sincerely praising me. That’s like—” He groans, voice muffled. “You don’t understand what that does to me.”
Jimin’s lips twitch. “You have a degradation and a praise kink?”
“From you? Apparently, yeah.”
Jimin snorts, cheeks pink, ears hot. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re evil,” Jungkook mutters, shifting just slightly, the proof of his arousal pressing against Jimin’s lower back through his sweats.
Jimin stiffens, just a little. Not pulling away—but not moving closer either.
Jungkook notices. Pulls back immediately. “Shit—sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“It’s okay,” Jimin says quickly. He reaches down, covering Jungkook’s hand with his own. “I don’t mind. I just…”
Jungkook waits.
“I’m still… not there yet.”
Jungkook nods. “Okay.”
“Really?”
“Of course.”
Jimin leans his head back against Jungkook’s shoulder. “You don’t have to wait.”
“I want to wait,” Jungkook says, voice soft. “I’d wait forever, Jimin.”
There’s a pause.
Jimin bites the inside of his cheek. “That’s so dramatic.”
Jungkook grins. “You love it.”
Jimin doesn’t respond.
Just tilts his face to press a quiet kiss under Jungkook’s jaw.
♡
It starts with the sleeves.
Jungkook doesn’t notice it at first. Not until they’re back in the library a few days after that movie night, sitting across from each other in one of the quieter corners. Jimin’s wearing one of Jungkook’s hoodies—not unusual, not exactly. He’s stolen them before, usually with a grumble about how his own clothes feel “constricting” during midterm week. But today it’s different.
Today the sleeves are pushed up just a little too high. Exposing his wrists. His forearms. That mole near his elbow. And Jungkook has no business being turned on by a wrist, but here he is, biting his cheek and trying not to picture Jimin’s hands on him.
Jimin’s typing away, eyes on the screen, completely unbothered.
Except.
Except Jungkook swears he sees it—the flick of Jimin’s eyes as he notices the way Jungkook’s leg bounces under the table. The twitch of a smirk when he stretches, back arching just slightly, the hem of the hoodie riding up enough to show bare skin.
He says nothing.
But Jungkook knows that he’s noticed.
And like most things, Jimin weaponises it.
The way he casually adjusts his position on Jungkook’s lap when they’re sitting together in the art building’s common room, like he’s not very much aware of what it does to Jungkook’s self-control. The way he leans in to whisper a joke, mouth just a little too close to Jungkook’s ear, breath warm enough to spark goosebumps.
The kicker?
Jimin never reacts.
He doesn’t blush. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t do that sweet, flustered boyfriend routine Jungkook was kind of hoping for.
No. Jimin just smiles his tiny, evil smile, and goes back to his textbook like he didn’t just graze his fingers across Jungkook’s inner thigh while asking for a highlighter.
And Jungkook—god. Jungkook is losing it.
He’s jerked off more times in the past week than he’d care to admit. To the memory of Jimin biting his pen. The curve of his ass when he stretches on Jungkook’s bed. The sound he made that one time he dropped his phone and let out the tiniest annoyed grunt Jungkook has ever heard.
Jungkook’s had to start sketching other people just to avoid public shame.
But nothing helps. Nothing works.
Especially not when Jimin sends a voice memo one afternoon, completely out of the blue, whisper-soft:
“Are you thinking about me?”
It ends with a small exhale and a barely-there click of his tongue. That’s it.
That night, Jungkook barely makes it two minutes before he’s coming with his face buried in his pillow and Jimin’s name gasping out of his mouth.
The next morning, Jimin shows up at his dorm wearing his black sweats—the tight ones—and steals half of Jungkook’s bagel without looking up from his phone.
Jungkook stares at him across the tiny kitchenette, dazed, half-hard, and suspicious.
“You’re doing this on purpose,” he says, breathless.
Jimin doesn’t look up. “Doing what?”
Jungkook’s jaw clenches. “You’re evil.”
Jimin finally glances over. Smiles.
“Thank you.”
---
One late evening, Jungkook’s eyes are fixed on the ceiling, dim shadows of the dorm light bleeding through the curtain and pooling across his skin. Jimin lies beside him under the same blanket, body curled slightly inward, one arm folded under his head, the other resting loosely over Jungkook’s stomach.
They haven’t said much tonight.
The movie they half-watched finished over an hour ago, and now they’re here—draped across Jungkook’s twin bed like gravity stopped working, like breathing too loudly might shatter the quiet moment.
But Jungkook can’t breathe quietly.
Not when Jimin’s hand shifts again, just enough for a knuckle to brush low across his abdomen, where his skin is warm and far too sensitive. Not when Jimin is still wearing that oversized hoodie—the same one he stole from Jungkook last week—that rides up slightly when he stretches, revealing the smooth dip of his hip and a sliver of skin that Jungkook’s been trying not to look at for an hour.
He’s hard.
Painfully so.
Again.
And it’s driving him insane.
He tries to adjust himself under the blanket, as subtly as he can, but his hips twitch anyway, and Jimin notices—of course he does.
“Jungkook,” Jimin murmurs, voice low and quiet like a secret, “you’re hard again.”
There’s no teasing lilt. Just observation.
Jungkook groans, hiding his face in the crook of his arm. “I know. I can’t help it.”
Jimin shifts, propping himself up on one elbow. His face is still shadowed, half-lit by the dull blue of the laptop screen. “You’ve been like this for weeks.”
“I know.”
“Poor thing.”
There’s something dangerous about the way Jimin says it. Like he’s not offering sympathy—just savouring the weight of Jungkook’s need.
Jungkook exhales, shaky. “You’ve been torturing me.”
Jimin hums, inching closer, the tip of his finger brushing Jungkook’s waist beneath the blanket. “Mm? How?”
“You know how.”
Jimin smiles, and it’s positively wicked.
“Tell me.”
“Jimin—”
“Tell me how I torture you.”
Jungkook closes his eyes. Swallows. “The way you touch me. And then don’t. The way you look at me when you’re wearing my goddamn clothes. The way you lean in, all innocent, like you’re not doing it on purpose.”
Jimin laughs softly, breath puffing across his cheek. “I am doing it on purpose.”
Jungkook lets out a sound between a sigh and a moan.
“And you’re so good about it,” Jimin says, almost mockingly sweet. “You haven’t even complained. Haven’t asked for anything.”
“You don’t need to ask when I’m coming in my own hand three times a night,” Jungkook mutters.
Jimin stills.
“That many?”
“Don’t act surprised,” Jungkook snaps, breathless. “You’re all I think about. Everything you do turns me on. I’m losing my mind.”
There’s silence.
Then the rustle of blankets. Jimin moving.
Jungkook’s eyes fly open. “Wait—”
But then Jimin is there, sliding under the blanket and down, one hand tugging Jungkook’s waistband low with lazy confidence. His cock springs free, flushed and already leaking at the tip slightly.
He leans in, presses a kiss just below Jungkook’s navel.
“I’m going to take pity on you,” Jimin murmurs, voice sinful.
Jungkook whimpers.
Then Jimin wraps his lips around the head of Jungkook’s cock and sucks.
Three seconds.
That’s all it takes.
Jungkook’s entire body arches, his hand flying to Jimin’s hair, his voice catching on a high, desperate cry.
It’s overwhelming.
Too much.
He spills into Jimin’s mouth, thighs trembling, whole body taut with the intensity of it. And when Jimin pulls back—lips slick, face unreadable—he wipes his mouth with his thumb like it was nothing. Like he didn’t just completely destroy Jungkook with barely any effort at all.
Jungkook lies there, panting, eyes blown wide.
“You didn’t even let me—” he gasps, hand reaching for him.
But Jimin’s already crawling back up the bed, settling beside him like he didn’t just rock his entire existence.
“I know,” he says simply, curling up on Jungkook’s chest.
“You’re so mean.”
“I’m generous.”
“You’re going to kill me.”
Jimin hums, dragging his fingers lightly across Jungkook’s chest. “You liked it.”
Jungkook groans, dragging a hand over his face. “Too much.”
“Good.”
He presses a kiss to Jungkook’s jaw, slow and soft.
Then settles in.
And Jungkook?
Jungkook lies there, still half-hard, absolutely wrecked, and more in love than he knows what to do with.
♡
They’ve been circling each other for hours.
Well, not literally—Jimin’s lying stretched out across his bed, loose in nothing but his sleep shorts and a shirt that probably stole from Jungkook, again. He’s on his side, scrolling lazily through something on his phone, bare legs curled up, one thigh bent just slightly upward.
Jungkook’s been watching him for twenty minutes and losing his mind in slow increments.
He knows it’s intentional. Has to be. The soft curve of Jimin’s hip bone peeking out, the way the fabric rides up when he shifts. It’s too much. And after everything—after the teasing, after the three-second blowjob that broke his soul—Jungkook is done waiting.
He closes the laptop, rolls onto his knees, and presses a hand to Jimin’s hip.
“Lie on your stomach.”
Jimin looks over, raises a brow. “Excuse me?”
“I want to eat you out.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then Jimin laughs—low and dangerous. “You’re getting bold.”
“I’ve been thinking about it,” Jungkook says, honest and breathless, “for weeks.”
Jimin watches him carefully. “And you think you’ve earned that privilege?”
“I think you deserve to have your ass worshipped,” Jungkook replies, voice steady now. “And I think I’m the only one who should ever get to do it.”
Jimin’s jaw tightens. Just slightly.
Then, without a word, he rolls onto his stomach, props himself up on his elbows, and lets his legs fall open.
Jungkook’s heart stutters.
He moves slow, reverent—peeling Jimin’s shorts down over his ass, revealing soft, pale skin he’s only touched through clothes before. He runs his hands up the backs of Jimin’s thighs, kneads into the swell of muscle there, pressing kisses across each cheek like he’s blessing them.
Jimin doesn’t move.
But he shivers when Jungkook’s breath hits lower.
Jungkook spreads him gently. Carefully.
Then he leans in, tongue flicking out to taste the tight, puckered heat of him.
Jimin gasps.
Not loud. Not surprised. Just caught.
Jungkook groans, deep in his chest.
He starts slow—soft licks, experimental. Jimin doesn’t stop him, so Jungkook presses in deeper, flattens his tongue and devours him, lips and mouth and spit and heat, hands squeezing Jimin’s hips to keep him in place as his tongue fucks into him over and over.
Jimin moans. Shaky. “F-fuck, Jungkook—”
“Let me,” Jungkook murmurs between licks. “Please. Just let me.”
And Jimin does.
He relaxes under him, thighs trembling, arms loose. He grinds back slightly, chasing the pressure, letting out quiet, helpless sounds he clearly tries to hold back.
Jungkook is obsessed.
He kisses him there like he’s trying to commit the taste to memory—hungry, thorough, filthy. He pulls him open wider, tongue greedy and unforgiving, licking until Jimin’s moaning into his pillow, panting, gripping the sheets in tight fists.
When Jimin finally pushes back harder, grinding into Jungkook’s face, Jungkook feels his own cock throb with the urge to touch himself—but he doesn’t.
This is about Jimin.
Jimin’s voice breaks—high and wrecked—and he twists around just enough to grab Jungkook’s hair and tug, not hard, just grounding. “Stop.”
Jungkook freezes. Lifts his head, lips wet, eyes wide.
“Did I—?”
“No,” Jimin pants, face flushed. “You didn’t. I just—if you don’t stop, I’m going to come.”
Jungkook blinks.
Then growls, quiet and wrecked. “That’s the idea.”
But Jimin shakes his head, reaching to pull Jungkook up by the collar. Their mouths crash together, filthy and open, and Jimin moans when he tastes himself on Jungkook’s tongue.
He pulls away just enough to breathe. “Not yet.”
“Why not?” Jungkook whines, dazed.
Jimin looks at him—wild and flushed and shining with sweat—and smirks.
“Because I said so.”
♡
The notification flashes on his phone almost innocently.
Jungkook’s halfway through a torturous seminar—philosophy of aesthetics, ironically—when his phone buzzes in his lap. He glances down without thinking, already zoning out from the discussion on Kant’s theory of beauty.
[1 image attachment] from: Jimin
His stomach drops instantly, dread prickling at the back of his neck.
His thumb hesitates, then taps.
The picture isn’t overt. Not really. Jimin is curled up on his bed, shirt pulled down just low enough to bare the smooth slope of his thigh, the fabric bunched up to reveal the faintest curve of his ass. There’s no caption. Just a flash of skin and a timestamp and the knowledge that he sent this to Jungkook during class.
Jungkook almost drops his phone.
He doesn’t even try to hide the way his thighs shift under the table, adjusting his jeans. His professor is still droning on about subjective interpretation, but Jungkook’s blood has vacated his brain.
A second buzz.
Another photo.
This one’s closer—Jimin’s hand pushing the hem of his shirt up higher, exposing the waistband of his briefs. Black, snug, obscenely low on his hips. The skin beneath is flushed, soft and smooth, and the elastic is tugged just enough to reveal a hint of what’s beneath.
Jimin, [14: 25]: still thinking about your tongue.
Jungkook exhales—loudly enough that a few heads turn.
He grabs his phone and shoves it under the desk, thumbs flying.
Jungkook, [14:26]: baby wtf
Jungkook, [14:26]: i’m IN CLASS
Jungkook, [14:27]: you’re actually evil
Jungkook, [14:27]: can i come over?
No response.
He waits.
Starts sweating.
Checks the time, twice.
Still thirty goddamn minutes left.
Ten minutes later, he gets another ping.
It’s a video this time.
Only two seconds long—just a low, soft exhale paired with a slow stroke over his briefs, the heel of Jimin’s palm pressing down between his thighs. The camera’s angled to show nothing explicit, but it’s enough for Jungkook.
He has to excuse himself.
He barely makes it to the hallway, gripping the nearest water fountain like it might tether him to reality. He texts with shaking fingers.
Jungkook, [14:42]: i’m BEGGING
Jungkook, [14:42]: please jimin please
Jungkook, [14:43]: you can do whatever you want to me
Jungkook, [14:43]: just let me see you
Jungkook, [14:43]: let me touch you
Jungkook, [14:44]: i’m dying over here
There’s a long pause before his phone pings yet again.
Jimin, [14:46]: maybe.
Jungkook stares at the screen, slack-jawed.
Another ping.
Jimin, [14:47]: if you ask me again tonight.
Jimin, [14:47]: on your knees.
♡
It’s late when Jungkook knocks on the door.
Too late for visitors, technically—but Jimin opens the door anyway. Wordlessly. Barefoot in sweatpants and a loose white shirt, hair damp from a shower, sleeves pushed up. His skin still glows faintly pink from the heat.
Jungkook stands in the hallway, breathing hard.
Eyes wide, jaw tense, hands flexing at his sides like he might explode if he moves wrong.
Neither of them says anything.
Jimin doesn’t invite him in.
Jungkook steps inside anyway.
The door closes shut behind him with a quiet click.
Jimin turns slowly. Crosses his arms over his chest. Looks Jungkook up and down. His face is so calm it’s almost cruel.
“Well?”
Jungkook swallows.
“You said to ask,” he says, voice rough. “On my knees.”
Jimin hums. “So I did.”
Jungkook stares.
Then drops.
Right there on the cheap tile of Jimin’s dorm floor, he sinks to his knees. No hesitation. Shame straight out the window.
Jimin’s lips curl into a smirk.
Then—slowly, carefully—he walks forward. Steps into Jungkook’s space. Crowds him. Doesn’t say a word.
Jungkook tilts his head up, eyes already glassy.
“I’ll do anything,” he whispers. “Please.”
Jimin lifts a brow. “That’s not very convincing.”
Jungkook’s throat bobs. “I’ve been thinking about you for weeks. I can’t sleep. I can’t focus. You’re in my head constantly, and I don’t want anyone else. I want you. However you’ll let me have you.”
Jimin stares down at him.
Then—slowly, steadily—sinks into a crouch.
They’re eye level now. Close enough to kiss.
But Jimin doesn’t.
Instead, he reaches forward, brushes a finger along Jungkook’s jaw. “Do you know what I want?”
Jungkook shakes his head.
Jimin leans in. Breathes against his mouth.
“I want you wrecked.”
And that’s all the warning he gives.
He tugs Jungkook up by the collar, drags him to the bed, pushes him down with a hand to the chest. He doesn’t undress him—just unzips his jeans, pulls them low enough to expose the thick line of his cock, already straining against the fabric of his briefs.
Jimin strokes him once—barely—and Jungkook shudders.
“You get nothing,” Jimin murmurs, “until you earn it.”
Jungkook gasps. “How?”
“Lie back.”
He does.
And Jimin climbs over him, straddling his thighs. Leans forward, presses a single kiss to the corner of his mouth—sweet, so sweet—and grinds down.
He rocks against him, slow and torturous, fully clothed, using the friction to drag desperate sounds from Jungkook’s throat.
Jungkook’s hands twitch where they’re fisted in the sheets. “Please—please let me touch you—”
“No.”
“Please—I’ll be good—I’ll do anything—”
Jimin hums. “You will.”
And then he leans back—pulls off his shirt.
Jungkook chokes on air.
He's seen him shirtless before, but above him Jimin looks like a God.
“You can watch,” Jimin says, voice low, “but you don’t get to touch.”
Then he leans back farther. Reaches down.
And slips his fingers beneath the waistband of his sweats.
Jungkook watches, wide-eyed, panting.
Jimin groans softly, eyebrows furrowing, and arches his back when his hips lift up slightly.
And Jungkook goes insane just a bit more.
He jerks forward. “Jimin—please let me see—please, baby, I want to—”
Jimin meets his gaze.
Then finally—finally—he slides off his sweats, exposing the slick glisten of lube on his fingers. He slides off of Jungkooks thighs and leans back on the opposite side of the bed and bends his knees to reveal the flushed pink of his hole, stretched and twitching.
Jungkook stops breathing.
“You’re—” he gasps, “fuck me, you were touching yourself before I even got here—”
Jimin doesn’t respond.
Just reaches down and spreads himself.
“Do you want this?”
Jungkook’s already reaching. “God, yes—”
Jimin grabs his wrist.
“Not yet.”
Jungkook whines, mouth open, cock leaking, body ready to fuck.
“Then tell me what you want,” Jimin says. “Say it.”
“I want to be inside you,” Jungkook begs. “I want to fuck you until you forget your name—I want to come inside you and watch you drip for me. Please, Jimin. Let me. Let me be good for you.”
And Jimin—flush high on his cheeks, lips parted, pupils blown—smiles.
Cruel.
Finally satisfied.
“Okay.”
Just that. Just one word.
But to Jungkook it may as well be the gates of heaven swinging open.
He surges forward, catching Jimin by the thighs and dragging him toward the center of the bed in one smooth pull, strong fingers sinking into soft skin like he’s afraid this moment might slip through them. Jimin lets him—lets him spread him wide, lets him kneel between his legs and stare, chest rising and falling fast.
“Fuck,” Jungkook whispers. “Fuck, Jimin, you’re—”
“I know,” Jimin says, voice calm even as his legs fall open wider, knees bending toward his chest. “So show me what you’ve been dying for.”
Jungkook is shaking.
He fumbles his shirt off, breath ragged, cock painfully hard, throbbing against his stomach as he finally—finally—spits into his hand and strokes himself, eyes glued to the slick pink heat between Jimin’s thighs. Stretched and wet from those cruel, practiced fingers.
“Did you prep for me while I was going insane in class?” Jungkook groans. “When you sent those pictures?”
Jimin smirks, unapologetic. “Maybe.”
Jungkook keens. “That’s so fucking hot.”
He leans in—kisses Jimin’s ankle, then his shin, then the inside of his knee, working up like it’s a ritual. Because it is. Because Jimin is laid out like an altar and Jungkook is about to worship.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” Jungkook whispers.
“I want it to be too much.”
Fair enough.
He presses the head of his cock against Jimin’s hole—slow, reverent—and pushes in.
Jimin gasps.
“Fuck—Jungkook—”
Jungkook groans low in his throat, head dropping forward, forehead resting against Jimin’s thigh as he sinks in, inch by inch. Jimin is so tight, so hot, the slick glide around him almost too much after everything—after weeks of tension and teasing and not having.
“You feel—” Jungkook breathes, “fuck, you feel like everything I’ve ever wanted.”
Jimin doesn’t reply.
Can’t.
His fingers curl into the sheets, eyes fluttering shut as his back arches, body taking every inch of Jungkook’s cock until there’s nowhere left to go.
And then they’re still.
The room fills with quiet pants. The air feels electric.
Jimin’s legs wrap around his waist, feet hook behind his back. He’s open, undone, but the glare he gives Jungkook burns.
“Move.”
Jungkook does.
He starts slow—deep, dragging thrusts that punch the breath from both of them. Jimin grits his teeth, trying to stay quiet, but it’s too much. Jungkook is thick, hard, and unrelenting, fucking into him like it’s the only thing he’s ever been good at.
“Fuck—fuck, baby, you’re—” Jungkook’s voice breaks. “You’re so tight I could lose my mind in you.”
Jimin moans. Loud.
That does it.
Jungkook grabs his wrists, pins them above his head with one hand and leans in, foreheads brushing.
“Say it,” Jungkook growls. “Tell me you want it.”
“Fuck you,” Jimin spits—eyes glassy, body trembling.
Jungkook thrusts harder. “Say it.”
“I—fuck—yes, I want it. I want you, you asshole—”
Jungkook kisses him hard. Teeth, spit, tongue. Filthy.
Jimin bites his lip when he pulls back and smiles, dazed and cocky.
Jungkook loses control.
He fucks Jimin like he means it—fast, brutal, loud, his name punched from Jimin’s mouth over and over, the bed creaking under them. Jimin’s legs shake, the headboard thumps, and neither of them care. Jungkook’s cock hits deep, just right, and Jimin can’t contain the steady stream of moans that spill from his open mouth and turn into near shouts.
“Jungkook, I’m—fuck, I’m gonna—”
Jungkook slams into him. “Come on, baby. I wanna see.”
And Jimin does, with a sharp cry and a full-body shudder, untouched, so hard it streaks his chest and chin, legs trembling and slipping around Jungkook’s sweaty waist.
Jungkook doesn’t last long after that.
He moans—long and low—and comes inside Jimin, hips stuttering as he fills him, forehead pressed to Jimin’s temple, both of them slick with sweat and shaking apart.
He stays inside for a moment.
Just trying to breather through the mind-numbing pleasure running from the crown of his head to the tips of his toes.
Then slowly pulls out with a wet squelch and next to him.
Jimin’s chest heaves.
His hand finds Jungkook’s blindly, still trembling. Jungkook laces their fingers together, nose brushing Jimin’s shoulder, lips soft.
Silence.
And then Jungkook whispers against his ear, breath ragged and low.
“I fucking love you.”
♡
After the first time Jungkook fucks Jimin, something breaks loose inside him.
And he never puts it back.
It’s not just sex—it’s revelation. Jimin, flushed and gasping under him, arms wrapped tight around his shoulders, legs trembling around his waist—it’s a sight Jungkook can’t erase. He tries not to think about it too often. He really does. But his brain has been rewired. His body doesn’t know how to want anything else.
So the next time? It happens barely two days later.
Then again the next morning.
Then twice the following night, when Jimin shows up at Jungkook’s dorm after an argument with his TA—grumpy and tight-lipped, only to end up folded in half on the mattress with Jungkook moaning into his neck.
Jungkook becomes insatiable.
Worse—he’s shameless about it.
“Five minutes,” he pleads against Jimin’s throat while they’re crammed into a library carrel. “I’ll be so fast. I just need to taste you.”
“Not here, you lunatic,” Jimin mutters, breath hitching as Jungkook’s hand slides up the back of his hoodie.
Later, it’s the art building stairwell.
Then the empty media room.
A locked bathroom stall during a student showcase—Jimin with one hand shoved into Jungkook’s hair, the other braced against cold tile while Jungkook sinks to his knees with tears in his eyes.
They get a noise complaint from Jungkook’s neighbour after one particularly loud session. Jimin, flushed and post-orgasmic, just glares while Jungkook sheepishly promises to “try and be quieter next time.”
There’s never a next time. Not a quiet one, anyway.
And Jungkook? He says it every time.
“I love you.”
When Jimin comes on his tongue—“I love you.”
When Jungkook spills inside him, spent and shaking—“I love you.”
When Jimin presses him down and rides him until he’s sobbing—“I love you.”
He never expects an answer.
And Jimin never gives one.
But he doesn’t leave, either.
In fact, he stays longer. Touches more. Starts brushing his fingers through Jungkook’s hair after sex, lets his head fall onto Jungkook’s chest when they’re too tired to move. He mutters complaints with no real heat when Jungkook calls him “baby” and only kicks him once when Jungkook buys matching toothbrushes and puts one in Jimin’s bag like it’s nothing.
And then one night—
Jimin shows up at Jungkook’s dorm in a hoodie and not much else.
He doesn’t say anything. Just locks the door behind him and climbs onto Jungkook’s lap like he’s starving. Jungkook’s already half-hard from the moment the door creaked open.
But tonight—something’s different.
Jungkook doesn’t tear at his clothes.
Doesn’t bite, doesn’t pin, doesn’t beg.
He just looks at him with lidded eyes.
Palms Jimin’s thighs softly.
Leans in slowly and kisses him once. Gently.
“Let me take my time.”
Jimin blinks. “What?”
Jungkook curls a hand around the back of his neck. “Just—let me have you. Slow.”
Jimin hesitates.
Then nods.
Jungkook smiles and leans in to kiss him.
Soft. Open. Vulnerable.
Jimin melts into it with a quiet breath, hands settling on Jungkook’s shoulders. Jungkook walks them back to the bed without breaking the kiss, guiding Jimin down like he’s made of glass.
There’s no rush.
Just fingers.
Mouths.
Moans that stay caught between their tongues.
When Jungkook enters him, it’s with so much care Jimin nearly laughs, but the sound catches in his throat because the stretch still burns and Jungkook is so deep, makes him feel so full, that his toes curl.
Jungkook fucks him slow that night and doesn’t look away.
Not once.
Each stroke long and drawn, hips rolling into him with rhythmic pressure, like he’s trying to memorize every pulse, every flutter of muscle around him.
Jimin has nowhere to hide.
Every breath, every shift of his face—Jungkook sees it all. Watches it unfold like a blooming flower.
“You’re so good,” Jungkook whispers. “You’re so good to me.”
Jimin’s hands clench in the sheets. His thighs keep twitching from the slow-building pressure at the base of his spine.
“Say something,” Jungkook breathes against his mouth.
Jimin exhales. “I can’t.”
“Then let me,” Jungkook says. “Let me love you.”
He says it again, gently.
“I love you.”
Jimin squeezes his eyes shut.
Jungkook leans in, kisses his cheek, his jaw, the corner of his mouth.
“I love you.”
Another thrust—slow, perfect, deep—and Jimin breaks.
He opens his eyes, raw and wide.
Looks at Jungkook like it hurts.
“I love you too.”
It’s hoarse. Quiet. Barely audible.
But Jungkook hears it.
He groans like he’s been shot—like it’s too much—and kisses Jimin like he’s going to die if he stops.
The pace doesn’t change.
But the weight of it does.
Jimin holds onto him like he’ll fall apart otherwise, and Jungkook fucks him like the world is ending.
They come together—messy and breathless, mouths open against the other, legs tangled, chests heaving.
And when they’re done, neither of them speaks for a long time.
Jimin’s head on Jungkook’s chest.
Jungkook’s fingers stroking his back in soft, endless circles.
And somewhere, in the quiet of the moment:
“I meant it,” Jimin murmurs.
Jungkook just smiles, heart so full.
“I know.”
♡
The shift is immediate.
The moment the words leave Jimin’s mouth—I love you—Jungkook becomes a menace.
He doesn’t even try to contain it.
That night, after Jimin falls asleep tangled in his arms, Jungkook stays awake just to stare at him. Brushes his hair back from his forehead. Whispers “I love you” into the curve of his ear like it’s a spell. Kisses his knuckles and thanks every divine entity he’s never believed in.
In the morning, he wakes Jimin up by mouthing at his chest and whispering, “You said you loved me. I’m never recovering from that.”
Jimin groans, pulls a pillow over his head, and says, “I’m revoking it.”
Jungkook beams. “Too late. It’s legally binding.”
It only gets worse from there.
He follows Jimin around campus like a near-six-foot-tall puppy. Carries his bag. Buys him snacks. Sends hourly “i love u” texts even when they’re in the same building. Draws little hearts next to Jimin’s name in his planner. Tries to hold his hand constantly.
“You have your own hands,” Jimin mutters one day in the cafeteria.
Jungkook doesn’t let go. “Yours are better.”
Jimin stares at him. “You’re insufferable.”
“You’re in love with me.”
“I was. Past tense.”
“Still counts.”
Worse still—Jungkook becomes a public nuisance.
He calls Jimin “baby” in front of professors. Posts blurry Instagram stories of Jimin’s shoes with cheesy captions like the love of my life’s feet. He starts kissing Jimin’s cheek every time he says goodbye, even if they’re just parting for a thirty-minute lecture.
Once, in the campus café, Jimin sneezes and Jungkook says “Bless you, my angel, my moonbeam, my sweet celestial being,” with such sincerity that the barista chokes on her own spit.
Jimin hisses, “Do you want to die?”
Jungkook shrugs, smug. “Die in your arms? Yeah, sounds perfect.”
Jimin slaps him with a napkin. But he doesn’t pull away when Jungkook rests his chin on his shoulder.
That night, Jungkook leaves a box of macarons and a handwritten note on Jimin’s desk.
It says:
Nothing is as weet as you. Love you. —JK
Jimin stares at it for twenty minutes.
Then texts him:
Jimin, [20:13]: youre so disgusting. But i ate the pink one.
Jungkook replies with fifty-seven heart emojis and a selfie of him grinning like he just won a Nobel Prize.
And through all of it—every ridiculous nickname, every dramatic declaration, every time Jungkook throws himself into Jimin’s arms like he’s been gone for hours instead of minutes—Jimin rolls his eyes and sighs.
But he never tells him to stop.
Not once.
♡
The Kim-Kim apartment is filled with the sound of food being prepared, beer bottles clinking, and three different conversations happening all at once.
Namjoon is uselessly attempting to keep Jin from overcooking the beef. Jin is yelling at Namjoon for opening the lid too many times. Hoseok is laying out a neat little spread of snacks, and Taehyung’s on the couch upside down, feet on the headrest, phone balanced on his stomach.
Yoongi, who appeared ten minutes ago in a hoodie and sunglasses and hasn’t said more than six words, besides a polite yet curt introduction to Hoseok and Taehyung—parks himself on the couch, folds his arms and stops moving completely.
Jungkook stands in the middle of the chaos, heart racing.
He’d planned this.
Not this specifically—not the impromptu introductions, or the burned garlic, or Jin in his fuzzy slippers screaming, “I will curse your lineage if you try to manslplain cooking to me one more time, Kim Namjoon!” from the kitchen—but this moment. This gathering. This ambush.
He needs backup.
“I have something to say,” Jungkook blurts shakily.
Everyone pauses.
Yoongi lowers his shades in interest.
Hobi’s smile appears instantly. “Oho. We’re doing announcements now?”
Taehyung rolls onto his side, legs tangled in a throw pillow. “Are you pregnant?”
“Shut up,” Jungkook mutters. “It’s about Jimin.”
Immediately, Namjoon makes a noise of understanding. Jin turns off the stove.
Yoongi doesn’t move, but he does raise a brow.
Jungkook swallows. “I wanna ask him to move in with me.”
The room stills.
Hoseok’s eyes go soft. “Oh, Kook.”
“But I’m scared.”
And there it is—raw and vulnerable, right in the centre of the room. Jungkook, still a little sweaty from the train ride over, hair mussed, hoodie sleeves pushed up, standing with his fingers twitching and a nervous flush blooming up his neck.
“I’m really scared,” he says again, quieter this time. “Not because I don’t want it—I do. I want him all the time. Like—everywhere. I want to wake up next to him and cook him eggs he’ll complain about and steal his fancy moisturizer. I want to learn what side of the bed he prefers and fold his socks wrong and kiss him when he’s brushing his teeth. I want to come home and have him there.”
Silence.
Then—
“That was, like, aggressively romantic,” Yoongi mutters.
Taehyung wipes a fake tear from his eye. “I’m so proud.”
Jin huffs and leans against the side of the couch. “So what’s the problem?”
Jungkook rubs the back of his neck. “It’s Jimin.”
Everyone nods.
“Right,” Jungkook coughs. “I mean—he says he loves me. And I know he does. But he’s still… Jimin. He gets overwhelmed. He likes his space. I don’t want to push him into something just because I’m ready. What if I scare him off?”
Hoseok comes over and ruffles his hair. “You won’t.”
“You might,” Taehyung adds helpfully. “But it’s fine. He won’t run.”
Jungkook looks at him, alarmed.
“He’s already halfway living with you anyway,” Taehyung continues. “Dude left half his socks at your place. We both know that’s domesticity in Jimin-speak.”
“I found his shampoo in my shower,” Jungkook whispers.
“Exactly.”
Namjoon sits on the arm of the couch, hands clasped. “Just be honest with him. He doesn’t need a proposal. He just needs reassurance.”
“Yeah,” Jin agrees. “And maybe don’t spring it on him during sex.”
Jungkook’s ears go red. “I wasn’t going to—!”
“You were definitely going to.”
Yoongi finally looks up. “Just ask. If he panics, give him time. If he says no, you’ll still have him.”
Jungkook exhales.
Then smiles, feeling lighter.
“Thanks guys.”
Taehyung throws a pillow at him. “Now let me tell you what kind of décor he prefers. We need to prepare.”
♡
It’s late when Jungkook finally brings it up.
Not late like midnight. Late like comfortable. Warm lights. Brushed teeth. Pajamas. Jimin fresh from the shower, wearing one of Jungkook’s oversized shirts and his own tiny boxers, hair towel-dried and sticking up in spikes.
He’s cross-legged on the bed, flipping through some stats problem set on his tablet, glasses perched on his nose. Jungkook’s lying beside him, one arm curled behind his head, pretending to scroll through his phone but really just stealing glances every other second.
There’s half a takeout box on the floor. Two mugs on the window ledge. A hoodie on the radiator. One of Jimin’s socks by the foot of the bed.
Jungkook’s dorm doesn’t really look like his anymore.
It looks like theirs.
And that thought—God, that thought hits him like a gut punch.
“Hey,” he says quietly.
Jimin hums, not looking up.
Jungkook shifts, nervous now. “Can I ask you something?”
That gets his attention. Jimin looks over, eyes tired but focused.
Jungkook swallows.
“I’ve been thinking about next year.”
Jimin blinks. “Okay…”
“Like—housing. Off-campus. Maybe getting an apartment.”
Jimin nods slowly. “Makes sense. Dorms are a shithole.”
“Yeah,” Jungkook laughs, but it’s forced. His fingers twitch a little against the sheets. “So I was wondering…”
He hesitates.
Then just says it, fuck it.
“Do you wanna get a place together?”
Jimin stares.
Not shocked. Not angry. Just… still.
Jungkook’s heart is racing.
“I know it’s soon,” he rushes to add. “And we’re still students and your dorm’s closer to your classes and it’s only been a few months but—Jimin—I want this.”
He’s sitting up now, voice hushed but trembling with nerves.
“I want to wake up next to you every day. I want to argue about rent and who used the last of the oat milk. I want to know what kind of curtains you hate and whether you leave the toothpaste cap on. I want to live with you. Not in this dorm, not by accident. On purpose.”
Jimin doesn’t say anything, but his nose twitches.
Jungkook falters. “It’s not about proving anything, okay? I just—being with you is the best part of my day. Every day. And I want more of that.”
Still nothing.
Jungkook scrubs a hand down his face, looks away.
“Okay. Maybe it’s stupid.”
Jimin exhales. Quiet, long. His tablet’s still in his lap. His fingers are perfectly still.
“It’s not stupid,” he says finally.
Jungkook’s head snaps up.
Jimin’s voice is soft. Thoughtful. “You’re right. Dorms suck. And… you’re right about me always being here.”
Jungkook’s eyes flicker, hope sparking again.
“But?” he asks carefully.
“No buts,” Jimin says. “I’m just… surprised. You don’t think it’s too fast?”
“I do,” Jungkook says honestly. “But I want it anyway.”
Jimin looks at him for a long time.
Then, very slowly, closes his tablet, pulls his glasses off, and sets them aside.
He shifts closer.
Tucks his chin into the crook of Jungkook’s shoulder and mumbles, “You have to let me pick the toiletries”
Jungkook blinks. “Wait. Are you saying yes?”
“I’m saying if we’re getting an apartment, it’s not gonna smell like your goddamn fruit-loop nightmare body wash.”
Jungkook tackles him with a laugh that sounds suspiciously like relief, arms around his waist, nose buried in his hair.
“You’re serious?”
“I’m saying yes,” Jimin mutters, pinching his side. “Now shut up before I change my mind.”
But Jungkook doesn’t shut up.
He kisses him instead. Over and over.
♡
Apartment hunting with Jimin turns out to be... an experience.
Not because he’s fussy—Jungkook knew that. Not because he has a clipboard and a pen and a literal rubric for scoring each unit—Jungkook expected that too, kind of. Not even because he keeps muttering things like “if the fridge opens toward the wall again, I’m walking”—no, the real issue is that Jungkook has the attention span of a fruit fly and keeps falling in love with every cursed studio that looks remotely “artsy.”
“This one has character,” Jungkook says, standing in the middle of a sunlit loft that smells vaguely of mildew and old takeout.
“It has exposed wiring,” Jimin deadpans.
“But the light—”
“It has no insulation. You’ll die by winter.”
The next place is worse.
There’s a weird slope in the floor that makes the fridge tilt at a seven-degree angle, and the living room is somehow smaller than the bathroom.
Jimin gives it a zero. Jungkook gives it a six “for potential.”
By the fourth apartment, they’re both exhausted. Jimin’s folded his clipboard in half and is visibly restraining himself from beating their realtor with it, and Jungkook keeps drifting off during walkthroughs, distracted by things like windowsills wide enough to sit on and the idea of painting a mural on one of the blank walls.
“You’re impossible,” Jimin groans as they leave a place that had all the right specs but smelled like burnt hair and had an inexplicable mirror on the ceiling.
“You’re controlling,” Jungkook retorts. “You rejected one because the hallway was too long.”
“It’s ominous!”
They bicker the entire walk to the next showing.
But when they get there—something clicks.
The building is nothing special. Mid-sized, not too flashy. But the apartment itself? Clean layout. Lots of light. A window in the kitchen. A small balcony just big enough for plants or, as Jungkook suggests, “midnight philosophical crises.”
There’s a wide double sink, room for a small dining table, and a weird alcove by the door that Jimin immediately claims as a shoe rack zone.
Jungkook is quiet as they walk through. More focused this time. More… settled.
He watches Jimin walk around the bedroom—testing the light, tapping at the walls like he’s listening for ghosts—and he realizes something: this feels right.
Not because of the floor plan.
Not because of the rent (which is suspiciously cheap for Seoul ).
But because Jimin looks like he could belong here.
“You like it?” Jungkook asks.
Jimin shrugs, pretending to check the ceiling height. “It doesn’t make me want to claw my eyes out.”
Jungkook grins. “High praise.”
They stand in the empty living room for a long moment.
Then Jungkook says, “I could see us here.”
Jimin glances over. His face softens.
“Yeah,” he says, quieter now. “Me too.”
♡
Moving day is controlled chaos.
Half-unpacked boxes and missing socks, Jungkook’s skincare leaking inside a tote bag, and a tense debate over whether the bathroom towel hook should be left or right of the mirror.
(“Left has better reach,” Jimin argues.
“Right is where God intended,” Jungkook insists.
“You don’t believe in God, you ass.” )
They order food. Eat sitting on the floor. Jimin cuts open a box labelled MISC STUFF??? And finds three of Jungkook’s old sketchbooks, a neon-pink shoelace, and six sealed bags of sour candy.
They laugh. Bicker. Organize. Jimin folds Jungkook’s T-shirts with retail precision , and Jungkook keeps disappearing in and out of each room just to kiss him and say “we live here now.”
By the time the sun begins to dip golden behind the buildings, they’re both wiped.
Jungkook is stretched out on the bedroom floor, shirt damp with sweat, hair a mess, surrounded by the remains of a very ill-fated IKEA nightstand.
“You good?” Jimin calls from the living room.
“Define good,” Jungkook groans.
There’s no answer.
Just the sound of wood scraping against wood and Jimin’s cursing.
Jungkook sits up, confused. Pads barefoot into the other room.
And stops in the doorway.
There, in the farthest corner of the living room—bathed in warm golden light from the massive window—is an easel.
It’s old. Clearly second-hand. The wood has small dings, the joints slightly rusted, but it’s upright. Steady. Real.
There’s a blank canvas already clipped to it, a mason jar for water beside it.
A small folding stool that definitely didn’t exist in their belongings earlier that morning.
And next to it—Jimin. Shirt rumpled. Holding two paintbrushes in one hand, face pinched in confusion.
Jungkook’s heart slams into his throat.
“You—” he starts, voice cracking. “Where did you—?”
“Thrifted it last week,” Jimin says, eyes flitting up to meet his. “Got the brushes too. You keep saying you haven’t painted since spring semester and I figured… if you’re gonna do it again, you should have a good spot.”
Jungkook just stares.
Jimin shifts awkwardly. “You okay?”
And then Jungkook—5”10 of muscle and chaos—makes a soft, wounded sound and covers his face with one hand.
“Oh my god,” he mutters.
“Are you crying?” Jimin asks, scandalized.
Jungkook’s voice comes out tight. “No.”
Jimin stares at him.
“You’re definitely crying.”
“Shut up.”
Jimin steps forward, brushes his thumb across the corner of Jungkook’s eye, catching a tear.
“You’re such a loser,” he says softly.
“I’m in love with you,” Jungkook whispers back, breath hitching.
Jimin pauses.
Then leans in, rests their foreheads together.
“I know. Me too.”
They stand there in the sunlight. Quiet. Close. Holding each other like the world outside the walls doesn’t exist.
And behind them, in the corner of the room—the easel waits.
♡
Living together is not a fantasy.
Not in the way it looks on Pinterest boards or in dramas with montages and plant-filled kitchen counters and lovers feeding each other strawberries in the kitchen.
It’s messy.
It’s Jimin grumbling when Jungkook leaves his gym clothes on the floor again. It’s Jungkook nearly crying after forgetting to back up an entire project file and Jimin spending two hours helping him salvage what he can. It’s burnt rice. It’s toothbrushes mixed up during early-morning rushes. It’s fighting over who left the damn sponge soaking in the sink.
And yet—
It works. They make it work.
Because for every sock that Jimin hurls at Jungkook’s head in frustration, there’s a kiss pressed to the crown of it later. For every minor blow-up, there’s shared silence in the warm lamplight, curled up together on the couch, forehead to shoulder, nothing said but everything settled.
They both juggle too much—Jimin’s tight deadlines, constant TA emails, grading. Jungkook’s exhibitions, studio time, commissions piling up. Their laptops are open more than they’re not. Coffee is their God. Sometimes they sit in complete silence for hours, backs to each other, working, not touching, not speaking—and it’s enough.
But there are things that make it worth it.
The ease.
The comfort.
The sex.
God, the sex.
Because their apartment? A corner unit. One neighbour too far to hear anything. No one above them. And the way the layout curls inward means no one passing by the hallway can hear anything. It’s the kind of thing you notice once—maybe the first time Jungkook gets loud and waits, frozen, to hear a knock, a complaint, a cough through the wall.
But nothing comes.
And from that moment on, it becomes their unspoken blessing.
Jimin learns this quickly.
Learns that Jungkook—sweet, romantic, love-drunk Jungkook—is also loud.
Not just when he moans, though that alone could rattle drywall. But when he talks. Filthy talk. Constant, shameless, needy babble.
He begs.
He whines.
He praises like Jimin invented touch.
“God, baby, you feel so fucking good—so tight around me, fuck, I could stay here forever—”
Jimin’s first instinct is to cover his mouth.
But then he doesn’t.
Because something about it—something about Jungkook being vocal, desperate, so ruined by nothing but Jimin’s body—it sinks into his skin like wildfire.
And the best part?
He doesn’t have to stop.
Doesn’t have to muffle Jungkook’s voice with a kiss or rush them through it in fear of being heard.
No, he can take his time.
He can press Jungkook down into the mattress, ride him slow and relentless, and let the sound fill the room.
He can let Jungkook fuck him on the kitchen counter at noon, with the window cracked open and the sunlight slashing across Jungkook’s sweat-slick back, and no one hears.
He can make him cry with Jungkook’s cock down his throat in the shower, and the only consequence is Jungkook gripping his hair, gasping, “Fuck, I love you—” against the tile.
Sometimes they start quiet—lazy, kissing in bed, wrapped in blankets, just touching because it’s been a long day—but it never stays that way. Not when Jungkook gets greedy. Not when Jimin loses his restraint.
There are nights Jungkook moans so loud Jimin laughs mid-thrust, biting down on his shoulder just to shut him up, only for Jungkook to groan louder in return.
“You like it when I’m loud, don’t you?”
And Jimin—cheeks flushed, sweat dripping, breathless—whispers, “Yeah. So keep going.”
And Jungkook does.
Over and over.
They learn that love is in the details: the thermostat Jimin always resets. The way Jungkook always forgets to turn off the bathroom light. The way Jimin pretends to be annoyed when Jungkook pulls him into his lap when he’s studying and never pushes him off.
They learn the rhythm of each other.
And they keep getting louder.
Because here—their space—they don’t have to hide.
They don’t have to tone it down.
They get to want, to ache, to cry out without restraint.
And they take advantage of that every goddamn night.
♡
They never have the conversation.
Not about the winter break. Not about going home. It just… never came up.
Which, between the two of them, says everything. Because Jimin plans everything down to the last decimal place, and Jungkook romanticizes everything. But this? This was just a slow, quiet understanding. Like gravity. Like breath.
Of course they were going to spend the holidays together.
Of course Jimin bought two train tickets three weeks in advance.
Of course Jungkook told his parents and even formally emailed Jimin’s parents to let them know that he’d love to meet them.
Of course.
They’re in their apartment. Still a little bare in places. Still echoing at night when the wind hits the wrong corner. But it’s theirs. The heating hums. The kettle sings. Jimin mutters about tinsel being tacky as fuck while Jungkook cranks up his bluetooth speaker to a playlist that got “JIMIN DON’T TOUCH ” written on the title in all caps.
They buy a tree together.
They fight about it, naturally.
Jimin wants something tidy. Compact. Efficient. Jungkook wants the six-foot, wonky-limbed disaster with character.
They compromise, which means they leave with the one Jungkook wanted because Jimin sighed and said, “Whatever, it’s your funeral when that thing tips over in the middle of the night.”
They drag it up the stairs, curse through the elevator ride, get it wedged through the apartment door with more struggle than either of them will ever admit.
By the time they’re setting it up in the corner of the living room, it’s already dark outside. The radiator ticks. The window fogs gently. Jimin is standing back, hands on his hips, squinting at the tree like it personally offended him.
Jungkook’s still kneeling at the base, plugging in the first string of lights.
“Crooked,” Jimin says.
“I like it crooked,” Jungkook mutters.
Jimin glances at him. “No comment.”
Jungkook grins.
They don’t talk much after that. The decorations come out. Most are mismatched—some cheap plastic, a few nice ones they picked out at a pop-up market last week, a tiny clay wolf ornament Jungkook swears was made to look like him. There’s more cheap tinsel, a mess of ribbon, and about ten too many red baubles.
They hang in silence, brushing fingers sometimes, bumping shoulders. Jimin fixes things after Jungkook walks away from them. Jungkook pretends not to notice.
It’s peaceful.
Then Jimin disappears into the hallway.
Jungkook doesn’t think anything of it at first. Keeps working on the lights, humming under his breath. When Jimin returns, he’s holding a box Jungkook’s never seen before. It’s small. Taped at the edges. Looks older than most of what they brought here.
Jimin kneels quietly beside the tree.
Opens it.
Inside are six ornaments. Not store-bought. Not coordinated. Just—old. Homemade. One is a glittery paper snowflake, bent at the edge. Another is a yellowed bauble, initials scribbled across it in permanent marker. There’s a felt gingerbread man with uneven stitching, and a frayed star with Jiminie embroidered into the front.
“I used to hang these with my mom and brother, they love Christmas,” Jimin says, softly, like he’s not really talking to anyone. “Same ones every year. They’re kind of ugly, but… I liked them.”
He doesn’t offer anything else. Just picks one up and hooks it gently on a branch near the top.
And Jungkook—still crouched by the outlet, lights dangling in one hand—goes completely still.
Because there are a hundred things Jimin has never said to him. A hundred walls he never asked to be broken down. But this—this quiet little offering, this moment of memory and vulnerability—it’s not just about ornaments.
It’s about trust.
Jimin is giving him something that doesn’t ask to be acknowledged. That isn’t showy or curated or intentional. He’s letting Jungkook see it. Be part of it.
And Jungkook… forgets how to breathe.
He moves before he can stop himself, crossing the space in a few soundless steps. Comes up behind him. Wraps his arms around his waist, presses his face to the back of Jimin’s neck.
Jimin doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t speak.
Just relaxes into it.
They stand there for a long time. No words. No music. Just the faint crackle of the heating and the glow of fairy lights wrapped around crooked branches.
And Jungkook—he knows.
Knows it in the weight of Jimin’s body against his. Knows it in the soft exhale from his nose. Knows it in the quiet way Jimin is allowing this space to be theirs—not just in name, but in memory. In permanence.
“I want this,” Jungkook murmurs finally, voice low against his skin.
Jimin hums. “Hm?”
“I want this forever.”
Jimin leans back a little. Not enough to pull away. Just enough to rest his head on Jungkook’s shoulder. “You already have it.”
Jungkook presses his mouth to Jimin’s cheek. Breathes him in.
And something in his chest settles. Expands.
Because this is home now.
---
Dinner is quiet that evening.
Too quiet.
Jungkook’s been watching him all evening—tracking Jimin’s every blink, every shift of weight, every breath like he’s lining up a shot. It’s not playful, not teasing. There’s no smirk curling his mouth. Just something tighter. Sharper. Focused.
Jimin notices the shift.
The way he’s unusually quiet during dinner, barely touching his food. The way his gaze lingers—not soft, but hungry, like he’s holding something back out of sheer will. Jimin says something about needing to clear the dishes and Jungkook doesn’t answer, just leans back in his chair, spreads his thighs and stares.
The dishes will have to wait, apparently.
By the time they make it to the bedroom, Jimin’s mouth is dry.
Jungkook shuts the door. Doesn’t rush. Doesn’t speak either.
Jimin stands there, waiting—expecting to be kissed, maybe pushed, maybe pinned against the wall like usual—but Jungkook doesn’t move. Just lifts his chin slightly and says, “Strip.”
And Jimin—cocky, sharp-tongued, always in control—strips.
No questions asked.
Not because he’s obedient. Not because he’s, god forbid, nervous. But because something in Jungkook’s voice tells him this isn’t one of those nights where he gets to mouth off and be smug about it. This is something else. Something low and serious, coiled beneath the surface of Jungkook’s skin.
He peels his shirt off first. Then his pants. He’s not wearing underwear.
Jungkook’s eyes drag over him, heavy and lingering. His breathing deepens just once before he finally moves forward. Jimin expects a kiss—but no. Jungkook drops to his knees instead. Presses a kiss to his hipbone. Then his thigh. Then bites.
It’s not gentle.
There’s nothing gentle about what comes next.
He manhandles Jimin onto the bed like he weighs nothing. Spreads him out, palms rough on his thighs, then forces them wider until Jimin’s back arches off the sheets. His breath hitches, and he feels Jungkook’s mouth again—open, wet, relentless.
Jungkook eats him out like he’s trying to unravel him.
No build-up. No easing into it. Just spit and tongue and desperate, obscene noises echoing off the bedroom walls. Jimin is already sweating, already gasping, clutching at Jungkook’s hair with trembling hands. Jungkook doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down. He groans into him like he’s getting off on it, like Jimin’s taste is enough.
And when Jimin starts to shake, babbling something incoherent, Jungkook pulls away just enough to say, “You’re not coming like this.”
Then flips him onto his stomach like he owns him.
Condom. Lube. Fingers stretching him open, fast and practiced, but not careless. Jimin whines into the pillow, hips jerking up involuntarily. Jungkook bites his shoulder, hard, then drags his tongue across the mark like an apology.
“Gonna fuck you properly,” he breathes against Jimin’s neck. “None of that teasing shit tonight. You want games, you can ask tomorrow.”
Jimin doesn’t answer.
Doesn’t need to.
Because then Jungkook’s pushing in, thick and steady, hips grinding down with maddening control—and Jimin forgets how to breathe.
It’s deep. Deep in a way that feels unfair, every inch of him being used, filled, claimed. Jungkook doesn’t stop once he’s bottomed out. He just stays there, breath shaking, hands gripping Jimin’s hips so hard he’ll bruise.
“Fuck,” Jungkook rasps, voice breaking. “Fuck, Jimin”
Then he moves.
And Jimin—so often quick with words, with smirks, with dry little jabs—can’t say anything.
All that comes out are sounds. Broken little things. Moans and choked-off gasps that sound too raw to be real.
Jungkook fucks him hard. Unapologetically. Each thrust knocks the breath out of him. Each roll of hips forces Jimin to take more, deeper, harder, louder.
Sweat drips from Jungkook’s jaw onto Jimin’s spine. He leans down and bites the back of his neck, hisses praise into his skin like he’ll die if he doesn’t say it.
“So tight. Always so fucking tight for me.”
“You were made for this. For me.”
“Look at you. Taking it.”
Jimin tries to answer. Can’t.
His mind’s a mess. His body’s on fire. And Jungkook—Jungkook fucks like he’s possessed.
He pulls Jimin up by the hair, growls into his ear, “Want everyone to know who you belong to.”
Jimin sobs. Doesn’t know if he’s nodding or just bobbing his head.
And Jungkook just keeps going.
---
Jimin can’t find his voice.
He’s not sure when he lost it—somewhere between the second time Jungkook slammed into him and the fifth time he bit down on his own fist to keep from crying out. But it’s gone now, buried beneath the constant thud of skin on skin, the damp drag of the sheets beneath his knees, the sting of fingernails biting into his hips.
The room is loud with noise.
With them.
With the slap of Jungkook’s thighs against his ass. With the wet, brutal squelch of lube and sweat and spit. With Jungkook’s voice, hoarse and desperate and endless, spilling filth in low, reverent growls between ragged breaths.
“Fuck—listen to you,” he pants, one hand wrapped tight around Jimin’s throat, the other spreading him open wider. “So fucking loud. So pretty when you get fucked stupid.”
Jimin whimpers, eyes unfocused, face pressed to the pillowcase that smells like the two of them—detergent, skin, home.
He’s ruined.
There’s no other word for it.
His chest is flushed, his lips parted and slick, drool wetting the corner of his mouth. His legs won’t stop shaking and his back arches instinctively, chasing every punishing thrust like it’s salvation.
Jungkook leans over him, breathing hard, mouth against his shoulder. “You feel that?” he grits out. “I’m so fucking deep, baby—gonna split you open if you keep clenching like that.”
He drives in harder.
Jimin cries out.
There’s sweat everywhere. On the backs of his knees. Down the curve of his spine. In the hollow of Jungkook’s throat as it flexes with every thrust. The mattress creaks violently beneath them, legs of the bedframe shifting ever so slightly on the floorboards.
The smell is thick in the room—sex and heat and something raw, something feral.
Jungkook doesn’t slow even for a second.
His grip shifts, hooks under Jimin’s knee, pulling it up until Jimin is nearly folded, until the angle turns brutal and dizzying and deep—so deep Jimin almost sobs when he sinks down, cock punching into him hard enough to steal his breath. His fingers claw at the sheets, at the pillow, at anything.
And still—Jungkook doesn’t stop.
The pace gets rougher. Meaner. Unrelenting.
“Look at you,” he groans. “So full of me—fuck—you love it, don’t you?”
Jimin tries to answer. Tries to find anything to say.
But all that leaves him is a moan, punched out from the bottom of his lungs. A wet, desperate gurgle that slips from his throat in affirmation.
It’s all Jungkook needs.
“Yeah,” he hisses, voice gone, hands shaking from how hard he’s holding on. “That’s it. Take it. Take all of it.”
There’s a sudden, filthy wet sound when he pulls out only to slam back in again—balls slapping against slick skin, lube-slick and sticky. Jimin’s whole body jolts. He doesn’t even know what angle they’re in anymore, only that it’s too much and not enough and perfect all at once.
And when he starts to sob—tiny, overwhelmed sounds curling in the back of his throat—Jungkook finally slows.
Just for a second.
Lets his palm smooth over Jimin’s ribs, his stomach, his chest. Lowers down until their bodies are flush. Until he’s there, pressed to every inch of him, cock still buried deep, but now rolling into him with the kind of rhythm that destroys.
He kisses behind Jimin’s ear. “Still with me?”
Jimin nods. Barely.
“Tell me.”
Another nod. His voice a whisper. “Still—still here.”
Jungkook exhales. Then licks a stripe up his neck, voice low and messy and tender under all that filth.
“Good,” he says. “Because I’m not fucking done yet.”
And Jimin—his heart in his throat, his legs spread and shaking, his body covered in sweat and salt and spit—can only nod again, because whatever Jungkook wants?
He’ll take it.
And when Jungkook finally pushes him over the edge—when he slaps Jimin’s cock once, sharp and mean, and whispers, “Come for me, my love”—Jimin breaks into a thousand little pieces.
He shatters with a cry that echoes off the walls, whole body tensing and eyes rolling back as he spills across his own stomach and the sheets bellow, teeth sunk into Jungkook’s wrist, tears pricking the corners of his eyes.
“Fucking shit—gonna cum—,” Jungkook groans, falters, then slams in one last time and comes, deep and harsh, hips jerking as he moans Jimin’s name like a prayer.
The silence after is deafening.
Just the rustle of sheets. The panting of two chests struggling to find breath. The slight creak of the headboard as Jungkook collapses on top of him, arms trembling.
He doesn’t pull out.
Doesn’t speak.
Just breathes, presses kiss after kiss to Jimin’s skin, soft and slow, grounding them both.
Jimin can’t move. Can’t think.
His voice is gone.
His brain is fried.
His body aches in the best possible way.
And when Jungkook finally speaks, it’s a whisper against his spine.
“Are you okay?”
Jimin hums. Or tries to.
He opens his mouth to say something, anything—
But nothing comes out.
Not even a quip.
And Jungkook grins and slaps his ass, satisfied with himself.
♡
Jungkook stands half-hiding behind Jimin on the porch of the Park family home, hands tucked into his coat pockets to hide how clammy they’ve become. The house is modest, warm-looking from the outside, tucked above the small café Jimin’s parents run together. There’s soft yellow light in the windows and faint music playing somewhere beyond the door. Jungkook’s never been this nervous in his life.
“You’re fidgeting,” Jimin mutters beside him.
Jungkook presses his mouth into a line. “I’m fine.”
“You’re about to vibrate out of your own skin.”
“Why are you so calm?”
“Because my family’s nice,” Jimin says dryly. “You’re the one acting like you’re walking into a courtroom.”
“They’re your parents.”
“And?”
“And you’re—” Jungkook cuts himself off with a pout.
Jimin glances over. “What?”
Jungkook shrugs, eyes fixed on the door. “You’re kind of everything to me. That’s all.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then Jimin opens the door and walks in without another word, leaving Jungkook scrambling after him like a puppy late to a leash tug.
Inside, the air is humid with stove heat and smells of cinnamon, rice, and roasted vegetables. It wraps around Jungkook like a blanket too warm for his nerves. A boy bolts out of the hallway before Jungkook even manages to take off his shoes—barefoot, socked feet sliding across the wooden floor, face bright and completely unguarded.
“Mimi!”
Jimin doesn’t have time to respond before the boy throws himself at him in a full-bodied hug, arms wrapped tight around his middle. Jimin lets out a soft grunt but doesn’t push him away.
“Hi, Jihoon.”
“You’re finally home.” Jihoon pulls back, beaming, and then immediately turns to Jungkook. “Is this him?”
Jungkook stands frozen in place, halfway through bowing. “Uh. Yes. Hi.”
Jihoon narrows his eyes. He’s younger—clearly still in high school—but taller than Jungkook expected, with a sunny expression that hasn’t been tempered by cynicism yet.
“You’re better looking than your Instagram. But your fashion’s worse.”
Jimin groans. “Jihoon.”
Jihoon grins. “I’m kidding. Sort of. Come in, hyung.”
And just like that, Jungkook is led by the hand into the living room where Mrs. Park is already waiting with a plate of peeled tangerines and two extra sets of slippers. She takes one look at Jungkook and breaks into a smile so warm it could thaw the pavement outside.
“Oh, look at this one,” she coos, stepping forward to adjust his scarf like he’s already hers. “You’re even more handsome in person. What’s your skin routine? Do you eat enough? Do you like galbi jjim?”
Jungkook, caught in the act of trying to bow politely, nods mutely.
“He’s fine, eomma,” Jimin says from behind him. “Stop interrogating him. You’re going to make him faint.”
Mr. Park emerges from the kitchen with quiet footsteps and a smile that looks like Jimin’s in ten years—same soft mouth, same slanted eyes. He shakes Jungkook’s hand with both of his own.
“We’re glad you’re here,” he says simply, not offering more but meaning every word.
Dinner is served not long after—two types of soup, five kinds of banchan, grilled mackerel still crackling in its dish. The table is small but crowded, plates passed around without any clear system, everyone speaking at once. Jihoon talks enough for three people, asking Jungkook questions that range from his GPA to what shampoo he uses to whether he’s ever seen Jimin cry (Jungkook chokes on his rice at that one). Jimin sits with his jaw tight, muttering under his breath, glaring with no real heat.
No one listens to him.
It’s loud. It’s chaotic. Jungkook hasn’t stopped blushing for twenty minutes.
And it’s… beautiful.
This family is absurdly loving. Jihoon leans his head on Jimin’s shoulder between bites. Mrs. Park steals bits of food off everyone’s plate with no shame. Mr. Park quietly refills cups of barley tea and keeps track of who prefers what without saying a word. Jimin is clearly adored—fussed over, teased and admired.
Jungkook watches all of this and feels the tiniest ache in his chest.
Because now it makes sense.
Of course Jimin is the way he is—sharp edges, sealed lips, a constant need to prove he’s okay without help. He grew up in the softest place imaginable. He had to build armour around himself just to have his own shape.
After dinner, Jimin drags Jungkook up the stairs to his old bedroom with the kind of resigned sigh that only comes from years of suffering affectionate family chaos. The room is small and clean, walls painted pale grey, a shelf full of books alphabetized by subject and a few worn plushies tucked into the corner of the bed.
Jungkook sits on the floor while Jimin closes the door and exhales like he’s survived something massive.
“Don’t,” Jimin says before Jungkook even opens his mouth.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were going to.”
Jungkook smiles, stretching his legs out. “Your brother’s great.”
“He’s alright.”
“And your mom? Kind of terrifying. In a good way.”
Jimin snorts. “She’s a saint.”
“She raised you. That alone deserves canonization.”
Jimin gives him a look. But then his face softens just slightly, as he drops down next to him, shoulder pressed to Jungkook’s, bare foot brushing his knee.
“They like you,” he says softly after a pause.
“Really?”
Jimin doesn’t answer. But he bumps his head gently against Jungkook’s shoulder, then stays there.
Which, Jungkook knows by now, means yes.
♡
The Jeon house is tucked into one of Busan’s quieter residential streets—low fences, potted plants lining the walkway, a front gate Jungkook still has to jiggle twice before it unlatches properly. The yard smells faintly of sesame oil from a neighbour’s window and something green and citrusy drifting from inside the house.
“It might get weird,” Jungkook mutters as they approach the door.
Jimin glances at him, deadpan. “That’s literally your brand. I don’t expect anything less.”
The moment the door opens, Jungkook’s mom is already halfway through a delighted gasp. She’s in a house apron, hair pinned up messily, hands still dusted with flour. Her eyes land on Jimin and go wide with warmth.
It’s almost scary how identical that look is to Jungkook’s own.
“Oh, so this is the Jimin,” she says, stepping forward before Jungkook can even get a greeting out. “You’re even prettier in person. Wah—Jungkook-ah, you weren’t kidding.”
Jimin bows, polite and formal. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Jeon. Thank you for having me.”
She waves it off and ushers them both inside with one hand on Jungkook’s shoulder and the other tugging Jimin’s wrist gently. “Don’t be so stiff, we’re not meeting for a job interview. Come in, come in—your face looks cold. I made yuzu tea.”
Inside, the house smells like dried herbs and something mildly nutty—probably perilla leaves from the stew simmering in the kitchen. It’s a lived-in space: low wooden tables, rice paper screens tucked into corners, and a wall near the hallway covered in old photographs and framed paintings. There’s art everywhere—stacked on chairs, hung in cluttered rows, resting against the baseboards. The kind of home that clearly belongs to artists, but nothing screams pretentious. It’s functional chaos. The good kind.
Jungkook’s dad appears from the back room, wiping his hands on a cloth. He’s taller than Jungkook, with the same doe eyes and easy smile. “You must be Jimin. I’ve seen your name pop up in my son’s texts more times than I can count.”
Jimin bows again. “Thank you for having me, sir.”
“You don’t have to speak so formally,” Mr. Jeon says, smiling. “Just relax. Jungkook’s already told us you’re the type to be...particular.”
Jimin shoots Jungkook a glance. Jungkook looks studiously at his socks.
They sit around the floor table, sipping tea and snacking on small plates of dried persimmon and roasted chestnuts. Mrs. Jeon fusses over whether Jimin is too thin and whether he gets enough greens. Mr. Jeon tells a funny story about Jungkook forgetting his art portfolio in elementary school and crying on the bus. Jimin listens quietly, nodding along, never once looking overwhelmed.
He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t fidget. Just drinks his tea and responds with the occasional comment so dry it makes Mr. Jeon wheeze with laughter. When Jungkook disappears briefly to help bring out the stew, Jimin’s still there, calmly accepting another piece of sweet potato from Mrs. Jeon, who’s now telling him how Jungkook used to sneak out to paint the neighbour's cat because he thought it looked ‘lonely.’
Dinner is hot and loud in the way comfortable families always are. Mrs. Jeon tells Jungkook to sit straight and their guest’s plate constantly. Mr. Jeon insists Jimin eat more, and when Jimin casually mentions about his family’s café, the entire table launches into a heated debate about fish cakes.
Afterward, while Jungkook helps wash the dishes, Jimin wanders to the hallway and pauses in front of one of the paintings. It’s soft—watercolour, muted colours, a coastal town blurred at the edges. Mrs. Jeon walks up beside him, wiping her hands.
“Jungkook painted that one,” she says. “The year he started high school. I think he was lonely, but he wouldn’t say it.”
Jimin nods, gaze lingering. “It’s warm.”
Mrs. Jeon looks at him for a moment, then pats his arm. “Thank you for taking care of him.”
“I don’t do much.”
She smiles. “You do enough. He glows when he talks about you.”
When they leave, she packs them both leftovers in metal containers with elastic bands stretched tight across the lids. “So you eat something other than instant noodles,” she says. “And if Jimin’s cooking, at least I know you won’t burn the house down.”
Jungkook groans. “Eomma—”
Jimin just takes the bag with a short bow and a neutral, unreadable face.
He glances briefly at Jungkook, then at his mother’s smiling face, then looks down shyly at his boots—ears turning red.
“Would you like to spend New Year’s eve with us at my family’s café?”
Mrs. Jeon’s face splits into a wide, familiar grin.
♡
It’s New Year’s Eve, and the café is warmer than usual—not just from the space heaters humming in the corners, but from the kind of cosy, lingering heat that clings to clothing and makes people relax. The overhead lights are low, replaced with strings of gold and warm white, casting a soft glow across the windows and table tops. The scent of spices and sizzling meat hangs in the air. Everything feels soft at the edges, like the night is stretching out on purpose.
The long table in the centre of the room is dressed in cream linen and topped with a spread that looks more like a festival than dinner. Japchae, steamed dumplings, grilled fish, stacks of rice cakes, and a still-warm pot of Jimin’s mother’s famous cinnamon punch. Everything is neat, symmetrical, painstakingly presented.
Jimin and Jungkook sit at the edge of the gathering when Jungkook’s parents arrive, side-by-side but not quite relaxed. Identical expressions of quiet panic plastered across their faces.
"Don’t say anything weird," Jimin mutters, eyes straight ahead.
"I never say anything weird."
"You told my brother you thought my eyebrows were noble."
"They are noble."
"God—."
Across the room, Mrs. Park claps her hands. "Boys! Stop whispering and come say hello properly."
Jungkook stands first, brushing imaginary dust off his sweater before joining his parents and bowing low to the Parks. Jimin follows with the look of someone being marched toward a firing squad.
The greetings are warm, the bows slightly awkward, but no one seems to mind. Mrs. Jeon offers a bundle of gifts wrapped in patterned cloth—a bottle of aged Japanese whiskey and two framed watercolours that Jungkook painted himself.
Mrs. Park accepts them like they’re family heirlooms. Mr. Park practically beams when he’s handed the bottle, “You didn’t have to bring anything.”
Mrs. Jeon smiles. “Nonsense, thank you for having us.”
When everyone finally sits down, dinner begins in earnest.
"It’s so lovely to have you here," Mrs. Park says as she pours tea, the spout held perfectly still. "We’ve heard about you from Jimin and Jungkook during phone calls. I think it’s about time we met in person."
"I feel like we already know you," Mrs. Jeon replies, reaching for her cup. "Jungkook never stops talking about your Jimin."
Jimin freezes with a rice cake halfway to his mouth. Across from him, Jungkook goes red in the ears.
"Really?" Mr. Park asks, turning toward Jungkook with a slow grin.
"Oh yes," Mrs. Jeon continues, nodding. "He’ll say things like, ‘Jimin explained regression analysis to me in two minutes flat’ or ‘Jimin got a perfect score again’… Honestly, we started to feel like we owed your son tuition money and our Jungkookie isn’t even in the same course."
Mr. Jeon chuckles. "He even showed us a drawing he did of Jimin hunched over a desk while studying. Said it was his favourite."
"He gets like that," Mr. Park says fondly. "Used to colour-code his toy bins and get upset when his blocks weren’t symmetrical. We used to joke that he came out of the womb annoyed."
Jimin sighs. "Please don’t tell that story."
"You used to cry if someone moved your pencil case," his mom says with a shrug. "Very particular, even as a toddler."
Mrs. Jeon leans forward slightly, conspiratorial. "That’s what we love about him. He keeps our Jungkook on his toes."
Jungkook chokes slightly on his punch. Jimin doesn’t look at him, but he can feel the heat radiating off his entire body.
"He really does," Mr. Jeon adds, laughing. "I’ve never seen him clean his room voluntarily until he started dating Jimin."
Mr. Park whistles.
"Love does strange things to people," Mrs. Park says, reaching over to gently pat Jungkook’s hand.
Jimin stiffens slightly, glancing sideways—but Jungkook just ducks his head, cheeks red, and quietly sips his drink.
"He was so shy about it at first," Mrs. Jeon continues, looking back at the Parks. "Didn’t want to say much. But we could tell it was serious. He didn’t mind waiting for Jimin to come around. That’s not how he talks about anything else."
"He always was a little dramatic," Mr. Jeon says.
"Gets that from you," Mrs. Jeon shoots back.
Across the table, the Parks share a quiet look. There’s something tender behind it.
"We’re just glad he found someone who... balances him," Mrs. Park says softly. "Jimin doesn’t open up easily. It’s not that he doesn’t care. It’s just... hard for him."
"We’ve noticed," Mr. Jeon replies gently. "But Jungkook’s patient. If anyone can wait someone out, it’s that boy."
Jimin turns, glancing sideways.
Jungkook isn’t looking at him. He’s watching the conversation unfold, shoulders relaxed, smile soft and private. He looks… content. Lit from within.
By the time the tea has gone lukewarm and the snacks have been reduced to crumbs, Mrs. Park sets her cup down with a quiet clink.
"Well," she says. "I think we can all agree they’re disgustingly cute."
"Agreed," Mrs. Jeon nods. "Even when they pretend not to be."
"They say enough when they think no one’s listening," Jihoon calls from the counter, where he’s picking through leftover chestnuts and texting at the same time.
Jimin groans. "I will actually end you."
"Try it," Jihoon grins.
The laughter bubbles easily. Mr. Jeon eggs Mr. Park on to crack open that whiskey. Mrs. Park is already floating the idea of a joint trip in the spring. Someone puts on a quiet ballad in the background.
And Jimin—sitting between his parents, beside his very annoying, very soft-hearted boyfriend, in the middle of this strange little fusion of two families—lets himself breathe.
Jungkook nudges his knee under the table.
Jimin lets it stay.
---
They sneak out around 11:30pm.
The café is a warzone of laughter and bad singing by then—Mr. Park three soju shots deep and harmonizing off-key with Mrs. Jeon over a trot ballad from the seventies, Jihoon long gone with a puffy jacket and a vague promise to be back before dawn. No one notices when Jimin slips out the back door with Jungkook trailing behind him, both of them bundled up and tipsy with warmth and a few drinks.
Jimin leads them down the hill to a playground, tucked behind a shuttered day-care centre and half-covered in frost. They don’t talk much on the way there, walking shoulder to shoulder with mittened hands brushing occasionally, snow crunching under their boots. It’s quiet, except for the distant sound of fireworks being tested early—soft pops and whistles in the sky above the rooftops.
They find the swing set empty, the chains stiff with cold and the plastic seats slick with frost.
Jimin wipes one clean with his sleeve and sits with a sigh, knees pulled in slightly, feet dragging gently through the dusting of snow. Jungkook settles beside him and lets the swing rock lazily beneath him, leaning back to stare at the stars.
“We’re such clichés,” Jimin murmurs, watching the sky.
Jungkook grins. “You love it.”
Jimin hums. “A little.”
They sit in silence for a few minutes, listening to the wind push through bare branches and the occasional firecracker popping off too soon. The lights from the café’s upstairs window spill weakly across the ground, flickering like candlelight behind the naked tree branches surrounding the playground.
“What’s your New Year’s resolution?” Jungkook asks.
Jimin thinks. “Get through the semester without a breakdown. Eat more leafy greens. Try not to punch anyone in my department.”
“Lofty goals,” Jungkook murmurs, smiling. “You’ll probably only manage one.”
“I said try.” He nudges Jungkook’s boot with his own. “What about you?”
Jungkook leans forward slightly, his swing creaking under the shift. “Paint more. Sleep earlier. Figure out how to cook one thing without setting off the fire alarm.”
Jimin snorts. “Ambitious.”
“Also,” Jungkook adds, voice lower now, “spend every single New Year’s Eve with you for the rest of my life.”
Jimin stills, hands curled tight in his sleeves.
“That’s a lot of pressure,” he says.
“I’m good under pressure.”
Jimin looks over, one brow raised. “You’re a mess under pressure.”
Jungkook just shrugs. “Then I’ll be a mess with you.”
There’s a pause. Something warm unfolds in Jimin’s chest, strange and terrifying in its calmness.
“I wouldn’t mind that,” he says softly.
At 11:58pm, the fireworks begin in earnest—louder now, brighter, the sky blooming in streaks of gold and red behind the clouds. Jungkook gets up first and turns toward Jimin with a glint in his eye, cheeks flushed from the cold.
“Come here.”
“What—”
“Come here,” Jungkook repeats, reaching out.
Jimin groans. “You’re not going to—”
Too late. Jungkook pulls him forward, guiding him with cold fingers until Jimin is settling awkwardly in his lap, the swing groaning under their combined weight.
“It’s going to break,” Jimin mutters, trying not to shift too much.
“If we die, we die in each other’s arms,” Jungkook says solemnly.
“You’re so dramatic.”
But Jimin stays.
He leans back slightly, letting Jungkook wrap his arms around his waist, face tucked just beneath his jaw. The air is sharp, filled with smoke and the sour tang of powder, the sky lighting up again and again in bursts of colour reflected in Jungkook’s eyes.
At exactly midnight, when the booms echo across the neighbourhood and a chorus of cheers erupts in the distance, Jungkook kisses him.
Not a peck. Not a brush of lips or a hesitant gesture.
He kisses Jimin like he’s been waiting the whole year for it—like every second of quiet affection, every snuck glance, every lingering touch has led to this.
The swing groans louder. Jimin exhales against his mouth and finally—finally—lets his hands settle on either side of Jungkook’s face.
When they part, breathless, the fireworks still crackling overhead, Jimin whispers, “Happy New Year.”
Jungkook giggles through his own happy new year, baby and kisses him again.
They stay there long after the sky goes dark again, the only sound between them the creaking of the swing, the hush of snow, and the way Jimin keeps shifting closer without meaning to.
And maybe, just maybe, meaning to all the same.
♡
The cafeteria is unusually quiet for a Thursday.
Well—quiet in university terms. The fryer still hisses at irregular intervals, someone’s cackling three tables over, and the rice cooker’s sputtering like it’s possessed, but none of that bothers Jimin. Not when he’s sitting in their usual corner, tray balanced on one thigh, chopsticks poised, eyes fixed on absolutely nothing.
Taehyung slides into the seat across from him, tray clattering as he dumps his food with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball. He squints at Jimin, chewing loudly on an apple.
“You’re chewing air,” he says.
Jimin blinks. Glances down. The rice is untouched.
“Huh.”
Taehyung reaches over and swaps their drinks without asking, sipping the one Jimin actually brought for himself.
“Something on your mind? You look constipated.”
Jimin sighs. “Don’t be gross.”
“I’m not the one folding in on himself like a stressed armadillo.”
“I’m not—” Jimin starts, then stops, stabbing his chopsticks into a piece of kimchi. “Do you… do you do anniversaries?”
Taehyung blinks. “With who?”
Jimin looks up. “With Hobi.”
“Oh. Yeah, of course. He makes it a thing. Streamers. Sparkles. Emotional declarations. Last year he made me a cupcake tower that looked like my face.”
“That sounds like a hate crime.”
Taehyung beams. “It was perfect.”
Jimin clicks his tongue and pokes at his rice again. “I don’t know how to do this kind of thing. Like. What am I supposed to get him? A bracelet? Paintbrushes? Another black t-shirt?”
“You’re overthinking it,” Taehyung mutters, mouth half-full of soup.
Jimin frowns. “You’re no help.”
“Okay, okay,” Taehyung sets his spoon down and rests his chin on his palm, suddenly thoughtful. “What does Jungkook like most in the world?”
Jimin considers it. “...That’s a toss-up between carbs and Studio Ghibli.”
Taehyung blinks once. Twice. Then exhales sharply through his nose and scrubs a hand down his face.
“You’re so smart in class. Why are you like this in real life?”
Jimin raises an eyebrow. “You asked, I answered.”
“You answered wrong, genius. The thing Jungkook likes most is you.”
Jimin stares at him blankly.
“We’re already dating.”
Taehyung groans and dramatically flops sideways in his chair, throwing an arm over his eyes like the burden of being Jimin’s friend is slowly killing him. “Yes. And yet somehow you’re the densest little boyfriend alive.”
“I’m not—dense,” Jimin says, now flushing faintly. “I just don’t… think of myself that way.”
“Well maybe you should,” Taehyung says, sitting upright again. “Seriously. Have you seen him? He basically whimpers if you so much as smile at him. You breathe in his direction and he short-circuits.”
“That’s an exaggeration.”
“Is it? Remember last week when you wore actual pants and not your usual pyjama adjacent fit? I thought he was gonna pass out. You don’t need to get him art supplies, Jimin. You could just show up in nothing but the wrapping paper and he’d thank you for the honour.”
Jimin huffs. “I’m not—doing that.”
Taehyung’s grin turns sly. “No, but you could do something spicy.”
“I don’t do spicy.”
“You are spicy,” Taehyung counters. “But I mean, think about it. You’ve got that face. That mouth. Those thighs.”
“Taehyung.”
“Don’t ‘Taehyung’ me. I’m just saying—if you showed up in lingerie? The man would explode. Like, cartoon steam-from-the-ears, instant KO.”
Jimin’s face reddens. “I’d look ridiculous.”
“You’d look edible.”
“I’m not doing lingerie.”
Taehyung shrugs. “Think about it. He’s got that unhealthy obsession with you—take advantage. Give him something he really wants. Doesn’t even have to be full lace. You could just wear a harness.”
Jimin chokes on his rice.
“Or nothing,” Taehyung says helpfully, patting his back as Jimin coughs. “That works too.”
“Stop talking.”
“You’ll thank me later.”
Jimin stares at his tray. His appetite is gone, but not for the usual reasons. His brain is now occupied with the image of Jungkook: face lax, blinking up at him with those wide, reverent eyes, totally ruined by the sight of Jimin in… well, anything.
Maybe it wouldn’t be the worst idea.
Maybe.
He looks up.
“...Where do you even buy lingerie for men?”
Taehyung’s grin could power the campus.
The text from Taehyung comes at 8 o’clock sharp the next morning.
Tae, [8:00]: meet me at hongdae exit 3. Wear black. Bring cash. Don’t ask questions.
Jimin stares at his screen for a full minute before typing:
Jimin, [8:02]: what the fuck.
Tae, [8:03]: anniversary prep, bitch. Trust me.
So now here he is.
In black, as instructed. Outside a very nondescript door nestled between a bubble tea place and a tiny vape shop. The sign above is written in cursive Hangul, backlit in pink. He doesn’t understand the name, which probably means he shouldn’t go in—but Taehyung is already pushing the door open like he owns the place, and Jimin’s never been able to stop him once he gets that look in his eye.
The boutique is... not what he expected.
There’s no loud music. No club lighting. Just soft spotlights, velvet-draped displays, and one terrifyingly beautiful sales assistant in all-black who greets them with a knowing smile.
“Something special?” she asks Taehyung, eyes flicking to Jimin with unfiltered approval.
Taehyung grins. “Anniversary gift.”
Jimin’s soul leaves his body.
The sales assistant hums and gestures for them to follow. Jimin’s legs move against his will.
“Why do you know about this place?” Jimin hisses under his breath.
“I collect secrets,” Taehyung replies serenely. “Also Hobi brought me here once on a dare and I had a religious experience.”
“Why am I friends with you.”
Taehyung doesn’t answer. Just steers them into a corner with a velvet-lined rack full of things Jimin definitely shouldn’t be seeing in public.
“Oh my god.”
“Right?” Taehyung coos, flipping through hangers like he’s in a department store. “Look at this one. Strappy. Classy. Shows off your thighs. Ooh, and this one—lace, but not too much lace. Suggests, but doesn’t scream.”
“I can’t breathe.”
“You’ll be fine. Jungkook, however, will not.”
Jimin looks around like the floor might open and swallow him. The lighting is flattering in a way that’s clearly intentional—everything glows a little, from the glass cases of harnesses to the wall of silk robes and mesh boxer-briefs that look like they cost more than his monthly groceries.
“This is so unnecessary,” Jimin mutters, eyes fixed on a black satin piece that looks both lethal and absurd.
“Which makes it perfect,” Taehyung replies. “You’re commemorating your first anniversary. It has to be dramatic. Sexy. Emotional. Possibly a little unhinged.”
“Is that the criteria?”
“Absolutely.”
The sales assistant appears again, holding a set in a tasteful box.
“This might suit your frame,” she says, handing it gently to Jimin. “And it comes with an adjustable waistband. Very forgiving.”
Jimin doesn’t ask what it needs to forgive.
He opens the box and immediately regrets it.
It’s simple—black silk, delicate mesh, a hint of lace along the waistband. Straps that would hug his hips. A matching garter, which should absolutely not be legal.
He imagines Jungkook’s face. Wide-eyed. Slack-jawed. Visibly malfunctioning. Maybe even crying.
Jimin closes the box.
“I’ll take it.”
Taehyung gasps. “Who are you?”
“A man under duress,” Jimin mutters, already pulling out his wallet.
♡
It’s their anniversary, and Jimin wakes up already hating how fast his heart is beating.
The worst part is, the day starts off disgustingly well. That’s always how Jungkook gets him—by being obnoxiously good.
The younger wakes up first, untangles himself gently from their warm cocoon of blankets, and disappears into the kitchen. When Jimin finally emerges from slumber, bleary and frowning at the intrusion of sunlight, he finds a full tray balanced at the foot of their bed—black sesame pancakes, soft tofu stew, a perfectly peeled apple shaped into a rabbit, and a single, slightly-wilted tulip in a shot glass. Jungkook beams from the doorway, still in his sleep shirt, hair messy, looking devastatingly proud.
“I asked your mom for her sundubu recipe. I think I got close.”
Jimin stares at him like he’s being held hostage.
“You cooked?”
“I excelled,” Jungkook says.
And unfortunately—he’s right. It’s all good. Not just edible, but warm, familiar. Comforting in the way Jimin didn’t know he needed this morning. He eats in silence, trying not to look overwhelmed, while Jungkook leans against the doorframe with his arms crossed like he’s waiting for applause.
Then the idiot pulls out a slim gift bag from the closet.
“Don’t freak out,” he says, handing it over.
Inside: sleek, high-end wireless headphones. Black, of course. The kind you can wear for eight hours in the library without feeling the pinch, with full noise-cancelling tech and a smooth touch interface.
Jimin blinks.
“You said the ones you use now hurt your ears,” Jungkook shrugs, suddenly sheepish. “And you hate when people chew behind you.”
“You remembered that?”
“You said it once, like three months ago.”
Jimin stares down at the box.
Then bites his lip.
“Mine’s… late.”
Jungkook tilts his head. “Your gift?”
Jimin nods, tight-lipped. “There was a shipping issue.”
Jungkook waves it off immediately. “I don’t care.”
“I do.”
“You shouldn’t,” Jungkook says gently, leaning down to kiss the crown of his head. “I already have what I want.”
Jimin goes very still.
Then shoves a spoonful of hot soup into his mouth just to have an excuse for his watery eyes.
---
The rest of the day is annoyingly perfect too.
They go out for lunch—some trendy spot near Hongdae Taehyung once insisted was life-changing—and then walk lazily along the Han river, Jungkook slipping his hand into Jimin’s despite the light crowd. Jimin considers pulling away. Considers. But Jungkook swings their arms gently like it’s second nature, and he doesn’t let go. So Jimin doesn’t either.
Later, when they get home, there’s a soft lull. They both settle into their respective study spots—Jimin cross-legged on the couch with a mess of highlighters and notebooks, Jungkook hunched over a half-finished anatomy sketch, face scrunched in concentration. They don’t talk much, just exchange the occasional nudge of knees and kisses.
It’s almost boring.
Which is exactly what Jimin was counting on.
At half past six, Jimin announces, a little too casually, “I’m gonna shower.”
Jungkook hums, not even looking up. “Want me to join?”
“No.”
“Rude.”
But his pencil keeps moving, lines soft and focused, his brain clearly elsewhere.
Jimin slips into their bedroom, closes the door quietly, and drops to his knees to retrieve the slim box from under the bed—the one he hid behind a stack of old lecture notes four nights ago after sneaking it in past Jungkook, heart hammering. He holds it for a moment. Then stands, squares his shoulders, and heads for the bathroom.
He gets to work.
It starts with the basics—scalding water, a fresh razor, the vanilla body lotion he knows drives Jungkook a little unhinged. He applies it carefully, methodically. Even slicks a hand through his hair and lets it air dry into soft, tousled curls. Then the makeup—just a bit. Tone-up cream, tight smudged liner, a little blush on his cheeks, lip-gloss. Not too much. Just enough to make his lips pop even more.
And finally—the set.
He doesn’t look in the mirror at first. Just unpacks it piece by piece, slipping into the black lace with slightly trembling fingers. The straps hug his hips just right. The mesh is soft, sheer, wrapping around his thighs like water. The garter clicks into place. The stockings go on last.
He adjusts the waistband. Takes a breath. Turns to face the mirror.
Then just—stares.
It’s strange. He thought he’d look silly. Too serious. Too sharp. But the contrast works. The delicate lingerie makes his frame look carved yet soft in the right places. The black sets off his skin like ink on paper. His ass looks—well. Criminal.
His mouth parts slightly.
Maybe Taehyung was onto something. He’s gonna have to make him a fruit basket. Probably one for Hobi too.
He glances down at the ribbon strap curled just above his hip.
Jungkook’s going to combust.
Good.
♡
Jungkook—waiting for Jimin to be done with his ridiculously long shower and having moved to the bedroom, doesn’t hear the door—he feels it.
A shift. The barest change in atmosphere. Like the air gets heavier. Like the heat ratchets up by just a degree. Like something’s watching him from the corner of the room with teeth bared and intent humming low in its throat.
Jungkook’s pencil stills against his sketchbook.
Then he looks up.
And his soul leaves his fucking body.
Jimin stands framed in the doorway, haloed in the buttery gold light of the hallway, bare feet silent against the wood floor. He’s not moving, not smiling, not fidgeting—and that’s what makes Jungkook’s chest seize. Because Jimin knows. He knows exactly what he looks like standing there in that—fuck—that thing.
Black lace hugs his hips, sheer and unforgiving, climbing high up his thighs and held in place by thin, jet straps that cross delicately over the curve of his hips. His skin glows warm from the shower, flushed at the neck and dusted with shimmery powder down the lines of his collarbones. The garters gleam faintly in the low light. His eyes are lined in soft smudges of shadow, lashes thick, and there’s a faint sheen of gloss on his lips.
He hasn’t said a word. Just stands there, letting Jungkook look.
And Jungkook—he can’t breathe.
“Jesus fucking—” he rasps, legs locked beneath him, stomach turning inside out.
Jimin tilts his head. Just slightly. Just enough for the sharp line of his jaw to catch the light. “Something wrong?”
Jungkook’s mouth works soundlessly for a beat. His hands have gone cold. There’s a flush crawling hot up the back of his neck.
“I—I can’t—” His throat clicks. “Am I dreaming?”
Jimin finally steps forward.
Not rushed. No hesitation. Slow. Measured. The sway of his hips is subtle. His fingers graze the edge of his own thigh as he walks, like he’s drawing Jungkook’s eyes there on purpose.
And Jungkook—god. His skin feels too tight. Like his bones might split from the inside. He shifts in his chair, thighs tensing, already chubbing up in his boxers just from watching.
When Jimin reaches him, he doesn’t speak. Just lifts the sketchbook gently from Jungkook’s lap, flips it closed, and sets it aside without looking. Then leans in—barely—and says, low and cool:
“Happy anniversary.”
That’s all.
But it hits like a body blow.
Jungkook makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat.
“You planned this,” he says, like he’s trying to convince himself it’s real. “You’ve been sitting on this all day.”
“Thought I’d try something new.”
Jungkook drags his gaze up—garters, thighs, lace, that tiny dip where the waistband clings just under Jimin’s navel—and meets his eyes.
Still so calm. So unreadable.
“You’re gonna kill me.”
Jimin hums, stepping even closer until he’s between Jungkook’s knees, barely brushing. “You’re still talking.”
Jungkook exhales harshly through his nose. His hands twitch where they’re gripping the arms of the chair. His pulse pounds at his neck, loud enough to feel.
“Fuck. Get on the bed.”
Jimin smirks.
“No.”
And that—that—is the last straw.
Jungkook shoots up like something snapped. Hands on Jimin’s hips, lips crashing against his throat, desperate already and not even inside him yet. Jimin’s breath hitches, just barely, but he doesn’t push away. Doesn’t tease. He just lets Jungkook grab.
It’s not even a kiss between them at first. It’s a collision.
Jungkook surges up from the chair with a broken, breathless noise and grabs Jimin by the hips, dragging him flush against his chest like he needs to feel him to believe him. His mouth lands on Jimin’s neck—wet, messy, no aim at all. His hands are greedy, full, roaming down the curve of Jimin’s ass, palming the lace like it’s offended him. The gasp Jimin lets out barely registers; Jungkook is already too far gone.
“Fuck,” Jungkook pants. “Fuck, fuck, you’re—what are you doing to me—”
“Apparently destroying your brain cells,” Jimin murmurs, dry as ever, but his voice shivers at the edges, and when Jungkook groans at that, deep and ragged, Jimin’s hands slide into his hair, tugging just enough to pull another sound from him.
Jungkook manhandles him back, turning them with a staggered step toward the bed. His knees knock into the edge. Jimin grins.
“You’re shaking.”
“No shit. Have you seen yourself?”
Jimin leans in, close enough that his breath hits Jungkook’s lips. “I remember you saying once that you could handle me.”
“Past me lied. Sit the fuck down.”
Jimin doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. He just raises an eyebrow, smirking like he’s not pressed up against a man teetering on the edge.
So Jungkook handles him again—grips both thighs and lifts him, fingers pressing deep into the soft flesh just under the garters, and drops him on the mattress.
He’s not gentle about it. He doesn’t know how to be right now.
Jimin lands with a breathless huff, legs spread naturally under the press of Jungkook’s frame. He props himself on his elbows and watches—still smug—as Jungkook tears his hoodie off in one frantic motion, throws it aside, then pauses. Breathless.
Because from this angle—
Jimin is sprawled. Spread. Lace riding high, black bands biting into the plush of his thighs. There’s a faint flush across his chest, lip caught between his teeth, and the way he’s looking at Jungkook—hungry and smug and still knowing—makes Jungkook’s cock throb in his boxers.
“Take a picture,” Jimin says coolly. “It’ll last longer.”
“I will. I’ll draw this. I’ll fucking etch it into glass.”
“Then what’re you waiting—”
Jungkook shuts him up with a kiss. Hard. Clumsy. All teeth and groaning and grabbing. His fingers thread into the garter straps, tugging just enough to make Jimin gasp. The noise is soft, hitched—but it makes Jungkook reel.
“Can’t believe you—fuck—you wore this for me,” he whispers, mouthing down Jimin’s jaw, licking down the column of his throat. “You know what that does to me? You look like one of my wet dreams.”
“Had to get your anatomy study right somehow.”
Jungkook bites his throat, just gently, but hard enough that Jimin swears.
“You brat,” Jungkook mutters. “Think you can just put this on and walk out like that? Like I’m not supposed to drop to my knees and worship you?”
“I was hoping you’d—ah—get to that, yeah.”
That sound. The wobble in his voice when Jungkook grinds down, slow and heavy, dragging his cock right over the thin strip of mesh. Jimin’s breath stutters.
Jungkook groans. Loud. “Say it again.”
“What?”
“Say you wore this for me.”
Jimin’s eyes flutter, lashes dark and heavy. “I wore this for you.”
“You’re mine.”
“I’m yours,” Jimin whispers, and that’s it. That’s the end of Jungkook’s sanity.
He drops to his knees between Jimin’s legs without comment. Fingers hooked under the garter, tongue dragging over the inside of one trembling thigh. He doesn’t even pause before mouthing over the fabric—open-mouthed, needy, starving.
Jimin shudders. “Jungkook—fuck—”
“You’ve got no idea how many times I’ve imagined you like this,” Jungkook breathes. “You don’t even know what you do to me—what this does to me—”
He pushes the lace to the side carefully, reverently, tongue pressing along the base of Jimin’s cock, dipping lower, following that path he’s learned by touch and memory.
And when Jimin opens his mouth to tease again—something about him still being overdressed—Jungkook pulls his thighs over his shoulders and dives between them with a growl.
He’s gone.
On his knees. Face flushed, lips shiny from where he’s been moaning against the inside of Jimin’s thighs, the smell of vanilla and sex thick in his nose. His arms are shaking where they’re locked around Jimin’s hips, mouth pressed so reverently to the thin lace it’s obscene.
And Jimin—Jimin hasn’t moved.
He’s still perched at the edge of the bed, thighs spread just enough to let Jungkook bury himself there. The garters frame him in sinful geometry, black lace clinging to flushed skin, and his hand sits lightly in Jungkook’s hair, fingers carding through the strands like he’s thinking. Deciding.
Because maybe he is.
Maybe watching Jungkook pant and tremble between his legs, tongue darting out in search of more—more taste, more heat, more everything—does something to him. Maybe the way Jungkook keeps mumbling under his breath—please, please, I need you—sets off something quiet and sharp in his chest.
Jimin strokes a thumb over Jungkook’s flushed cheek.
“You really want me to fuck your mouth that bad?” he asks, tone dry, but lower now. Warmed by something heavy.
Jungkook makes a sound that isn’t human. Just nods. Frantic.
Jimin hums. Tilts his head.
“Then hands behind your back.”
Jungkook obeys immediately, strong thighs flexing as he shifts, arms folding behind him with visible restraint. He lifts his face, lips swollen and pink, pupils wide, mouth open like he’s offering up every thought in his head to be taken.
And Jimin?
Jimin lets himself take.
He shifts forward, knees spread wide, lace catching at the crease of his thighs. His cock is already heavy, flushed dark and wet against his belly, the black straps framing it like a gift. He wraps a hand around the base, strokes once, slow, and watches the way Jungkook’s jaw twitches.
“You want this?”
“Yes,” Jungkook says instantly. “God, yes, I want—please, baby, I want you to—”
“To what?” Jimin interrupts softly, dragging the head of his cock over Jungkook’s lower lip. “Say it.”
Jungkook groans. His tongue flicks out, trying to chase.
“Fuck my mouth.”
Jimin smiles. Pleased.
Then presses forward.
It’s slow at first—just the head slipping between Jungkook’s lips, just enough to stretch his mouth wide. Jungkook breathes out hard through his nose, tilts his chin up, and opens further.
“That’s it,” Jimin murmurs, brushing a hand through his hair, holding his jaw steady as he inches in deeper. “Look at you. All that attitude and now you’re drooling for it.”
A strangled moan rumbles in Jungkook’s chest.
His throat flexes as Jimin pushes forward again, cock dragging wet along his tongue. Jungkook keeps still, keeps his hands behind his back, body tense with the effort to stay good. His eyes are glassy now, locked on Jimin’s face like he’s waiting for praise.
And Jimin gives it to him.
“Doing so well, sweetheart,” he breathes, voice gentling. “Taking it so fucking well.”
Jungkook’s breath hitches. His knees slide apart a little more.
Jimin rocks his hips.
Just once. Shallow. Testing.
Jungkook moans around him, and the vibration nearly undoes Jimin entirely.
His hand tightens in Jungkook’s hair, the other bracing his cock as he starts to fuck forward in earnest—slow at first, deep enough to choke, to press against the back of Jungkook’s throat. Saliva glistens at the corners of his mouth, eyes fluttering, and when Jimin groans—low and dangerous—Jungkook whines for it.
And it hits Jimin all at once—
How this boy, who never stops talking, never stops touching, never stops looking at him like he’s made of moonlight and sharp teeth—wants this. Wants to be used like this. Wrecked open. Owned.
“God, you’re filthy,” Jimin whispers, hips stuttering as he pushes deep and holds. Jungkook chokes and gags, tears brimming at the corners of his eyes, but doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t even try.
He just blinks up at Jimin, flushed and so completely gone.
Jimin exhales hard, barely holding himself back.
“Touch yourself,” he says, voice gone gravel.
Jungkook moans around his cock—grateful, desperate—and scrambles to obey.
He fumbles one hand down between his legs, desperate fingers wrapping around his cock like he’s been waiting years for permission. He whimpers around Jimin’s length, tears slipping from the corners of his eyes now—cheeks wet, chin soaked with spit. His whole body trembles, flushed and taut, like he’s seconds from combustion.
Jimin pulls out slowly—just enough to let Jungkook breathe—and watches a thick string of saliva cling to the head of his cock, stretched between the flushed tip and his lips. Jungkook gasps, blinking up with wet lashes, mouth still wide open like he’s begging for more.
“Keep going,” Jimin says, licking his own lower lip. “I want to see you jerk off with my cock on your tongue.”
Jungkook moans. Loud. Unguarded. He strokes faster, hips jerking slightly off the floor like he’s chasing something—like he’s already too close.
Jimin slides back in, slow and deep. Feels the vibration of a choked whimper around his length.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, fingers threading through Jungkook’s hair again, thumb stroking where it’s damp with sweat. “So fucking pretty like this. All for me.”
Jungkook makes a strangled noise and bobs his head with him now, matching the rhythm of Jimin’s hips with messy, eager motions. His hand on his cock moves faster, desperate and sloppy.
He’s losing it.
Completely gone.
And Jimin—he’s never seen anything like it.
Every inhale Jungkook takes is broken. Every exhale is a groan. His thighs keep twitching. His forehead presses to Jimin’s pelvis like he can’t stay upright anymore, like the weight of pleasure and submission and praise has dragged him under.
Jimin pulls back again, barely holding himself together.
“You gonna come?” he asks, voice low, breathless now too. “Just from sucking me off?”
Jungkook nods frantically, mouth still wide open, tongue glistening, hand moving in frantic little jerks.
“Fucking slut,” Jimin whispers, and Jungkook whines—high and desperate—and then he’s coming, falling forward into Jimin’s lap, cock twitching helplessly in his hand, a soft cry muffled by Jimin’s thigh.
Jimin holds him through it.
Lets him sob against his skin, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other still slick on his own cock, trembling now too.
And Jungkook—beautiful, ruined Jungkook—is still licking at him.
Even as he gasps through the aftershocks. Even as his knees buckle and his shoulders tremble. He doesn’t stop.
He just opens wide again, eyes glassy and raw.
“More,” he croaks, lips wet. “Want to make you come. Please.”
And Jimin—still trembling, still flushed, cock slick with spit—feels something snap loose in his chest.
Because of course he does.
Of course Jungkook would still be on his knees, begging to please Jimin with his sore voice.
Because Jungkook doesn’t just want his mouth fucked.
He wants to be claimed.
Jungkook is still gasping when Jimin pulls away.
His lips are slick, chin wet, a tremor in every limb. His cock is soft now—just spent—but the look on his face is everything Jimin’s ever wanted to see. Eyes unfocused, lashes heavy, muscular body lax and pliant.
He doesn't say anything—just grips Jungkook’s wrist gently and tugs him up.
Jungkook lets himself be moved, still soft around the edges, blinking slow and dazed as Jimin guides him backwards onto the bed, until he’s lying flat on his back, arms loose at his sides, thighs splayed in a way that makes Jimin’s mouth water.
Jimin kneels between his legs, palms stroking softly over Jungkook’s inner thighs before reaching under the pillow.
He could just look at him like this. For hours.
But he can do that later.
Click.
The unmistakable pop of a lube cap being opened.
Jungkook’s hazy eyes track the sound, brows knitting slightly. He swallows, slow, still catching his breath.
“You’re gonna…?” he starts, voice raw.
But the sentence dies in his throat the moment Jimin slicks up two fingers—and lowers his hand.
Right between Jungkook’s thighs.
The touch is feather light at first, barely more than a brush—just enough to spread the slick. And then Jimin’s finger slides inward, easy, slow, no resistance.
Jungkook jerks, breath catching hard.
His eyes fly open.
Jimin meets them, steady and unreadable, one hand firm on his thigh, the other already pushing in deeper.
Jungkook doesn’t speak—but he doesn’t need to.
There’s a moment. Heavy and charged.
They’re used to fucking a certain way.
Rough. Fast. With Jungkook behind him and Jimin gasping, arched beneath him, biting back sounds that drive Jungkook insane.
But this?
This is something else.
Jungkook’s eyes widen, heart pounding loud in his ears. Not from nerves. From realisation.
That Jimin is going to fuck him.
That tonight—finally—he’s going to be the one inside. In control. In him.
And Jungkook—
He doesn’t flinch.
He just nods. Slowly. Barely there. But enough.
And Jimin leans in, pressing a kiss just above his knee.
“Good,” he murmurs, easing the second finger in. “Breathe through it.”
Jungkook exhales shakily. His body tenses, but not with fear—with anticipation. It’s new, and strange, but he wants it. He wants Jimin to have this.
To take him apart with slow hands and steady breath and lips still glossed from the last kiss they shared.
Jimin doesn’t rush.
He works him open with methodical precision, curling his fingers just right, coaxing soft, stuttering gasps from Jungkook’s throat. His cock stirs again—twitching, dribbling against his belly with every slow slide of Jimin’s fingers.
And when Jimin finally pulls them out—slow and slick and careful—he reaches for the condom, tears it open, rolls it on.
Jungkook watches every motion with his whole body trembling.
Then Jimin leans over him—over his body this time—pressing their mouths together in a kiss that feels more like a promise than anything else.
“Still with me?” he murmurs, lips brushing Jungkook’s.
“Yes,” Jungkook breathes, eyes fluttering closed. “God, yes.”
“Good.” Jimin shifts lower. Positions himself. And in one, steady movement—pushes in.
Jungkook gasps. Loud. Body arching.
He’s so tight. Hot. Jimin groans, breath stuttering, hands braced on either side of Jungkook’s chest as he sinks deeper. His eyes flicker down—taking in the way Jungkook’s mouth falls open, the way his hands clutch the sheets, the way his thighs tremble around him.
“You’re doing so well,” Jimin whispers.
Jungkook shudders. “Feels—so full—fuck—”
“You’re perfect.”
And then Jimin starts to move.
He doesn’t thrust—not at first.
He sinks. Moves with maddening restraint, dragging the head of his cock in slow, full strokes, letting Jungkook feel every inch of stretch, of burn, of possession. One hand braced by his head, the other resting firm on Jungkook’s waist, anchoring him, steadying them both.
Jungkook’s mouth is open, breath hitching on every exhale. His hands are fisted in the sheets, knuckles white. The flush has crept up his chest, blooming pink across his collarbones, his jaw, the tips of his ears. His cock is hard again, twitching against his stomach, already leaking from nothing bar overstimulation.
He feels everything.
Jimin leans in close, nose brushing Jungkook’s cheek.
“Still good?”
Jungkook whines. “Too good.”
Jimin smiles. Small and satisfied. Then pulls out to the tip and pushes back in a little harder—watching Jungkook’s body react, his thighs shaking, his throat arching to bare itself.
“That’s right,” Jimin murmurs, voice low. “Let me in. Let me see all of you.”
Jungkook gasps, barely able to hold his gaze.
But Jimin doesn’t let him look away.
Because this—this—is what does it.
The lace clings to Jimin’s thighs, the black garter straps tight against pale skin. His cock is moving in deep, even strokes, hips rocking in rhythm like he’s fucking with purpose. His expression is focused, unbothered, half-lidded and pink-mouthed and beautiful in a way that makes Jungkook’s gut clench.
Because this is Jimin.
His Jimin.
Sharp and strange and untouchable. The one who never flinched when Jungkook got too close. The one who held him at arm’s length until he chose not to. Who is now—right now—fucking him open with the kind of control that steals the breath from Jungkook’s lungs.
And still.
Still.
He’s so beautiful.
“Jimin,” Jungkook whispers. “You—fuck, you’re gonna make me come.”
Jimin’s mouth curves.
He strokes a thumb over Jungkook’s cheek, voice dropping further. “You already came once.”
“I—I know,” Jungkook groans, eyes wide, jaw falling open as Jimin changes the angle—just slightly—and hits something that makes his toes curl.
“You’re hard again already?”
Jungkook nods eagerly.
And Jimin—of course—smirks.
“Pathetic,” he breathes, and leans in to bite his throat. “My pathetic, pretty boy. All it takes is a little lace, huh?”
Jungkook shudders. “God, yes—yes—”
He’s close. He’s so fucking close he can’t breathe. Can’t think.
Jimin fucks him slow and deep, the slap of skin loud in their little corner of the world. His breath is hot against Jungkook’s neck, his hips rolling steady, his voice in his ear.
“Don’t touch it.”
Jungkook jerks. “W-What?”
“Don’t touch your cock.” Jimin pulls back enough to look him in the eyes, pupils blown wide. “Come just from me fucking you.”
Jungkook whimpers—high and broken and full of disbelief. His back arches. His heels dig into the sheets. His hands are clutching Jimin’s shoulders now desperately.
“You can do it,” Jimin whispers. “I know you can.”
And somehow—somehow—he does.
It starts in his gut. Tight. Impossible. Coiled and burning. He can’t stop it—doesn’t want to stop it—because Jimin is looking at him like he’s already owned him, and the lace is still tight around his thighs, and his cock is still fucking him so deep—
And Jungkook breaks.
He comes again with a cry—raw, desperate—spilling hot across his stomach, untouched. His whole body trembles, back arching off the bed, chest heaving as Jimin holds him there, working him through it, fucking him through it, breath catching in his throat.
And Jimin doesn’t stop until he’s all the way gone.
Only then—only then—does he let himself fall forward, hips stuttering, cock buried deep, and comes with a muffled moan against Jungkook’s shoulder.
Their bodies are slick with sweat, stuck together at every point, the air heavy with sex and heat and the slow comedown of something intense.
Jungkook is shaking.
Jimin strokes a hand through his hair, pressing soft kisses to his jaw.
“I got you,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”
And Jungkook—wrecked and aching, heart full—closes his eyes and grins to himself.
Because he knows.
Because he feels it in his bones. In his soul.
♡
Life is… suspiciously good.
Not perfect. Their shower still leaks, the radiator clicks in the middle of the night like it’s haunted, and the new downstairs neighbour sometimes bangs on their ceiling with a broom when they’re being particularly loud. Their weird, cramped, cluttered little apartment that smells like coffee grinds and fresh laundry and sometimes vanilla, when Jimin uses the lotion Jungkook likes.
They’re still tangled together every night, still wake up like the world begins and ends in the same bed. Still order too much takeout when finals hit, still argue over whether cheese belongs in instant ramyeon (Jimin: yes, Jungkook: a firm and horrified no), and still forget to buy toilet paper at least once a month.
But it’s good.
They’re good.
Jimin is halfway through his final year of university, and it shows. There’s a new shine to him lately, even under the stress—shoulders straighter, voice clearer, expressions more thoughtful in the pauses between frustration. He’s already had three companies send him invites to pre-grad panels and two others nudge his inbox with offers so flattering they bordered on indecent. Jungkook pretended not to read over his shoulder. (He did. He always does.)
Jimin still brushes it off like it’s no big deal—tells people he’s just trying not to flunk his last algorithms class—but there’s a quiet pride beneath it. And Jungkook sees it, even when Jimin doesn’t say a word. The way he’ll sometimes reread an email with his lips pursed, then shut his laptop like he didn’t just get a recruiting offer from a Fortune 500. He’ll glance at Jungkook and shrug.
“It’s still early,” he says.
But Jungkook knows.
And he’s so fucking proud.
Meanwhile, Jungkook’s been thriving, too.
Not in the way people might notice at first—no awards, no publications, nothing formal—but his commissions have been steady for months. Galleries in Seoul, private collectors in Japan, even one museum in Gwangju that asked if they could license one of his digital pieces for a rotating exhibition.
He’s saving. Quietly, methodically, a little obsessively.
Because there’s a motorcycle he wants.
A classic Harley, rebuilt, polished to gleaming black with custom handlebars and a leather seat that makes him salivate. He’s bookmarked the listing, has the tab open on his browser like a devotional.
When he showed Jimin the first time, wide-eyed and hopeful, Jimin just looked at it for three seconds and deadpanned, “So that’s the deathtrap you want to leave me widowed over.”
Jungkook had sulked for half an hour while Jimin giggled into his cup of tea.
(He caught Jimin bookmarking the helmet section later that night.)
Even their friends are thriving.
Namjoon finally asked Jin out after four years of living together like an old married couple.
The confession itself was a disaster—half a spilled drink and a misquote from a Neruda poem, followed by a long, bumbling silence—but Jin had stared at him for a beat and then, flatly, “Finally,” before dragging him out of the party by the collar and not returning for two hours.
Hobi had screamed when he found out. Taehyung cried. Yoongi grunted and then paid for everyone's dinner, which was apparently his version of celebration.
Jungkook and Jimin just blinked at each other over their takeout and said, in eerie unison, “Called it.”
They’re still stupidly in love.
Still disgustingly domestic. Still tangled up on the couch at all hours, Jimin cross-legged in Jungkook’s lap pretending he isn’t one hundred percent the little spoon in their relationship. Still brushing teeth side-by-side at night, still crawling into bed after long days and shuffling close on instinct.
But there’s something else now, too.
Something quieter.
A steadiness to it. A certainty. That whatever storms come, whatever choices are made after graduation—Busan or Seoul or Daegu or wherever the wind takes them—they’ll face it together.
They don’t say forever.
But they both feel it.
Which is why, on one quiet, cold Saturday morning in December, Jungkook finds himself standing in front of the coat rack, carefully folding his nicest cardigan and slipping on a pair of boots while Jimin’s still asleep in their room.
There’s no special occasion. No whiteboard calendar event. Just a perfectly average winter weekend.
But Jungkook’s heart is thudding like he’s about to step into something big.
Because he is.
He’s heading to Busan.
To see Jimin’s parents.
And this time, he’s not just visiting.
He’s going to ask.
♡
It’s nearly noon by the time Jungkook stands in front of the café’s familiar wooden door.
He knows it’s closed for the Lunar New Year. Knows Jimin’s parents are likely cleaning or cooking or rearranging something for the festivities, the way they always do around this time. Still, he shifts nervously from foot to foot on the quiet street, bag slung over his shoulder, another one clutched in his hand—brimming with gifts and far too many snacks. His scarf is wound too tightly, and his ears are already red from nerves and cold.
He hesitates.
Then rings the bell anyway.
It takes just a few seconds before the door swings open with a soft jingle of the little bell tied to the knob—and Jimin’s mother appears, wiping her hands on a towel, face framed by loose tendrils of hair and a look of immediate confusion.
“Jungkook?”
He bows deeply, nearly toppling forward with the weight of the bag. “Hello, eomoni. I—um—thought I’d visit. Help out.”
There’s a pause.
Then her eyes narrow—not with suspicion, but with something more like curiosity. She takes him in—cardigan too neat, cheeks pink from the cold, arms stiff from trying too hard not to seem like he’s trying at all.
“You came all the way from Seoul to help me rearrange tablecloths?”
“Yes?” he squeaks, voice betraying him.
She lets out a laugh, already ushering him in.
“Well, I’m not about to turn you away. Get in before your ears freeze off.”
Inside, it’s warm. Familiar. Smelling faintly of cinnamon and delicious home cooking, with the soft hum of trot music playing from the radio in the kitchen. The café is dim without the big lights on, but cosy—the kind of space people gravitate to when the world feels too big.
She takes the bags from him like it’s instinctual, humming as she peeks inside.
“Dried persimmons and ginseng? You spoil us, really.”
“I, uh, I wasn’t sure what to bring—”
“Food is always the right answer.” She eyes him, smile softening. “Jimin says you’re a good cook now. I’m still waiting on proof.”
Jungkook laughs awkwardly and runs a hand through his hair.
She points at the table. “Sit. I’ll heat up lunch. Have you eaten?”
“No,” he admits sheepishly, settling into one of the chairs. “Didn’t feel like it.”
Her eyes flick up again at that, but she doesn’t press—just pats his shoulder once and heads into the kitchen.
He sits quietly.
The nerves hit him all at once now that he’s still. His palms are sweating. His mouth is dry. The question sits like a stone in his chest. Like he’s stepped over a line, even if it’s one he’s been inching toward for months.
The kitchen clatter keeps him grounded. Chopsticks. Steam. The faint whistle of the kettle.
When she returns with a tray and a smile, she sets it down in front of him with practiced ease.
“Eat,” she says. “Then talk.”
Jungkook blinks.
She gives him a look. “You’ve got that face. Like something’s going to fall out of your mouth if you don’t spit it soon.”
He laughs, startled.
She smiles gently and folds herself into the seat across from him. There’s a second cup of tea on her side. He realizes she knew all along. That somehow, she’s always known.
He swallows.
Then, finally—quietly—he says it.
“I want to propose to Jimin.”
The silence is immediate.
Her hands are still wrapped around her tea mug. Her eyes don’t change. She doesn’t look surprised. She looks at him for a long moment.
Then lets out the longest sigh.
“Thank god,” she mutters.
Jungkook startles. “What—?”
She waves him off with a laugh, her eyes gleaming.
“That boy takes forever to admit anything to himself. We were worried he’d never get there. And you—” she tuts affectionately, “—you wear your heart like a name tag.”
“I tried to wait,” Jungkook says, flushing. “I didn’t want to push him.”
“I know,” she says, and something about it makes his throat sting.
She reaches across the table and squeezes his hand. “You’ve been good to him. Patient. Honest. You let him be himself.”
Jungkook’s voice is small. “I love him.”
She nods, like that was never in question. “He loves you too. Dearly.”
A pause.
Then her expression sobers, just slightly.
“Are you sure?” she asks gently. “Asking for marriage is big. Especially at your age.”
Jungkook’s answer comes without hesitation.
“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”
There’s a quiet moment that follows. Just the two of them at the table, tea cooling between their hands, the weight of the conversation pressing gently against their ribs.
Jimin’s mother studies him carefully, the corners of her mouth still tipped in a smile, but her eyes now softer. Heavier. There’s something knowing in her gaze, something lined with the quiet, lived-in sadness that people learn to carry when they know how the world works.
“Just remember,” she says after a beat, “you can’t get married here. Not really. Not the way straight couples can.”
She doesn’t say it cruelly, or even bitterly. It’s just... a fact. Spoken plainly, like the weather.
And still—it lands like a stone in Jungkook’s stomach.
“I know,” he says, voice quieter now.
Not hurt, not surprised. But reminded.
“But I still want to ask,” he adds after a moment, looking her in the eye. “I don’t care about paperwork or legality. I just want it to be him. That’s all.”
She watches him, unreadable.
Then lets out a slow breath and nods, something thick and quiet behind her smile.
“Then that’s what matters,” she says. “That’s more than enough.”
And she squeezes his hand again.
Not just in support, but solidarity.
Something unspoken passes between them—recognition, maybe. Of the quiet grief that comes with knowing love is sometimes bigger than the place that holds it. But also the defiance of loving anyway. Claiming anyway.
“I still think he’ll cry,” she says after a pause, and the mood lifts just a little.
Jungkook laughs, grateful for the shift, eyes stinging anyway.
“You think so?”
“He’s a sentimental little hedgehog. Don’t let him fool you.”
“I’ll bring tissues.”
“Bring extra. For me and your mother when you tell us all about it.”
And just like that, the planning begins.
Two conspirators, one very big secret, and a future already blooming at the edges.
♡
It’s a rare Thursday night without Jimin.
He’s away in another city for a seminar, something academic and brutal and apparently “kind of sexy” in its difficulty, according to him—Jungkook had rolled his eyes and called him a freak of nature, but had also packed him snacks and reminded him five times to wear his scarf.
Now, the apartment feels too quiet. Too still.
Which is probably why Jungkook’s heart is hammering by the time he opens the door for their friends.
He’s invited them all under the lame guise of “a thing,” which is vague enough that Yoongi almost didn’t show up but specific enough that Jin immediately assumed it was about Jimin. Namjoon brought wine—again—and Hobi brought chips. Taehyung was the first one there, standing with his coat still on and eyeing Jungkook like he knew something was up.
By 8:00pm, they’re all seated—some on the couch, others on the floor, legs crossed or dangling. The lights are warm, the snacks untouched. Jungkook is pacing, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve.
“Okay,” Jin finally says, squinting. “What is it? You’re either gonna confess something, or someone’s pregnant.”
“It’s not—” Jungkook huffs. “No one’s pregnant for fuck’s sake. It’s just… big.”
He stops pacing. Faces them. Breathes.
Might as well spit it out before he chickens out.
“I want to propose to Jimin.”
It’s quiet.
Not the kind of quiet that begs for laughter or teasing—but the kind that settles in gently, sinks into the floor.
Jin exhales, hand pressed to his heart. Namjoon nods slowly, smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Yoongi murmurs something that sounds suspiciously like “called it” Hobi’s eyes go wide, then crinkle as he beams.
But Jungkook’s not watching them.
His eyes are on Taehyung.
Who hasn’t reacted. Not really. Just sits back, arms loosely crossed, lips pressed together. Watching.
The moment stretches. Jungkook can feel the air shift.
He clears his throat. “Tae?”
Taehyung’s eyes flick up. “Are you asking for my opinion?”
“I’m asking for your blessing.”
That stills the room again. Even Yoongi straightens slightly.
Taehyung sits with it. With the weight of that.
Then slowly uncrosses his arms and stands, motioning with his head.
“Come here.”
Jungkook follows him silently into the hallway, just outside the kitchen. He leans back against the wall, heart jackhammering. Taehyung doesn’t speak right away—just stares at the floor for a moment, arms hanging loose at his sides.
“Do you know what you’re asking?” He asks softly.
Jungkook meets his eyes. “Yeah. I think I do.”
Taehyung nods once. “He’s not easy.”
“I know.”
“He’s guarded. Stubborn. Terrified of needing anyone too much.”
“I know that, too.”
Taehyung looks at him carefully. “But he loves hard when he lets himself. You know that, don’t you?”
“I do,” Jungkook says, voice quiet but steady. “He doesn’t always say it, but he shows me. And I want to keep showing him, every day, that it’s safe to do that. That I’m not going anywhere.”
There’s a pause.
Taehyung’s expression softens. “You’re really in this.”
“I’ve always been,” Jungkook breathes. “From the beginning.”
Taehyung finally, finally, cracks a smile. Small, sincere. “Then you have my blessing.”
Jungkook’s chest expands like he’s been holding his breath for weeks.
“Thank you,” he says, a little hoarse.
Taehyung claps him on the shoulder, hard enough to jolt him. “But if you break his heart, I’m keying that stupid motorcycle when you finally buy it.”
“Fair.”
“And stealing back the sweatshirt you stole from me last spring.”
“You’ll have to fight Jimin for it,” Jungkook grins.
They walk back into the living room together, and the rest of the night is louder, warmer—full of chaos and teasing and debate over proposal venues and which day of the week is the most auspicious.
But Jungkook moves through it lighter now. Grounded.
Because the one approval that mattered most—the one who’s watched over Jimin for most his life—gave it freely.
And now?
Now it’s happening.
♡
It begins with a whimper.
Not from Jungkook—but from his sanity, which has been steadily circling the drain since the words “I’m going to propose to Jimin” left his mouth two weeks ago.
In theory, the hard part was over.
Jimin’s parents were on board, duh. His own were over the moon. His friends too, with random threats to sabotage the moment with glitter if he made it too sappy. Even Taehyung had given him the look—the serious one that came without jokes or teasing—and told him he was proud of him. That Jimin would say yes.
But now?
Now he’s spiralling in the quiet, cavernous library, sitting at a back table on the third floor, glaring at his phone and wondering how people made this shit look easy.
Pinterest is useless.
He’s ten boards deep in rustic outdoor and fairy tale moody and spring garden lace when he hears a crash of books from somewhere near the front.
Jungkook’s head snaps up.
It’s not the sound that catches him. It’s the déjà vu.
Someone snapping—“This is a library, not a food court!”—before storming away from a table full of panicking undergrads.
He turns instinctively to follow the voice, already rolling his eyes—
And freezes.
Because the table the chaos is orbiting around? The cluster of chairs and backpacks and energy drinks?
It’s that table.
His table.
The one he sat at during his first month of freshman year. Right here. In this building. Right in that exact chair. Sketchbook blank in front of him. Pencil in hand.
And across the room?
A boy.
Short. Pissed. Dressed in a pink sweatshirt with hair like obsidian and lips made by gods. Marching up to a group of loud boys, grabbing one by the collar, and hissing death threats in an ice-cold tone.
That was the moment it happened.
That’s when Jungkook knew.
And suddenly, the entire mess of planning—of secret Pinterest boards and rejected venue proposals—goes quiet in his head.
Because this is it.
This is where it started. The first moment. The very beginning.
No venue will ever matter more.
He unlocks his phone with trembling fingers and opens the group chat.
Jungkook, [19:47]: everyone shut up. I’ve figured it out.
Jin, [19:47]: please don’t say karaoke bar again
Jungkook, [19:48]: library.
Hobi, [19:48]: …like, the actual library??
Jungkook, [19:48]: THE library. Our uni. Same table. Same floor. The one where i first saw him.
Namjoon, [19:48 PM] : oh shit.
Jin, [19:49 PM]: oh my god you’re going to make me CRY
Yoongi, [19:49]: this is the most nauseatingly romantic thing you’ve ever said. I’m impressed.
Taehyung, [19:50 PM]: i remember jimin telling me about it. One of the boys he threatened was in his course wrote him a love letter. No wonder you got obsessed.
Jungkook, [19:50 PM]: i was.
Jungkook, [19:50 PM] : i am.
Taehyung, [19:51 PM]: okay you win. 10/10. He’s gonna cry.
Jin, [19:51 PM]: i’M already crying you little shit
Namjoon, [19:51 PM]: this feels…full circle.
Hobi, [19:52 PM]: wait. Do we all hide in the stacks and jump out when he says yes? Please say yes.
1
Jungkook, [19:52 PM]: NO
Jungkook, [19:53 PM]: no flash mobs. No sparkles. No hidden choirs. I just want it to be quiet. Just him. Me. And this stupid table.
Taehyung, [19:53 PM]: and the ring?
Jungkook, [19:53 PM]: already have it.
Jungkook, [19:53 PM]: he doodled something on my wrist in ballpoint pen last year and it stained for three days. I had that scribble turned into the engraving.
Yoongi, [19:54 PM]: oh fuck off that’s disgustingly perfect
Jin, [19:54 PM]: I AM WEEPING
Namjoon, [19:54 PM]: okay. Okay. This is the one.
Jungkook, [19:55 PM]: now i just have to find a way to get him here without him figuring it out.
Hobi, [19:55 PM]: so you want to deceive a man with a built-in lie detector?
Jungkook, [19:55 PM]: yes.
Taehyung, [19:56 PM] : okay. It’ll be hard. But we’ve hidden worse things from him.
Jin, [19:56 PM]: remember the surprise birthday party?
Yoongi, [19:56 PM] : when he almost caught us and i pretended to be having a breakdown in the hallway?
Taehyung, [19:56 PM]: i’ll fake cardiac arrest if i have to. This will happen.
Jungkook, [19:57 PM]: god i love you guys
He puts the phone down.
Stares at the empty chair across the table.
His chest feels too full.
This is where it started.
It feels right.
♡
The preparation takes time.
Not because Jungkook is indecisive—he knows what he wants. He’s known for a while. It’s just that making it perfect takes coordination, quiet deception, and a near-impossible balancing act of pulling off something monumental right under Park Jimin’s razor-sharp nose.
Which, frankly, is a joke.
Keeping a secret from Jimin is like trying to hide truffles from a pig. Or dynamite from a fire inspector. He senses things. Hears them in pauses. Reads them in posture. Sees through polite deflections like they’re made of glass.
So, naturally, Jungkook’s been lying through his teeth for weeks.
His phone’s locked tighter than a safe. His internet search history has been cleared daily. He’s been tucking sketches away with all the subtlety of a burglar. Every time Jimin asks what he’s doing, Jungkook gives him some variation of “just commissions,” while his heart beats loud enough to echo in his ears.
The first stroke of luck comes in the form of Min Yoongi, patron saint of shady connections. One text and a phone call later, and Jungkook has a secured evening slot at the university library—specifically, the third floor. One Thursday evening. Just for him.
No questions asked.
Yoongi simply hangs up and says, “It’s yours. Four hours. No one’s getting in.”
Then smirks and adds, “I’ll make sure of it.”
He pulls in Namjoon and Hoseok next. Between the three of them, the logistics are covered. They plan to sweep the building, lock it down, and stand guard at every entrance. Hoseok’s on charm duty. Namjoon will make it sound official, even got his old bouncer uniform out. Yoongi just promises to glare at anyone who dares loiter.
“Guarding the sanctity of love,” Namjoon jokes, hand over heart.
Yoongi rolls his eyes. “Guarding the damn door.”
Hoseok just grins. “Don’t worry. We’ve got you.”
Then there’s Jin.
Who refuses to let Jungkook do anything “half-assed and tragic” and takes over the aesthetics.
“I’m not letting you propose in a bare-ass library like some post-exam nervous breakdown. Absolutely not.”
Jungkook tries to argue, “I want it simple—”
“I said no. Trust me. It’ll be elegantly understated, which is rich person code for ‘expensive but subtle.’ You’re welcome.”
What arrives to the Kim-Kim apartment two days before the proposal isn’t a plan. It’s a production.
Boxes. Unlabelled. Jin hands him a list, offers zero explanation, and tells him to “unpack it in order or I’ll haunt your wedding photos.”
The first box contains flowers. Not red roses or anything cheesy. No, Jin’s smarter than that.
Pale pink ranunculi—soft and complex, the same blush as Jimin’s favourite sweater. Sweet pea and freesia, light and heady. Delicate blue hyacinths—clean, cool, like the scent Jimin wears sometimes. A bundle of white snowdrops, fresh and simple.
Love. Hope. First beginnings.
Jungkook doesn’t even make it through the second box before sitting down hard on the floor.
Candles. Clear glass. Gold trim. Soft, unscented. Dozens of them, waiting to be placed in the quiet perimeter of their corner on the third floor.
Then—the photos.
Dozens of printed Polaroids. Some candid. Some posed. A few clearly taken by others—moments caught in motion. Jimin reaching across a table. Jungkook painting on the rooftop. Their hands, linked. Jimin smiling, eyes crinkled, head tilted. Underneath: handwritten quotes.
“Don’t look at me like that.”
“You started it.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“You’re mine.”
The last box isn’t even a box. It’s a garment bag, sleek and pristine. Jin delivers it himself and unzips it with all the reverence of a fashion priest.
It’s a suit.
Black with understated pinstripes. Wide lapels. Crisp white shirt. Tailored within an inch of Jungkook’s life. When he tries it on, it fits like it was made for him. Because, obviously—it was.
Jin stands back, arms crossed. “If he doesn’t cry, I will.”
Jungkook just swallows thickly and nods.
He wants the proposal to fall on their anniversary. But the library’s only available a few weeks before. It doesn’t matter. The date means less than the place—the one where it started.
Not where Jungkook spoke to Jimin. But where he saw him.
Freshman year. Third floor. A loud group of boys. Jimin storming over with a glare and threats.
That was it.
That was the moment.
And that’s why, on the night of the proposal, everything is designed around that space. The table where he’d first watched Jimin shake a full-grown man like a feral raccoon. The chair he sat in, slack-jawed and already smitten. The stacks of books, the dusty air, the slant of warm light across the floor.
By 6:30PM, the third floor is cleared. Hoseok and Namjoon are stationed downstairs. Yoongi stalks the entrance like a sleepy, over caffeinated demon.
The flowers are arranged in minimal clusters. The candles glow. The Polaroids are hung by string across one of the bookcases, curling like memories in motion.
And Jungkook?
Jungkook stands in the middle of it, breathing slow. Adjusting the cuff of his shirt. Fingers running along the velvet box in his pocket. His hair is styled back, lips bitten pink. The suit hugs his body like second skin.
His phone pings
Taehyung, [19:57 PM]: bringing the feral swamp fairy. 3 mins out.
Jungkook doesn’t reply.
He looks around one more time.
At the table.
At the past.
At the future.
And waits.
♡
Taehyung’s not used to being nervous. That’s Jimin’s job—overthinking, micromanaging, spiralling over the most inconsequential things. Taehyung floats. He glides. He shows up with chaos in one hand and glitter in the other and trusts the universe to make room for him.
But tonight, the air feels tight. Everything’s too deliberate—his outfit, his pacing, the texts from Yoongi confirming the building is locked and guarded. Hoseok’s “all clear” message had three too many heart emojis and an unhinged selfie of Jin with a scared looking Jungkook in the background, and Taehyung’s pretty sure that means go time.
Still, he walks beside Jimin like nothing’s happening. Like his best friend isn’t about to step into the most important moment of his life.
They cut through the campus gardens, boots crunching in the gravel, the tips of their ears pink from the cold. Jimin’s bundled up to his eyeballs, scarf swallowing half his face, muttering about midterm grading curves and caffeine withdrawal and how if the coffee kiosk closes early again he’s filing a human rights violation.
It’s all so normal.
And it kind of makes Taehyung want to cry.
He glances sideways. Watches the way Jimin’s mouth moves when he talks, the faint line between his brows that never quite smooths out. Taehyung has known him since they were thirteen, all sass and wiry limbs and too many opinions. Watched him grow into himself slowly, carefully, always with a wall up and one foot out the door just in case. Watched him pretend not to want what everyone else seemed to crave so easily—closeness, love, wanting.
And now—
Now Jimin is in love.
Fully, obviously, disgustingly in love.
Even if he tries to hide it, even if he still pretends to be annoyed when Jungkook grabs his hand in public or kisses his cheek in front of their friends—he’s there. Letting someone hold him without flinching. Letting himself be seen.
It’s been nearly two years and Taehyung still can’t believe it.
They’re almost at the library now. The lights are low, the building quiet and glowing soft against the night.
Taehyung exhales slowly.
“You know,” he says, “if someone had told me back in high school that you’d end up in a relationship this sappy, I would’ve slapped them with a graphing calculator.”
Jimin snorts. “I’m still not in a sappy relationship.”
“You let Jungkook breathe on you in public.”
“So?”
“Willingly.”
Jimin gives him a look, but the edges of it are warm. “He’s tolerable.”
“You let him wash your hair, Mimi. That’s love.”
“I let you wash my hair.”
“That was once. And I was high.”
Taehyung grins when Jimin rolls his eyes but doesn’t deny it. He slows his steps as they approach the entrance. His heart is starting to beat too fast.
Jimin reaches for the door.
Taehyung grabs his arm.
“What now?” Jimin asks, raising an eyebrow.
“I left something on the third floor,” Taehyung says.
Jimin sighs. “What, your shame?”
“My notebook,” Taehyung says smoothly.
“You don’t even take notes.”
“I do. When the inspiration hits.”
“Taehyung.”
Taehyung just smiles and taps his arm. “Go grab it for me, will you?”
Jimin stares at him.
Taehyung stares back.
He hopes his eyes are saying it—trust me. Just go. It’ll all make sense soon.
Jimin huffs, pulling his scarf higher. “You’re so annoying.”
But he pushes the door open anyway.
Taehyung watches him disappear up the stairs. Waits until he’s out of sight before pulling out his phone with shaking hands.
Taehyung, [19:59 PM] : he's coming up.
Taehyung, [19:59 PM] : don't cry until he says yes.
He presses send.
Then stands outside the library doors, heart in his throat, and smiles like someone who just pushed the first domino in a line of something beautiful.
♡
The library is too quiet.
Jimin steps through the doors with a muttered curse, hands buried in his coat pockets, scarf suffocating his jawline. The silence hits him almost immediately—heavy, unnatural. The lights are low, warmer than usual, flickering dimly against the polished floors.
Something’s wrong.
Or… not wrong. Just off.
He hesitates at the base of the stairs. Glances over his shoulder like maybe Taehyung will come in behind him, cackling about some elaborate prank.
But the doors stay shut.
With a sigh, Jimin heads up.
Each step creaks under his weight. The stairwell is cast in low amber light, and by the time he reaches the second floor landing, his fingers are curling tighter in his sleeves.
It’s colder here. Or maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s just that feeling—that feeling, the one that happens right before something changes and you’re not sure if you’re ready for it.
The third floor is silent.
He turns the corner—and freezes.
Everything… stops.
The scent hits him first. Warmth and wax and something vaguely floral—delicate, nostalgic. Then the light—soft, golden, moving with every breath of air like the room itself is alive.
Then the sight.
Candles. Dozens of them. Some tall and dripping, others short and flickering in shallow jars. Arranged along the shelves, the floors, the edges of their table—the one where Taehyung used to nudge him and whisper about the freshman who stared too much. The one where Jimin first caught those big, hopeless eyes blinking at him like he’d invented gravity.
And there are flowers. Scattered in little bunches, tucked into vintage cups and glass vials. Not just roses or anything typical—there’s thought here. Freesia, ranunculus, forget-me-nots. Petals the color of dusk and cream and blush.
And polaroids.
Hundreds. Strung between shelves and clipped onto strings, curling slightly at the edges like they’ve been handled, loved. Photos of him. Him and Jungkook. Them. Their hands. Their shadows. Jimin laughing into Jungkook’s shoulder. Jungkook sprawled in their living room floor with paint on his face. A snap of their feet under a café table, ankles tangled together. Notes written in the white space beneath each one—quotes and one-liners and dumb things they’ve said to each other in sleepy mornings or late-night pillow talk.
His heart’s not beating right.
He takes a step forward, slow.
Another.
And then he sees him.
Jungkook.
Standing in the middle of the room.
Dressed in the sharpest black suit Jimin has ever seen on another human being, shirt slightly open at the throat, hair brushed back and falling just enough into his eyes. He’s not smiling.
Not yet.
He just… waits.
Lets Jimin look. Lets him breathe.
Jimin doesn’t know when his mouth fell open, doesn’t know why his chest feels like it’s about to split open. He can’t speak. Can’t even think.
He only blinks when Jungkook finally moves.
“Hey,” Jungkook says, voice hoarse. “You came.”
Jimin swallows. “Taehyung said—”
“I know.” A soft laugh. “He’s good at this.”
A pause.
Jungkook shifts on his feet.
“You remember this table?”
Jimin’s throat is dry. “Yeah.”
“I was sitting right over there when I saw you for the first time. You were yelling at some guy for being too loud.” A breath. “You said you’d put him in the ground.”
Jimin snorts, sharp and startled. “That sounds about right.”
“I couldn't stop looking at you. Filled four full pages with drawings.”
Another step. Closer. Jimin’s heart climbs into his mouth.
“And then it was like—I kept seeing you. All the time. Same place. Same time. You never looked at me, but it was okay. Just watching you felt like enough.”
“Jungkook—”
“I was in love with you before I even knew your name.”
The silence rushes in.
Jimin’s fingers tremble.
“You made me nervous. You made feel excited. I didn’t think I had a chance. But I kept trying.”
Jungkook pulls something from his pocket.
A small velvet box.
“I can’t give you a marriage. Not here. Not really.”
His voice wavers, and Jimin’s breath catches.
“But I can ask you this.”
He opens the box.
Inside is a ring—silver, clean, quietly beautiful. Inside the band, engraved in faint but familiar lines, is Jimin’s handwriting. A wordless promise.
Jungkook drops to one knee.
“I want to be yours forever,” he says. “And I want you to be mine. No papers. No ceremony. Just—us. Every day. No matter what. When it’s good. When it’s hard. When you want to kill me. When you laugh at my stupid jokes. When we’re old and grey and still fighting over who left the tap running.”
He exhales, hands steady now.
“Will you be mine? Forever?”
Jimin’s knees give out slowly.
He doesn’t even realise he’s kneeling until he’s right in front of Jungkook, eyes stinging, lips parted.
He looks up at Jungkook—his Jungkook—and realises his entire chest has split open.
There is nothing left to protect. Nothing left to hide.
He cups Jungkook’s jaw with both hands and kisses him. Soft, at first. Then with every inch of the gratitude and terror and wonder blooming under his skin like wildfire.
And when he pulls back, breathless, eyes wet, voice hoarse—
“Yes,” he whispers. “You idiot. Of course yes.”
Jungkook lets out a broken laugh and pulls him in, and they stay like that—kneeling on the third floor of a candlelit library, wrapped up in each other and every memory that led them here.
Outside the window, it starts to snow.
The world keeps spinning.
But inside?
Inside, it’s still.
Just them.
Where it all began.
And where it begins again.
(J² + K²)^½ = <3