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Yoongi's jaw tightened as laughter spilled from across the table. Not the warm, intimate kind he'd hoped to coax out tonight—this cut sharper.
"Wait, wait." The guy wiped his eyes, still chuckling. "You're seriously telling me you're a Dom? Come on, man. That's—you sound like a sub. Are you sure you haven't got it backwards?"
The question landed like a boot to the chest. Yoongi's fingers stilled on his glass, ice cubes shifting in the silence.
"I'm sure."
"I mean, no judgment if you're still figuring yourself out—"
"I'm not." Each word dropped flat and final. "I spent three years figuring myself out. Tried subbing twice. Hated every second of it."
The laughter finally died, but the damage spread between them like spilled wine. Yoongi could write the script from here—the backpedaling, the awkward excuses, the ghost that would follow in a day or two.
He loved control. Craved it, needed it thrumming through his veins when he had someone beneath him. Just because his specific wants didn't fit the leather-and-chains mold every app profile seemed to worship didn't make him less dominant.
It made him exhausted.
The apartment welcomed him back with silence that pressed against his eardrums. Yoongi dropped his keys on the counter, kicked off his shoes without bothering to line them up.
In the bathroom, he stared at his reflection while brushing his teeth. Maybe he should just... perform it. Play the part they wanted. Bark orders, use toys, orchestrate elaborate scenes with color-coded safewords and aftercare rituals.
He'd done it before. Plenty of times. The mechanics worked—his partners had left satisfied, glowing even. He'd done everything right, checked every box.
But when they'd curled against him afterward, faces soft with that blissful emptiness people chased, Yoongi had felt nothing. No rush. No completion. Just the hollow sense of having executed someone else's fantasy while his own stayed locked behind his ribs.
He spat toothpaste into the sink.
The forums described it like enlightenment—that perfect scene that rewired your brain chemistry. Partners talked about floating, about surrender so complete it cracked them open. Doms spoke of power that sang through their blood, satisfaction that lasted for days.
Yoongi crawled into bed alone, phone dark on the nightstand.
Maybe some people just didn't get to have that.
The login screen glowed in the dark room, cursor blinking in the password field. Yoongi had been staring at it for ten minutes.
A week. Seven days since that disaster of a date, since he'd decided maybe he just wasn't built for this after all.
His fingers moved across the keyboard, muscle memory carrying him through the login process. The familiar dashboard loaded—messages, matches, endless profiles promising everything he'd never quite found.
The settings menu opened with a click. Account Status. Deactivate Profile.
Take a break. Figure out what you actually want instead of chasing something that doesn't exist.
His cursor hovered over the confirmation button.
A notification popped up in the corner. New profile view.
Yoongi's hand stilled on the mouse. He should ignore it. Click confirm, close the laptop, go to bed like a rational person who'd already made his decision.
He clicked the notification.
The profile loaded and Yoongi's breath caught.
The photo showed a torso, arms, the curve of a neck. Strategic cropping kept the face mostly hidden—just a sharp jawline, the hint of a cheekbone. Fair enough. Yoongi's own profile did the same, enough to prove he was real without sacrificing anonymity.
But what he could see...
Christ.
Lean muscle, smooth skin, the kind of build that would fit perfectly under Yoongi's hands. And those lips, caught mid-smile in the edge of the frame—full, soft, the kind that would look obscene wrapped around—
Yoongi stopped that thought before it could finish.
The profile text was sparse. Vague interests, vaguer limits. Nothing that screamed compatibility, nothing that suggested this guy would understand what Yoongi actually needed.
Didn't matter.
Something tightened in Yoongi's chest, hot and insistent. Want, pure and simple, uncomplicated by all the searching and disappointment.
Even if this went nowhere. Even if his specific needs stayed unfulfilled, locked away like always. Even if he had to perform the same tired script one more time—
He wanted this. Needed to unravel this man, peel back those careful layers, see what made him tick.
Yoongi closed the deactivation screen.
His fingers moved to compose a message instead.
GlossMin: Hey. Saw you looking. Liked what you saw?
Yoongi hit send before he could second-guess the directness. Usually took hours for responses—busy schedules, people playing coy. He minimized the browser and pulled up the half-finished track he'd been avoiding all week.
The notification pinged before he'd even opened the project file.
BabyJ: Depends. Are you always this subtle?
Yoongi's eyebrows rose.
GlossMin: Only on Tuesdays.
BabyJ: Lucky me. It's Wednesday.
GlossMin: Then I'm an absolute enigma wrapped in mystery.
BabyJ: Wrapped in black clothing and brooding in the profile pic, you mean?
Yoongi glanced at his own photo—admittedly dark, admittedly moody.
GlossMin: Says the guy who cropped out everything above the collarbone. Witness protection or just camera shy?
BabyJ: Option C: I value my privacy.
GlossMin: And yet here you are, messaging a stranger on a kink site.
BabyJ: Here WE are. Don't act like you're not doing the same thing.
Fair point.
GlossMin: Touché.
BabyJ: So what brings you here, mystery man? Besides my devastating good looks and sparkling personality.
Yoongi's fingers paused over the keyboard. How honest should he be?
GlossMin: Looking for something real. You?
Vague enough. True enough. Let this guy fill in whatever blanks worked for him.
The response took longer this time. Yoongi watched the cursor blink, imagined those hands—elegant fingers visible in one photo—hovering over keys somewhere across the city.
BabyJ: Same. Tired of people who don't know what they want.
GlossMin: And you do? Know what you want?
BabyJ: Getting there. Still figuring some things out.
Something about that answer snagged in Yoongi's chest. Not the usual confident posturing, the endless profiles claiming to have it all solved, all mapped out. Just honest uncertainty wrapped in careful words.
GlossMin: Aren't we all.
BabyJ: Speak for yourself. I'm a paragon of self-awareness and emotional maturity.
GlossMin: Right. That why you're trolling kink sites at midnight?
BabyJ: It's called networking.
Yoongi huffed a laugh at the screen.
GlossMin: That what we're calling it now?
BabyJ: Better than whatever excuse you're using.
GlossMin: No excuse. Just interested.
BabyJ: In?
The question sat there, loaded. Yoongi could pivot to specifics, lay out his usual pitch—what he could offer, what he expected in return. The performance he'd perfected over failed relationship after failed relationship.
Or he could keep this simple. Physical. Uncomplicated want without the weight of everything else.
GlossMin: You. One night. See where it goes.
Three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again.
BabyJ: Direct.
GlossMin: Problem?
BabyJ: No. Refreshing, actually. Most guys want to negotiate a whole contract before meeting for coffee.
GlossMin: Not really the bureaucratic type.
BabyJ: What type are you?
Yoongi's fingers stilled. Dangerous question, that. The kind that could spiral into revelations he wasn't ready to make, needs he'd learned to keep buried.
GlossMin: The type who's interested in finding out what you look like when you're not hiding behind strategic camera angles.
BabyJ: Forward AND demanding. Bold combination.
GlossMin: You started this. Looked at my profile first.
BabyJ: Maybe I like what I see so far.
GlossMin: So far?
BabyJ: Still waiting to see if you're all talk.
Heat flared low in Yoongi's gut. Challenge accepted.
GlossMin: Name the time and place. I'll show you exactly how much talk is involved.
The response came fast.
BabyJ: Tomorrow. 8pm. There's a bar in Itaewon—House of Cards. Know it?
Yoongi knew it. Neutral territory, public enough to be safe, private enough for honest conversation.
GlossMin: I'll be there.
The bass line thrummed through the floorboards as Yoongi pushed through the entrance of House of Cards. Mid-week crowd—scattered groups at high-tops, a few couples tucked into booths along the perimeter. Nothing like the crush of bodies that packed the place on Saturdays.
He flagged down the bartender and ordered whiskey, neat. Took the glass and wound through the dim space toward the back corner booth, furthest from the speakers and wandering conversations. Slid onto the worn leather seat and set his phone on the table.
His thumb hovered over the screen before typing.
GlossMin: Here. Corner booth, back wall.
Sent.
Yoongi sipped his drink and scanned the room, cataloging exits out of habit. Wondered which face belonged to BabyJ, which body matched those careful photographs—
The man walking toward him, drink in hand, moved with effortless confidence. Dark hair falling across eyes that curved when he smiled. Full lips. Strong jawline. A sleek, controlled figure beneath a simple black button-up.
Fuck.
Perfect wasn't the right word. Ethereal wasn't either. He was like every fantasy Yoongi had never dared articulate, wrapped in flesh and walking directly toward him.
"GlossMin?"
Yoongi nodded, brought the glass to his lips. The burn steadied him while BabyJ—Christ, even better up close—settled into the booth across from him.
"Made it," Yoongi managed.
"Traffic wasn't bad?"
"Caught the train."
Silence stretched between them. BabyJ traced the rim of his glass, glanced up through dark lashes. Yoongi searched for the wit that came so easily through a screen and found nothing.
"So." BabyJ leaned forward. "Should we keep pretending we're not sizing each other up, or—"
"I'm failing miserably at small talk."
"I noticed." The smile that followed erased Yoongi's embarrassment. "Want to skip to the part where we're honest?"
"Please."
"Jimin." He extended his hand across the table.
"Yoongi."
Jimin's grip was firm, warm. He didn't let go immediately.
"Your profile didn't mention you had a great handshake, Yoongi."
"Yours didn't mention you look like that."
Jimin laughed—not polite, but genuine. "Like what?"
"Dangerous."
"Good dangerous or bad dangerous?"
"Haven't decided yet."
The conversation found its rhythm after that, easy as their messages had been.
Jimin's fingers traced patterns through the condensation on his glass. "So what gets you off?"
There it was. The question Yoongi had been dreading since he walked through the door.
"Depends." He met Jimin's gaze, held it. "What are you asking?"
"We both know what site we met on." Jimin's smile turned predatory. "Stop stalling."
Yoongi drained the rest of his whiskey. Set the glass down with more force than necessary.
"Control."
"Elaborate."
"I like—" The words stuck in his throat. He forced them out. "Choking. Bondage."
Jimin leaned back, expression unreadable. Yoongi watched him process the information, waited for the inevitable conclusion everyone drew. His jaw tightened.
"Those are pretty common kinks."
"Yeah."
"You're leaving something out."
Fuck. Yoongi shifted in his seat, fingers drumming against the table. Jimin's eyes tracked the movement.
"You're nervous." Not a question.
"I'm fine."
"You're tensing up." Jimin tilted his head. "What aren't you saying?"
Yoongi opened his mouth. Closed it. Every previous conversation played through his mind—the confusion, the dismissal, the laughter. He braced himself for the familiar pattern: You sound like a sub. Are you sure you're actually a dom?
But Jimin just waited, patient. Interested.
"I like being choked," Yoongi said finally. "Being tied up. Restrained."
Silence.
Yoongi's pulse hammered against his ribs. Here it came—
"How does that work?" Jimin leaned forward, genuine curiosity lighting his features. "If you're dominant, I mean. How would a sub choke their dom?"
The question knocked Yoongi off balance. No mockery. No assumptions.
"I'd tell them how," he said slowly. "Direct everything. They'd follow my commands."
"You'd control the scene while being restrained."
"Yes."
"Interesting." Jimin's tongue swept across his lower lip. "Keep going."
Heat pooled low in Yoongi's stomach. The way Jimin looked at him—intent, focused, like he wanted to dissect every word and savor it.
"The restraints don't change the power dynamic." Yoongi's voice dropped. "I'd still be in charge. Giving orders. Making them earn every—"
"Every what?"
"Every sound they pull from me."
Jimin's pupils dilated. "Fuck."
The tension drained from Yoongi's shoulders, muscles loosening one by one. He hadn't realized how tightly he'd been wound until that single word—fuck—pulled the knot free.
"I expected you to call me a submissive," Yoongi admitted. "Everyone does."
Jimin shook his head, expression almost frustrated. "People love putting others in neat little boxes. Dom means this, sub means that." He gestured vaguely toward the bar crowd. "They think BDSM follows some rigid rulebook, like there's a certification process."
"Isn't there?" The corner of Yoongi's mouth twitched.
"Oh, absolutely. I have mine framed at home."
Yoongi laughed—proper laughter that came from his chest and surprised him with its force. Jimin's answering grin transformed his entire face.
"Everyone has their own preferences," Jimin continued. "Their own dynamic. What works for one person would be completely wrong for another." He reached across the table, fingertips grazing Yoongi's knuckles. "You know what you need. That's more than most people figure out."
The touch sent electricity up Yoongi's arm. He turned his hand over, let Jimin's fingers trace his palm.
"Three years," Yoongi said quietly. "Took me three years to stop trying to fit someone else's definition."
"Worth it?"
Yoongi met Jimin's eyes. Found heat there that made his breath catch.
"Ask me later."
Jimin's fingers tightened around his. "Want to get out of here?"
"Yes."
They stood in unison. Yoongi dropped bills on the table while Jimin shrugged into his jacket. The movement drew Yoongi's attention to the elegant line of his throat, the way fabric pulled across his shoulders.
"My place is close," Yoongi offered. "Ten minutes by cab."
"Lead the way."
Outside, the night air bit through Yoongi's shirt. Jimin stood close while Yoongi flagged down a taxi, close enough that Yoongi caught his scent—something clean and dark that made Yoongi's mouth water.
The cab pulled to the curb. Jimin's hand found the small of Yoongi's back as they climbed in, possessive and grounding all at once.
Yoongi gave his address and settled against the seat. Jimin's thigh pressed against his own, deliberate contact that promised everything waiting on the other side of that ten-minute drive.
This part—the commands, the control—came easy. Yoongi had done this dance a hundred times before.
Jimin sat on the edge of the bed, naked except for his briefs, skin flushed in the low light. His hands rested on his thighs, fingers splayed wide.
"No degradation," Yoongi had said earlier, cataloging preferences while they shed jackets in the entryway. "No humiliation."
"Agreed." Jimin's shirt had hit the floor. "Marks are fine. Anywhere that hides easily."
"What do you like?"
"Praise." Jimin had closed the distance between them. "Being told I'm doing well. And I like—" His breath ghosted across Yoongi's jaw. "—when someone loses control because of what I do."
Now Jimin watched him with dark eyes, waiting. Obedient.
"Touch yourself," Yoongi said. "Over the fabric."
Jimin's hand slid down his stomach, palm pressing against the outline straining beneath cotton. His eyelids fluttered.
"Slower."
The movement turned languid, deliberate. Jimin's lips parted on a quiet exhale.
"Good boy." Yoongi circled the bed, studying every reaction. "Keep going until I tell you to stop."
This he could do. This was familiar territory.
So why did the hollowness in his chest remain?
Yoongi stripped his own clothes with efficiency, tossing his shirt aside before shoving his jeans down. Jimin's eyes tracked every movement, pupils blown wide when Yoongi hooked fingers into the waistband of his briefs and pulled them off.
"On your back."
Jimin complied immediately, settling against the pillows. His cock lay hard against his stomach, already leaking.
Yoongi retrieved lube from the nightstand, warming it between his fingers before pressing one against Jimin's rim. The muscle gave easily, accepting the intrusion with barely any resistance.
"You prepped yourself," Yoongi observed.
"Hoped I'd get lucky." Jimin's hips rolled into the touch.
Yoongi added a second finger, watching Jimin's face transform—pleasure bleeding through every micro-expression. The stretch, the burn, all of it written across his features like a language Yoongi had learned to read fluently.
Three fingers, and Jimin moaned outright, head tipping back.
"What about you?"
The question landed like a stone dropping into still water. Yoongi's rhythm faltered.
"What do you mean?"
"How will you get what you want?" Jimin propped himself up on his elbows, gaze sharp despite the haze of arousal. "You said you like being choked. Tied up. So—" He gestured vaguely. "When does that happen?"
Yoongi's fingers stilled completely. His mind blanked, years of practiced responses dissolving into nothing. Because no one had actually asked before. No one had cared to make space for it beyond curiosity or mockery.
"I—" The words caught in his throat.
Jimin's expression shifted, something clever flickering behind his eyes. He sat up fully, reaching to catch Yoongi's wrist and guide his hand away.
"Lay down."
It wasn't a request.
Yoongi blinked, thrown by the sudden reversal. "What?"
"Lay down," Jimin repeated, firmer this time. "On your back."
Muscle memory almost made Yoongi protest—this wasn't how the script went—but Jimin was already moving, pushing gently at his chest until Yoongi found himself shifting backward, settling against the mattress.
Jimin swung a leg over his hips, straddling him with practiced grace. His weight pressed down, grounding and electrifying all at once.
Jimin's hands splayed across Yoongi's chest, thumbs brushing his nipples in a way that made breathing difficult.
"We need signals," Jimin said, voice steady despite the arousal darkening his features. "Since you'll be—occupied."
Yoongi's brain scrambled to keep up with the shift in dynamic. "Signals?"
"Touch my elbow if you want softer." Jimin guided Yoongi's hand to demonstrate, fingers wrapping around the joint. "Shoulder for harder." The hand moved up. "And if you need me to stop completely, touch my face."
Simple. Clear. Yoongi's fingers twitched against Jimin's shoulder, testing the system.
"Got it?"
"Yeah." The word came out rougher than intended. "I've got it."
Jimin rolled his hips, dragging his ass along Yoongi's cock in one slow, deliberate movement. Friction sparked up Yoongi's spine, pulled a choked sound from his throat before he could bite it back.
"This doesn't—" Yoongi swallowed hard. "I don't feel very dominant right now."
The admission tasted like failure. Like every other time he'd tried to explain himself and come up short.
But Jimin just smiled, wicked and knowing. "You just need the right push."
He winked—actually winked—then reached back to wrap fingers around Yoongi's cock. The touch sent electricity through every nerve ending, made Yoongi's hips jerk involuntarily.
Jimin lifted up on his knees, positioning himself. The head of Yoongi's cock pressed against his rim, already slick and open from earlier preparation.
"Fuck," Jimin breathed, and sank down.
Heat. Tight, perfect heat swallowing Yoongi inch by inch. Jimin's mouth fell open on a broken moan, head tipping back as he took everything Yoongi had to give. His thighs trembled with the effort of going slow, of not rushing the stretch despite how ready his body was.
Yoongi's hands flew to Jimin's hips on instinct, fingers digging into soft flesh not hard enough to bruise. His vision whited out at the edges, overwhelmed by sensation—by the clench of muscle around him, the obscene sounds spilling from Jimin's lips, the sight of him coming apart from nothing but Yoongi's cock filling him up.
"Oh fuck," Jimin gasped, seated fully now. "You feel—god, you feel so good."
Jimin moved slowly, rolling his hips in shallow circles that dragged Yoongi's cock along every sensitive nerve inside him. The rhythm was torture—too little to chase real pleasure, just enough to keep Yoongi's entire body wound tight.
Then Jimin's hand slid up his chest. Over his sternum, along his collarbone, fingers spreading as they reached the column of his throat. Resting there. Warm weight against his pulse without any pressure.
"Tell me," Jimin breathed, still rocking in that maddening, measured tempo. "What do you want me to do?"
The question hung between them. Jimin's fingers twitched against his neck—a reminder, an invitation—and something clicked into place in Yoongi's brain. The realization hit like lightning.
He could have both.
"Squeeze." His voice came out wrecked already. "Choke me while I fuck you."
Jimin's pupils blew wider, lips curving into something devastated and hungry all at once. "Yeah?"
"Do it."
Pressure bloomed around Yoongi's throat as Jimin's fingers tightened, finding the perfect spots on either side without crushing his windpipe. The world narrowed—sound muffled, edges going soft—and Yoongi thrust up hard.
Jimin cried out, the grip on his neck faltering for a second before steadying again. Yoongi's hand flew to Jimin's elbow, squeezing twice.
The pressure eased immediately. Blood rushed back, brought clarity and oxygen and the sharp return of every sensation. Yoongi gasped, hips snapping up again, and Jimin met him thrust for thrust.
"Harder," Yoongi managed, fingers moving to Jimin's shoulder.
The grip tightened again, firmer this time. Darkness crept in at the periphery, made everything intense and immediate—the clench of Jimin's body around him, the slick sounds of skin on skin, the trembling in Jimin's thighs as he rode through each brutal thrust.
Yoongi's hand dropped to Jimin's elbow. Softer. The pressure released partially, enough to let him breathe shallowly, to feel the relief flood his system before he tapped Jimin's shoulder again.
Hard.
This—this was it. The thing everyone else described, the rush he'd chased for years without finding. Being filled up and wrung out all at once, control and surrender tangled so tight he couldn't distinguish one from the other.
Yoongi pulled out abruptly, ignoring Jimin's whine of protest. His hands grabbed Jimin's hips and flipped them in one smooth motion—muscle memory from a thousand encounters bleeding through the haze.
Jimin landed on his back with a surprised gasp, legs spreading automatically as Yoongi settled between them. The new position put Yoongi in charge of the angle, the depth, everything.
He lined himself up and pushed back inside in one long stroke.
"Fuck—" Jimin arched, head pressing into the pillow.
Yoongi's knees dug into the mattress as he set a punishing rhythm, each thrust calculated to hit exactly where Jimin needed. This he knew. This he'd perfected through years of practice.
But then—
"Choke me," Yoongi commanded, voice scraped raw. "Now."
Jimin's hand flew to his throat immediately, fingers finding those perfect pressure points without hesitation. The grip tightened, and Yoongi's world condensed to this—driving into Jimin's willing body while darkness crept in at the edges, while his lungs screamed and his cock throbbed and everything finally, finally felt right.
Control and submission bleeding together until he couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.
"Tighter." Yoongi's voice came out strangled, desperate. "Just—a little more."
Jimin's fingers adjusted, pressing harder into the sides of his throat. Blood flow restricted, world narrowing to a pinpoint of sensation.
"There. Right there—don't move." He forced the words past the closing restriction.
The pressure held steady, perfect. Darkness bloomed at the edges of Yoongi's vision, sharpening everything else to impossible clarity—the wet heat clenching around his cock, the trembling in Jimin's thighs, the gasping sounds spilling from kiss-swollen lips.
Yoongi wrapped his hand around Jimin's cock, slick with precome, and stroked in time with each thrust. Base to tip, twisting on the upstroke the way that made Jimin's back bow off the mattress.
"Oh god—" Jimin's grip faltered, pressure easing as pleasure overwhelmed him.
Yoongi adjusted the angle, nailed that spot inside that made Jimin see stars. The fingers on his throat clamped down reflexively, tighter than before, and Yoongi's vision whited out for a second.
Perfect.
Then Jimin moaned, lost in sensation, and the pressure softened again as his focus scattered. His hand trembled against Yoongi's neck, grip inconsistent now—tightening when Yoongi hit deep, loosening when his own pleasure crested too high to maintain concentration.
Yoongi chased it. Thrust harder specifically to feel Jimin's fingers clench. Stroked faster to watch him fall apart and feel that delicious release of pressure. The unpredictability wound him tighter than any perfectly maintained grip could—never knowing if the next thrust would bring crushing darkness or gasping relief.
"Close," Jimin whimpered, cock pulsing in Yoongi's hand. "I'm so—fuck, I'm—"
His whole body went rigid. The grip on Yoongi's throat seized tight, tighter than before, cutting off air completely as Jimin came with a broken cry. White streaked across his chest, painting skin in thick ropes while his ass clenched impossibly tight around Yoongi's cock.
The combination shoved Yoongi over the edge. He pulled out fast, hand flying to his own cock as his orgasm slammed through him. His vision tunneled—from lack of oxygen or pleasure, he couldn't tell—as he came across Jimin's stomach, mixing with the mess already there.
Jimin's hand dropped away from his throat. Air rushed back in, brought with it a head rush so intense Yoongi's arms nearly gave out.
He caught himself on trembling elbows, gasping, while aftershocks rolled through both their bodies.
Yoongi's arms gave out. He collapsed sideways onto the mattress, chest heaving as he dragged oxygen into starved lungs. The rush of blood returning to his brain left him dizzy, floating.
"So good," he managed, voice absolutely wrecked. His hand found Jimin's sweat-slicked shoulder, thumb stroking absent patterns. "You did so well. Perfect."
Jimin made a soft noise—satisfaction or exhaustion, maybe both. His body shifted, gravity pulling him toward Yoongi's side. Warm skin pressed against Yoongi's ribs as Jimin tucked himself close, one leg hooking over Yoongi's thigh.
They should clean up. The mess cooling on their skin would be uncomfortable soon, sticky and unpleasant. Yoongi knew the protocol, had executed it countless times—tissues, warm washcloths, water bottles kept in the nightstand for exactly this purpose.
But Jimin's breathing already deepened, evening out into sleep's steady rhythm. His weight settled heavier, trust implicit in every relaxed muscle.
Yoongi's eyelids drooped. The hollowness that usually haunted his chest had vanished, replaced by something warm and settled. Complete.
His fingers traced one last line along Jimin's spine before consciousness slipped away.
Yoongi stared at his phone screen, reading Jimin's last message for the third time. A meme about cats that wasn't even that funny, but had made him laugh anyway because Jimin had sent it.
Seven days. Seven days of texting that started the morning after and hadn't stopped since.
His phone buzzed.
Jimin: [image: latte with a cat drawn in foam] Barista definitely thought I was weird for taking a pic before drinking it
Yoongi: You ARE weird
Jimin: Rude. And here I was thinking about you when I saw it
Warmth spread through Yoongi's chest. The kind that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with the fact that Jimin thought about him during mundane moments. That they'd talked about music theory at 2am, argued about the best ramen shops in Seoul, shared stupid inside jokes that already felt lived-in and comfortable.
He'd expected the texting to taper off after a few days. Expected Jimin to get what he wanted and disappear. Instead, Yoongi learned that Jimin worked in contemporary dance, that he stress-baked at midnight, that he had opinions about film noir that could fill novels.
The sex had been incredible. Mind-altering, actually—the first time Yoongi had finished and felt whole instead of hollow.
But this? This scared him more.
Yoongi: What are you doing this weekend?
The typing indicator appeared immediately. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Jimin: Nothing concrete. Why?
Yoongi's thumb hovered over the keyboard. Just ask. The worst he could say was no.
Yoongi: Dinner? Saturday? Somewhere that doesn't involve negotiating kinks before appetizers
The response came fast.
Jimin: Min Yoongi. Are you asking me on a DATE?
Yoongi: Forget it
Jimin: NO WAIT
Jimin: Yes. Absolutely yes. I was just giving you shit
Jimin: I'd love to
Yoongi exhaled, shoulders dropping from where they'd crept toward his ears. His fingers flew across the screen before anxiety could reclaim territory.
Yoongi: 7pm? I know a place in hongdae
Jimin: Perfect. It's a date then
Jimin: An ACTUAL date. With clothes staying ON and everything
Yoongi: Revolutionary concept
Jimin: We can negotiate the clothes coming OFF part for after ;)
Yoongi's face heated. He locked his phone and pressed it against his forehead, grinning like an idiot at nothing.
Saturday. He had a date Saturday.
A real one.
The grill hissed as Yoongi flipped the pork belly, fat rendering and crackling against hot metal. Across the table, Jimin plucked a piece of perfectly charred meat with his chopsticks and wrapped it in lettuce with practiced efficiency.
"You're supposed to let me do that," Yoongi grumbled, reaching for the tongs. "I asked you out. I should be grilling."
Jimin popped the ssam into his mouth, chewing with exaggerated satisfaction. "You were burning it."
"I was searing it."
"That's what people say when they burn things." Jimin's eyes sparkled with mischief as he assembled another wrap. "It's okay. Not everyone can multitask."
Yoongi kicked him under the table. Jimin kicked back, foot sliding along Yoongi's calf in a way that definitely wasn't accidental.
"Says the man who admitted he can't watch TV without his phone in his hand."
"That's different. That's efficient use of time." Jimin leaned forward, snatching the tongs from Yoongi's grip. "This is preventing a tragedy."
Heat that had nothing to do with the grill spread through Yoongi's chest. They'd fallen into this rhythm without effort—sharp-edged banter that never quite drew blood, physical space that kept shrinking every time one of them leaned in. Jimin had shown up in black jeans and a silk shirt that made his collarbones look obscene, and Yoongi had forgotten how to form sentences for a solid thirty seconds.
"You're bossy," Yoongi observed, accepting the ssam Jimin held out.
"You like it."
He did. God help him, he really did.
The restaurant buzzed around them—families laughing, couples absorbed in each other, the constant sizzle of meat on dozens of grills. But Yoongi's focus narrowed to Jimin's hands as they moved, graceful even performing something as simple as wrapping lettuce. Dancer's hands. He'd spent an unreasonable amount of time thinking about those hands over the past week.
"What?" Jimin caught him staring.
"Nothing."
"Liar." Jimin's foot found his again under the table, this time staying there. "You got quiet."
"Just thinking." Yoongi met his eyes, emboldened by soju and the way Jimin looked at him like he was something worth figuring out. "This is nice."
Jimin's expression softened, teasing edge giving way to something genuine. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Good." Jimin smiled, small and private. "Because I was hoping you'd want to do it again.
Jimin's weight pressed Yoongi into the mattress, hands firm around his wrists, and everything aligned in a way that made Yoongi's breath catch. He'd asked for this—actually asked, no hesitation or deflection—and Jimin had said yes without the usual questions about whether Yoongi was sure he knew what he wanted.
"Like this?" Jimin's fingers flexed, testing pressure.
"Harder." Yoongi arched up, hips seeking friction. "Don't let me move."
The grip tightened, Jimin's full weight settling over him now, and Yoongi groaned as he thrust up into slick heat. Pinned. Controlled by his own commands. The contradiction sang through his nerves, better than any scene he'd choreographed to meet someone else's expectations.
Jimin rolled his hips in response, taking Yoongi deeper, and the responding pleasure punched through Yoongi's chest. He tested the hold, pulling against Jimin's hands just to feel the resistance, to confirm he couldn't break free unless Jimin allowed it.
"Good," he managed, voice rougher than intended. "You're so good at listening."
Jimin made a sound—half-moan, half-laugh—and adjusted his angle, still keeping Yoongi's wrists locked against the sheets. "You make it easy."
The praise clearly affected him; Yoongi felt it in the way Jimin clenched around him, the slight tremor in his arms. He catalogued the response, filing it away for later use. They'd agreed bondage could wait—actual rope and restraints required more trust than a week and two encounters could build—but this worked. This was enough to scratch the itch under Yoongi's skin, the need to be held in place while maintaining every scrap of control.
"Faster," Yoongi directed, thrusting up harder. "And don't ease up on my wrists. I want to feel it tomorrow."
Jimin obeyed, pace increasing, grip bordering on bruising now. Perfect. Yoongi lost himself in the rhythm they built together, in the weight and heat and Jimin's harsh breathing above him. No emptiness lurked at the edges this time. Just presence—solid and real and exactly what he'd asked for.
"So perfect," Yoongi praised again, watching pleasure transform Jimin's face. "Taking direction so well. Giving me exactly what I need."
Jimin's rhythm faltered at the praise, hips stuttering before finding the beat again. His fingers dug deeper into Yoongi's wrists, not quite painful but close enough to blur the line. The pressure sent sparks down Yoongi's arms, made him hyperaware of everywhere Jimin touched him.
"You like that?" Yoongi kept his voice steady despite the heat building in his gut. "Hearing how good you are for me?"
"Yes." The word came out strangled. Jimin's head dropped forward, dark hair falling across his forehead as he worked himself on Yoongi's cock. "Fuck, yes."
Yoongi watched him through half-lidded eyes, memorizing the flush spreading down Jimin's chest, the flex of muscle in his thighs. Beautiful like this—lost in it but still focused, still holding Yoongi down exactly how he'd been told. No one else had managed this balance. They either ignored his requests entirely or got so caught up seeking permission they forgot to take anything for themselves.
Jimin did both. Followed every direction while chasing his own pleasure, and somehow that worked better than anything Yoongi had scripted before.
"Touch yourself," Yoongi ordered, testing. "Keep me pinned but get yourself off."
Jimin shifted his weight, pressing both of Yoongi's wrists together above his head. One hand held them there while the other wrapped around his own cock. The new position changed the angle, drove Yoongi deeper, and they both groaned at the adjustment.
"Like this?" Jimin stroked himself in time with his movements, hips rolling steady now.
"Perfect." Yoongi thrust up hard, chasing the friction. "Don't stop. Want to feel you come on me."
The dual sensation—Jimin's hand working between them, his body tight and hot around Yoongi—pushed everything into sharper focus. Yoongi pulled against the grip on his wrists again just to feel Jimin's fingers clamp down harder, to confirm he was still trapped, still held exactly where he wanted to be.
Jimin's breathing turned ragged. His rhythm grew erratic, movements losing their smoothness as pleasure overtook coordination. Yoongi felt the tension building in him, watched it play out across his face.
"That's it," Yoongi encouraged, his own release coiling tight at the base of his spine. "So good for me. So fucking perfect."
Jimin came with Yoongi's name on his lips, grip going vice-tight on Yoongi's wrists as he spilled between them.
The sight pushed Yoongi over the edge. He came hard, hips jerking up as pleasure whited out everything else.
Jimin released his wrists and collapsed onto the mattress beside him, both of them gulping air like they'd surfaced from deep water. Sweat cooled on Yoongi's skin. His wrists throbbed where Jimin had gripped them, a pleasant ache that would linger.
After a moment, Yoongi rolled onto his side. "You okay?"
"Mm." Jimin cracked one eye open, lips curved in a satisfied smile. "Very."
Yoongi reached for the water bottle on his nightstand, took a long drink, then offered it to Jimin. "Drink."
Jimin obeyed, propping himself up on one elbow. Once he'd finished, Yoongi grabbed the tissues and cleaned them both up with more care than efficiency. Jimin watched him with drowsy amusement but didn't comment.
"Come here." Yoongi settled back against the pillows.
Jimin immediately tucked himself against Yoongi's side, head on his chest, one leg thrown over Yoongi's thigh. His breathing evened out within minutes, gone completely.
Yoongi ran his fingers through Jimin's hair, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing. Contentment settled in his chest—warm and solid and real. He closed his eyes and let sleep take him.
Yoongi stirred the sauce, checking it for consistency. The apartment smelled like garlic and herbs—better than any restaurant, he thought, though that might be biased. He'd spent the morning prepping everything, wanting tonight to be perfect for their six-month anniversary.
Six months. The number felt both impossible and natural at the same time.
Jimin showed up every weekend now, his toothbrush claiming permanent residence in Yoongi's bathroom, spare clothes filling half the closet. Some nights they didn't touch beyond cuddling on the couch. Other nights Yoongi directed everything while Jimin's hands pinned him down or wrapped around his throat. And sometimes—increasingly often—Yoongi spent hours taking Jimin apart piece by piece, focused entirely on making him fall apart.
The balance shifted depending on what they needed, never forced or scripted. Jimin gave everything Yoongi asked for and took what he wanted in return. No judgment. No dismissal. Just trust.
Yoongi had never expected this. Never thought someone would understand that wanting to be held down didn't make him less dominant, that pleasure could exist in paradox. But Jimin got it. Got him.
The door clicked open.
"Something smells incredible." Jimin appeared in the kitchen doorway, dropping his bag by the entrance. He crossed the space and wrapped his arms around Yoongi from behind, chin hooking over his shoulder. "What's the occasion?"
"Six months." Yoongi turned down the heat on the stove. "Figured I'd cook instead of ordering in for once."
"You cooked for me?" Jimin's voice went soft, pleased. "Should I be worried about food poisoning?"
"Ass." Yoongi elbowed him lightly. "I can cook when I try."
"I know." Jimin pressed a kiss to his neck. "I'm just giving you shit."
They ate at Yoongi's small dining table, conversation flowing easy around bites of pasta and sips of wine. Jimin told him about a new choreography piece he was working on. Yoongi listened, watching the animation in Jimin's face as he described the movements, hands gesturing to illustrate.
During dessert, Yoongi pushed back from the table. "I have something for you."
He retrieved the small bag from where he'd hidden it in his bedroom, pulse quickening as he returned. This felt bigger than their first time, somehow. More vulnerable.
Jimin accepted the bag, eyebrows raised in curiosity. When he pulled out the leather cuffs, his eyes widened. "Hyung..."
"I think it's time." Yoongi sat down, fingers drumming once against the table. "To take the next step."
"Are you sure?" Jimin set the cuffs down carefully, like they might break. His gaze searched Yoongi's face. "Do you trust me enough for this?"
"You're the only one I'd trust." The words came easier than expected. Yoongi reached across the table, catching Jimin's hand. "No one else has ever understood what I need. But you do."
Jimin's thumb brushed over Yoongi's knuckles. "I won't let you down."
"I know." And he did know it, felt it bone-deep. Jimin had never dismissed him, never tried to force him into a mold that didn't fit. "So what do you say?
Jimin stood, practically bouncing toward the bedroom with the cuffs dangling from his fingers. The leather swung with each step, and Yoongi caught the barely contained grin spreading across his face.
"You're enjoying this a little too much." Yoongi followed, unable to suppress his own smile as he watched Jimin's shoulders shake with barely suppressed laughter.
"Maybe." Jimin spun around in the doorway, eyes bright. "Can you blame me? I've been waiting for you to be ready for this."
"Seems like you're more excited than I am."
"Oh, I'm very excited." Jimin stepped backward into the room, holding up the cuffs. The leather caught the lamplight, and his expression shifted—playful edge dropping away to something sharper. "Been thinking about how pretty you'll look with these on."
He moved closer, running the soft leather along Yoongi's jaw. The touch sent heat down Yoongi's spine, but it was the look in Jimin's eyes that made his breath catch. That confident, knowing glint that said Jimin thought he could take control here.
Cute.
Yoongi's hand shot out, catching Jimin's wrist. He pulled the cuffs from his grip in one smooth motion, other hand finding Jimin's throat—no pressure yet, just presence. "You think you're running this?"
Jimin's breath hitched. The confidence melted into something else, something eager and wanting. "No, hyung."
"That's what I thought." Yoongi guided him backward until his legs hit the bed. "Sit."
Jimin obeyed, settling on the edge of the mattress. His gaze tracked Yoongi's movements, pupils blown wide.
"Knew exactly what you were doing, didn't you?" Yoongi tilted Jimin's chin up with two fingers. "Trying to get a rise out of me."
"Maybe." Jimin's lips curved into a smile. "Did it work?"
"You tell me." Yoongi leaned down, mouth brushing Jimin's ear. "Strip. Slowly."
Jimin's hands went to the hem of his shirt, fingers trembling slightly as he pulled it over his head. The fabric dropped to the floor, and Yoongi stepped back to watch, the cuffs still dangling from his hand.
"Good." He let the praise settle between them. "Keep going."
Jimin's hands fumbled with his belt, the metal clinking as he worked it open. His jeans followed, sliding down his thighs, then his underwear. He kicked them aside, completely bare now, chest rising and falling with anticipation.
Yoongi circled him slowly, drinking in every inch of exposed skin. "On your back. Spread your legs."
Jimin scrambled to comply, settling against the pillows with his thighs falling open. The position left him vulnerable, exposed, and the flush spreading across his chest told Yoongi everything he needed to know about how much Jimin wanted this.
Yoongi set the cuffs on the nightstand—they'd get there soon enough—and knelt between Jimin's legs. His hands slid up warm thighs, thumbs pressing into the crease where leg met hip.
"Hyung—" Jimin's breath caught when Yoongi leaned down, tongue tracing along his inner thigh.
"Quiet." Yoongi bit down gently, soothing the mark with his lips. "Let me enjoy this."
He worked his way higher, hands holding Jimin's legs apart when they threatened to close. When his tongue finally swept over Jimin's hole, the broken moan that escaped made satisfaction curl hot in Yoongi's gut.
Yoongi took his time, licking broad strokes before circling tighter, feeling Jimin shake beneath him. He pressed his tongue inside, shallow at first, then deeper when Jimin's thighs trembled against his shoulders.
"Fuck—hyung, please—"
"Please what?" Yoongi pulled back just enough to speak, breath ghosting over wet skin. "Tell me what you want."
"More. Need more."
Yoongi reached for the lube on the nightstand, slicking his fingers. He pressed one inside alongside his tongue, and the combination made Jimin arch off the bed with a choked sound.
"Stay still." The command came out rough. "Don't move until I say."
Jimin's hands fisted in the sheets, knuckles white as he fought to obey. Yoongi added another finger, crooking them to find that spot that made Jimin see stars. When he found it, Jimin's whole body went taut.
"There it is." Yoongi worked him open methodically, tongue and fingers alternating until Jimin was a writhing mess, barely holding position. "Look at you. So desperate for it."
"Please—I can't—"
"You can." Yoongi withdrew completely, ignoring Jimin's whine of protest.
Yoongi's shirt hit the floor, followed by his jeans and boxers in quick succession. His fingers fumbled with the button—rare clumsiness born from anticipation rather than nerves. He kicked everything aside, skin prickling under Jimin's hungry gaze.
Yoongi moved up the bed, reaching for the cuffs. The leather felt substantial in his grip, weighty with possibility.
"Put these on me." He held them out to Jimin, watching understanding dawn across his face. "Secure them to the headboard."
Jimin sat up, hands steady despite the tremor in his breath. He took the cuffs, fingers brushing Yoongi's wrists as he fastened the first one. The leather wrapped snug, buckle clicking into place with finality.
"Tighter." Yoongi tested the restraint. "I want to feel it."
Jimin adjusted the strap, pulling until the leather bit into skin. He repeated the process with the second cuff, then threaded both through the bars of the headboard. When he finished, Yoongi's arms stretched overhead, secured in place.
"Good." Yoongi tugged against the restraints, satisfaction sparking through him at the resistance. "Now get under me."
Jimin slid beneath him, careful not to jostle the position. His chest pressed against Yoongi's, warm and solid, breath ghosting across Yoongi's jaw as he settled into place.
"Reach down." The command came rougher now, edged with need. "Line me up."
Jimin's hand slipped between them, wrapping around Yoongi's cock. The touch made Yoongi's hips jerk forward involuntarily, but the cuffs held him in place, stopping the movement short.
Perfect.
Jimin positioned him at his entrance, already stretched and slick from earlier. Yoongi bore down, sinking inside in one slow thrust. The angle forced him deeper than usual, gravity and restraint working together to bottom out completely.
"Fuck—" Jimin's nails dug into Yoongi's shoulders, legs wrapping around his waist.
Yoongi pulled back and thrust again, the cuffs creaking against the headboard with the force. He couldn't brace himself properly, couldn't control the angle with his hands. The restraints kept him exactly where Jimin positioned him, unable to adjust or change the pace beyond the strength in his hips and core.
The helplessness sent heat flooding through him, sharper than anything he'd felt before. Every thrust took effort, muscles straining without leverage, and the burn in his shoulders only amplified the sensation of being held captive by his own commands.
"Touch yourself." Yoongi's voice came out strained. "Want to feel you come around me."
Jimin's hand disappeared between them, and Yoongi felt the shift in his body—the way he clenched and shook as he worked himself toward the edge.
"That's it." Yoongi ground down harder, the cuffs biting deeper into his wrists. "You're doing so good for me."
Jimin's breath stuttered, hand moving faster between them. The praise always wrecked him, made him pliant and desperate in equal measure.
"So perfect like this." Yoongi thrust again, rhythm growing erratic as pleasure coiled tight at the base of his spine. "Taking everything I give you."
"Hyung—close—"
"Come for me." The command came out rough, barely controlled. "Want to feel it."
Jimin shattered beneath him with a broken cry, body clamping down around Yoongi's cock. The pressure triggered Yoongi's own release, heat flooding through him as he came deep inside. His arms jerked against the restraints reflexively, the leather holding firm and sending another shock of sensation through oversensitive nerves.
They stayed locked together as their breathing slowed, both trembling with aftershocks. Yoongi's shoulders screamed from the position, muscles burning, but he couldn't move until Jimin—
"Need to..." Jimin's hands fumbled upward, fingers clumsy as they found the first buckle. The leather loosened, then released completely.
Yoongi's arm dropped, boneless and heavy. Jimin freed the second cuff, and both arms fell to the mattress. Blood rushed back into his wrists, pins and needles dancing across his skin.
"You okay?" Jimin's thumb traced the red marks left behind by the leather.
"Perfect." Yoongi flexed his fingers, testing. "Better than okay."
Jimin pressed a kiss to one wrist, then the other, before sliding out from under him. "Don't move."
He disappeared into the bathroom and returned with a warm washcloth. Gentle hands cleaned Yoongi first—chest, thighs, between his legs where they were still sticky. Then Jimin took care of himself, the movements efficient despite the exhaustion evident in every line of his body.
The cloth landed somewhere on the floor. Jimin crawled back onto the bed, immediately tucking himself against Yoongi's side. His head found its usual spot on Yoongi's chest, one leg hooking over Yoongi's thigh.
Yoongi's arm came around him automatically, fingers threading through sweat-damp hair. The weight of Jimin against him felt right, grounding after the intensity of what they'd just shared.
"That was..." Jimin trailed off, apparently lacking words.
"Yeah." Yoongi pressed a kiss to the top of his head. "It was."
The dessert arrived—some architectural masterpiece involving chocolate and gold leaf that probably cost more than Yoongi's first keyboard. Jimin's eyes lit up the way they always did around sweets, immediately reaching for his spoon.
Yoongi cleared his throat.
"So, I wanted to say something—"
"Oh god." Jimin's smile turned wicked. "Are we doing the cheesy anniversary speech thing?"
"I'm trying to be romantic here."
"You? Romantic?" Jimin took a bite of dessert, somehow making it look obscene. "This I have to hear."
"You're impossible."
"And yet you've put up with me for two whole years." Jimin set down his spoon, chin propped on his hand. "Okay, okay. Continue with your profound declarations. I promise to only mock you a little."
Yoongi shook his head, but warmth spread through his chest anyway. "Two years ago, I was actually about to delete my profile."
That got Jimin's attention. His eyebrows shot up. "Wait, seriously?"
"Had the deactivation screen pulled up and everything. Was hovering over the confirm button when I got the notification that you viewed my profile."
"I didn't know that." Something shifted in Jimin's expression, playfulness giving way to curiosity. "What made you reach out then? If you were ready to quit?"
Yoongi picked up his own spoon, turning it between his fingers. The question deserved honesty.
"What I could see from your profile pictures..." He met Jimin's eyes across the table. "Didn't matter if you accepted my kinks. Didn't matter if you understood what I needed or if I'd have to perform the same tired script I'd been running for years."
Jimin waited, perfectly still now.
"I just wanted one night with the man of my literal dreams." The confession came easier than expected. "Even if it went nowhere. Even if you laughed me out of that bar the second I explained what I actually wanted. Just—one night was worth the risk."
Jimin's jaw actually dropped. For several seconds he just stared, dessert forgotten.
"You—" He blinked. "Hyung, I went to that bar because you looked hot as fuck in your profile pictures. I wanted to see if the real thing matched up."
"And?"
"Obviously it did, considering where we ended up an hour later." Jimin laughed, shaking his head. "But I wasn't expecting anything beyond maybe decent sex with a hot stranger. Definitely wasn't looking for..."
"This?"
"Yeah. This." Jimin's smile softened around the edges. "Two years of this."
Yoongi set down his spoon, the words building pressure behind his ribs. "You were the first person who didn't dismiss what I needed. The first one who actually listened when I explained it wasn't about being a sub just because I wanted to be restrained."
"Because it's not." Jimin reached across the table, fingers brushing Yoongi's wrist. "You've always been in control, hyung. Even when I had you bound underneath me."
"Especially then."
"Exactly." Jimin's thumb traced small circles against Yoongi's pulse point. "So yeah, you wanting me meant everything too. Still does."
Warmth flooded Yoongi's chest, unfamiliar and overwhelming even after two years. He pulled his hand back, picking up his spoon again.
"Don't let it go to your head."
"Too late." Jimin grinned, that familiar wicked edge returning. "My ego's already the size of this restaurant."
"Your ego's been massive since day one."
"And you love it."
"Debatable."
"Please." Jimin scooped up another bite of dessert. "You love everything about me. Admit it."
"I love when you're quiet."
"Liar." Jimin kicked him under the table, gentle and playful. "You love when I talk. Especially when I'm praising you for being so good, holding yourself together while I—"
"We're in public."
"You started this whole romantic confession thing." Jimin's eyes sparkled with mischief. "Can't handle where it leads?"
Yoongi's mouth twitched despite himself. "Finish your overpriced chocolate."
"Make me."
"Later."
"Promise?"
"Always."
Yoongi took a breath, pushed past the nervousness threading through his ribs.
"There's more."
Jimin paused mid-bite, spoon halfway to his mouth. "More profound declarations? Hyung, you're spoiling me."
"Shut up and listen." But Yoongi's voice came out softer than intended. "Between everything—the good, the mediocre takeout nights, you leaving wet towels on the bathroom floor, your midnight stress-baking sessions that make the whole apartment smell like burnt sugar—"
"That was one time—"
"Three times."
"Okay, three times." Jimin set down his spoon, attention fully focused now. "Continue."
Yoongi's fingers found the small box in his jacket pocket, the velvet worn from two weeks of nervous handling.
"You've made your way into my heart. For better or worse." The words tasted strange, too honest, too raw. "Even after six months of living together and discovering you're actually the worst roommate I've ever had—"
"Excuse me—"
"I'd do it all over again. Every single day." Yoongi pulled out the box, set it on the table between them. "So I'm asking. Will you marry me?"
Silence stretched across the table. Jimin stared at the box like it might disappear if he blinked.
"You—" His voice cracked. "You're proposing. Right now. After calling me the worst roommate ever."
"Technically I said worst I've ever had—"
"Oh my god." Jimin laughed, high and bright, eyes definitely shinier than they were thirty seconds ago. "You're the least romantic person alive, I swear—"
"Is that a yes or—"
"Obviously it's a yes, you idiot." Jimin snatched the box, flipping it open to reveal the simple silver band inside. "Did you seriously think I'd say no after that terrible proposal?"
"It crossed my mind."
"Please." Jimin slid the ring onto his finger, admiring how it caught the low restaurant lighting. "I've been waiting for this since month three. Took you long enough."
"You could've asked."
"Where's the fun in that?" Jimin's grin stretched wide, devastating. "Besides, I wanted to see how you'd do it. And honestly? Calling me a bad roommate first? Perfect. Very on-brand."
"Glad I could meet expectations."
"Exceeded them, actually." Jimin kicked him under the table again, gentler this time. "Fiancé."