Chapter Text
The forest was quiet. Too quiet.
A breathless sort of stillness had settled between the turning trees, the kind that made the fur at the nape of Park Jimin’s neck stand up despite the gentle warmth of early fall. Shafts of golden light filtered through the canopy, illuminating the underbrush with an amber glow, and dry leaves crunched softly beneath his boots with every step. The wind was low, and the scent trails were clean—nothing rotting, nothing bleeding, nothing moving.
Perfect.
Jimin crouched low behind a thicket of goldenrod, long fingers steady as he unraveled the coil of sinew rope he’d tucked into the pouch at his hip. His sharp eyes scanned the forest floor ahead—uneven, cluttered with brittle twigs, dry moss, and early mushrooms. He pressed his palm into the earth, feeling for vibration. Nothing. Satisfied, he moved with practiced silence, brushing away debris until he found the perfect spot—between two knotted roots, just beside the faintest deer trail that wound like a whisper between the trees.
A good path for prey, he told himself. Or an arrogant Lee wolf too dumb to notice a scent marker.
The trap would be subtle. Not meant for prey this time. It was too close to the border—too close. Kim Pack territory officially ended half a ridge back, but these lines, like always, blurred in the quiet of the woods. The Lee Pack had never honored them properly. And lately, their raids had grown bolder.
Jimin could still remember the last hunt—Yoongi’s smug eyes catching his across the clearing, a bloody doe between them, already marked by Jimin’s own bite. And then the alpha had dared to drag it away, tail high, mouth dripping, as if Jimin hadn’t been there at all.
He’s been getting too bold.
And bold wolves bled just as well as frightened ones.
Jimin smiled, a slight, cold thing, as he laid the first spike—whittled to a sharp point, laced in foxglove extract, and smeared lightly with crushed feverleaf. Not enough to kill. Not unless it went deep. But enough to sting. Enough to slow him down. He pressed it into the soil, angled just beneath the moss, so it would jut forward if a paw—or ankle—pressed the tripwire just so.
“Bet you won’t be laughing then,” Jimin murmured under his breath, lips barely moving.
The forest said nothing back.
He worked quickly but precisely, careful with each layer. The scent of sap clung to his fingers, the tannins thick in his nose. He worked bare-handed—gloves would dull his feel for the wire. The trap was triggered by a thin tension cord drawn taut between two young saplings. A wolf barreling past wouldn’t see it until it was too late. Once tripped, the spike would snap forward like a fang, aiming low. Leg, ankle, paw—whatever it hit first. Enough to pierce. Enough to poison.
Kim Namjoon, his Pack Alpha, hadn’t exactly ordered this. But then, Namjoon didn’t have to.
The scent of tension had been thick in the den the last few weeks, woven into the pine walls and dried meat. The Lees had crossed into Kim land twice in six days. Prey had gone missing. Scent markers tampered with. Jimin had found a pile of crushed feathers and blood-spattered stones not fifty meters from the training ring just three mornings ago—and no one from their pack had claimed the kill.
So here Jimin was, kneeling in dirt, threading foxglove-laced teeth into a trap designed for one wolf in particular.
Yoongi.
Min Yoongi, head hunter of the Lee Pack. Two years older, three inches taller, five times more infuriating. Every time Jimin thought he might have bested him—outrun him, out-tracked him, out-hunted him—Yoongi would turn up in the clearing with blood on his muzzle and that same lazy, unimpressed scowl on his face. Never speaking unless it was to insult. Never yielding unless it was to strike.
He reeked of smoke and pine and arrogance. His scent was like crushed flint—sharp, dry, grating in Jimin’s nose. Jimin hated it. Hated how easily he could identify it, even from a hundred yards away. Hated that it burned like ash in his throat.
He thinks just because he’s an alpha—
The rope snapped against his fingers suddenly, and Jimin blinked. He’d tied it too tight. He loosened it, exhaling slowly, and refocused. Thoughts like that were dangerous in the forest. Even more dangerous when you were setting a trap.
Especially this kind of trap.
By the time he finished, the sun had shifted. The trap was fully camouflaged now beneath a layer of moss and scattered leaves, subtle enough that even a seasoned hunter might overlook it in a moment of adrenaline. If Yoongi was chasing prey—and he always was—he wouldn’t spot it in time.
He rose, brushing the earth from his knees, and inhaled deeply through his nose. The forest smelled of dry bark, the fading sweetness of summer rot, and faintly, on the distant wind… wolf.
Not his pack. Not anyone from Kim.
Good.
He padded back several paces and rubbed his wrist against a tree, leaving the faintest hint of his scent gland there—barely enough to signal, more a warning than a claim.
Let them know who laid this ground.
Let Yoongi know.
He turned and started toward the ridge, bootsteps silent now on instinct. He would circle wide, double back, and see if the Lee bastard took the bait. He could be patient. He had all morning.
And when Yoongi’s scent twisted with blood and poison—
Jimin would smile.
He didn’t go far. He knew better than to linger too close—his scent, light as it was, still carried in the wind, and if he was careless, Yoongi might veer off before springing the trap. So he circled wide, cutting between familiar deer trails and slipping behind a patch of ferns heavy with drying spores. From there, crouched low against a fallen log and shrouded by shadows, he waited.
The forest sang with nothing but wind and distance. A crow cawed. Leaves rustled. Somewhere far beyond the ridge, a brook trickled down into Kim Pack’s side of the forest.
And then—
The distant thud of paws hitting earth. Quick. Heavy. Determined.
Jimin’s ears twitched.
He turned his head toward the sound, heart rate steady, eyes narrowed.
There—through the gold-dappled trees—came the flash of movement: a sleek, dark-furred wolf racing down the slope, weaving through the underbrush with the kind of speed that only came from absolute arrogance. Long legs, tight turns, a low-throated snarl vibrating in the air.
Yoongi.
Even from here, Jimin could tell. That ugly ash-and-flint scent carried on the wind like burnt bone, sharp enough to wrinkle his nose. Yoongi always reeked like that after a long patrol. Like he’d rolled in fire just to piss everyone off.
A lean brown stag bounded ahead of him, desperate and limping, but still fast.
Jimin ducked lower, nose nearly brushing the log. His eyes gleamed.
Come on, you bastard. Take the path. Just like you always do.
Yoongi was gaining. Jimin watched the way the alpha’s body moved—fluid, confident, too confident—and counted the strides. One, two, three more—
Now.
With a sharp snap of tension cord and a sudden crack, the trap sprang.
Yoongi yelped—a real, startled, pained sound—and his body crumpled mid-run, flipping once in the dirt before landing hard with a thud that shook the leaves around him. The prey vanished in a flash of fur.
But Jimin didn’t care about that anymore.
He stood slowly from behind the log, brushing the ferns aside like a curtain, and stepped into the clearing, the afternoon sun hitting his face just so. Smiling. Smug.
There Yoongi was—shifted now, sprawled in human form across the earth, one leg twisted unnaturally under him, blood seeping thick and hot from a puncture just above his ankle. His face was twisted in pain, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat.
Perfect.
Jimin couldn’t stop the soft, delighted laugh that left him. “Oh no,” he cooed, clasping his hands together as if genuinely concerned. “Did the big bad alpha fall down?”
Yoongi growled, a vicious, low sound deep in his throat. “You little shit.”
“Aww,” Jimin gasped, eyes wide, lips twitching, “Language, Yoongi-ssi. What would your precious Alpha Jiyeon think if she heard her favorite lapdog barking like that?”
“Fuck you,” Yoongi hissed, trying to push himself up—but the moment his foot shifted, his leg gave out beneath him, and he cursed, loud and guttural.
Jimin’s eyes flicked to the wound. Already red. Angry. The skin around the puncture had begun to swell.
“Hmm,” he said lightly, crouching a few feet away. “I think it’s working.”
Yoongi’s head snapped toward him, eyes narrowed. “What did you do?”
“Oh, nothing much,” Jimin said airily, inspecting his nails. “Just a little foxglove. Maybe some feverleaf. You know, the classics.” He looked up, smiling sweetly. “Don’t worry—it’s very slow. You won’t die unless you sit there like a dumbass for the next few hours.”
“You poisoned me?!”
Jimin cocked his head, feigning innocence. “I laid a trap. You stepped in it. Nature is cruel.”
Yoongi lunged—but the moment he tried to put weight on his leg again, his knee buckled, and he let out another sharp gasp, sinking to the forest floor with a grunt.
And oh, Jimin was just glowing.
Seeing Yoongi—Min Yoongi, the Head Hunter of the Lee Pack, the arrogant bastard who had stolen his kill twice last moon cycle—now on the ground, in pain, cursing him with clenched teeth and flaring nostrils?
It was better than birthday morning.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Jimin sang, sauntering closer now, hands behind his back like a child presenting a gift. “You’ve been stealing prey. Trespassing. Growling at me across borders like a feral mutt.”
He leaned forward just slightly, enough for Yoongi to catch the sharp twist of his omega scent curling into the air—sweet, rich, and smug.
“This is called consequences.”
“You’re dead when I get up,” Yoongi muttered, eyes blazing. “You hear me? I’m gonna rip your throat out, you poisonous little—”
“Oh, I’m terrified,” Jimin whispered with a flutter of his lashes. “But please—try not to foam at the mouth before I’m done admiring your pain. It’s really the best you’ve ever looked.”
Yoongi reached for him—on pure instinct—but couldn’t make it far before the feverleaf’s effect caught up. His breath hitched. His skin was already pale and shining with sweat. The poison was subtle but good—designed not to kill, but to burn. It would feel like fire under his skin, eating at his nerves, climbing slowly.
“Burns, doesn’t it?” Jimin said quietly, squatting down just out of reach, resting his chin on his palm. “That means it’s working.”
Yoongi growled again, this time lower. Not a threat—more like a warning. His pheromones surged: bitter smoke, burnt wood, and blood. Jimin wrinkled his nose.
“You always smell like a campfire that got pissed on,” he said flatly, rising to his feet again.
The alpha’s eyes flashed. “You won’t get away with this.”
“Oh, darling,” Jimin purred as he turned to go, steps light and gleeful, “I already did.”
He could feel Yoongi’s glare burning holes into the back of his head as he strolled off into the trees, not bothering to mask his scent now. Let him know. Let the whole Lee Pack know.
This was a warning.
Cross into his forest again?
They’d bleed for it.
Jimin practically skipped down the narrow ridge path, leaves crunching softly beneath his light boots. The sun slanted low through the trees, casting golden dapples across his cheeks and hair, and he welcomed the warmth like it was praise. His heart was still pounding from the adrenaline of earlier, and he could still feel the shape of Yoongi’s hand against his throat, but that was just a bonus. The real prize had been that look—that look—on Min Yoongi’s face when he realized exactly who had set him up.
Jimin hummed to himself, light and tuneless. Little worm-faced bastard didn’t even see it coming. He grinned. And it had been such a clean hit too—spike in the leg, poison in the bloodstream, no lasting damage unless Yoongi was a weak little bitch. (Which he was.)
He tilted his head up toward the sky and let the crisp scent of autumn fill his lungs—bark, sun-warmed moss, crushed leaves, and the faintest traces of wolf pheromones left behind on the border stones. His own scent trailed like a victorious ribbon behind him: citrus-bright, pride-thick, sweetened by just the right hint of smugness. Anyone could tell he’d just won something.
And he had.
He’d set a trap for the most arrogant, insufferable, territorial Alpha bastard from the Lee Pack… and caught him clean.
Not that anyone would give him proper credit for it, of course. Especially Koo.
Jimin slowed a little when he reached the narrow fork in the path that hugged the edge of the river border. His eyes flicked casually toward the stone markers that separated Kim land from Lee. So close, he thought, tapping the toe of his boot against the dirt. Yoongi almost made it over. Would’ve ruined the fun.
He smirked.
Then—
“Hunter Park.”
The voice came from nowhere. Flat. Firm. Too familiar.
Jimin froze in mid-skip, eyes going wide.
“Hi Koko~” he tried sweetly, spinning around on the ball of his foot with his most innocent smile already locked in place.
It didn’t work.
Head Hunter Alpha Jeon Jungkook stood a few paces away, arms folded across his chest like a damn statue carved from bark and brute strength. His scent was sharp and stern—pine needles, ozone, and that particular hum of Alpha control that made the back of Jimin’s neck itch. Not hostile. Not angry. But not playful, either.
Shit.
“Hey…” Jimin tried again, smile wobbling as he took a step back. “Funny seeing you here! I was just on my way to—”
“Why do you smell like foxglove and feverleaf?”
Jimin blinked. His mouth opened, then shut again.
Then opened. “…I passed by a cluster of it? On the slope maybe? You know how that stuff lingers—”
Jungkook’s gaze didn’t waver. “And the blood?”
Jimin’s spine straightened just a little. “Whose blood?”
“Exactly,” Jungkook said. His tone didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. The disapproval clung to his scent like mist, subtle but heavy—pressing down on Jimin’s shoulders more than his words ever could. “You reek of adrenaline. And you’re not injured. So I’ll ask again. What did you do?”
Jimin gave him his best pout. “Nothing.”
“Hunter Park.”
“I swear,” Jimin said, pressing a hand over his chest with exaggerated drama. “I did absolutely nothing that counts as a direct act of war.”
Jungkook closed his eyes. Just for a second. Just long enough for the muscles in his jaw to clench.
Jimin could practically feel the sigh building in his lungs.
“You’re not a scout,” Jungkook said at last. “You’re a hunter. You’re not allowed near the borders alone without clearance.”
“I wasn’t near the border,” Jimin huffed. “I was on it. Huge difference.”
“That’s not how borders work,” Jungkook muttered.
Jimin tried again. “You’re being kind of a buzzkill right now, Koo.”
The Alpha’s eyes snapped open.
Wrong move.
“I’m not your Koo right now,” he said, tone clipped. “I’m your superior. So you will address me as Alpha Jeon or Head Hunter, and you will stop playing dumb, or I’ll drag your smug little omega ass straight to Alpha Kim myself. Is that understood?”
Jimin felt his breath catch—just slightly.
Not in fear. In embarrassment.
Jungkook never used that voice with him. Never used that scent—sharp pine, no warmth. He usually called him Minie with that soft little smile, ruffled his hair even though Jimin hated it, offered to carry his kill baskets when they got too heavy. He was a golden retriever in a wolf’s body, usually.
But right now, he was all Pack. All rank.
Jimin lowered his eyes automatically. “…Yes, Head Hunter.”
A pause. A sigh.
“Go home, Hunter Park,” Jungkook said quietly. “Before I change my mind.”
Jimin didn’t wait. The moment he was clear of the gaze on the back of his neck, he bolted.
He sprinted all the way down the western trail, heart hammering like a guilty drum. By the time the camp’s outer markers came into view—stone-lined paths, woodsmoke rising from the evening fire pits—he was breathless and flushed, his cheeks bright with color and his scent singing with the high, fizzy glee of mischief only barely avoided.
He didn’t stop until he reached the Pack Omega’s den—warm and sweet-smelling, always surrounded by bundles of herbs and children’s toys—and flung the door flap open like a storm.
“Seokjinnie!!”
Inside, Omega Kim Seokjin—mate of Alpha Namjoon, his parental figure since forever, and the only person on this planet who truly appreciated drama—looked up from where he was threading beads into a ceremonial neck collar.
He blinked once. Twice. Then: “What did you do?”
Jimin threw himself onto the floor furs in a dramatic heap. “You are not going to believe what just happened.”
“I might if you actually start the story instead of auditioning for a stage play,” Seokjin said, setting the beads aside and leaning forward. “And you smell like trouble. What the hell is that? Alpha blood?”
Jimin rolled onto his back with a gasp. “Okay, so, I may or may not have slightly injured Min Yoongi.”
Seokjin’s brows rose. “Slightly?”
“Like… poisoned-trap-through-the-leg slightly.”
Seokjin stared.
Jimin grinned.
There was a long pause.
“Jimin.”
“I warned him not to steal my deer again! I told him!”
“Oh my god, Jimin.”
“He was being such a bastard! He literally had my scent all over the trail and still chased my prey across the border like some heat-maddened mutt. He deserved it.”
“And what, you just happened to have a trap laced with poison lying around?!”
“I came prepared.”
Seokjin let out a groan, dragging both hands down his face. “You’re a menace. You are an actual omega menace. Namjoon’s going to—”
“He’s not going to find out,” Jimin said quickly, sitting up and scooting closer, eyes wide. “Right? Right? You wouldn’t tell him. He’d make me do elder patrol for a week and that’s—Papa, please, you can’t.”
“You’re the worst,” Seokjin sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “The absolute worst. You’re lucky Yoongi didn’t kill you.”
“Oh, he tried,” Jimin said proudly. “But the poor thing was stuck on my trap.”
“I hate you.”
“I’m your favorite.”
Seokjin shoved him gently, groaning again. “I hope Yoongi eats you next time.”
Jimin just smiled wider, resting his chin on Seokjin’s knee.
“Not before I eat his pride.”
Jimin stayed curled up next to Seokjin for a good half hour after telling his story—whining about how rude Yoongi had been, how unfair Jungkook was for calling him Hunter Park, and how delightfully pretty the purple bruise around Yoongi’s throat had looked against his skin. Seokjin, for all his eye-rolling, didn’t throw him out, which clearly meant he was forgiven.
The den smelled like sweet clover and calm: the natural scent Seokjin gave off when his pups were asleep and he didn’t have anything stressful to deal with. And Jimin had basked in that peacefulness, smug and safe and warm.
Until the flap rustled. Until a very specific scent cut through the air like lightning cleaving open a summer sky. Earth-heavy. Storm-slick. Thick with dominance.
Namjoon.
Jimin flinched automatically, shoulders curling in like a scolded pup. He tried to sit up. Tried to fix his hair. Tried to maybe find a quick escape route that didn’t involve being murdered by the one wolf who could actually do it without anyone stopping him.
But by the time he scrambled to his feet, Alpha Kim Namjoon was already ducking into the den—tall and broad and radiating rage.
And fuck, he knew.
Jimin took one look at his face and decided: I’m dead. I am absolutely and truly dead.
“Hunter Park.”
The voice cracked across the den like thunder. And he never called Jimin that. Not even once. Not even when he was actually in trouble.
Jimin’s entire soul flinched.
“Hi Appa~” he tried, voice high and sugary, eyes wide as he shuffled forward with his best I’m just a baby smile. “I was just—”
“Don’t even try,” Namjoon growled, stepping fully inside. The flap slammed closed behind him from the sheer force of his entrance, his eyes burning with that terrifying Alpha power that could make even other Alphas stand still.
Jimin squeaked.
That scent—his Alpha scent—had sharpened into something nearly unbearable. Bitter pine and crushed ironroot, pulsing with anger, strong enough to churn Jimin’s stomach. It clawed at the air like claws through bark, and Jimin swore his own omega scent tried to vanish in fear.
“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?!”
Jimin took a step back.
“I—I didn’t do anything bad, I just—”
“Poison, Jimin. You laced a trap with poison. On the border.” Namjoon’s voice rose, a rumble just short of a roar. “You could’ve started a war!”
“I didn’t even cross the border!” Jimin snapped, tail lashing behind him. “And he deserved it! He was stealing my prey again! He—he attacked me!”
“Because you speared his fucking leg,” Namjoon shouted. “Do you think the Lee Pack will give a shit about your excuses when they find out it was you who set it?! Do you think Yoongi won’t tell them?! Do you want bloodshed?!”
“I want him to suffer!” Jimin snapped back, fists clenched. “He’s a mangy, smug, territorial bastard who thinks he owns the whole damn forest, and I’m the spoiled one?! He chased my deer—he knew my scent was on it!—and he ran it across the border on purpose! What was I supposed to do, let him win?!”
Namjoon took a step forward.
Jimin immediately darted behind Seokjin. He clung to the back of Seokjin’s shirt like a pup hiding from thunder, his scent flooding sweet and panicked, overwhelmed with fear and defiance and the shaky, stung pride of someone who didn’t think he’d actually get caught.
“Papaaa,” he whined, tugging pitifully on the fabric. “Make him stop yelling, it’s scary—he’s using his Alpha voice—”
“Don’t you dare hide behind him right now,” Namjoon snarled, eyes flashing. “You’re not a pup anymore, Park Jimin. You don’t get to play innocent when you could’ve gotten half our hunters killed.”
“You’re so mean,” Jimin hissed back, clutching Seokjin harder. “You didn’t even ask what happened before you screamed at me like some untrained rogue! You’re my Alpha, you’re supposed to protect me!”
“I am protecting you—by making sure you understand how fucking stupid that was!”
“Okay, enough!” Seokjin’s voice cut through the air like a whip.
Both of them froze.
Namjoon flinched like he’d been slapped, and Jimin peeked out from behind Seokjin’s shoulder, wide-eyed.
“You.” Seokjin jabbed a finger at Namjoon’s chest, brows arched dangerously. “You do not come into my den and scream like that. I don’t care if you’re the Pack Alpha or the damn Moon Goddess reborn, you lower your voice in my space.”
Namjoon opened his mouth. Closed it again. Took a breath.
“And you,” Seokjin turned, narrowing his eyes at Jimin, “are not off the hook either. But if you think hiding behind me like a scared bunny is going to work every time, you’re wrong. So stop weaponizing your cuteness. It’s getting old.”
Jimin’s mouth dropped open. “Weaponizing?! I am cute!”
“Irrelevant.” Seokjin crossed his arms. “Now both of you. Sit down.”
They sat.
Namjoon’s legs folded stiffly under him like stone pillars. Jimin folded his legs more dramatically, huffing and sniffing like the very idea of being scolded was somehow a personal betrayal.
Seokjin sat between them like the moon between two storms, and for a moment, the den was quiet again.
Namjoon exhaled hard through his nose, rubbing the bridge of it with his fingers.
“I just—” His voice dropped. “I worry.”
Jimin looked at him.
Namjoon wasn’t even looking back. He stared down at the dirt floor, scent calmer now—heavy, steady, laced with weariness.
“You’re reckless,” he muttered. “You always have been. And if Yoongi had—if he’d snapped, or if the Lee patrols had seen, or if that poison got into his bloodstream too fast…” He trailed off.
“You’re not replaceable, Jimin.”
And Jimin’s breath caught in his throat. Just for a second. He didn’t say anything.
Seokjin reached over and brushed a hand through Jimin’s hair, fingers gentle at the nape of his neck.
“Don’t make us bury you over a deer,” Seokjin said softly. “Not when we love you this much.”
Jimin lowered his eyes. His throat felt thick. And he hated it.
“I didn’t mean to start a war,” he mumbled.
“I know,” Namjoon said quietly.
“But he really is a mangy, smug, territorial bastard.”
Namjoon huffed a tired laugh. “That, I’ll give you.”
Seokjin gave them both a long look, then let out a sigh that sounded like it came from the depths of his soul. “Alright. That’s enough arguing for one day. Namjoon, go cool your head. And Jimin…” He gave the younger omega a meaningful glance. “Try not to do anything else that’ll shave years off my life.”
Namjoon stood slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. He hesitated like he wanted to say more, but then thought better of it. With a final glance at Jimin, he turned and stepped to the nursery.
The silence that followed was thick.
Jimin didn’t move at first. He sat with his arms wrapped tight around his knees, watching the flap of the den shift gently in Namjoon’s wake. But as the quiet stretched on, and the adrenaline wore off, the weight of everything began to sink in.
Eventually, he shifted on his knees, turning toward Seokjin like a flower seeking warmth, and clambered directly into his lap without asking. Jin let him, of course—sighing again but guiding him gently to settle.
Now, Jimin was still sulking. He hadn’t moved from Seokjin’s lap since Namjoon stormed out, only shifted once to curl in closer—his head now resting on the softest part of Jin’s thigh, knees tucked up, arms wrapped around Jin’s waist like he never intended to let go. His scent had settled into a needy little cloud, practically begging to be comforted. He made sure to release just enough of it to keep Jin’s instincts soothed, knowing full well how easily he could wrap the older omega around his finger.
Jin, to no one’s surprise, didn’t push him off. He was combing his fingers gently through Jimin’s hair, careful around the spots that were sensitive. His scent was warm and rich, familiar as home—like fresh air through an orchard and something mothering, something soft that no one else ever made quite the same way. It always made Jimin feel safe. Loved. Like a pup again, before everything had gone wrong.
He buried his face into Jin’s stomach and gave a dramatic sigh.
“I hate it when appa screams at me,” he mumbled, voice muffled by Jin’s tunic.
“You can’t keep calling us that,” Jin said with a quiet sigh of his own, thumb stroking behind Jimin’s ear. “You’re twenty-four now.”
“My age is irrelevant,” Jimin argued instantly, nuzzling in harder, his lower lip already jutting. “You will always be my Appa and Papa, and I will always be your pup.”
Jin didn’t answer at first, just kept stroking his hair.
So Jimin kept going. “And I’m an orphan. So.”
“Oh Moon,” Jin muttered, already tired.
“It’s true,” Jimin insisted, pulling back just enough to pout up at him properly. “You can’t yell at an orphan. That’s abuse.”
“I’m not yelling, and Namjoon is the one who scolded you.”
Jimin made a dramatic sniffle and curled in again. “Still counts.”
He wasn’t crying. Obviously. He never cried over stuff like that—he was far too dignified for tears. But if his lashes were damp, if his voice wobbled a little bit on the edges, well. He couldn’t help having feelings. Especially when his own appa had nearly shouted a hole through his skull.
Jin sighed again. A longer one this time. The kind of sigh that meant he was about to give in, no matter what he pretended.
“Namjoon gets so mean when he’s angry,” Jimin whispered into his shirt. “And he said I’m reckless, like I don’t think. But I do think, Seokjinie. I just don’t think the same way he does.”
Jin hummed gently, scent turning even softer—vanilla and moonflowers, laced with quiet fondness.
“I knew what I was doing,” Jimin continued, voice small now, almost vulnerable. “I didn’t put the poison too deep. Just enough to scare him. It wouldn’t have gone into his bloodstream unless he panicked and tried to pull it out without shifting back first.”
“Which he did.”
Jimin squirmed. “Yeah, well. That’s his fault.”
“Jiminie…”
He pouted again.
“Okay, fine,” he mumbled. “Maybe I should’ve used a milder one. Like the one Koo used on the fox last moon. It only made it dizzy for a few hours, not—y’know—purple-necked.”
“Not the point,” Jin said, but he was still petting him, so Jimin took it as a win.
The den felt quiet again. Warm. Safe.
From the nursery at the back, he could hear soft cooing sounds—Namjoon’s voice, lowered to that sweet, sing-song tone he only used when the pups were awake and blinking at him from their woven baskets. Jimin could smell the shift in Namjoon’s scent too, even from here: calm now, full of steady love and that quiet Alpha strength that had always made Jimin feel… comforted. Secure. Protected.
He hated how much he needed that. How much he still craved it, even after being screamed at.
“Do you think he really meant it?” Jimin whispered, eyes not leaving the shadows near the nursery door. “What he said? That I’m not replaceable?”
“Of course he meant it,” Jin said immediately.
Jimin blinked. “Really?”
Seokjin hummed, still stroking his hair
“I still don’t see why I can’t call you two my parents,” Jimin mumbled. “You basically raised me since I was four.”
“We didn’t raise you, Jimin. We spoiled you.”
“…same thing.”
Jin snorted.
Jimin cuddled in again. “You can’t make me stop,” he mumbled.
“Didn’t say I would.”
“You love when I call you Papa.”
“That is a lie.”
Jimin tilted his head up again, eyes wide and shimmering. “You do.”
“Lies and slander.”
“I’m your baby.”
“You are a menace.”
“I’m your pup,” Jimin whined dramatically, wrapping both arms around Jin’s waist again. “Your spoiled, perfect, most adorable little baby pup who needs love and kisses or he’ll die.”
Jin laughed—actual, real laughter this time—and leaned down to kiss the top of his head.
“You’re impossible,” he said fondly.
Jimin only hummed and pressed closer.
He could still feel the sting of Namjoon’s anger in his chest. Still hear the words in his head like echoes—Do you have any idea what you’ve done?—but they were softer now. Quieter. Easier to ignore when Jin’s hand was on his hair and his scent was so full of home and warmth and safety.
Still. He wasn’t done sulking.
“I bet Yoongi’s still wheezing like a dying duck,” Jimin mumbled.
Jin snorted. “Language.”
“I didn’t say fuck this time.”
“You just did.”
“Oops.”
“Menace.”
Jimin smirked against his belly and closed his eyes.
It smelled like fall outside—amber leaves and clean moss, the fading of wildflowers into soil. Inside, it smelled like family. Even if he was a little shit sometimes. Even if they weren’t technically his parents. He still belonged here. And they’d have to pry that away from his cold, over-pampered paws.