Archive of Our Own ^beta

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.

Chapter Text

The forest pulsed beneath Yoongi’s paws. Damp leaves crunched underfoot as he bounded over twisted roots and fallen branches, dark-furred body low and swift, like a shadow bleeding through the golden stretch of autumn light. His lungs expanded with cool, pine-heavy air, and his focus narrowed to one singular goal: hunt.

It was supposed to be a quiet morning. Until he showed up.

A blur of pale cream fur darted across his periphery, and Yoongi snarled before his brain even caught up—his claws digging deep into the soft earth as he came to a halt, head snapping to the side.

Fucking hell.

Park Jimin.

The spoiled little demon of the Kim Pack, all dainty steps and obnoxiously smug scent trails. His tail curled like a fucking ribbon behind him as he leapt over a boulder, chasing a deer like he didn’t have a care in the world. His omega scent was thick in the crisp autumn air, sweet like syrup and just as irritating.

Yoongi’s upper lip curled in disgust.

You arrogant little shit. You think I forgot?

He crouched behind a thicket, muscles tense.

He could still feel the phantom ache in his shin—weeks-old pain like a fucking brand—courtesy of the omega’s hand-carved trap laced with poison, buried right along the border. Yoongi had walked straight into it like a fool, barely managing to shift back in time to stop the venom from reaching his veins. One fucking second later, and he might’ve been permanently lamed.

All because of that—

That brat. That petty, feral, smug-ass little sugar-coated son of a bitch.

His jaw clicked. His fur bristled.

And now that Jimin was here, tail up and nose high like he wasn’t two steps from being mauled, Yoongi felt his instincts rise—burning with the urge to sink his teeth into something. Preferably the omega’s stupid, pretty throat.

Or his pride.

He didn’t need to think. The opportunity was a gift.

What better way to return the favor than to steal the prey right out from under his bratty nose?

Yoongi let out a low growl, just loud enough to make Jimin flinch mid-run.

The deer darted left.

Jimin skidded—stupidly graceful even in a scramble—and bolted after it again.

Yoongi was already moving.

He pushed off the forest floor with a surge of strength, sleek black fur cutting through golden light like oil through water. He barreled toward them, aiming not for the deer—fuck the deer—but for Jimin, and just as the omega twisted around the side of a narrow ridge—

Yoongi slammed into him.

Hard.

Their bodies collided mid-air—Yoongi’s heavier frame sending the omega flying sideways, paws scrambling for purchase on the loose edge of the slope.

Jimin let out a sharp, high-pitched yip—fur fluffed, eyes wide—as he toppled off the cliffside.

Yoongi landed cleanly, tail high.

He sauntered up to the edge and peered down—nothing fatal, unfortunately. Just a ten-foot drop and a lot of bramble. He could see Jimin’s cream-colored wolf form sprawled on the ground below, writhing and whining in a heap of crushed bushes and dirt.

Yoongi smirked. Perfect.

He didn’t bark. Didn’t say anything. Just flicked his tail, sharp and smug, then turned toward the deer.

The prey was still confused, still frozen in its brief panic—and Yoongi, head high, scent flaring like the proud Alpha bastard he was, lunged. A quick chase, a snap of his teeth, and the creature fell limp beneath his jaws.

He didn’t need the food. He needed the win.

Fuck you, Park Jimin.

He slung the deer over his back and trotted back toward the border with deliberate slowness—every step oozing victory, his fur thick with self-satisfaction. The scent of crushed grass and blood and triumph clung to him like perfume.

As he neared the line dividing Kim and Lee Pack territory, he glanced back once.

Jimin was just barely shifting back, limp-limbed and dirt-smudged, blond hair tousled and stuck to his face. His bare chest was rising and falling with shallow, furious breaths, a scratch blooming red across his left shoulder, cheeks flushed from exertion and embarrassment.

Their eyes met.

And fuck, the look on Jimin’s face—

Murderous.

Utterly feral.

Yoongi bared his teeth in a smirk and dipped his head in a mocking bow.

Then turned his back on him and crossed into Lee Pack land and… Of fucking course.

Because the only thing more irritating than Park Jimin flying off a cliff like a dainty little bitch… was Kim Taehyung.

Yoongi slowed his pace the moment he scented them—two wolves just ahead, the breeze carrying the unmistakable stink of overconfidence and trouble. His fur bristled, lips twitching into a sneer before the first blur of sandy brown fur even bounced into view.

Taehyung.

Great. Just fucking great.

The omega was trotting ahead with that usual exaggerated gait of his, tail swaying like he was doing a runway show instead of dragging a full-grown boar carcass back to the village. He pranced through the woods like it owed him compliments. His coat was stupidly shiny. His teeth were too white. His scent lingered obnoxiously in the air, like he rolled in flowers before the hunt just to be annoying.

And of course, trotting beside him with the kind of calm confidence that made Yoongi want to bare his teeth, was Alpha Hunter Hoseok.

Yoongi’s only friend. Or whatever passed for it.

And Hoseok didn’t even flinch when Yoongi came into view, still hauling the deer over his back like a trophy. The Alpha just dipped his head in greeting, golden eyes gleaming as he asked “what did you do this time?”

“I see you’re back on your bullshit,” Taehyung yapped, tail curling like a damn vine as he tossed his head over his shoulder. “Is that two stolen kills now? You’re really making a name for yourself, Shadow Prince.”

Yoongi growled. Low. Dangerous. Barely suppressed murder.

“Eat bark and die, Taehyung.”

Taehyung laughed. Actually laughed. A high, melodic sound that grated against Yoongi’s skull worse than claws on stone. “Someone’s pissy,” he teased. “Let me guess—you shoved that Kim pup off another cliff and came running back like a smug little bitch?”

Yoongi’s paws hit the ground harder.

“That Kim pup tried to turn my fucking shin into stew meat last week,” he snapped, voice vibrating through the pack link in sharp, grating tones. “I owed him.”

Hoseok’s bark came smooth and dry. “Yoongi. You nearly broke your ribs over that trap.”

“Exactly,” Yoongi snarled.

“Not sure that justifies attempted murder,” Taehyung chimed, sing-song. “Unless you’re planning to dump the body in Namjoon’s territory and start an actual war. Oh wait—”

“Shut up, Taehyung,” Yoongi snapped.

The omega just rolled his shoulders, still lugging his half of the boar beside Hoseok like he wasn’t the physical embodiment of a migraine. “You’re lucky Namjoon doesn’t skin you alive for breathing near his pup.”

“He’s not his pup,” Yoongi muttered.

“Yeah?” Taehyung’s voice turned to silk, sharp-edged. “You gonna tell Jimin that? Or maybe tell that scary pack omega? See how long you last before they turn your lungs into tea.”

Yoongi huffed. Tail lashing as he trotted ahead of them now, shoulders tense, ears flicking back to catch every word.

The trees were thinning—just past the hill, their village would come into view. Already, he could scent the familiar markers of home: Lee Pack soil and pinewood and the soft hint of smoke from the fire pits. It should’ve brought comfort. It didn’t.

“Why are you even here?” he grumbled. “Don’t you usually parade around the southern line like the little escort you are?”

Taehyung gasped theatrically through the link. “Yoongi. I am wounded.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“I’m charming,” Taehyung corrected, nose twitching. “Ask anyone but you.”

“I’m still wondering how our pack’s strongest Alpha hunter is mated to a walking noise complaint,” Yoongi muttered, jerking his chin toward Hoseok.

“You love me,” Hoseok said with zero shame.

“I’d rather deep-throat a porcupine.”

Hoseok barked a laugh.

But even through the bickering, Yoongi kept one ear tilted to the trees behind them. He could still scent it faintly—Jimin’s scent. Crushed leaves. Dirt. Bruised ego.

He’s going to come after me, Yoongi thought grimly. That little feral lapdog.

And weirdly, that didn’t feel like a warning. It felt like a promise.

“You smell like smugness and blood,” Hoseok commented suddenly, nose twitching. “You sure you didn’t maul someone back there?”

Yoongi only smirked. “No body, no crime.”

Taehyung let out a scandalized yip. “You did shove him.”

“Gravity did most of the work.”

“You’re going to die young.”

“I’d rather die than hear your voice one more fucking time.”

Taehyung just giggled like it was his job to annoy him to the grave. Honestly, Yoongi wouldn’t be surprised if it was.

As they crested the last hill, the village finally came into view—stone and bark shelters nestled in tight between the roots of towering trees, smoke curling lazily into the afternoon sky. A few pups ran in the distance, their tiny forms tumbling through fallen leaves.

Yoongi adjusted the deer on his back.

Taehyung padded up beside him, tail flicking against Yoongi’s hind leg just to be a menace.

“So,” Taehyung said sweetly, “next time you want to shove Jimin off a cliff, let me know. I’ll bring snacks.”

Yoongi didn’t answer. He just growled—deep, annoyed, low in his chest. Because Taehyung might’ve been the only creature on this entire fucking mountain more punchable than Park Jimin. And somehow, both of them were his problem.

Dragging the prey carcass all the way to the village storehouse should’ve been the worst part of the afternoon. It wasn’t. Not when Yoongi had to do it with those two hormonal shits trotting beside him like they were starring in a courtship drama and he was the ugly third wheel. Again.

“Careful, Tae,” Hoseok was saying, voice soft in that Alpha-to-omega-you’re-my-world way that made Yoongi want to step on a rake. “You almost nicked your paw on that bark. You okay?”

“I’m fine, Hobi,” Taehyung giggled, flicking his tail playfully as he nosed the boar forward. “It’s just a scratch. But you can kiss it better later if you want.”

Yoongi gagged.

Please let me die. Just right here. Drop me into the ground like compost.

The scent of their pheromones was suffocating. Hoseok’s earthy, rain-on-soil Alpha scent practically blanketed the air around them, and Taehyung’s sweet omega scent—why the fuck did he always smell like dessert?—curled around it like he was deliberately trying to send every unmated wolf in a five-mile radius into heatstroke.

The moment they reached the storage den, Yoongi dumped the deer carcass onto the sorting rack and huffed a long breath out of his nose. His legs were sore. His shoulder ached from dragging that kill all the way across territory lines. And now, now he had to eat with those two mating season rejects like nothing had happened.

“Can you two please stop mouth-fucking each other with your eyeballs for five minutes?” Yoongi muttered, shaking out his fur before shifting back to his human form.

Bones cracked, fur pulling inward, limbs stretching.

And then he was standing—naked, cold despite the Fall air being mild, and pissed.

“I swear to the fucking Moon, if I have to smell one more drop of ‘omega-in-love’ wafting off you, I’m going to sterilize myself with a pinecone.”

Taehyung shifted next, smooth as silk, like it didn’t bother him one bit to be entirely naked in front of their best hunter. His skin glowed, of course, because of fucking course, and he stretched like he was in a fucking painting, arms up, hair falling into his eyes, tailbone arching just enough to be annoying.

“Jealous, Yoon?” he said sweetly.

“I will bite you,” Yoongi growled. “Right on your sparkly little omega ass.”

“You’ve noticed it sparkles?” Taehyung’s grin was filthy.

“Oh my god, shut up.”

Hoseok shifted last—still calm, still maddeningly serene, like his entire existence wasn’t a personal test for Yoongi’s blood pressure. He tossed his hair back with a shake of his head and smirked.

“You know you love us.”

“I tolerate you,” Yoongi corrected, grabbing a pair of woven trousers from the basket outside the meat den and pulling them on without ceremony. “Barely.”

The three of them made their way toward the community hall. Smoke curled from the center pit, where elders and younger hunters were gathered around the fire, cooking fresh strips of venison and root vegetables. Pups scampered in and out between them, squealing, tails wagging.

Yoongi narrowed his eyes.

He didn’t hate village life. But sometimes it felt like everyone was playing some cozy little part in a world he had to keep bleeding for. And today? After the week he’d had? With Jimin’s smug little face still fresh in his mind?

He didn’t want cozy. He wanted quiet. Or a fistfight.

Unfortunately, what he got was Taehyung and Hoseok choosing to sit directly across from him at the long food mat like the universe enjoyed watching him suffer.

The smell of cooked meat helped. A little. His stomach grumbled, which only made Taehyung smile harder.

“Aww,” the omega cooed, sniffing the air dramatically. “Is that hunger I smell, Yoongi? Or is it just frustration and celibacy rotting you from the inside out?”

Yoongi stabbed his meat skewer in one go. “Keep talking and I’ll fuck your scent gland with this stick.”

“Kinky~”

“Do you ever shut the fuck up?”

Hoseok was laughing. Of course he was laughing.

“Why do you even hang out with me,” Yoongi muttered, chewing bitterly. “You’ve got a mate. You’ve got a future. Go do couple things. Build a nest. Make squeaky noises. I don’t care.”

“You do care,” Hoseok said easily, passing him a cup of broth. “That’s the tragedy.”

Yoongi rolled his eyes but took the broth.

He needed the protein. Especially after all that bullshit chasing a deer through enemy territory only to shove Park Jimin off a cliff like a final boss move. Worth it. Absolutely worth it.

Still, as he chewed, something itched at the back of his skull.

That scent from earlier—when Jimin had yelped. When he’d rolled. When his paws had kicked at the dirt trying to stop himself from going over the edge. It hadn’t just been fear. No, there’d been something else tangled in it. Not submission. Not heat. But… vulnerability?

Yoongi scowled.

Nope. Not my problem. Fuck that.

“Uh-oh,” Taehyung sang, plucking berries from a small basket like he wasn’t the worst person alive. “He’s making that brooding face again. What is it now, Yoon? Regret? Shame? Realizing you’ll die alone?”

Yoongi looked up, stared him dead in the eyes, and said flatly, “I’m imagining the sound your skull would make if I cracked it against this log.”

Taehyung grinned.

Hoseok grinned.

And for one brief moment—between the steaming meat, the village noise, the setting sun casting gold over pine-bark roofs—Yoongi felt almost normal.

Then he remembered the bruise forming on Jimin’s ribs, and how that smug little shit was probably already plotting revenge with that wide-eyed fake-innocent face of his.

Yoongi sighed and drank the rest of the broth.

Because he just knew…

That wasn't the last cliff either of them would be going over.

Chapter Text

It had been seven days. Seven full days of laying in bed.

Not his bed, no. That would’ve at least been dignified. Instead, he was stuck in the warm, cloyingly sweet-smelling den of his so-called parents, curled on the floor nest-pile between Seokjin’s faint floral scent and Namjoon’s grounding smoke Alpha pheromones that clung to everything like an overly aggressive warning.

No one gets near our pup.

Yeah, pup. That’s what they called him now.

As if Jimin hadn’t been tracking prey like a proper Omega hunter when that absolute son of a rogue bitch Yoongi—that mangy, sharp-eyed bastard—decided to shove him off a fucking cliff and steal his kill.

Just thinking about it made Jimin’s hackles raise again, his lower lip pushing into a pout so deep it could’ve earned its own territory mark.

And the worst part?

He hadn’t even been allowed to yell at him.

Jimin shifted beneath the soft wolf pelts, hissing as his ribs tugged against the bandages that Jin had just redone earlier that morning. “Ugh,” he groaned, dramatically rolling onto his back with a wince. “I’m going to rot in here. Just turn to moss. Moss and sadness.”

From the hearth, Seokjin hummed without looking up from the stew pot. “You said that yesterday.”

“I meant it more today.”

A puff of pheromones filled the air, calming, patient, far too indulgent. Jin’s scent had always wrapped around Jimin like spring. Soothing. Familiar. Unshakably warm.

But it wasn’t enough to keep the rage away.

Jimin narrowed his eyes at the ceiling of the den. “I hate him.”

“Who?” Jin asked mildly, clearly humoring him.

“Yoongi. That feral flea-ridden—ugh!”

He kicked a fur off the pile and then hissed again because ow. Stupid ribs.

Seokjin sighed softly, the sound like an exhausted lullaby. “What did we say about flailing?”

“That you’ll make me eat another medicinal root,” Jimin sulked. “Which is basically poisoning me.”

Jin looked over his shoulder with a patient glare. “It’s healing you.”

“I hate you.”

“Liar.”

“...A little.”

And okay, yes, he loved being spoiled. Yes, he’d been curled up in Jin’s lap just yesterday like a purring pup while the older omega gently braided his hair and called him sweet things like baby star and Jiminie bun. Yes, Namjoon had been bringing him things—warm teas, extra blankets, books he never finished reading, even a ridiculously carved wooden wolf pup toy he claimed he found but Jimin was pretty sure he made himself.

And okay, okay, fine—he didn’t hate the attention.

Especially when Jin let him sleep curled up right between them at night, tucked under both their arms, and Namjoon would ruffle his hair sleepily and mutter, “Our little brat,” like it was the highest honor anyone could ever bestow.

But none of that—not the nightly massages, not the head kisses, not even the daily fruit platters Jin prepared just the way he liked—none of it made up for the fact that he had been pushed off a cliff.

By Yoongi. Lee Pack Alpha Head Hunter Yoongi. With his smug mouth and sharper teeth and those arrogant, heavy-footed stomps like he owned the forest.

And to make it even worse—

“Hey,” Namjoon’s voice cut into his thoughts as the tall Alpha ducked back into the den, already shrugging off his traveling cloak, bringing with him a gust of fresh pine scent and pack-dominant pressure that automatically made Jimin’s shoulders tense.

He hated how small he felt under Namjoon’s Alpha presence sometimes. Not because he didn’t like it, but because it always made him feel like he was about to get a lecture. Especially when he looked like this.

Like now.

Namjoon gave him one look and frowned. “You’re sulking again.”

Jimin didn’t respond.

Instead, he rolled back into the nest pile with a pointed whimper, pout deepened, his best version of wounded little pup abandoned in the rain.

It didn’t work.

Namjoon sighed like a thundercloud and crouched beside him, scent flooding the room—commanding, protective, irritated. “You’re not plotting, right?”

“I don’t plot,” Jimin lied.

“You only plot.”

“I’m injured.”

“Exactly why you shouldn’t be planning a revenge hunt, omega.”

The formal tone hit like a smack. Namjoon rarely used it with him—almost never, actually. The last time he had, Jimin had broken a bowstring on purpose just to avoid training and then lied about it for three days.

He turned away dramatically, curling into the side of the nest Jin had fluffed earlier, wrapping the softest fur around his shoulders like a sad cape. “You don’t love me.”

“Don’t start,” Namjoon warned.

“I almost died, Appa.”

Seokjin groaned from the hearth. “Stop calling him that.”

“But he is!”

“No, he’s not.”

“You are too!” Jimin snapped. “You’re my papa and he’s my appa and I’m your pup and—”

“Jimin.”

“—and I almost died because of that mountain gremlin with rabies and all I wanted was some recognition and maybe a little payback and you’re scolding me!”

Namjoon dragged a hand down his face. “Because you were literally trying to sneak out of the den through the chimney vent yesterday.”

“I didn’t try, I succeeded. Jungkook is just annoying and found me!”

“He’s the Head Hunter. That’s his job.”

“Well, I hope his antlers rot.”

“He doesn’t have—”

“Metaphorical antlers!”

Namjoon growled softly in his chest. A warning. The kind that made most wolves go still on instinct. But Jimin was already sulking so deeply into the fur pile that he probably looked like a bundled-up tantrum with legs.

He nuzzled deeper into the nest, inhaling Jin’s scent like comfort. “I’m an orphan,” he whispered dramatically. “You’re supposed to spoil me more.”

Namjoon stood up. “I’m going to the council hall.”

“GOOD. LEAVE. YOU DON’T LOVE ME.”

The den fell quiet again after the flap closed.

Then Seokjin’s gentle hands found his hair, combing through it with patient fingers. His scent was warm sugar and steady sky. The kind of omega calm that reminded Jimin of lullabies and spring puddles.

“You’re such a little menace,” Jin murmured fondly.

“I hate him,” Jimin grumbled.

“I know.”

“I hate Yoongi more than I love fruit.”

“That’s a lie.”

Jimin paused. “Okay, but like. Only barely.”

Jin snorted and pulled him close again, and Jimin finally let himself melt into the embrace—pouting, curled up, fully spoiled and still deeply vengeful.

He didn’t know when he’d be allowed to go outside again. But when he was? That black-furred bastard was so dead.

A sudden high-pitched wails cut through the soft den walls like knives. Two of them. Jimin didn’t even flinch—he was far too used to it by now. Seokjin’s and Namjoon’s twin pups had a very specific scream reserved for waking up from naps, and this one meant they wanted milk, snacks, a full cuddle session, and maybe someone to chew on. In that order.

Jimin blinked innocently from the nest pile as Seokjin stood up with a groan, hands already moving to brush fur off his lap and sigh like someone twice his age.

“I’ll be right back, baby star,” Jin said distractedly, already moving toward the nursery room where the scent of two cranky infants was rising—milk-heavy, sharp, sour with sleep, sticky with possessive pup-need. “If you need anything, don’t move, okay? Call me.”

Jimin nodded. Adorably. Obediently.

Then waited exactly eleven seconds after the den flap closed before launching into full-blown jailbreak mode.

“Okay,” he whispered under his breath, shoving the thickest pelt off his legs and testing his weight on the floor. His ribs twinged. His shoulder ached. His left thigh still had a wrap around it, but he was a hunter. He could walk through a little pain.

He sniffed the air cautiously—faint traces of Jin’s calming pheromones still lingered, but they were thinning. Namjoon was long gone, scent too faint to cling to the space now. The pups were distracting Jin. Jungkook had training duty today with the newer omegas. Perfect.

“Alright, Jiminie,” he whispered, crawling toward the back flap of the den, “you’re free.”

The wind outside was crisp. He felt it before he even peeled the flap back—cool mountain breeze that caught on his overgrown hair and tugged softly at the pelt shawl he’d thrown over his shoulders. The scent of pack filled his nose: moss, pine, damp wood, and fire-smoke. Other wolves nearby, but not too close.

He straightened slowly, hissing through his teeth as his ribs protested, but already felt better just breathing the outside air. Freedom. He could cry.

“Fucking finally,” he muttered, limping toward the tree line like a vengeful ghost.

He wasn’t wearing his hunting leathers—just soft wrap pants and the oversized tunic Seokjin insisted made him look cozy (it made him look pitiful)—but he didn’t care. He wasn’t hunting.

Well. Not prey.

“Where are you, you demon-wolf bastard,” he muttered under his breath as he limped past the riverbank and into the forest. “Gonna bite that smug face off. Push you off a fucking cliff next time, see how you like it.”

Every crunch of leaves beneath his feet sent a dull ache up his side, but it was worth it. Worth it for the flickers of wild scent he caught now and then—rabbits, deer, faint remnants of a recent hunt. Nothing Lee Pack yet, but soon. He knew these trails like his own den.

He passed the old oak ridge where he and Jungkook had once napped during training and then the mossy boulders that smelled faintly of fox, until—

There. Faint but sharp.

A familiar scent, like the edge of flint and something musky-spicy—like pepper and cold iron. Bitter, aggressive. Alpha.

Yoongi.

Jimin’s nose twitched, and his lip curled.

The scent was old, maybe a few hours, but directional. Leading west, toward the border. Of course he was there. Lurking near the invisible line between packs like the goblin he was.

Jimin crouched low, ignoring the sharp throb in his thigh and the fact that he’d definitely overstepped the “don’t move” command Seokjin had left him with. He was already dead if they found him. But maybe if he brought back one of Yoongi’s leather wraps or—oh, stars, his scent-stained satchel—then maybe it’d be worth the punishment.

He grinned, eyes gleaming. “Let’s see how you like being stolen from, alpha-boy.”

A crack behind him made him freeze.

Jimin whirled, expecting maybe a scout—Jungkook, maybe even Jin if he’d finished with the pups early, but—

No one. Just the trees.

He sniffed the air again. Nothing. Only his own scent, which was definitely leaking more aggressively than before—bratty Omega pheromones curling into the forest like a warning and a dare all at once. Cloying. Sweet. Taunting.

Whatever. He was alone.

He padded forward, deeper toward the border. Deeper toward revenge.

The second Jimin’s paws hit the earth in full sprint, the wind rushed past his fur, golden brown with a subtle silken sheen, fluffed with indignation and bloodlust. He wasn’t hunting for food. He wasn’t chasing prey. He was hunting Yoongi.

The nerve of that bastard.

He should still be on bed rest. He could still hear Namjoon’s voice echoing in his head, deep and furious—You’re not to take one step out of this den, omega Park!—but what was new? Namjoon was always screaming when Jimin did something fun. And Seokjin was always sighing like Jimin was their troublesome pup. And okay, maybe Jimin did milk the guilt card and cry a little that one night, curled up in Seokjin’s lap complaining about being an orphan, but gods, was he not entitled to a little dramatics? Especially after almost dying?

Thanks to Min Fucking Yoongi.

His paws dug into the forest floor, autumn leaves rustling behind him in messy trails. He could smell them. Two wolves up ahead, and one of them—oh, Jimin would never forget that scent—cool storm winds wrapped around crushed pine bark and the sour tang of arrogance—was him.

Yoongi.

That lowlife, prey-stealing, cliff-shoving, dirtbag Alpha.

Jimin didn’t care who the second wolf was. Let it be some dumb little tagalong. He wasn’t backing down. Even if he had to fight both.

He leapt over a fallen log, his slender but strong omega form moving fast, agile. His tail was high and twitching with unfiltered fury. His ears pinned back, his jaw clenched. He didn’t bother hiding his scent—he wanted that bastard to know he was coming. Let his omega pheromones flood the fucking trees, let him smell the fury in them. Let him feel it.

There they were—by the river, in the shallow bend where the moss grew thick. Yoongi and—

Taehyung.

Of course it was Taehyung. The only other omega who could make Jimin’s blood pressure rise from sheer smugness. That dramatic little vine-sniffer with his floppy ears and that stupid teasing lilt in his voice. Jimin didn’t hate Taehyung, exactly, but oh, he was irritating. And today?

Collateral.

“YOU!”

Jimin’s voice came out sharp and furious, echoing through the clearing in wolf-speech. Both wolves snapped their heads toward him, Taehyung yelping as he instinctively stumbled back a step—but Yoongi? Yoongi didn’t move. Just raised his head slowly, his pitch-dark fur bristling ever so slightly.

“Oh great,” Yoongi drawled, voice pure, molten sarcasm. “Did the brat finally sneak past his babysitters?”

Jimin growled, teeth bared, tail lashing. “I’m going to kill you.”

“What, again?” Yoongi said, stepping slightly in front of Taehyung now, not protectively, but just enough to let Jimin know he wasn’t about to get easy access. “You going to set another trap? Or maybe cry to your fake parents when it doesn’t work again?”

That bastard.

Jimin launched.

Fangs bared. Fur fluffed. Every inch of his scent screamed rage—spiced honey turned bitter and burning, flooded with adrenaline and fury and humiliation and the need for revenge. He didn’t care if Hoseok was lurking nearby. He didn’t care if Namjoon smelled this from across the fucking valley. He didn’t care about anything except shredding Yoongi’s smug face into the dirt.

Yoongi braced, meeting him halfway with a vicious snarl, claws catching Jimin’s flank just enough to graze—but Jimin twisted mid-air, slamming hard into Yoongi’s shoulder with all the force his compact body could muster. The two of them tumbled, teeth gnashing, paws kicking up leaves and mud as they wrestled, growling, biting, rolling across the clearing.

Taehyung yelped again but didn’t interfere. (Smart.)

“You fucking cliff-shoving rat bastard!” Jimin shrieked mid-bite, sinking his teeth just short of Yoongi’s neck ruff. He wasn’t actually going for the kill—but fuck if he didn’t want to make Yoongi bleed. “I should rip your tongue out and make you eat it!”

“You’re lucky I didn’t push you harder,” Yoongi snapped, twisting underneath and flipping them fast—Jimin’s back slammed to the ground with a painful thud. “One less feral omega whining around the woods.”

“I hope you choke on a fucking thorn bush!”

“I hope you step on your own tail and fall into another ravine!”

They were both panting now, teeth snapping, too close to get a clean hit. Jimin shoved his hind legs into Yoongi’s stomach and kicked him off with a vicious snarl. Yoongi stumbled back, growling low, lips curled in that signature snide curl that made Jimin want to scream.

Taehyung, still watching cautiously, finally spoke. “Should I go get Hoseok?”

“Do it and I’ll bite your ears off,” Jimin hissed without looking at him, eyes locked on Yoongi.

Yoongi laughed. “Aw, come on, don’t threaten your twin like that.”

Jimin’s fur fluffed. “WE ARE NOTHING ALIKE.”

Yoongi tilted his head with mock sweetness. “You sure? Because you’re both annoying, loud, spoiled, and completely insufferable.”

That was it. Jimin leapt again.

This time, they both went crashing into the river.

Jimin’s claws were digging into the soft mud of the opposite bank before he even realized he’d gotten himself to shore. He spat out water, a snarl lodged in his throat, tail stiff with fury and thick fur bristling from spine to snout. The taste of riverweed clung to his tongue like humiliation.

He was soaked, filthy, panting—and still ready to kill.

Yoongi wasn’t far behind, dragging himself from the river with a hiss, limping slightly on one hind leg. Good. Maybe Jimin had managed to tear something. The older alpha’s inky black pelt clung to his frame, water weighing him down like guilt should’ve, but Yoongi’s arrogant aura reeked of defiance.

Fucking stubborn son of a diseased goat.

“You’re actually insane,” Yoongi growled, his voice rasping rough through their wolf-tongue, fangs bared. “You trying to die today, princess?”

Jimin lunged again.

He didn’t care. He didn’t fucking care. His ribs ached, and the cold river clung to his bones, but he’d rather collapse than let that flea-bitten scum walk away thinking he’d won.

“I’m going to shred you into bedding fluff, you dung-brained bastard!”

Their bodies crashed again—fur and fang, claw and snarl, both of them howling and snapping as mud splattered everywhere. Jimin’s paw slammed against Yoongi’s shoulder, trying to knock him down again, but the older wolf twisted like smoke, fast and brutal, slamming his weight into Jimin’s side.

They rolled. Again.

Pain sparked down Jimin’s flank, but he sank his teeth into Yoongi’s foreleg, shaking hard until the alpha let out a clipped yelp. Satisfying. Almost.

“You tried to fucking kill me,” Jimin snarled through a mouthful of fur. “You shoved me off a cliff, you sewer-rat excuse of a hunter!”

“Yeah? And you poisoned me, you spoiled little shitstain!”

“I should’ve put actual poison in that trap!”

Yoongi shoved him off with brute strength, both of them scrambling to their feet and growling so loud the forest trembled. The air was a haze of sharp, bitter pheromones—Yoongi’s aggressive alpha musk practically sizzling against Jimin’s snarling omega scent, so potent it made the underbrush curl.

Taehyung’s voice cut through the madness from the ridge above, breathless and high-pitched.

“I’m getting Hoseok—you’re both going to die if you keep this up!”

“Mind your business!” Jimin barked back. “This doesn’t concern you!”

But Taehyung was already gone, his scent trailing behind as he sprinted through the trees.

Jimin barely had time to brace before Yoongi leapt again. They tumbled, fangs flashing, the river spray still coating their pelts, everything burning with motion and fury and desperation. There was no tactic anymore, just teeth and claws and the kind of hate that rotted from the inside.

He was going to kill Yoongi. Genuinely. If he didn’t collapse from exhaustion first.

The world spun, his heart pounding behind his ribs like a war drum—and then—

A voice like thunder split the sky.

“ENOUGH!”

Everything froze.

Yoongi’s teeth were literally an inch from Jimin’s throat, and Jimin’s claws were curled in Yoongi’s shoulder fur, ready to rip, but their bodies went rigid in unison. Alpha command like that couldn’t be ignored. It slammed into his chest like gravity itself.

Jimin dared to open one eye.

There, stepping down the forest slope like some wrathful forest god, was Pack Alpha Kim Namjoon—massive, commanding, fury rolling off him in thick waves that coated the entire clearing in the scent of thunderstorm and pine-smoke.

Behind him, equally rigid, was Head Hunter Jeon Jungkook and fuck, he looked ready to skin someone alive.

“Oh shit,” Jimin whispered, immediately releasing Yoongi and scooting back a step. “Oh fuck. Oh no.”

Yoongi stood tall, teeth no longer bared, hackles slowly lowering as if he wasn’t the reason Jimin nearly drowned again. His expression was unreadable, but his tail dipped just slightly in submission to the foreign alpha.

Namjoon’s golden eyes burned into Jimin.

“Omega hunter Park Jimin.”

Jimin’s ears pinned back. His tail tucked. “Hi, Appa,” he offered weakly, trying a small wag.

Namjoon’s voice dropped to a deadly low growl. “Don’t you dare.”

Yoongi snorted.

Snorted.

The absolute sack of rotting deer guts actually snorted at him.

Jimin saw red.

“You’re lucky my pack alpha’s here,” he growled in Yoongi’s direction. “Otherwise I’d rip your dick off and shove it down your throat—”

“Jimin.” Jungkook snapped, stepping forward now, jaw clenched tight.

Jimin huffed. “What? It’s true.”

Namjoon’s gaze flicked between both young wolves, deadly calm. “You attacked each other,” he said slowly. “Again. On border territory. With witnesses.”

Hoseok appeared then, just behind Taehyung, who looked… conflicted. Like he couldn’t decide whether to hide or pop popcorn.

“Technically,” Hoseok muttered, “Yoongi started it.”

“You traitor!” Yoongi grunted at him.

“Technically,” Taehyung cut in, grinning with teeth, “Jimin came after him first.”

“I knew you were a demon,” Jimin hissed at him. “You’re just like him.”

“Thank you,” Taehyung beamed.

Namjoon growled, loud and firm, and every single wolf shut the fuck up.

“This could’ve started a war,” he snapped. “Do either of you comprehend how thin the ice is between our packs right now? One of you kills the other, and your pack retaliates. Then I retaliate. And then we all die, or worse—Jin cries.”

That last bit hit harder than expected.

Jimin lowered his head. “I wasn’t trying to die,” he mumbled, lying through his fucking teeth.

Yoongi scoffed beside him.

“I wasn’t!”

Namjoon turned. “You’re on den lockdown again,” he snapped. “And don’t even think about sneaking out this time. If Jin can’t keep you chained down, I will.”

The word chained made Jimin shudder a little. Not in a good way.

“What about him?” Jimin spat, nodding toward Yoongi. “He shoved me off a cliff last week! That was an attempted murder!”

Yoongi rolled his eyes. “He tried to poison me the week before that!”

“I will do it again!”

“Enough!” Namjoon barked. “Both of you. Shut up. I’m taking Jimin back. Hoseok, handle your idiot.”

“Which one?” Hoseok muttered.

Namjoon didn’t respond. He just turned and started walking, and Jungkook shot Jimin a look that promised hellfire if he stepped out of line.

And so, tail low and nose wrinkled, Jimin turned back toward the Kim Pack, furious and exhausted and already plotting his next revenge.

Because one thing was clear. This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

Jimin limped. Not just limped—he dragged himself down the path like a tragic war hero, tail drooping low in the dirt, ears pinned pathetically back, every labored breath practically crying out for sympathy. He made sure to stumble every few steps just dramatically enough for it to count but not enough to actually eat mud again.

Namjoon, still in his huge wolf form, walked ahead of him like an angry mountain come to life, hackles flat but radiating enough disapproval to singe tree bark. His pinewood scent was sharp and heavy, like judgment and disappointment wrapped in stormclouds. Even without looking back, Jimin knew that gaze was burning holes into his soul.

Behind him, Jungkook padded along in sleek black-wolf silence, ears twitching, not saying a word but definitely scowling in his own stupid head. Jimin could feel it. Like an itch. A judgmental, self-righteous itch with sharp teeth and no sense of humor.

And of course, both of them were silent the first few minutes, letting the forest echo with nothing but Jimin’s occasional wet-sounding cough or limp-sniffle. Just enough rope to let him squirm. Then Namjoon broke it.

“You almost got yourself killed.”

His voice came through wolf-tongue low and even and loud, making Jimin’s hackles twitch. Even though he couldn’t technically understand Namjoon in his human form once Jimin shifted later, right now, the words came through loud and clear.

“You’re injured, bleeding, barely breathing—and yet you kept going. Why?”

Jimin huffed through his nose. “Because he’s a flaming hot sack of alpha dogshit, that’s why!”

Namjoon growled. Jungkook snorted behind him. “Jimin.”

“No, seriously!” he barked, stumbling dramatically again for effect. “He deserves to be ripped apart, and I was so close, Appa, you have no idea! You should be proud! I was efficient!”

“I’m proud of you surviving,” Namjoon snapped. “I’m furious you were stupid.”

Jimin gasped. “Appa! You can’t say that! I’m your precious little pup!”

“You’re a menace,” Namjoon growled. “You think instincts make you a good hunter? You’re not just representing yourself, Jimin. You’re my omega hunter. You’re our pack.”

Jimin’s tail tucked deeper. That one stung.

He didn’t like when Namjoon used that voice. The leader voice. It always turned him into a guilty puddle.

Jungkook finally spoke behind him, voice thick with disapproval. “You left while Seokjin was distracted with the twins.”

Jimin actually whimpered. “Seokjinie doesn’t know yet,” he mumbled, shrinking.

“He will,” Namjoon said without turning.

Jimin scowled at the back of his giant wolfy head.

“Is nothing sacred?” he grumbled. “I almost died. I could’ve been swallowed by a river. Or eaten by a bear. Or maimed by that blood-sucking weasel from the Lee Pack. And here you both are, lecturing me like I skipped chores!”

“You did skip chores,” Jungkook muttered.

“I’M INJURED!”

Namjoon finally stopped, turned his hulking wolf body to face him fully, eyes burning with authority. “Shift.”

Jimin blinked. “What?”

“Shift to human form. Now.”

“But—Appa—” Jimin whined. “I’m bleeding, I’ll get mud all over—”

“Shift and get on Jungkook’s back,” Namjoon ordered.

“I can walk—!”

“You can barely breathe,” Jungkook snapped. “Get your spoiled little ass on my back before I make you walk back naked.”

Jimin huffed, flopped onto the ground in the most pathetic, dramatic collapse he could manage, and shifted with an exaggerated groan, bones snapping and reforming with familiar tugs. He landed naked and shivering in a puddle of leaves and his own misery.

He didn’t even bother trying to sit up.

Jungkook padded up beside him and crouched in wolf form, lowering himself slightly.

With a dramatic ugh, Jimin dragged himself onto Jungkook’s back, carefully arranging his sore limbs like he was mounting a royal carriage. The moment he settled on the black wolf’s back, Jungkook stood, and Jimin groaned and threw his arms around his neck like he was dying.

“I’m going to pass out. You’re a terrible ride, Koo. This is bumpier than your stupid personality.”

Jungkook snarled under his breath.

Namjoon had already turned again, leading them back toward the village, but his ears stayed trained back, still listening.

“I could’ve died, you know,” Jimin tried again, turning up the pitiful tone. “You don’t care. You both just scolded me while I’m literally dying.”

Namjoon sighed, deep and tired, like the weight of parenting a feral disaster child was finally settling into his bones.

“Papa’s going to cry, you know,” Jimin said mournfully. “When he sees me like this. He’ll cry for hours. He might never forgive you. I’ll have to comfort him, broken and battered, in his arms, whispering lies to ease his pain—”

Namjoon growled.

Jimin immediately buried his face in Jungkook’s damp fur. “I’m being abused.”

The rest of the walk was long and slow, Jimin holding on tight as Jungkook padded through the woods with smooth strides. Despite his earlier complaints, the warmth of Jungkook’s body soothed some of the pain from his aching ribs, and his thick black fur smelled like rain and pine and pack.

Safe.

Jimin closed his eyes and let himself breathe. He was exhausted. Cold. And he knew Seokjin was going to cry when he saw the bruises. Good. That meant extra pampering. He’d make it worth it.

But as his cheek rested against Jungkook’s shoulder, the taste of Yoongi’s scent still burned in the back of his throat—smoke and metal and fury. And even though Namjoon was mad, and Jungkook was grumbling, and Seokjin was probably already preparing an entire lecture with warm soup—

Jimin wasn’t sorry. Not really. Because Yoongi had looked scared for a second. Cornered. Shaken. And Jimin would chase that look again. And again. And again. Until he won.

Chapter Text

It had been a month. A whole goddamned month since Min Yoongi last saw that brat. That loudmouthed, spoiled, drama-dripping, limb-biting little Kim-pack omega menace.

And life had never been so fucking boring.

Yoongi dragged the deer carcass behind him with practiced ease, claws sunken deep into the hind leg. The thing was heavy and stubborn, and the forest heat clung to his fur like sweat, but it wasn’t the weight that pissed him off—it was the silence.

No yelling. No bickering. No scent of spoiled vanilla and bloodlust lingering like a curse in the trees. No smug voice calling him a flea-bitten mutt. No enraged omega charging him with teeth bared and claws out like the gods had personally declared him Jimin’s chew toy.

No excitement.

Just trees. And rabbits. And Hoseok’s chirpy bullshit and Taehyung’s even worse matchmaking nonsense.

Yoongi tossed the carcass toward the meat rack outside the Lee Pack’s main butchering hut and shifted, standing tall and grimy in human form, blood streaking down his arms and soaking into his pants. His jaw clenched.

He didn’t miss him.

He didn’t.

“Miss your little omega chew toy?”

Yoongi snarled before the teasing voice even finished.

Taehyung.

Of course.

The omega was lounging on a sun-warmed boulder, bare-chested with his long hair in a messy braid, hands behind his head and his smirk as wide as ever. Hoseok was sitting nearby, skin glistening with sweat, sharpening his blade and doing his best not to laugh out loud. Fucker.

“You two seriously have nothing better to do?” Yoongi snapped, grabbing a water skin from the log bench. “Or are you just so deeply in love that bullying me is your idea of a date?”

“Aww,” Taehyung crooned, “he is cranky. Almost like he hasn’t been screamed at by a certain feral omega in a while. How long’s it been since he bit your ear, Yoon?”

“Thirty-three days,” Hoseok said, way too casually.

Yoongi whipped around. “You counted?!”

Hoseok raised his brows. “Well. It was the most entertainment we’ve had in months.”

Yoongi let out a low growl and ran a hand through his sweaty hair. He needed a damn break. A cold river. A week of not hearing either of them talk. Or laugh. Or gods help him—wink.

“Don’t you two have a den to roll around in?” he muttered. “Go make out in the trees or something. Leave me the fuck alone.”

Taehyung sighed dramatically and flopped to his side like he was personally wounded. “I’m just saying, you’ve been sulking, Yoongi. You hunted a wild boar with your teeth. You nearly tackled a rock you thought was a wolf.”

“It was shaped like him,” Hoseok muttered. “A little.”

“Shut the fuck up!” Yoongi snapped. “That wasn’t—I wasn’t—”

But it was too late.

The scent was already curling in his nose.

Not Jimin’s, not exactly, but the memory of him. That goddamn irritating vanilla sugar, always layered with sweat and dirt and dried blood, thick and syrupy and sharp all at once. Like the scent didn’t know if it wanted to be kissable or killable.

Just like the damn omega.

Yoongi huffed and dropped onto a log with a loud thud. The ground vibrated under his feet, and his body ached. Not from the fight—they’d healed weeks ago. He was in full fighting form again. But the ache was boredom. It crawled under his skin like fleas.

The past month had been… peaceful. Fine. Predictable. Two weeks of bedrest, two weeks of light hunting and calm border patrols. No sign of Kim Pack wolves crossing into their woods, no tiny angry omegas jumping out from the underbrush screaming bloody murder.

He should be grateful.

He wasn’t.

“Little brat’s probably still grounded,” Hoseok muttered thoughtfully, slicing into a hunk of dried meat. “If Namjoon’s anything like what he was ten years ago, that kid’s probably not allowed near sharp objects until the next moon cycle.”

“Probably locked in his room getting spoon-fed stew by Seokjin,” Taehyung added, eyes twinkling. “Bet he’s wearing silks again, sulking in bed like a tragic prince.”

Yoongi pressed his palm to his forehead and let out a low, guttural groan. “I hate all of you.”

“You miss him.”

“No, I don’t.”

“You do,” Taehyung said, singsong. “You miss your little enemy. Your spicy vanilla nemesis. Your personal nightmare turned—”

“If you don’t shut the fuck up,” Yoongi warned, rising again, “I will shift and piss on your favorite boots.”

“They’re my boots,” Hoseok muttered without looking up.

“Then you’ll both suffer.”

Yoongi stomped toward the edge of camp, needing air. Trees. Literally anything but more teasing.

He didn’t miss him. He missed fighting. He missed noise. He missed the rush of something real. That was all. Not the brat. Not his stupid pout or his ridiculous threats or the fucking way his scent stuck to Yoongi’s tongue like honey and ash and fury.

He didn’t miss Jimin. But damn it… everything was so god damned quiet. Too quiet.

And Yoongi, for the first time in weeks, found himself looking out past the tree line. Wondering.

When the hell was that spoiled little bastard going to show up and ruin his life again?

-

Another goddamn morning. Another deer. Another slow, silent stalk through damp ferns and thorn-choked underbrush, the morning mist still clinging to Yoongi’s fur as he crept low along the forest floor.

It was routine now. Predictable. And boring as shit.

He was in wolf form, coat sleek and black with streaks of red clay from a half-assed roll earlier. His paws made no sound on the mossy ground. The deer ahead of him hadn’t noticed—not yet. It stood still in the clearing, ears twitching, oblivious to the absolute death gliding toward it.

Yoongi’s fangs glinted in the morning sun as he lowered his head, every muscle locked into perfect form, seconds away from launching—

—and then all fucking hell broke loose.

Something tore out from the right in a flash of soft cream fur and reckless speed.

There was a snarl. A horrible, wet crunch. And then blood.

The deer didn’t even scream. Its throat ripped open in the ugliest, sloppiest, most infuriating kill Yoongi had ever witnessed in his godforsaken life.

Yoongi skidded to a halt, jaws half open.

And then the smell hit him.

That vanilla sugar and rotten mischief scent. That disaster of an omega pheromone cocktail that made every neuron in Yoongi’s brain fire at once with one thought:

Park. Fucking. Jimin.

The beige wolf lifted its head slowly from the deer’s neck, fangs and muzzle drenched in blood, eyes glowing with pure fucking sin. And smiling. The little bastard was smiling.

“Did you miss me, mutt?” Jimin sang in a bright, chipper voice, licking blood off his lower jaw with a flick of his pink tongue.

Yoongi froze.

He could’ve sworn a vein burst in his head. “Are you fucking serious right now—”

“Didn’t realize you’d forgotten how to hunt,” Jimin continued, prancing around the carcass like the gods’ most annoying peacock, tail high and ears perked in challenge. “What took you so long? I’ve been up since dawn waiting for your slow, grumpy ass to show up.”

Yoongi could not believe this.

One month. One quiet, borderline-decent month. And now the brat was back—with his kill in his clearing and his morning peace shattered like a rotted antler.

“You absolute gremlin-blooded rat-fuck of an omega!” Yoongi snarled, fur bristling, tail lashing behind him like a whip. “I tracked that deer for a full hour, you prey-snatching hellspawn!”

“You tracked it,” Jimin agreed sweetly, circling the body with mock sympathy. “And then you stared at it. Like a sad little pup waiting for it to faint. I delivered, you’re welcome.”

Yoongi lunged. Not to kill. (Probably.) But definitely to bite.

Jimin sprang back with a giggle, nimble paws darting over roots like he lived for this chaos. Which—unfortunately—he fucking did.

“You little thieving, smug-ass, silk-wrapped parasite!” Yoongi growled, hackles raised. “You don’t just steal another hunter’s kill, what kind of inbred pup-muncher raised you—!”

“Oh no,” Jimin gasped, pressing a paw dramatically to his bloody chest. “Did I hurt the poor alpha’s pride? Should I fetch a healer? Or better—maybe you can cry on your precious pelted tail, you old goat!”

Yoongi howled. And lunged again. This time, Jimin didn’t dodge—he collided. Head-on, paw against paw, muzzle to muzzle, both of them crashing into each other with the sheer impact of mutual rage and a month of unsaid curses.

The scents burst between them like a bomb.

Yoongi’s sharp and bitter pine-ash, all dominance and iron-thick irritation. Jimin’s honeyed vanilla, now spiced with adrenaline and spite and a lingering undertone of heat that made Yoongi’s canines ache.

“Why are you even here?!” Yoongi barked, wrestling the other wolf off the deer’s body. “Did your Appa finally get tired of babysitting your tantrums and throw you back into the wild?!”

“Missed you too, mutt,” Jimin said, tail wagging just to be annoying. “You looked lonely the last time I saw you. Thought I’d grace you with my presence. I’m generous like that.”

Yoongi growled so hard his throat cracked. “You little flea-infested raccoon. Generous? You nearly got me killed a month ago, and now you’re here stealing my fucking breakfast like we’re playing house?!”

“You weren’t even going to catch it,” Jimin sniffed. “You were too busy brooding about the meaning of life or whatever boring-ass alphas do when their brains rot.”

“I will tear your ear off.”

Jimin tilted his head, flashing fangs. “You already tried that. Didn’t work.”

Yoongi snapped. “I’ll try again.”

“Please do. Maybe this time you’ll finally admit you like it rough.”

Yoongi blacked out for two seconds from pure rage.

By the time he was conscious again, they were rolling through ferns and soil, snapping jaws and trading blows that were more personal than strategic. There was no real intention to kill—but there was sure as hell no intention to hold back either.

The forest echoed with snarls, yelps, and the sharp smack of paw to face.

It was brutal. It was chaotic. It was—

Fucking exhilarating.

Yoongi hadn’t felt this alive in weeks.

Eventually, they broke apart, panting, both wolves bloodied (mostly from the deer, probably), fur bristled, and hearts hammering in tandem.

Yoongi stared at Jimin, chest heaving.

Jimin smirked. “Bet your boring little forest strolls didn’t include this, huh?”

Yoongi gritted his teeth. “You are a walking aneurysm.”

“I try.”

They stood in silence, the deer long forgotten behind them, the morning sun catching the curve of Jimin’s spine as he flicked his ears toward Yoongi, grin still dancing in his eyes.

Yoongi huffed. And finally muttered, “Next time you steal a kill, I’ll bite your leg off.”

“Sure,” Jimin purred. “Just make sure to kiss it better after.”

Yoongi lunged again. And the chase began all over.

Yoongi was in the middle of an all-out sprint toward Jimin, fangs bared, when everything went deadly wrong.

A deep, guttural roar sliced through the air—a sound so full of malice and pure rage that the very earth beneath Yoongi’s paws seemed to tremble. The hairs on his back stood on end as his entire body froze.

Jimin, mid-pounce, skidded to a stop as well, ears flat against his skull, scent now turning into a heady cocktail of confusion, adrenaline, and fear.

Then—there it was.

A massive, hulking shadow rose from the treeline—its bulk towering, dark brown fur rippling like storm clouds in the sunlight. Its eyes blazed with fury. The ground trembled beneath it.

Yoongi’s breath froze in his lungs.

The beast—an absolute monster of a black bear—was charging straight toward them, jaws wide, saliva flying, claws already slicing grooves into the forest floor.

What the fuck.

How the hell did they not hear this thing? How the fuck had it gotten so close?

The realization struck Yoongi like a stone to the skull: they’d been too busy trying to rip each other’s throats out. Too busy growling and snapping, too wrapped up in their pathetic territory dispute over a half-dead deer to notice the real predator closing in.

Stupid. Stupid. So fucking stupid.

The scent of blood—thick, fresh, nauseating—hit him hard. It wasn’t even the bear’s yet. It was the deer’s. Their blood, too. And soon, maybe all of it would be theirs.

Jimin’s breath hitched beside him, his cream pelt rising and bristling, scent flipping sharply into a metallic cocktail of panic and raw omega fear. It cut through the air like a scream.

Yoongi’s pulse hammered.

They were dead if they didn’t move. No—worse. They were dead if they didn’t work together.

“Hell fucking no,” Yoongi spat, his snarl rising up from deep in his chest as the bear took another thunderous step forward. His tail snapped behind him. “No way in hell I’m teaming up with you.”

“I’d rather die than work with you, mutt,” Jimin hissed, his voice ragged, his muscles twitching beneath bloodstained fur.

The bear let out a roar so loud it rattled Yoongi’s spine. It was charging now, faster than anything that big should be.

There was no more time.

No time for insults. No time for pride.

Only survival.

Yoongi launched himself forward with a snarl, lungs seizing, his legs stretching beneath him in a blur. The air blurred past his muzzle. Fuck this thing. Fuck this whole situation. He wasn’t dying here—not today.

And behind him—of course—Jimin was right there, paws barely brushing the ground as he ran with him.

The bear was upon them in a blink.

Its claws slashed through the air—massive, curved things like blades—and Yoongi ducked just in time, dirt exploding beside him as the paw missed his head by inches. The swipe was so strong he felt the air split. Another second slower and his skull would’ve been pulp.

“Shit, that thing’s fast,” Yoongi snarled, already pivoting, digging his claws into the dirt for traction. He lunged at its side, fangs bared, but the bear twisted—unnaturally nimble for something so big—and backhanded him mid-air.

Crack.

Pain exploded across his side as he slammed into a tree, the bark slicing his skin open like paper. He hit the ground hard, his vision momentarily going white. He rolled, forced himself up, ribs screaming.

He caught a glimpse of golden as Jimin dove for the bear’s throat. It was reckless—pure omega fury and precision—but the bear reared up, roaring, and brought its paw down.

Yoongi saw it all in slow motion.

The impact. The sharp yelp that tore out of Jimin’s throat as his body hit the ground and skidded like a ragdoll. Blood splattered against the leaves.

Yoongi’s heart stuttered in his chest.

Not like this. Not like this.

With a snarl that ripped from his core, Yoongi lunged again, this time clamping down on the bear’s hind leg. His teeth sank deep, the tang of blood flooding his mouth. The bear howled, twisting to bite at him, but Yoongi didn’t let go—not until the bear’s jaws snapped right beside his face.

He recoiled, barely dodging a bite that would’ve taken his entire muzzle off. But not without cost. A claw raked down his shoulder, tearing muscle clean open. The pain was blinding. His legs buckled. His side burned like fire.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—” Yoongi gasped through clenched teeth, stumbling, blood pooling under his paws.

And still, Jimin was moving.

The omega had gotten back up somehow—limping, bleeding, one eye swelling shut—but his lips were curled back in a snarl. He darted behind the bear and snapped at its heel, forcing it to turn.

They were flanking it now.

Yoongi didn’t even have to speak. Instinct had taken over. Pack instinct, maybe. Survival instinct, definitely.

The bear swung again—hit Jimin this time in the flank—and the omega hit the ground hard, gasping.

“Get up,” Yoongi snarled. Not because he cared.

Because if Jimin didn’t stand, Yoongi would die alone.

But Jimin did. Because of course he did. He was a stubborn little bastard.

They both were.

Again, they attacked. Over and over. Claws ripping at thick fur. Fangs tearing muscle. Getting hit. Getting slashed. Blood soaking their coats, turning Yoongi’s dark fur blacker, Jimin’s pale one into something rust-red and hideous.

They didn’t stop.

Not when Yoongi’s hind leg gave out. Not when Jimin started coughing blood. Not when the bear pinned Yoongi and nearly crushed his ribcage beneath its weight—until Jimin screamed and bit its eye so hard it tore half the lid.

They fought like animals. Because that’s what they were.

And finally—finally—in a last, desperate charge, both of them lunged. Yoongi hit the throat. Jimin the back of the neck. They tore. They ripped. Their bodies howled with pain, but they didn’t stop.

The bear let out one last, horrible sound—half-growl, half-gurgle—and collapsed beneath them.

Still.

Everything went quiet.

For a moment, Yoongi didn’t breathe. Couldn’t. The only sound was the blood pounding in his ears, and the wet, ragged wheezing of Jimin beside him.

He let go of the bear’s neck and stumbled backward, legs shaking. His side gave out, and he hit the ground, panting. The air reeked of blood. His, Jimin’s, the bear’s. His entire body felt like a corpse—barely held together with sinew and rage.

Jimin was sprawled a few feet away, blood dripping from his mouth, his front paw trembling where it tried to push him up.

And still—still—he looked at Yoongi with that same stupid, smug grin, like they hadn’t just clawed their way out of death together.

“Bet I did more damage than you,” Jimin rasped through their bond.

Yoongi let out something between a growl and a cough.

“Shut the fuck up before I finish the job.”

They were both too tired to keep the insults going for long.

But they were alive.

Somehow. Some-fucking-how—they were alive.

And the bear was dead.

But…

“…It’s my kill,” Jimin rasped, voice thick with exhaustion and pride.

Yoongi’s body tensed, despite the overwhelming pain coursing through his veins. “What?!”

“Mine. I killed it,” Jimin repeated, his tail flicking weakly behind him.

Yoongi shot up with a growl, baring his fangs through a wince of pain. “No way, you little bastard. You wouldn’t even have made it if it weren’t for me!”

“I’m the one who bit it first! That’s how it works!” Jimin retorted, panting.

“You’re delusional,” Yoongi snapped, now pushing himself up with a strained grunt. “You were the one who almost got eaten! I had to pull your sorry ass out of there!”

They were both dying. Literally on the brink of death—and yet here they were, fighting over whose kill it was.

It was the most ridiculous thing Yoongi had ever done, but for some fucking reason, he couldn’t stop himself. And Jimin didn’t stop either, arguing through breaths, snapping at him with every ounce of his annoying, bratty energy. Their blood mixed. Their scents mingled. The forest was silent. And they were both too injured to care.

Yoongi’s lungs were on fire, every breath sharp and searing. His legs trembled beneath him, muscles spasming from overuse, and he could barely keep himself upright. One paw slipped, dragging a smear of blood through the dirt, and he cursed under his breath.

Jimin wasn’t doing much better. The brat was slumped beside him, chest heaving, mouth half-open as he gasped through punctured ribs. His creamy fur was streaked red and brown, and Yoongi could smell the sharp tang of internal bleeding on him like rot.

They were fucked. So fucked.

But of course, that wasn’t going to stop Jimin from still running his goddamn mouth.

“It’s my kill,” Jimin panted, slurring slightly through exhaustion, voice rough and low.

Yoongi rolled his eyes so hard he saw stars. “You thick-headed little shit,” he growled, too tired to even raise his voice properly. “Neither of us can carry that massive bastard back. It doesn’t matter who killed it. You’re about two breaths away from choking on your own blood.”

Jimin snorted weakly. “Still my kill.”

Yoongi stared at him. And then he huffed a dry, bitter laugh. “Fine. Then whoever gets hunters to it first keeps the damn thing. Deal?”

Jimin blinked slowly, then gave a miserable nod.

That was the best either of them could do right now, considering they were limping back to their respective territories like two nearly-dead idiots.

Yoongi winced as he staggered forward, every nerve shrieking in agony. He could feel blood trickling down his left leg, hot and steady. The gash across his shoulder had stopped bleeding only because it had clotted into a thick, matted mess of blood, dirt, and fur. His nose twitched, catching the acrid tang of his own torn flesh and Jimin’s fevered scent wafting behind him.

They smelled like death. Or at least like they’d danced close to it and pissed it off enough to limp away half-alive.

Next to him, Jimin was worse. Smaller, softer, and never built for brute endurance, the omega stumbled more than he walked—his steps dragging in the leaves, head lowered, one paw held too gingerly off the ground. His silvery white coat, usually pristine and glowing like a winter moon, was now streaked in crimson and mud. His breathing was shallow. Uneven. He was close to collapsing, and Yoongi could smell the fever already setting in.

But he didn’t say a word. Couldn’t. Every step was a war. Every breath was a surrender.

Yoongi grit his teeth, panting as he reached Jimin’s side and pressed his body close, bracing him up without asking. Jimin didn’t thank him. Of course he didn’t. The little shit just growled weakly, a low, petulant sound that might’ve been threatening if it didn’t waver halfway through.

“Oh, shut up,” Yoongi snarled under his breath, though it came out more like a huff through his fangs. “You’d be bear food if it wasn’t for me.”

Jimin coughed—or maybe barked—and staggered sideways, forcing Yoongi to catch more of his weight. Fantastic. He was now dragging the omega half through the woods with no idea where the nearest patrol was. His own legs were jelly, his lungs tight. If one of them passed out, they’d both die. That simple.

Why did I save him again?

But he already knew the answer. The bear had been massive—twice their size, starved and desperate. It had come out of nowhere, all teeth and hunger and rage. If they hadn’t worked together they’d both be rotting in its belly right now.

So no, it wasn’t mercy. It was survival. A truce born out of instinct and panic. No more, no less.

“You’re heavier than you look,” Yoongi grunted, digging his claws into the earth to keep them both upright. “Are you made of fucking lead?”

Jimin let out another pathetic sound—half whine, half hiss—and bared his fangs weakly. His tail flicked, bristling.

“You’re one to talk,” came Jimin’s voice in Yoongi’s head, strained and muffled through their pack bond, even if they weren’t from the same pack. “You reek of bear breath and bad decisions.”

“Would you rather I left you to die?” Yoongi snapped back, his mental voice sharp, strained.

“Yes,” Jimin spat. “Then I wouldn’t have to listen to you complain every step.”

Yoongi growled and shouldered forward again, dragging both their battered bodies through the underbrush. The taste of iron sat heavy on his tongue. Every joint screamed. He couldn’t even remember when his left eye had swollen shut—just that it burned like hell now.

They made it another fifty feet before Jimin collapsed again with a low yelp. Yoongi swore under his breath, turned, and without ceremony clamped his teeth into the scruff of Jimin’s neck—just enough to lift. Jimin yelped louder, squirming, his hind legs scrambling uselessly in the dirt.

“Put me down, you asshole!” he snarled, sending a weak pulse of fury down their thread.

Yoongi did. Dropped him right into a pile of ferns and kept walking.

“Fine. Rot there.”

“Gladly.”

But two heartbeats later, Jimin hauled himself up again with a pathetic little snarl and limped after him. Yoongi didn’t help this time. He just kept moving, his ears pinned back, tail low, the scent of blood trailing them like a second shadow.

The silence was heavy again, except for the staggered steps and occasional breathless swears from Jimin every time he hit a root wrong. Yoongi kept glancing sideways, as much as his half-swollen eye would allow.

Still breathing. Still moving. That’s enough.

They weren’t friends. They weren’t even allies. But somewhere in the middle of blood and claws and near-death, something unspoken had settled between them. An agreement.

We don’t die today.

Yoongi let out a shaky breath. His body ached. His soul ached more. But he didn’t stop. Not until the trees thinned, and the faint scent of a border marker reached his battered nose.

The scent hit Yoongi first—familiar, sharp, and laced with dominance. Alpha. Kim Pack. That was not good. Seconds later, he caught the other one: earthy, warm, with an edge of sun-baked grass and sweat. Lee Pack.

Fuck.

A blur of movement exploded from the treeline, and then—

“JIMIN!”

“YOONGI!”

Two wolves stormed into the clearing at the same time, all teeth and fury.

Head Hunter Jungkook was snarling, his dark fur bristled like a porcupine, eyes wild with panic and rage. He skidded to a halt beside Jimin, sniffing rapidly, ears flattening as he took in the sight of his friend slumped in a pool of his own blood. “What the fuck did you do to him?!”

Hoseok wasn’t any calmer. The Lee Pack alpha hunter had bolted straight to Yoongi’s side, shoving his snout under Yoongi’s neck in a gesture of both comfort and frantic inspection. “Holy shit, Yoongi—what the hell—who the fuck did this to you?!”

Yoongi tried to lift his head. “Not… him…” But it came out as more of a wheeze than a sentence. He felt his legs buckle again.

“You’re bleeding out, dumbass!” Hoseok barked, rage blooming thick in his voice. “You’ve got a hole in your fucking chest, and you’re telling me not him? You expect me to believe the brat didn’t do this?”

“He’s—” Yoongi tried again, but darkness crept in from the edges of his vision.

“Don’t talk!” Hoseok growled, nudging him. “Just fucking stay awake, okay?”

On the other side, Jungkook’s tail lashed violently behind him, his entire body rigid with fury as he looked between Jimin’s limp body and Yoongi’s wrecked one. “You goddamn bastard,” he spat, snarling at Yoongi with a fire that made the whole clearing feel smaller. “You attacked him. You attacked him! He’s barely breathing!”

“I swear to the Moon,” Hoseok snapped, stepping between Jungkook and Yoongi with a snarl, “touch him and I’ll rip your goddamn lungs out.”

“Oh, please,” Jungkook shot back, teeth bared. “Your mangy little pack’s had it coming for months. We knew you’d make a move on Jimin eventually. Now look at him! Look at what you fucking did!”

Yoongi couldn’t even growl. His throat felt like it was full of glass. His limbs were shaking, and his body was screaming to shut down.

Jimin wasn’t doing better. He hadn’t moved in minutes. His head lolled to one side, and his eyes were barely cracked open, pupils unfocused. His scent was spiraling—pain, fading consciousness, fear. Not of Jungkook, but of something deeper. Something Yoongi couldn’t place.

And it fucking killed him that he couldn’t speak up. He couldn’t tell them the truth. That the bear had nearly gutted them both. That they'd worked together—god forbid—because dying side by side wasn’t as bad as dying alone. That this wasn’t some act of pack aggression. It wasn’t politics. It wasn’t war. It was survival.

“I’m getting the Pack Alpha,” Jungkook growled, breath hissing through his fangs. “Namjoon’s going to hear about this. We’re not letting it go.”

“Try it,” Hoseok snapped. “I dare you.”

And just like that, the air turned electric. The clearing was seconds away from erupting again—only this time, it wouldn’t be a bear. It’d be war.

Yoongi wanted to scream. To shift. To do something. But his body wasn’t listening. All he could do was lie there, bleeding into the earth, listening to Hoseok and Jungkook circle each other like goddamn rabid dogs, while the forest around them held its breath.

Jimin whimpered beside him. And Yoongi’s vision finally went black.

Chapter Text

The first thing Jimin noticed was that it was too fucking bright.

Too bright.
Too loud.
Too much.

He groaned before he could stop himself, flinching at the raw scrape of sound from his own throat. His eyelids fluttered, and the harsh sunlight filtering through the window above him stabbed into his skull like knives.

“Jimin?”

The second thing he noticed was the scent—overwhelming and familiar. His chest was suddenly crushed in a warm, trembling embrace.

“Jiminie—oh god—thank the Moon—”

His brain took a few more seconds to catch up, swimming sluggishly through a thick fog of pain and fever. There were hands on his face. Fingers carding through his hair. Someone crying, openly and shamelessly, hot tears dripping onto his neck.

Seokjin.

“J—Jin?” Jimin croaked, voice barely more than a rasp, his tongue thick and dry as bark.

Seokjin sobbed harder, kissing Jimin’s temple, his cheek, his hand, then promptly swatted him on the shoulder. “You little shit! Do you have any idea how worried we’ve been?! Four days, Jiminie. Four. Goddamn. Days!”

Jimin blinked, trying to focus. The blinding brightness slowly resolved into the healer’s hut—he was lying on a woven mat covered in thick hides, two healers crouched nearby, murmuring to each other in relief. The scent of herbs and poultices saturated the air—crushed mint, ginger root, dried bark. His whole body felt… stiff. Wrapped. Bandaged. His ribs ached like they’d been shattered and stitched back together with chewing wire.

“Four… days?” he echoed, sluggishly, throat catching. “I’ve been asleep that long?”

Seokjin nodded, wiping at his eyes but still clinging to him like he might vanish again if he let go. “You were burning up. That wound on your side—Moon above, it got infected. And your ribs—don’t even get me started—what were you even doing out there?! Jungkook found you half-dead with that Lee pack bastard! We thought you were—” His voice cracked again, and he buried his face in Jimin’s neck.

Jimin’s head spun.

Yoongi.

The bear.

Shit.

It all came rushing back, snapping into place like falling stones—snarls, blood, fangs, the brutal crack of the bear’s claws splitting bark and bone. The two of them fighting side by side, almost dying in the dirt. He remembered Yoongi dragging his bleeding body through the trees, both of them too stubborn to quit.

He remembered agreeing to a truce.

And then—everything had gone dark.

A knock at the door startled him. Then a heavy, commanding scent washed into the room, tempered only slightly by something warm beneath it.

“Jimin?” came the low voice—firm but soothing. “You're awake?”

Jimin’s breath hitched. He turned his head just as Namjoon stepped into the healer’s hut.

Namjoon didn’t speak at first. He crossed the room in a few strides and crouched beside Seokjin, dark eyes scanning Jimin’s face with visible relief. But then that relief tightened into something steely. Controlled. Dangerous.

“You scared the shit out of us, pup,” Namjoon said gently, brushing hair from Jimin’s forehead.

“I… I didn’t mean to…” Jimin mumbled.

“I know,” Namjoon murmured. But then his scent shifted—smoke sharpening, pressure thickening. “It’s okay now. You’re safe. And we’ll handle it.”

Something in his tone made Jimin stiffen. “Handle… what?”

Namjoon met his eyes. “The war.”

Jimin’s stomach dropped. “What?”

“The Lee pack crossed the line. Yoongi nearly killed you. We’ve already sent word to Alpha Jiyeon. This is war now.”

Jimin sat up too fast. Pain exploded through his side, and the healers rushed in with worried cries, trying to hold him down, but he didn’t care.

“No—no, no, no! You’ve got it wrong! It wasn’t him—it wasn’t Yoongi—fuck—you can’t go to war over this!”

Namjoon’s eyebrows furrowed. “Jimin—”

“There was a fucking bear!” Jimin snapped, heart racing, panic rising like bile. “A huge one. Bigger than anything I’ve ever seen—it came out of nowhere—we tried to kill it—both of us—Moon, I thought we were gonna die—!”

Seokjin grabbed his arm. “Jimin—calm down—”

“I am calm!” Jimin shouted, which was an utter lie. “Namjoon, please. Yoongi didn’t attack me. I mean, he almost did—but we stopped. We saw the bear, and we worked together. He saved my life!”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Namjoon’s voice, quiet and unreadable. “Jungkook said it looked like you two had torn each other apart.”

“Yeah,” Jimin bit out, “because the bear did most of that, and we had to drag ourselves back before bleeding out like stupid, stubborn asses. He didn't try to kill me. And I sure as hell didn’t try to kill him.”

Namjoon’s jaw clenched.

Seokjin looked between them, wiping his eyes again. “Are you sure?”

“I hate that bastard,” Jimin muttered. “But not enough to let him get blamed for something he didn’t do.”

The room fell heavy with tension. Pheromones coiled in the air—Namjoon’s dominance pressing in protectively, the scent of alpha wrath barely restrained. Seokjin’s sweet worry softened the edges, his presence grounding. And underneath all of that, Jimin’s own scent—burnt sugar, tinged with scorched fur and pain.

“He was bleeding out,” Jimin said more quietly, voice cracking. “I think he passed out before I did. He couldn’t even talk. He just—he didn’t leave me there. He could’ve. But he didn’t.”

Namjoon rubbed a hand over his face, exhaling sharply. “The messenger’s already halfway to the Lee pack.”

“Then call him back,” Jimin said. “Please.”

Namjoon didn’t answer immediately. But he stood, pacing the healer’s hut once, twice. His expression was hard, calculating. Alpha logic, cold and sharp and precise.

Then he stopped and looked down at Jimin again. “I’ll send Jiyeon a message. Ask for Yoongi’s version. But if this is a lie—”

“It’s not,” Jimin growled.

Namjoon studied him a moment longer, then nodded once. “Alright.”

The room exhaled.

Seokjin collapsed against Jimin’s side again with a fresh sniffle. “You’re still grounded for a week.”

Jimin let his head drop back onto the hide pillows. “Papa, I almost died.”

“And you’ll live. In your den. Like a proper spoiled brat who doesn’t make his entire family cry.”

Jimin groaned, half from pain and half from frustration.

Still, part of him couldn’t stop wondering—Was Yoongi awake yet? Was he alive? Had he told the truth too? Because if not… Then this fragile peace he’d just clawed back together was about to collapse. And this time, it wouldn’t be a bear that tore them apart. It would be blood.

The moment Namjoon stepped out of the healer’s hut, tension still humming in his Alpha-shaped shadow, Jimin flopped back into the mound of furs with a long, theatrical sigh.

His ribs screamed. His side itched like crazy. His mouth tasted like dried ass and herbs. But still—

“I saved a war,” he muttered, lips twisted into a half-smirk. “And nearly got eaten by a mutant death bear. I should be getting paraded through the village by now. Or at least fed grapes in bed.”

Seokjin rolled his eyes and shoved another pillow behind Jimin’s back. “Shut up before I parade you straight back into a coma.”

Jimin smiled sweetly. “You’d miss me the second I stopped whining.”

And then the door slammed open so hard it nearly came off the hinges.

“JIMINIE!”

Jimin didn’t have time to sit up or scream before Jungkook launched across the room, hit his knees beside the mat, and grabbed both sides of Jimin’s face like he was checking to make sure his head was still attached.

“Oh my fucking stars—you look like shit! You smell like worse! What the fuck were you thinking?!”

“Hi, Koo,” Jimin wheezed, caught between a wince and a grin. “You look pretty too.”

“Don’t fucking flirt with me, you little plague sprite,” Jungkook snapped, hugging him so tightly Jimin saw stars. “I thought you were dead! There was blood—everywhere—Yoongi unconscious—you unconscious—what the actual hell—you made Seokjin cry, you little bastard.”

“I didn’t mean to almost die,” Jimin said around the bruising cuddle. “The bear kinda had its own fucking plans.”

Jungkook growled, the sound vibrating in his chest. His Alpha pheromones flooded the room, coiling with Seokjin’s sweet-sour worry and Jimin’s own tired scent, which now just smelled like burnt sugar and bloodied bandages. A terrible combo, honestly.

Jimin coughed. “You’re smothering me, Koko.”

Jungkook pulled back just enough to glower at him. “Don’t ‘Koko’ me like that’s gonna save your spoiled ass.”

“But it is my spoiled ass that almost got shredded like a squirrel in mating season,” Jimin said, pouting dramatically. “Don’t I deserve some pampering after that?”

Seokjin groaned and sat back, rubbing his temples. “I am this close to locking you in the den with no mirror, no silk robes, and no honey cakes for a month.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Jimin gasped, scandalized. “Papa, I’m a trauma victim. My hair almost got ruined.”

Jungkook stared at him like he was about to combust. “A trauma victim?! You have bite marks and claw gashes, Jiminie. You’re lucky you still have a fucking spleen!”

“Well, I didn’t exactly ask the bear to rip my guts out, now did I?” Jimin huffed. “Do I look like someone who flirts with rabid forest monsters?”

Jungkook opened his mouth.

Seokjin held up a finger. “Don’t answer that.”

Jimin pouted harder. “You’re all very mean to me.”

“Because we love you, you egotistical little goblin,” Jungkook muttered, more to himself than anyone else, as he started checking Jimin’s bandages anyway like he was the second healer on shift. “Look at this mess. You’re all bruised and stitched and scabbed like some half-cooked stew. Why the hell did you go out alone anyway?”

“I didn’t go out alone.” Jimin made a face. “I was on patrol. Yoongi caught me near the border and was about to start shit again, and then the bear came, and—” He sighed, tugging the fur back over his lap. “It was bad. Really bad.”

Jungkook stilled for a second. “So… it’s true, then. He didn’t do it?”

Jimin’s voice dropped. “No. He didn’t.”

“Shit.”

There was another silence, heavy and bitter.

“He didn’t even try to run,” Jimin mumbled. “Dragged my ass through mud and blood like some grumpy wounded horse. He could’ve just left me there.”

Jungkook tilted his head, brows drawing low. “But he didn’t.”

“No. He didn’t.”

“Well fuck me sideways and call me an idiot. I might have to stop calling him Pissy Fang-Face now.”

Jimin gave him a look. “No. You should still call him that.”

Jungkook cracked a grin. “Okay, but only if you let me bite you again next time you sneak off into the woods like a reckless little dumbass.”

“You bite me and I’ll claw off your dick and wear it as a necklace.”

“Charming,” Seokjin muttered, dragging a hand over his face.

“Effective,” Jimin chirped, then let his body melt into the furs as he sighed dramatically again. “Ugh. You know what I want?”

“What?”

“To be bathed. In honey. While someone brushes my hair. And tells me I’m the bravest and most beautiful omega in the entire fucking valley.”

Jungkook gave him an indulgent pat. “You are the bravest and most beautiful omega in the entire fucking valley.”

“Thank you, Koko.”

Seokjin sighed again. “I’m not bathing you in honey. It’ll get in the stitches.”

Jimin fluttered his lashes. “You’re ruining my healing process, Jin.”

Jungkook rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they stayed in his skull. But when he leaned in again, it was gentler this time. One hand cupped Jimin’s cheek, thumb brushing the edge of a healing cut just below his eye.

“You scared the shit out of me, Jiminie.”

“I scared the shit out of myself,” Jimin said softly.

“Don’t do that again.”

Jimin nodded.

The ache in his side hadn’t gone away. The burn of healing still lingered in every joint. But right then, curled up between his papa’s fussing and his koo’s fretting, Jimin let himself be held. Let himself exist in the warm cloud of love and scolding and pheromones. He was still covered in scratches and regrets. But he was alive. Barely.

It took three whole hours, two rounds of pathetic begging, and a string of whines so high-pitched they could probably summon bats out of the trees before Seokjin finally—finally—threw his hands up in dramatic surrender and said, “Fine, you spoiled gremlin. But if your stitches tear, I’m sewing your mouth shut next.”

Jimin gasped like he’d been given a royal pardon. “Papa! You love me too much to mangle my pretty face.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Seokjin muttered, rubbing his temples like Jimin was the source of all headaches, disease, and economic instability in the world.

Jungkook, of course, was zero help. That smug bastard was already crouched beside the mat with his arms open. “Come on, princess. Up we go.”

“I can walk,” Jimin sniffed as he draped himself dramatically across Jungkook’s arms anyway. “But I choose not to.”

“You mean you can’t without crying,” Jungkook said with a snort, scooping him up like he weighed nothing.

“Excuse you, I am the fiercest omega hunter in this damn valley—”

“Sure,” Jungkook interrupted, adjusting him against his chest like a sack of gloriously high-maintenance potatoes. “The fiercest omega hunter who fainted face-first into a pile of bear shit.”

“KOO!”

Seokjin snorted behind them, clearly enjoying himself way too much.

Still, Jimin let himself sink into the warmth of Jungkook’s scent and maybe let his head rest just a little too long against the broad curve of his friend’s shoulder.

He’d nearly died. If he wanted to be cradled like a helpless baby bird, then so be it. He deserved softness. And silks. And maybe grapes peeled by hand. Where were his peeled grapes, anyway?

By the time they reached Namjoon and Seokjin’s den, Jimin was already plotting how to demand a silk pillow upgrade and an ankle massage without getting throttled.

The den was warm as always—thick walls of wood and pressed mud, the hearth already crackling. It smelled like baked herbs and sun-dried laundry, like safety and his childhood and something just inherently Kim. The kind of smell that wrapped around your ribs and squeezed tight like a hug.

Seokjin was immediately back to fussing, ordering Jungkook to “Lay him gently, not like a sack of fucking potatoes!” and fluffing every blanket with the air of a martyr.

Jimin didn’t even try to stop himself from whining, “Papa, I want the lavender one, not the itchy wool one.”

“Then don’t complain if your wounds open and I pour salt on them.”

Jimin grinned. “You’re such a good parent.”

“I should’ve eaten you as an egg.”

Five minutes later, he was fully swaddled in furs and tucked on the sleeping mat like a swan in a feather nest, Seokjin kneeling beside him to wipe his face with a warm cloth, muttering about dirt and smudges like he hadn’t already done it three times that morning.

Jimin closed his eyes, letting it happen. Seokjin’s scent was strong and sweet and safe, and Jimin soaked it in like a starving pup. It was always strongest when Jin was stressed or worried, which meant right now it was pouring out of him, practically soaking into Jimin’s pores.

Good. He liked it better that way.

He’d missed this. The closeness. The pampering. The love. The fact that he didn’t have to ask for it—not really. He just had to look a little pitiful and maybe sniffle a bit, and they’d fall over themselves trying to take care of him.

And after a fucking bear attack, he’d earned it.

He was just about to open his mouth to ask for his hair to be brushed when the front door creaked open and—

“Oh, fuck, it’s loud in here!” Namjoon’s voice rang out, followed by the unmistakable clamor of two squealing pups.

Jimin blinked his eyes open just in time to see Pack Alpha Kim Namjoon—tall, broad, intimidating to most but to Jimin just Appa—step through the threshold with one twin slung under each arm like wild little sacks of meat.

“Appa!” Jimin called out, voice scratchy but bright.

Namjoon looked up, and the moment their eyes met, his entire face softened.

“You’re here,” he said, voice low and warm, then nodded toward Seokjin. “Did he whine until you broke?”

“Like a cursed flute that summons demons,” Seokjin said without missing a beat.

Namjoon chuckled, kicked the door shut with one foot, and dropped the twins onto the floor. The pups immediately scampered toward Jimin like excited ferrets, but Seokjin gave them a look and they skidded to a halt, whining as they flopped down beside the furs instead.

Namjoon followed slower, crouching beside Jimin’s mat, his Alpha scent rolling in like thunderclouds—cedar, smoke, and that iron-strong undercurrent that always felt like a promise: you are safe.

Jimin blinked up at him, suddenly aware of the dryness in his throat, the aching weight in his chest.

“Appa,” he whispered. “Did you solve it? There’s no war anymore, right?”

Namjoon nodded, eyes unreadable but steady. “It was a misunderstanding,” he said. “I met with Pack Alpha Jiyeon. We talked it out. She didn’t know what had happened either. Thought we attacked them first.”

Jimin’s breath caught. He barely heard the rest. The words settled like stones in his gut.

No war.

No war.

His shoulders sagged like someone had cut the strings holding him upright.

The last one… the last one had burned through the valley like fire. It had taken his home, his parents, and left nothing but ashes in his chest and a faint taste of blood in the back of his throat that had never fully gone away.

He didn’t remember the battles themselves—just the smoke. The screaming. The way his mother had kissed his forehead and shoved him into someone’s arms and said, “Run, baby. Run and don’t look back.”

He had. And he hadn’t seen her again.

Seokjin and Namjoon were the only ones left now. The ones who found him when they themselves were barely ten years older than him. Raised him. Held his tiny fists when they shook with nightmares. Loved him hard enough to make the ache bearable.

He couldn’t lose them too.

“Jiminie?” Seokjin’s voice was soft, laced with concern.

Jimin blinked. His eyes stung.

“Oh, fuck, I’m crying—”

“It’s okay,” Namjoon murmured, hand already curling behind his neck to guide his head to his shoulder. “It’s okay, baby. You’re safe. We’re not going to war.”

“I didn’t mean to cry,” Jimin muttered wetly, rubbing at his face with a grumble. “I’m too pretty to cry like this. My nose goes all blotchy and gross—”

“You’re always pretty,” Seokjin cut in immediately, brushing his bangs back with cool fingers.

Jungkook, who’d been lurking by the door the whole time like some brooding gargoyle, piped up, “Yeah, but you do cry like an angry mushroom.”

“Fuck you, Koo.”

Namjoon chuckled again. “Alright, enough teasing. Let him rest. The twins missed him. Let them cuddle for a bit.”

At that, the pups practically launched themselves onto the mat, one curling under Jimin’s arm and the other draping across his legs.

He sighed, letting their warmth anchor him, their soft scent mingling with Seokjin’s, Namjoon’s, Jungkook’s, and his own tired scent.

It smelled like safety. Like home.

And as he lay there, surrounded by love and soft voices and the steady pulse of peace, Jimin finally let himself believe it.

There would be no war. Not this time. Not again.

Chapter Text

It took him two whole moons and some change to stop limping like an old mutt with one paw in the grave. Two months of Hoseok hovering like a damn mosquito and Taehyung crying over his bones like Yoongi had died and left him to raise ten imaginary pups alone. Two months of not being allowed to hunt, to run, to even piss near the damn border without someone yipping at his tail.

So yeah. When he finally felt his muscles stretch without stabbing pain, when the wind didn’t hurt his cracked ribs, when his paws hit the frost-hardened ground without collapsing under him—he was fucking ecstatic.

Even the goddamned smug omega from the Kim Pack couldn’t ruin it.

Probably.

If the little brat was still stuck playing dress-up in blankets at Namjoon’s den like a pampered showdog, then good. The border would be blessedly quiet today.

Yoongi exhaled a puff of mist into the air, sniffing around the low hills near the shared hunting ground. Snow stuck to his black fur in tiny wet needles. The cold made his joints ache still, but it was nothing compared to the hell he crawled out of.

Winter hunting sucked dick.

There were no deer. No rabbits. Barely a fucking rat. And every scent was buried under a thick crust of snow and wind and frostbite.

Yoongi growled low in frustration as he padded toward the sparse line of trees along the frozen streambed. His lungs burned from the cold, and his paws were numb. He was about to turn back and check farther east when—

His nose caught it.

A scent. Familiar. Sharp and flowery but dulled, off. Not strong and sweet like it usually pissed him off to be. This was wrong. Wrong and faint and—

No fucking way.

Yoongi stilled, ears flicking back against the wind. He took another sniff, then a sharp turn to the left, his body moving before his brain even caught up.

That was Jimin.

That was definitely Park Jimin, Omega, Kim Pack brat, number one pain in Yoongi’s ass. His scent was all over this side of the woods, and it was stale and unbothered, like he’d been here for hours. In the snow.

Yoongi sprinted before he could tell himself he didn’t give a fuck. Which—he didn’t. Obviously. He just needed to confirm that the little bastard was actually dead, so he could bring back the good news and throw a celebration. Or, more accurately, so he could make sure he wouldn’t be blamed for the damn body and end up on a stake outside the Kim camp like the Big Bad Wolf or something.

The sight of soft, pale fur curled under a bare tree made Yoongi's heart seize. Cream coat. Tail twitching ever so slightly. A patch of snow around him melted from body heat. Sharp little ears drooping back, paws twitching in sleep. Jimin. Dead? Wait—no.

The bastard was fucking snoring.

Yoongi skidded to a stop, paws spraying snow, jaw falling open in disbelief. He stared. Sniffed.

Was this bitch actually—?

“You’ve got to be shitting me.”

A full-body tremor rolled down Yoongi’s spine—not from the cold, but from pure outrage. The nerve. The audacity.

Collapsed in the middle of the forest in peak winter with nothing but his tail to cover his ass, and he was sleeping?

“Oi, dumbass,” Yoongi growled out, pacing up to him.

Jimin didn’t stir. Just let out a particularly loud snore.

No.

Nope.

Yoongi raised a paw and kicked him. Hard. Right in the ribs. “Wake the fuck up, you over-fluffed corpse blanket!”

Jimin jolted up with a sharp yelp, eyes wide and mouth already curled into a snarl. His fur bristled as he scrambled upright and whipped around to face the offender.

“What the fuck is your problem?” he snapped, voice rough with sleep and cold.

“You’re my problem, you brainless ornament,” Yoongi snapped back. “What the hell are you doing, passed out in the middle of the goddamned forest like some kind of deranged squirrel waiting to die?”

Jimin huffed, tail twitching once behind him, then drooped again. “I’m not in the mood for your shitty personality right now, Yoongi. Just… leave me alone.”

Yoongi paused. That… wasn’t normal. No insults. No smug toss of the tail. No ‘Alpha’ said like it was a dirty word. Just… tired. Flat. Faded.

Yoongi took a step closer and sniffed. He immediately wrinkled his snout.

Jimin’s usual scent was dulled. Watered down. Underneath it was something bitter and sour. Distress. Worry. And cold. Too much cold. He hadn’t been sleeping for an hour—he’d been out here a while.

Yoongi gritted his teeth. “I’m not dragging your frozen corpse back to your Appa or whatever the fuck you call him and start another war, alright? Get up. Go home.”

“No,” Jimin mumbled. “They don’t know I’m out. No one will find me. That’s the point.”

Yoongi blinked. “...What.”

Jimin looked away, head drooping, tail curled tight around his front paws like he was trying to vanish into himself. “I said, leave me alone. You got your entertainment for the day. Go throw a party or hunt some snowflakes or something.”

Yoongi stared at him. Park Jimin never gave up a chance to bitch. Never backed down from a fight. Never shut the fuck up. Something was very wrong. And god damn it, Yoongi didn’t care. Except. He huffed, flopped down right beside him—close enough to share warmth, but not enough to be weird—and started licking at the snow crusted on his own paws like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Jimin twisted to look at him like he’d grown two heads. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Resting,” Yoongi deadpanned. “Hunted all morning. Nearly got my tail bitten off by a fox. It’s freezing. Sue me.”

“You don’t even like me.”

“You’re right. I don’t. You’re an insufferable, over-scented, egomaniac of an omega with a tail that probably costs more than my den. But if you die here, I get blamed, so suck it up and let me warm my ass before it falls off.”

Jimin blinked. Then blinked again. But he didn’t tell Yoongi to fuck off. Didn’t move away. Just curled up tighter, let out a shaky exhale, and muttered, “Whatever, Alpha.”

They sat in silence after that. Yoongi didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But his nose stayed tilted slightly toward Jimin. Breathing him in, subtle, quiet. Trying to sort through the layers of sadness and cold and bitter exhaustion tangled up in that once-bright scent.

Jimin wasn’t okay. And Yoongi didn’t know why that made his chest feel weird. But it did.

He tucked his tail tighter around them both. Just to keep the cold out, obviously.

Yoongi had never been the type to sit still and listen. Not unless it was important. Not unless it was about strategy, territory, survival—shit that mattered.

And yet here he was, his black wolf form curled up against a too-small, too-quiet, too-sad omega under some spindly-ass tree in the middle of a freezing forest with no prey in sight.

Park fucking Jimin. Inhaling and exhaling in little shallow huffs beside him. Not talking. Not smirking. Not goading him into some dramatic, insulting back-and-forth like they always did. Just silent. Heavy.

The scent coming off him was still wrong. Distress, yes. Fatigue, sure. But underneath it was something deeper—older. Like grief that had fermented in a locked room for years. Yoongi didn’t like it. It stuck in his nose, made his fur itch.

He was about to say something dumb. Maybe insult Jimin’s dramatic-ass fur fluff or accuse him of faking it for attention like a spoiled den pup.

But then Jimin spoke. “I didn’t come out here to hunt.”

Yoongi turned his head slightly, eyes flicking to the smaller wolf at his side.

Jimin didn’t look at him. Just stared straight ahead into the patchy white forest.

“It’s my parents’ death anniversary today.”

Yoongi stilled. “Oh,” he said before he could stop himself. He was not good at this shit.

“Twenty years now,” Jimin continued, his voice low and flat. “I don’t even know if it’s the exact day. The war was too chaotic. Records were lost. I just pick the first heavy snow of the season every year. Because that’s when they were gone for good.”

Yoongi said nothing. He just watched.

Jimin finally turned his head, meeting Yoongi’s eyes with something heavy in his gaze. Not sharp. Not cutting. Just… ancient.

“They died during the war,” he said quietly. “The one between our packs.”

Yoongi’s ears flicked back instinctively.

Fuck.

Jimin didn’t flinch, didn’t bare teeth. Just said it like it was the weather.

“I was four. Don’t remember their faces anymore.”

Yoongi opened his mouth, closed it. What the fuck was he supposed to say to that?

Jimin gave a dry little laugh—ugly and hollow, like someone trying to laugh through a cracked rib. “I remember my eomma’s hair. It was long. That’s all. Not even the color. Just that it was long and soft and she used to braid it sometimes with blue beads.”

Yoongi swallowed around a sudden lump in his throat.

“My appa was tall,” Jimin went on, tail twitching slowly against the snow. “Crazy tall. But… everyone looks crazy tall when you’re four, right? So I don’t know if that even means anything.”

Yoongi looked away. The cold burned his nose. His breath fogged the air in front of him.

“Elders tell me I got his eyes. Her smile. Maybe I do. I don’t know. Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t bring them back.” His voice cracked a little near the end. “Doesn’t bring anything back.”

Jimin shifted, paws sinking deeper into the snow. His scent was sharp with unprocessed grief, sorrow curling like smoke around his shoulders. It wasn’t loud—it was quiet. Dangerous in its own way. Like he’d been carrying this his whole life and only now realized it had weight.

Yoongi didn’t say anything. Didn’t offer some fake-ass sympathy. Didn’t tell him it would get better. What the fuck did he know? But god, he wanted to tear his own fur out at the look in Jimin’s eyes. He wanted to claw at the earth and scream because this wasn’t fair. Because Jimin wasn’t supposed to look like this—wasn’t supposed to smell like this. Like rot and frost and a child’s long-dead memories.

And maybe it made him the worst kind of bastard, but Yoongi hated that their packs had that kind of history between them. Hated that someone like Jimin—so goddamned bright and bratty and loud—could be weighed down by something so fucking quiet.

The silence stretched.

Yoongi cleared his throat. “...What were their names?”

Jimin blinked. Slowly. “I don’t remember,” he whispered.

Yoongi’s chest ached.

“They were war heroes. Fought for our side. Died protecting others,” Jimin added like he was trying to convince himself it meant something. “People still talk about them like they were legends. But I don’t remember the way they smelled. I don’t remember their voices. Just… the stories.”

Yoongi clenched his jaw.

He’d seen what war did. The Lee Pack still bore the scars. Wolves who couldn’t sleep. Dens half-empty. Names carved into stone near the gathering square.

And he hadn’t been there for that war—he was a pup too—but Kim pack had won. Barely. Blood and land and the type of peace that tasted more like iron than relief. And Jimin? Jimin had lost everything.

Yoongi looked at him then, really looked at him. Little omega. All puffed-up fur and sharp teeth and endless bitching. Too much eyeliner in human form. Too much sass. Too much of everything. But here he was, shivering in the snow. Alone. Carrying ghosts no one else could see.

Fuck.

Yoongi scooted a little closer before he could second-guess himself. Not enough to be weird. Just… enough.

The tip of Jimin’s tail brushed his foreleg, and neither of them moved.

“I didn’t know,” Yoongi muttered.

Jimin snorted. “Why would you?”

“Still.” He hesitated. “That’s… fucked.”

A pause.

Then Jimin let out a soft, broken laugh. “Yeah. It is.”

Another gust of wind tore through the trees, and Yoongi instinctively leaned closer. Their fur touched—barely.

Yoongi stared at the sky, dull gray and full of snow that hadn’t fallen yet.

“I’ll stay,” he said gruffly. “Just for a bit. ‘Til you’re warm enough to walk.”

Jimin didn’t respond right away.

Then: “...Thanks.”

Yoongi sighed, tail thumping once against the snow. “I still think you’re a pain in my ass.”

“Obviously,” Jimin mumbled, head drooping until it brushed Yoongi’s shoulder.

They sat like that. In silence. In snow.

The war hadn’t ended, not really. Their packs still snarled and fought and split the woods down the center like children arguing over inheritance.

But in that moment, beside a ghost-wrapped omega whose grief smelled like wilted flowers and frost, Yoongi found he didn’t care. He just wanted Jimin to be warm again. And fuck, maybe that was enough for now.

Yoongi was just starting to settle. Just barely letting his tense muscles ease beneath the weight of Jimin’s shivering form pressed against his side. The grief that had leaked off the omega like old smoke was finally softening into something less suffocating. Still heavy, still sharp, but manageable.

The sky above them hung gray and thick. No prey in sight. The snow too loud to hunt through anyway. They were still. Quiet.

And then Jimin sneezed.

Once.
Twice.

Thrice.

Each one sounded more pitiful than the last, ending in this high-pitched whimpery little snort that made Yoongi’s ears twitch straight back.

“Oh fuck no.”

He whipped his head around and glared at the shivering puff of spoiled omega drama tucked against him. Jimin blinked blearily, nose twitching, and then—again, a tiny, ridiculous sneeze that left his muzzle dusted in snow.

“You better be fucking joking.”

Yoongi shuffled away a bit, like an offended cat. Not because he didn’t want to be near him, but because absolutely not. He was not catching some brat-ass omega cold because Park Jimin thought it was poetic to grieve half-frozen under a tree like a sad little lone wolf with a martyr complex.

Jimin sniffled pathetically, his ears drooping. His scent was shifting, and Yoongi knew that change too well. The sharp edge of grief was now tangled with something warmer—fever heat, just beginning to rise beneath his skin.

“Oh you’re fucking sick, aren’t you?” Yoongi snapped, tail lashing behind him in an irritated arc. “You dumbass, glitter-brained, winter-loving emotionally constipated little—”

Jimin sneezed again.

Yoongi reared back like he’d been slapped.

“Okay, nope. Nope. Absolutely the fuck not. You are not dying out here from some pathetic omega head cold like a badly written folk tale.”

Jimin gave him a look. As much of a look as a sniffling wolf could give with half his face buried in snow.

Yoongi snarled, scent puffing out thick with alarm and irritation. “You belong to Kim Namjoon’s den of spoiled royal pain-in-the-ass brats. They can deal with your dying dramatics. I am not babysitting your sniffly little meltdown while you croak under a fucking bush.”

He stood, shaking snow off his back in one rough motion. The cold sliced under his fur, but he ignored it. He stepped around, lowering his muzzle until it was eye-level with Jimin’s. “You’re going home.”

Jimin sniffled again. It was honestly criminal how pitiful he looked with his ears all drooped and snow clinging to his lashes like some tragic hero in a doomed love story. If he so much as whimpered, Yoongi was going to fucking scream.

The omega didn’t argue. Just blinked slowly at him, looking both exhausted and annoyed. His scent curled weakly through the air—tired, slightly dizzy, and frustratingly resigned.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Yoongi growled, stepping closer and nosing at Jimin’s neck until the other wolf stood on wobbly legs. “You think I’m gonna let you die out here and then what, huh? Who am I supposed to fight to the death every time I’m bored? That loser Jungkook? Fuck no. He’s too nice. I need someone insufferable. That’s you. You’re mine to fight.”

Jimin made a weak huff, something like a laugh, though it came out more like a cough.

“Exactly,” Yoongi muttered. “You dying of snot and sadness is pathetic. If anyone’s going to kill you, it’s going to be me, and it’s going to be in glorious, bloodthirsty combat. Probably because you said some disrespectful shit about my fur again.”

Jimin stumbled a little on the icy ground. Yoongi caught him with a growl, pressing their bodies side by side again to keep him from toppling.

“Fucking idiot,” he muttered. “You smell like death and damp blankets. We’re going.”

The omega leaned into him, his fur cold and damp. The scent of fever was definitely blooming stronger now. Yoongi bit back another curse.

If this brat actually died… No. No, fuck that. He wouldn’t.

Jimin was annoying. A thorn in Yoongi’s side since the first time they met at a border standoff three seasons ago, all big eyes and big ego and a tongue too sharp for his own good. He pranced around the damn woods like he owned them. Always so polished in human form, always bitching about his hair getting frizzy or his claws chipping like anyone fucking cared. Always challenging Yoongi like he wasn’t a head hunter of the rival pack.

But he was also the only one who could fight Yoongi to a draw. The only one whose pheromones made Yoongi’s blood run hotter than it should. The only one Yoongi thought about long after the patrols ended and the borders went still.

Yoongi needed Jimin alive.

Even if it was just to curse him out and tackle him into snowbanks and argue over whose pack sucked more.

“You’re gonna owe me for this,” Yoongi grumbled, nudging Jimin’s shoulder. “Big time. I want five whole fights. Not little bitchy ones. Real ones. Blood and claws and screaming. You hear me?”

Jimin bumped his shoulder back weakly.

Yoongi grunted and started walking, half-guiding, half-shoving the omega along with him, keeping their flanks tight so Jimin wouldn’t lose balance. Snow crunched under their paws, and the forest was still silent as death, save for Jimin’s weak breathing and the occasional pitiful sneeze.

Yoongi groaned every time. “You better not be contagious. I swear to the moon goddess, if I end up sneezing like some pathetic fluff-tailed cub, I’m going to rip out your fur and sell it to your pack alpha as a luxury blanket.”

Jimin let out a soft huff. Another almost-laugh.

They passed the border slowly, Yoongi growling warning scent markers so no overeager Kim patrol would jump them.

Jimin’s scent was all wrong—heat-slick with illness, dulled grief lingering under it like stale smoke. Yoongi wanted to scrub it off of him. Replace it with something fiery and bratty and bright again.

“You're gonna be fine,” he muttered when Jimin stumbled again. “You’ve got, like, a whole squad of overbearing pack parents who’ll spoon-feed you soup and wrap you in twelve blankets and kiss your forehead like you’re a royal fucking porcelain doll.”

Jimin made a sound that was maybe supposed to be indignant, but it came out wheezy.

Yoongi smirked despite himself. “Tell Namjoon I saved your ass. And that if he sends you on another patrol anywhere near our borders, I’m sending Taehyung over in heat just to cause chaos.”

They were almost at the first Kim patrol post. Yoongi slowed, letting Jimin lean heavier against him.

He nudged the omega’s jaw with his nose. “Don’t die, okay?”

Jimin blinked up at him, sluggish and flushed with fever. “Not planning to,” he rasped weakly.

“Good,” Yoongi muttered, gaze flicking away. “Only I get to kill you. And only after a proper brawl. And only if you fucking deserve it.”

Jimin smiled. Just a little.

And Yoongi felt it—something warm and uninvited in his chest.

Moon help him. He was fucked.

The second Yoongi caught the sour tinge of border-scorched pine and arrogant Kim pack musk on the wind, he knew shit was about to get annoying.

Not dangerous—Kim pack hunters were barely competent unless their precious golden boy Jungkook was around—but loud. Overdramatic. Annoying.

And fuck, he was right.

A chorus of warning growls rippled through the woods ahead, low and sharp, vibrating the frost-bitten underbrush like some second-rate battle choir. Yoongi didn’t even bother to stop walking.

Here we go.

He glanced sideways at Jimin, who was still wobbling along at his side like a feverish baby deer on wet ice. The omega didn’t even react to the noise. Not a twitch. Just kept dragging his paws forward, ears drooping and breath coming shallow. His scent was a fucking mess—overripe with illness and grief and that persistent sweet-spice note that always made Yoongi’s teeth itch.

“Don't you dare pass out right now,” Yoongi muttered, nudging Jimin harder than necessary. “If I get jumped by your shitty cousins while carrying your sick ass like some tragic romance novel, I’m killing you myself.”

More growls answered ahead, louder now. And then the flicker of fur behind the trees—two, maybe three wolves crouching low, eyes flashing with the kind of feral loyalty that made Yoongi want to roll his own eyes out of his skull.

Oh, look. A fucking welcome party.

He let out a sharp, bored snarl in response, tail flicking high behind him in open challenge. Not because he wanted a fight—goddess, no—but because he wasn’t about to act like a guilty little trespasser just for doing the Kim pack's job for them.

“Put your hackles down, you frosted dick-noses,” Yoongi barked, voice a cold snarl. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

That earned a sharp snap from one of the younger hunters, all puffed-up scent and defensive barking. Another took a step forward, low to the ground like he thought he could surprise Yoongi.

Yoongi bared his fangs. “Try me. I’m itching for an excuse to flatten someone, and I haven’t eaten in two days. You’d look delicious as a pelt in my den.”

The omega at his side swayed slightly and let out a pathetic sneeze that sprayed frost into the air.

Yoongi groaned and slammed his head down against the snow once. Just once.

“Great. He’s dying and you fuckers are growling like I'm delivering a corpse. Come on then, get your little fur-panties in a twist and do something.”

Thankfully, moon above, salvation came in the form of actual authority.

A dark blur moved through the trees—fast and heavy-footed, all purpose and power—and Yoongi instantly recognized the sharp tang of alpha musk before the wolf even broke through the frost-hung clearing.

Jungkook. Of course.

Yoongi nearly moaned with relief. Not because he liked the guy. Jungkook was the walking embodiment of loyalty and golden boy bullshit. But at least he had the good sense to listen before attacking. Also, he could carry Jimin’s dramatic ass the rest of the way home. Thank fucking everything.

The Kim head hunter emerged into view like a goddamn action story protagonist, all gleaming black fur and arched brows and heroic pheromones spilling into the air. Yoongi wanted to punch him on instinct.

The younger wolf’s gaze snapped to Jimin immediately. “Shit—”

“Language,” Yoongi interrupted. “There’s a child present.”

Jungkook ignored him, of course. He was already at Jimin’s side in a heartbeat, nudging at the omega’s neck with frantic whines.

“Koo…” Jimin rasped, barely lifting his head. “Koko…”

Yoongi groaned out loud. “Okay, what the fuck is that nickname. What are you, five?”

Jungkook growled low and dangerous, but didn’t rise to it. His focus was all Jimin now, tail pressed tight to the ground as he inspected him. Jimin leaned into the contact like his bones had liquefied.

“He’s burning up,” Jungkook said, voice tight with concern. “How long has he been like this?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Yoongi snapped. “Since I found him wallowing in his own grief puddle like a heartbroken princess under a fucking tree.”

The younger alpha snarled quietly but didn’t respond. Instead, he ducked under Jimin’s chest and shouldered the omega up like he weighed nothing. Jimin didn’t even protest. Just went limp against him with a faint whimper.

Yoongi didn’t like that. Didn’t like how Jimin’s scent was still thick with fever. Didn’t like how he looked too small draped over someone else’s back. Especially not Jungkook’s. But whatever. It wasn’t his place. Right?

Jungkook started to turn back toward the Kim village, but paused. “You helped him,” he said, glancing back.

Yoongi snorted. “No, I kidnapped him, gave him the flu, and dragged him across a frozen hellscape out of pure spite.”

Jungkook’s stare lingered a moment longer. Yoongi met it without flinching. “Thanks,” the younger alpha said, quiet.

“Don’t thank me,” Yoongi snapped, turning away. “Just keep him alive.”

Jungkook nodded once. Then he was gone, moving fast through the snow, Jimin a heavy limp weight across his back.

Yoongi stood there alone for a long moment, letting the silence settle again.

The other Kim hunters had retreated, sensing the tension between alphas wasn’t theirs to touch. Good.

Yoongi let out a slow breath. His fur was damp with Jimin’s fever-sweat, his ribs sore from supporting another wolf’s weight too long. His scent was still tangled with grief and illness and that goddamn sweet omega musk that made his brain stupid.

He shook out his coat violently, snorting snow from his nose.

“Fucking glitter-scented brat,” he muttered. “You better survive this shit.”

Because if he didn’t? Yoongi didn’t want to think about that. Not because he cared. Definitely not. But because if Park Jimin died of a stupid fucking cold and left Yoongi with no one worth fighting on the entire mountain— Yoongi was going to lose his goddamn mind.

Chapter Text

The snow was finally gone. The sun was out. The wind didn’t feel like a knife trying to skin his face anymore. It was spring. It was hunting season. It was finally time to beat Yoongi’s ass again.

Jimin’s paws slammed into the thawing earth as he bolted past the treeline, tongue lolling out from his open jaws, tail wagging like an unhinged fan in a summer heat wave. Every muscle in his body practically sang with excitement. He hadn’t felt this alive in five whole miserable, boring, cold, disgusting months.

First, there was the stupid bear injury—two whole months of bedrest and “no hunting, Jimin, you're still healing,” and “you’re not invincible just because you’re annoying,” and “if you sneak out again I’ll have Jungkook drag you home by the tail,” blah blah blah.

And then—as if the universe hated him personally—fucking winter happened. Real winter. Frost-eating-your-eyelids-off winter. “You’ll die of hypothermia” winter. “Absolutely no hunting, Jimin, I swear to the moon, stay inside” winter.

So now? Now that it was finally warm enough that his paw pads weren’t going numb with every step? That the trees were shedding their sad skeleton look and the borderland between Kim and Lee territories was clear again?

Oh, hell yes, it was fight season.

Jimin skidded to a halt at the top of the ridge that overlooked the half-frozen stream separating the packs. He lifted his snout, breathed deep—and let out a triumphant, long, deafening howl.

COME OUT AND FIGHT ME, YOU PINE-SCENTED BASTARD.

He barely finished before the answering snarl came crashing through the underbrush like a thunderclap.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!”

And there he was.

Yoongi.

Glorious as always. If “glorious” meant covered in dirt, smelling like rage and pine sap, and looking seconds away from chewing a tree in half.

“You little glitter-shedding cockroach!” Yoongi snarled, voice already murderous. “Are you fucking kidding me right now? The first warm day and you’re already howling for a fight?”

Jimin, tail wagging so fast it looked like a blur, bounced on his front paws. “Yes! Let’s fight! I’ve been waiting! Come on, you coward! Hit me! Kick me! Die!”

Yoongi groaned like the moon itself had cursed him. “It’s ten in the morning, you feral sugar packet!”

Jimin didn’t care. Didn’t hear. His whole body was vibrating with pure, unfiltered joy. Finally, after all the brooding, all the forced naps, all the warm soups and “just talk to Namjoon if you’re sad, baby”—he could breathe again.

He charged. Straight at Yoongi, claws tearing up the damp ground, heart racing, tongue flapping in the wind as he let out the happiest growl imaginable.

And immediately—

The ground vanished beneath him. The air whooshed out of his lungs as his body dropped like a goddamn sack of flour into what felt like the core of the earth.

Thud.

“—OW?!”

Jimin lay flat on his side for a second, stunned, tail twitching weakly, staring up at the sky. A few pebbles rained down beside him. Dirt clung to his fur. The scent of musty old leaves and shame filled the pit.

“What the actual, holy, unforgivable fuck—”

A shadow loomed above the edge of the hole. Yoongi. Looking down at him. Silent for exactly two seconds.

Then: "Pfft. BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA— Oh my fucking god. Did you—did you fall in your own trap?!”

Jimin’s ears flattened to his skull.

Oh. Right. Oh, fuck.

This hole. He had dug it. Three months ago. Right at the start of winter. A perfect deep-pit trap right in Yoongi’s usual patrol path. With the snowstorm, he’d totally forgotten about it. Now he was in it. Stuck. Trapped like a fucking cartoon villain. In his own trap.

He let out a high-pitched whine and kicked at the side. The dirt crumbled. His claws scraped uselessly against the packed mud.

“Shut the fuck up,” he snapped up at Yoongi, who was now howling with laughter, paws practically stomping the earth from how hard he was losing it.

“I can’t—you really—your own trap, Park Jimin! You—You dug this thing for me!”

“YES I KNOW, I HAVE A BRAIN!”

“You sure?! ’Cause it sounds empty as hell in that skull right now!”

Jimin flopped dramatically onto his back, legs in the air like a dead bug. “Moon above, just bury me. Just push dirt on top. I’ll die now. Right here. It’s fine.”

Yoongi wheezed. "Oh, no. You’re not dying yet. I’ve waited months to throw you into a river for peace and fucking quiet. You don’t get to check out like this.”

Jimin rolled back over and tried again to claw at the wall. It was too deep. His paws couldn’t reach the edge. The sides were too loose.

“Ugh—fuck! Yoongi, help me up!”

“Oh, now you want my help? Didn’t you just call me a coward and scream ‘die’ at me like five minutes ago?”

“I take it back! You’re a brave bastard with weird-smelling paws! Help me before I piss myself in this hole!”

Yoongi snorted and leaned over, still laughing. “You smell like shame and mint leaves.”

“I bathed before this, you shitstain!”

“I can tell,” Yoongi said. “You smell like a floral candle and failure.”

“HELP!”

With one final, drawn-out sigh of extreme dramatic suffering, Yoongi dropped down onto his belly and stuck his front paws into the hole. “Grab on, you annoying little fairy.”

Jimin lunged upward, teeth catching Yoongi’s scruff. With a grunt and a lot of dirt flying into the air, Yoongi yanked him halfway up—until Jimin’s claws finally caught on the edge and he scrambled the rest of the way out, panting and filthy. He collapsed in the grass, heaving.

Yoongi stood over him.

Jimin looked up and bared his teeth in a grin. “…Wanna fight now?”

Yoongi stared at him. “You just fell into a hole like a dumbass squirrel.”

“I meant to! It was a psychological tactic.”

Yoongi stepped over him.

Jimin scrambled to his feet and nipped at his tail. “You’re not walking away! We’re fighting, Min Yoongi! I’m kicking your ass! This is WAR!”

Yoongi glanced back over his shoulder, eyes gleaming. “Oh, sweetheart,” he growled. “You already lost.”

And he took off running.

Jimin’s laughter echoed through the trees as he chased after him, dirt flying, tail high, heart full.

Jimin hadn’t felt this alive in five whole months.

He was snarling and spinning and snapping his teeth at Yoongi, who dodged with that same stupid annoyed glare he always wore—like Jimin was a thorn in his paw that kept regenerating. Dirt flew around them in bursts. Leaves and sticks clung to Jimin’s fur. His tail lashed with excitement as they tumbled through the border clearing, paws scraping against the softened spring ground.

They were definitely not trying to kill each other. At all.

Jimin was smiling. No—grinning. Huge, toothy, bright as a fucking sunrise. Ear to ear like a deranged pup who’d just discovered how to chase his own tail and liked it.

And Yoongi—of course, Yoongi—huffed mid-fight and skidded back with a glare. “You’re ruining it, dumbass,” he growled, panting, mud smeared across his snout. “Stop smiling like that.”

Jimin pounced forward with a bark of laughter, tackling him sideways. “Make me, sourpuss!”

Yoongi rolled them over with a growl, paws shoving into Jimin’s chest as they snapped at each other, tangling and tumbling until they hit a patch of damp moss and flopped with twin groans. Yoongi’s shoulder landed against Jimin’s belly, and Jimin’s back legs kicked uselessly in the air like a flipped crab.

It wasn’t a battle. It was a mess. A mud-slinging, tail-whipping, teeth-baring puppy scrap.

And Jimin couldn’t stop laughing.

Yoongi let out a growl so deep it rattled the dirt beneath them. “This isn’t how we’re supposed to fight. You’re a menace. You’re ruining the vibe.”

Jimin pawed at his face and flopped onto his side, exhausted and happy and full of dirt and joy. “You mean I’m ruining your whole mysterious lone-wolf-who-only-fights-at-dawn aesthetic?”

Yoongi shoved at him again. “Shut up, sparkle piss.”

Jimin laughed harder. “That’s not even an insult, you emotionally constipated porcupine.”

Yoongi just grunted.

Their bodies were heaving from exertion, fur sticky with mud and sweat. Their scents were tangled now—Yoongi’s sharp pine-and-smoke clinging to Jimin’s fur, and Jimin’s floral-spice scent (courtesy of Seokjin’s weekly forced bath scrubs) smeared all over Yoongi like stubborn perfume.

Jimin groaned, dragging his muddy self off the ground. “Okay, okay, truce. Truce for today.”

Yoongi snorted. “You calling a truce is just you giving up in a fancy voice.”

“I’m not giving up. I’m prioritizing hygiene, you uncultured tree slug.”

Yoongi looked him up and down. “Yeah, well, you do look like you rolled in a dead deer and pissed yourself for extra flavor.”

“I feel disgusting,” Jimin muttered, sniffing at his own shoulder. “I smell like swamp ass and crushed dignity.”

“You are swamp ass and crushed dignity.”

“Thank you,” Jimin said sweetly, tail wagging. “Anyway, I’m going to the river to wash this filth off before it clots and I become one with the moss.”

Without waiting for a reply, he turned tail and trotted off through the trees, brushing against low branches and letting leaves comb through his tangled fur. His muscles ached in that good, satisfying way that meant he earned the pain. His paws were sore. His chest still heaved from laughter and exertion and sheer, overwhelming relief.

For the first time in five months, he didn’t feel trapped. Or stuck. Or too full of grief and guilt and loneliness to breathe. He just felt alive.

He reached the river not far downstream, where the water curved gently and sunlight spilled through the leaves onto the sparkling surface. The breeze here smelled cleaner—fresh water, green moss, cold stones. There was a deer trail nearby, faint but recent.

Jimin sniffed. No danger. Just peace.

He waded in up to his knees in wolf form and paused. Washing fur was hell. Especially with his coat. Thick. Soft. Practically a mop for every piece of dirt, leaf, or shameful memory he ever collected. It would take hours. He’d need Seokjin’s special comb and Namjoon’s help pinning him down, and he wasn’t about to drag his muddy ass back into the village like this and listen to a lecture about "tracking parasites inside the den again, Jimin." No thanks.

With a huff, he shook himself dry-ish, backed up onto the shore, and— Shifted. Bones popped and snapped as his body reshaped, fur melting into skin, paws curling into fingers. In a blink, Jimin stood naked, human, damp, and muddy on the riverbank.

“Ugh,” he groaned, looking down at himself.

Filthy. Just filthy. Dirt streaked his thighs. Blood had dried on his hip where Yoongi had landed a lucky nip. His ribs were smudged with what looked like paw prints.

“Fucking disgusting.” He muttered, stepping into the river.

The cold hit him like a slap. He yelped and flailed before sinking to his knees with a hiss. Still. Worth it.

The water rushed around him, pulling away mud, bits of leaves, and the last traces of winter from his skin. He dragged his hands through his hair, dunked fully under once, and came back up spitting and gasping.

“Moon, that’s cold,” he muttered, shivering.

But his skin felt clean. Raw in a good way.

His scent—clogged with months of stress and grief and stale den air—was lighter now, fresher. Still sweet and sharp, like spiced clover and warm bark, but more him. Less sadness. Less of that heavy guilt that always made Namjoon hold him too tightly when he came back from the border.

He dragged his fingers along his shoulders and thought about Yoongi's voice when he said Jimin was ruining the fight by smiling.

Like I’d do anything else.

Jimin hadn’t smiled like that in months. Not really. Not where it felt good in his lungs, warm in his chest. Not where it tasted like life and not like pretending.

He dunked again, thinking about Yoongi’s fur under his paws, the feel of his growl, how their scents tangled, how Yoongi always let him be ridiculous until he didn’t.

Then—something crackled behind the trees.

Jimin froze. Turned. Sniffed. Pine. Smoke. Wolf musk. Oh, for fuck’s sake.

“Min Yoongi, if you’re gonna perv, at least cook me a fucking meal first!”

The only answer was an exaggerated gagging noise and a muttered, “Nobody wants to see your ass naked, park princess.”

“You can join me, you know,” Jimin called, lips curling smug. “My pretty ass is under water. Tragic, I know, but you won’t be blessed today.”

There was a beat of silence. A rustle of leaves.

And then—

“I’m not trying to see your stupid ass, you delusional twink.”

Jimin laughed—open, honest, belly-deep.

“Oh, twink? Big words for someone who’s been breathing in my scent all morning like a heat-starved dog.”

“You were on me all morning,” Yoongi barked from the trees. “You rolled on my face.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time someone begged for that.”

Another pause. Another huff. More rustling.

Jimin smirked and had the decency to turn his back as footsteps approached the riverbank.

“Come on, hurry up,” he said, waving an arm without looking. “I already turned around. I don’t need to suffer the trauma of witnessing whatever demon-possessed disease dick you’ve got going on. I’ll cry. I’m sensitive.”

The splash that followed was less of a graceful entrance and more of a sulk in liquid form.

“Fuck off,” Yoongi muttered from behind him, clearly up to his chest now in water, voice coming closer with the gentle current. “I bathe more than you.”

“Bathing in rage doesn’t count,” Jimin said sweetly, tipping his head to one side and flicking water with his fingers.

They were silent for a moment, just the trickle of water and the occasional bird chirping in the trees above. The air was warm for early spring, sun reaching through the canopy and kissing Jimin’s bare shoulders. His skin prickled where Yoongi’s scent drifted over the water—diluted but still sharp. Still Alpha.

It tugged at something low in Jimin’s gut. Not enough to set off instinct, but enough to make him aware.

He rolled his neck and tried not to think about it. Or the fact that Yoongi was probably ten feet away. Naked. Also covered in mud. Maybe scrubbing at his chest with those big calloused hands and—Nope. Not today.

Jimin ducked under water again to cool his face and thoughts, came up gasping, hair plastered over his eyes, blinking as he wiped it back.

Behind him, Yoongi was breathing slow and steady. That scent again—closer now. A little softened, less guarded. Not angry. Not smug. Just… there.

Jimin bit the inside of his cheek, still facing away. “You missed this too, didn’t you?”

Yoongi made a sound. Like a scoff wrapped in a sigh. “I missed fighting, not you,” he grumbled, but his voice didn’t have any bite. If anything, it sounded like it had been worn down by something else. Maybe time. Maybe loneliness.

Jimin snorted. “You’re such a shitty liar.”

A splash.

Water swirled near his hip and suddenly Yoongi was right there—close enough that Jimin’s nose flared on instinct, catching the wave of scent like a sucker punch: warm skin and river minerals and Alpha.

He turned slightly, not enough to face him, just enough to peek over his shoulder.

Yoongi was running both hands through his hair, eyes closed, water trailing down the line of his throat. His skin was marked here and there with scratches, a darkening bruise on his ribs—Jimin’s doing. Good. He could live with that.

He wasn’t looking—not really. He wasn’t the type to gawk. But… he was aware. And maybe Yoongi’s body was unfairly well-built for someone who acted like he survived on anger and moss.

Jimin turned away quickly, cheeks hot. “Don’t get any ideas,” he muttered.

“Please,” Yoongi said, voice flat. “You’re not even my type.”

“Yeah? What is your type, then? Rabid badgers?”

“Literally anyone who isn’t you.”

“Aw.” Jimin’s voice dripped honey. “So I’m special.”

Yoongi groaned so hard it shook the water.

They went quiet again, both scrubbing at mud and sweat and blood in tandem. The occasional bump of an elbow or brush of a knee as the river pulled them close and apart in rhythm.

It wasn’t hostile anymore. It was weirdly calm. Natural. Like this was just… how they worked. Snarling. Fighting. Washing off the day in silence. And not quite friends. Not quite enemies. Somewhere in between.

Jimin dunked again and came up closer than before, nose nearly brushing Yoongi’s shoulder.

Yoongi tensed.

Jimin blinked up at him, droplets clinging to his lashes, smile curling lazy at the edges. “You still smell like me,” he murmured.

Yoongi stared back, unreadable. “And you smell like a wet flower market.”

“I take that as a compliment.”

“You would.”

They didn’t move.

Then Yoongi huffed and turned away, splashing off toward the deeper side with muttered curses and one very aggressive dunk under water.

Jimin was starting to wrinkle like an old berry left in the sun. It was time to get out before his pretty skin shriveled off his bones.

But of course—of course—Yoongi was still floating around like some kind of half-feral pond ghost a few feet away. Still naked. Still smug.

And still Alpha-scented, despite the wash—because no matter how clean he got, Yoongi always smelled like something too wild for civilization. Like bark and ash and the heavy tang of iron, all twisted up with heat, like a storm waiting to snap overhead.

Jimin scowled, eyes flicking toward the shallows. Then he hissed, sharp and full of venom. “Look the fuck away, you creeper.”

Yoongi blinked at him, mouth twitching upward in that infuriating non-smile he always wore when he was about to do something worthy of being punched directly in the balls. “Why? Scared I’ll see your flat ass and laugh myself to death?”

“Oh my god,” Jimin snapped, hand slapping against the water. “Don’t even fucking think about looking, Min Yoongi. I swear to every god in the mountains, if your eyes even drift my way—” He jabbed a finger toward him, tone dropping into a snarl. “I’ll know. I will know. Because my ass is a fucking blessing upon this cursed earth, and your crusty Alpha instincts will definitely go feral. I’ll smell it. You’ll stink up the whole goddamn forest with your ‘omega-must-claim’ pheromones like a walking erection.”

Yoongi made a low choking noise. “You’re delusional.”

“Turn around!”

“Fine!”

Yoongi spun, shoulders tense and ears bright red, muttering curses under his breath about “egotistical brats” and “unholy temptations.”

Jimin smirked.

That’s right.

He stood, water sluicing down his thighs, the air immediately biting at his skin. He moved fast, hating the chill and the exposure both, stepping onto the soft, muddy bank with as much grace as a half-drowned cat.

“Ugh, gross,” he mumbled to himself, lifting one leg to flick off a bit of river weed that clung to his ankle like a desperate ex. “Everything itches.”

The second his feet hit dry moss, he crouched low, focusing his breath, calling up the shift. The skin-prickle of the transformation came fast, thankfully—bones cracking, body folding, fur blooming from skin like wildfire. In a blink, he was on four paws again, shaking violently until water flew from his coat in thick arcs.

A satisfying growl rippled from his throat. Gods, finally.

He hated staying in his human form longer than necessary when he was outdoors like this—bare skin and breeze and bugs? Absolutely not. He was a wolf, thank you, and wolves did not parade around naked in enemy-border forest zones like a walking invitation for disaster.

He snapped his head back toward the river.

Yoongi was still in the water, back to him, shoulder blades flexing as he rinsed off the last of the mud from his arms.

But Jimin’s wolf eyes could see everything. Every breath. Every twitch.

He barked sharply, tail lashing in an attempt to tell Yoongi to hurry the fuck up before he catches a cold with his dick flapping around.

Yoongi jerked in surprise, then groaned loud enough for Jimin to hear through the trees. “You’re the worst thing that’s ever happened to me,” he grumbled, voice hoarse.

He stomped toward the bank, water dripping off of him like a pissed-off river god. He was scowling the entire time, teeth clenched, and muttering under his breath.

Jimin sat regally near a bush and made a big show of not looking. Just lifted a paw, inspected a claw like it was a diamond, and waited for the telltale crack of Yoongi shifting behind him.

And then—there it was. A grunt, a shimmer of heat, the snap of tendons shifting and fur overtaking skin.

A second later, a big, black wolf landed on the grass with a thud, shaking out his pelt in one giant, glorious motion. His Alpha scent exploded outward again, stronger now, full-bodied and sharp with the fresh shift—smoky and cold, wild and stubborn, like a promise of pain and challenge and something impossible to ignore.

Jimin twitched his nose in annoyance.

He was very aware of Yoongi's presence again—too aware. That scent was impossible to shut out, even if he tried. It pressed against Jimin’s senses, rubbed under his skin like a thought that wouldn’t stop circling.

He snorted hard enough to blow grass aside.

Yoongi circled closer, ears slightly back in a way that looked casual but screamed watching you. His paws were silent despite his size, a natural predator through and through. Jimin hated that it made his spine straighten and his tail flick higher.

He let out a low growl, not threatening, just annoyed. “Don’t start with me, he warned. I’m still bigger than you when I fluff my fur.”

Yoongi’s snort was pure disbelief. “You’re the size of a fat fox, Park.”

“Foxes are cunning,” Jimin said smugly, trotting past him with his chin in the air. “Unlike some swamp-bred Alpha wall decorations I could name.”

Yoongi snapped his jaws half-heartedly in Jimin’s direction, but he didn’t lunge. Just followed a beat behind as they headed up the slope together, wet pawprints trailing through the moss, occasional shoulder bumps sparking little flashes of something sharp and almost familiar in Jimin’s gut.

They walked in silence. Not hostile. Not friendly. Just… beside each other. Their scents tangled in the wind. Pheromones low and humming, like something waiting. Something inevitable. Jimin tried not to think too hard about it. He just shook his fur again and muttered a quiet, bratty insult under his breath.

The forest was too quiet. Like, offensively quiet. The kind of silence that scratched at Jimin’s fur from the inside out, made his paws itch to kick something, made the air feel too tight around his ribs.

And it wasn’t just the birds not chirping or the trees not rustling. No, it was him and Yoongi not bickering like feral cats in heat. It was the way they were walking side by side without trying to trip each other. Like some… civilized truce bullshit.

And all because they bathed in the same river? What the fuck?

Jimin flattened his ears, snorting loud through his nose.

Why did he agree to that in the first place? What spell did that swamp gremlin put on him, huh? Was it the blood loss? The head trauma? The pheromones? (Because Yoongi did smell stupidly nice after the river, like wet bark and sun-warmed pine and something that made Jimin's glands twitch in irritation.)

Whatever. He was over it. Peace time was over. It was giving him hives. He didn’t do peace with Yoongi. He didn’t do cordial or calm or pleasantly walking alongside each other like two mated fucking deer. He did insults and violence and the occasional shove that meant fuck you but not enough to kill you yet. And damn it, it was time for a shove.

With a sudden burst of movement, Jimin darted sideways and rammed his shoulder into Yoongi’s flank.

Yoongi yelped. It was glorious. Glorious and high-pitched and surprised like he hadn’t expected it. Like he should’ve known, but his rusty old Alpha instincts failed him for once.

Jimin barked, tail swishing high and proud.

“Oops.”
(He meant it. Not the shove. Just the sarcastic oops.)

Yoongi stumbled sideways, claws skidding in the moss. Then he caught himself and whipped his head around, baring his teeth like a pissed-off statue come to life. “What the fuck was that for?!”

Jimin bounced backward, grinning like a devil, tongue lolling in pure smug glee. “The river treaty has expired.” Then: “You’ve been warned.”

Yoongi growled low and deadly, his hackles rising in a ripple of silver and smoke. “You ungrateful rodent. I let you wash in peace. I didn’t drown you. I was nice.”

“Exactly.” Jimin bared his fangs right back, not even trying to look innocent. “It was disgusting. Never do that again.”

Yoongi lunged.

Jimin shrieked and bolted, not because he was scared, but because mud. The path ahead had a patch of thick, dark earth still damp from the last rain, and Jimin was not about to let Yoongi’s filthy swamp-ass drag him down into it.

He skidded behind a tree with practiced speed, tail flicking like a whip.

“Don’t you fucking dare shove me into the ground,” he warned with a snarl, fur fluffed to maximum brat-mode. “I just cleaned this ass, and I swear to the moon and every star in the sky, I will end you.”

Yoongi prowled out from behind the tree trunk, ears twitching, eyes gleaming. His scent had shifted—subtle but noticeable—the kind of slow-burn aggression that started like a tickle in the nose and ended with blood on someone’s teeth. But also… A faint spark of amusement under the tension.

“Just one shove,” Yoongi said darkly. “I’ll aim for the grass.”

“Try it, graveyard breath,” Jimin hissed, stalking sideways, keeping distance between them like they were circling a sparring ring. “If even one hair on my perfect thighs touches that bog-shit mud, I’ll drag your flea-infested dick through a thorn bush.”

Yoongi barked a laugh. A laugh. Loud and unexpected, and somehow worse than being insulted. It rattled in Jimin’s chest, infuriatingly deep and gravel-edged. His pheromones puffed outward in a flash—amusement and challenge and just the faintest hint of that maddening Alpha confidence.

And worse? Jimin’s nose twitched at it. Just a little. Just enough for himself to notice. He sniffed hard, disgusted. Great. Now Yoongi was gonna think he liked it. That he was into whatever the fuck this was—this aggressive flirtation via forest turf war. This scented pissing contest. He wasn’t. He was just… overstimulated. Freshly washed. Hormonal. Probably missing his papa’s cooking and under-salted deer meat. That’s all.

Yoongi crept closer.

Jimin snarled again and took two steps back.

“I swear,” he snapped, ears low, tail flicking like a whip. “I will cry. I will cry if you get me dirty again. And not a cute sniffle. I mean the ugly sobs. The kind that’ll make you feel like an asshole for the next three moons.”

Yoongi blinked. Paused. Then sat. Just sat, like a smug boulder with paws. “You’re unbelievable.”

“You’re unwashed pond residue,” Jimin spat, nose in the air. He trotted past Yoongi with his head high, bumping him with his tail as he passed—just hard enough to make it count.

Yoongi turned his head, eyes sharp. “That was on purpose.”

“And it was a gift,” Jimin barked sweetly. “You should thank me.”

Yoongi’s growl vibrated the forest floor. But he didn’t lunge again. Just rose and walked behind him, close enough that their scents tangled on the breeze, pheromones pushing and pulling in that strange magnetic rhythm that had no right to exist.

And still… Jimin didn’t tell him to back off. He could’ve. But he didn’t.

They walked on. The peace treaty was very much over. But Jimin… didn’t mind the war as much anymore.

The he froze. Mid-step. Mid-thought. Mid-yoongi-sucks-ass tirade echoing through his skull.

Jimin’s entire body locked up as the scent punched into his nose like a holy spirit descending from above. Sharp, sweet, alive—tinged with adrenaline and twitching heartbeat and fresh leaf-flesh tucked under hooves.

Deer.

Jimin's ears twitched. He sucked in another lungful, nostrils flaring. The scent was close, too—downwind, stupid, probably injured or new or just terminally dumb. Something was off in the signature trail, the clumsy way it dragged across the moss like a beginner’s panic. An easy kill. A stupid fucking gift from the forest gods themselves, and—

“Oh my god,” Jimin said in his head. “This bitch is mine.”

Mine.

His entire posture dropped lower instinctively, paws quieting, body coiling like a trap wire ready to snap. His hackles buzzed with silent anticipation, heart slamming in time with the soft twitch of branches in the near distance.

Yoongi better not ruin this.

And speak of the plague. A soft snort behind him. The subtle shift of pine smoke and Alpha breath and every single annoying part of Yoongi’s scent signature rolling too damn close to his airspace.

Jimin didn’t even turn. He just snarled low in his throat, a quiet, vicious thing that vibrated through the moss beneath his paws.

“Don’t you even think about it.”

He threw it like a dagger over his shoulder, keeping eyes pinned on the brush ahead where the deer trail vanished down into a shallow hollow.

Yoongi crept closer. His own posture dropped in tandem, muscles rippling under sleek fur, ears trained forward.

“I didn’t even say anything.” He sounded bored. Too calm. Suspiciously calculating.

“You didn’t have to, shit-for-brains.” Jimin kept low. “Your greasy Alpha pheromones are wafting like spoiled piss all over my kill.” He took one silent step forward, eyes narrowing. “Go chase a squirrel or something. This one’s mine. You can sniff my leftovers later if you beg.”

Yoongi’s answering growl was mild, but laced with that stubborn, smug energy Jimin wanted to kick up a tree. “We’ll see who’s faster.”

Oh, Jimin thought, eyes glinting, this motherfucker did not just—

He launched. No more talking. No more threats. He shot forward like a missile, cutting through fern and vine and the soft give of forest floor beneath his claws. The scent trail spiked—fresher now, closer, just up ahead where sunlight cut sharp through the branches.

He didn’t even look back to see if Yoongi followed. Didn’t need to. Could feel it—those arrogant Alpha paws pounding just a beat behind his, the soft burn of clashing pheromones in the wind.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

The clearing opened like a secret.

And there it was. A young buck, not quite grown, antlers small and still coated in fuzz. Grazing like a fool in a shaft of light, head down, ears lazy. It looked up too slow—way too slow—eyes wide with the kind of dumb animal panic Jimin lived for.

He moved to the side—angled for the gut, for the artery, for the weak spot behind the shoulder—

And then Yoongi was there, flanking him, teeth flashing.

“Back the fuck off!” Jimin barked, snarling, “You touch a single tuft of fur and I will murder your entire family line from this lifetime to the next!”

Yoongi didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. His stupid Alpha ass was already pivoting for the opposite flank, moving in sync like they’d done this before. Which they hadn’t.

Jimin hated how well it worked. How their instincts folded together like knives in a fight, deadly and fluid, cutting off escape routes, herding the deer right between them. It was cheating. It was illegal. It was—His. Because he got there first. Because I deserve this, Jimin thought, tongue out, teeth bared.

The buck stumbled, turned wrong, right into his path.

Jimin launched.

The impact was glorious—fur and muscle and a cracking thud of weight hitting the earth. He sunk teeth in quick, killing swift and clean, because he wasn’t some half-baked wildling. He was trained. Elegant. Lethal. A fucking professional.

The body stilled beneath him. His fur fluffed with pride. Tail curled high. His chest heaved. His scent flooded outward in triumph: clean, rich Omega dominance, spiced with smug satisfaction.

Yoongi padded closer, slowing to a stop just a few steps away. He didn’t speak. Didn’t brag. Didn’t shove. Just watched.

Jimin turned, blood still fresh on his muzzle, eyes gleaming. “Try and say it,” he growled. “Say it. Say I won.”

Yoongi met his stare for one long, heated second. Then… he huffed. Low. Almost a sigh. “You won.”

Jimin’s ears twitched. He blinked. He—Wait. Wait what? He actually—Yoongi actually said it.

Jimin stared harder. Half expecting Yoongi to follow up with some backhanded insult. Some dickbag one-liner about how he only won because Yoongi let him, or because the deer was suicidal. But it didn’t come.

Yoongi just stepped past him. Quiet. Slow. Lowered his head to the kill—touched his nose to the hide—and then stepped back. Not stealing the heart. Not tearing into the liver. Not fucking anything. Just respecting the boundary.

Jimin didn’t know what to do with that. So instead, he puffed up harder, sniffed obnoxiously loud, and muttered, “Damn right I did.” Then, quieter: “…Thanks.”

Yoongi grunted. Like it didn’t matter. Like it did matter.

And Jimin didn’t hate the way their scents tangled in the clearing afterward, warm and laced with kill-victory, that wild, grounding Omega burn and the steady ember of Yoongi’s Alpha underneath. Didn’t hate it at all.

Jimin had just begun the extremely important, deeply sacred process of mentally naming the deer carcass when Yoongi had to go and ruin it. Again.

“I can help you carry it.”

The Alpha’s voice slid into his mind like a pine needle to the eyeball—sharp, unwanted, and entirely unnecessary. Jimin’s hackles spiked instantly, tail stiffening, head whipping around so fast it nearly gave him whiplash.

“Excuse me?”

Yoongi didn’t even flinch. Just stood there like the arrogant, oversized pile of alpha-flavored garbage he was, blinking at Jimin like he was the one being irrational.

Jimin bared his teeth. “Why the fuck would I need help carrying it?”

Yoongi just looked at him, dumb and blank as ever. Like it was the most casual thing in the world. Like offering to help didn’t basically mean, I think you’re weak, little Omega. Let big strong Alpha boy do the heavy lifting for you.

Jimin’s whole body bristled. “Is that it?” he snapped. “You think I’m too delicate to drag my own kill? You think these legs are just for show?” He stomped in a tight circle, fur fluffed like an angry puffball, kicking a clod of moss as he snarled, “I will personally choke on deer spine before I let you touch so much as a tail hair on this buck. This is my kill, my teeth did the work, my fangs tasted the blood, and unless you wanna lose one of your own fucking limbs, back. the fuck. off.”

Yoongi’s scent twitched with confusion, then amusement, then the subtle tinge of why-do-I-even-bother-with-this-feral-nightmare.

“Didn’t say you couldn’t”. Yoongi huffed. “Just offered. Chill out.”

Chill out? Jimin screeched inside his skull like a banshee on fire. CHILL OUT?? Did this flea-ridden, jawline-having, emotionally constipated son of a lichen pile just—

He stepped over his deer—HIS deer—with exaggerated dainty paws, throwing his snout high like the regally offended bitch he was.

“I am perfectly capable of dragging twenty of these fatass forest pigs back to camp with a smile on my face and glitter in my fur,” he declared. “I once carried three wild boars uphill in the rain just to prove Jungkook wrong during a bet and I didn’t even get winded.”

Yoongi didn’t respond. Which, okay, fair—how could he? How do you respond to raw power and glory standing there in the form of a muddy, blood-mouthed Omega, chest puffed out like an overinflated squirrel?

Jimin squinted at him. Narrowed his eyes to sharp little slits. “Unless…” he snarled lowly, “you’re trying to steal it.”

That would make more sense, actually. He could smell the underlying trickery now—Yoongi’s scent shifting just enough to signal scheming. Probably planning to drag the kill over the border and claim it for the Lee Pack like the thieving swamp-licking bastard he was.

“I see your game,” Jimin growled, stalking a tight circle around the buck’s body like a protective demon from hell. “Get your grubby paws anywhere near this and I’ll shove your antlers so far up your own ass you’ll taste bark for the rest of your sad life, you snake-eyed, bird-brained, overly-muscled—”

“Jimin.” Yoongi's voice came again, low and flat and clearly already regretting everything about this moment.

Jimin ignored it. He was on a roll. “—can’t believe I even let you breathe near my kill. Do you have no shame? No dignity? No brain cells? Are your only thoughts protein and violence? Because this is mine, and if you so much as sniff it too loud, I’ll tear out your spleen and feed it to your Lee cousins.”

Yoongi stared.

Jimin glared.

The forest went silent in the awkward, stupid aftermath of Jimin’s fury, birds somewhere overhead pausing in horror.

Then—Yoongi’s shoulders twitched. Slightly. Like maybe he was… laughing. No. Nope. No he is not allowed to laugh. He is not allowed to think I’m cute. I am not cute. I am vengeance incarnate. I am fury with a fluffy tail. I am—

“You done?” Yoongi asked dryly.

Jimin huffed. “Yes.” (He wasn’t.)

He turned with a violent flip of his tail, stomped to the front end of the buck, and sank his teeth firmly into the shoulder hide. “I got it. I don’t need you. Go back to your forest or whatever you do when you’re not ruining lives.”

Yoongi stepped aside. Didn’t push. Just stood there and let Jimin dramatically drag the kill forward with all the fury of an enraged prince pulling his own damn carriage.

And yeah, okay, maybe the deer was heavier than he expected. Maybe his muscles were a tiny bit sore from wrestling earlier. But that wasn’t the point. The principle of the thing demanded he suffer with pride. And he would, thank you very much.

He’d drag this deer all the way back to the Kim Pack’s central den, leave it at Jungkook’s smug feet, and wait for Seokjin to coo over him and Namjoon to nod proudly and maybe call him his best little hunter. He’d wag his tail and bat his eyelashes and get extra meat at dinner and bask in earned glory, thank you.

Yoongi padded alongside him for a few silent paces. Too silent. Too close.

Jimin paused. Narrowed his eyes without looking over. “Why are you still here?”

“Just making sure no rogue wolves come and steal it,” Yoongi said innocently.

Oh, Jimin thought. Fuck you again.

He didn’t respond. Just kept dragging the deer forward through the underbrush, chin high, tail higher, making sure every single pawstep screamed:

I did this alone.
I am powerful.
And Yoongi can go eat deer shit.

Jimin didn’t even look back when he finally hit the split in the forest—the narrow dirt divide where the border ran like an invisible scar between the Kim and Lee territories.

He didn’t need to look. He could feel Yoongi’s eyes still on him, like a mosquito bite between his shoulder blades. Insistent. Itchy. Infuriating.

“What, gonna follow me all the way home now? Mark your territory while you're at it, asshole.”

But instead of another growl or shove or snarky comment, Yoongi just gave a breathy little huff—half laugh, half condescending exhale—and said, “Can’t wait for that real fight tomorrow, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart.

Jimin’s legs nearly gave out. He managed to stay upright only because he had to keep dragging his perfectly soloed, incredibly heavy kill, but the growl that tore out of him could’ve curdled milk.

“Oh I’ll give you a fight, you fucking fungus-infested drain clog,” he muttered venomously under his breath as Yoongi turned back toward the Lee side, tail swishing like the smug bastard he was. “I’ll shove your smug face into a mud pit and rearrange your molars with my claws, see how sweet you sound with a broken snout.”

The scent of pine faded, replaced by the richer, softer herbal tinge of his own territory, and still—still—Jimin kept fuming.

He was halfway to the main clearing when a familiar scent hit him—earthy, grounding, and laced with that slight vanilla-pepper spice that always meant Jungkook’s nearby and probably up to something mildly stupid.

Good. Jimin needed a victim.

Sure enough, the moment he rounded the bend, the giant Alpha himself appeared, tail up, tongue out, clearly on his way back from a run.

“Jimin!” Jungkook barked, slowing to a jog. “Holy shit, did you drag that whole thing alone?”

Jimin stopped, panting, back legs already aching, and threw the most pathetic expression he could manage. Ears drooping. Shoulders sagging. Tail curling just a little like he might collapse from sheer effort.

“Jungkookie”, he whined. “Help me, I’m dying.”

Jungkook blinked. “Weren’t you just—”

“I said I’m dying,” Jimin repeated, flopping dramatically to the forest floor beside the buck like a fainting maiden in a tragic folk song. “I was almost murdered. Emotionally. Physically. Spiritually.”

The big Alpha sighed, like he knew he was being played and also knew he was going to cave anyway. “Who was it this time?”

“Yoongi,” Jimin snapped instantly, rising just enough to gesture wildly with one paw. “Obviously. Who else in this rotting forest has a superiority complex, a square jaw, and the emotional availability of a rock?”

Jungkook, to his credit, didn’t laugh. Just padded over, sniffed the deer, and hooked his teeth under the neck to haul it up like it weighed nothing. (Ugh. Show-off.)

They walked the rest of the way in silence. Well—Jungkook was silent. Jimin absolutely was not.

“—and then he tried to help me like I was some helpless little Omega who can’t lift a buck, like bitch I can carry this entire forest if I wanted to, I just choose peace, but no, Mr. Brooding Dickcloud has to swoop in with his fancy fur and his I’m so calm and aloof, aren’t I mysterious bullshit—”

Jungkook didn’t interrupt. He’d long since mastered the art of nodding occasionally and pretending to listen.

“—and then,” Jimin said, practically vibrating with rage, he said ‘can’t wait for our fight tomorrow, sweetheart.’”

Jungkook dropped the deer off at the food store and finally glanced over. “Did you just blush?”

“I will claw you,” Jimin shrieked, ears back, whole body fluffed out like an exploding dandelion. “Take it back. I don’t blush. I radiate rage. That’s bloodlust you’re seeing, not a fucking teenage omega moment.”

They shifted in the woods behind the storehouse, Jimin still muttering curses in wolf-speak right up until his paws hit the soil for the last time and he stood in the summer heat fully human, sticky with dried sweat and deer blood and indignation.

He dressed quickly, threw on his hunting wrap, scrubbed a hand through his hair, and continued grumbling as they headed toward the community hall for lunch.

“…And then he had the audacity to smirk at me, like some smug wolf prince from an erotic fairy tale, and I swear to the moon, Koo, I nearly bit his face off right there—”

They entered the hall. Warm, noisy, filled with pack members and the scent of roasted meat, herbs, and pinewood.

Jimin didn’t stop.

“—and I’m just saying, if he thinks he can just speak to me like that and walk away like he didn’t just commit war crimes, he has another thing coming—”

Jungkook sat down.

Jimin followed, grabbing a plate, loading it angrily with food, still muttering about Yoongi’s stupid eyes and his even stupider voice and—

“—And he always walks like the forest belongs to him, like bitch it doesn’t, I’ve pissed on half these trees, and—”

“Okay,” Jungkook said flatly, cutting in for the first time in an hour, “do you miss him or are you in love with him?”

Jimin froze. The entire sentence echoed inside his skull like someone dropped a rock in an empty den. He blinked. Once. Twice.

Miss him? In love with him?

The fork dropped from his hand. He turned slowly, dramatically, the way prey turns to a predator in a horror story. Jungkook didn’t flinch.

“…I’m sorry, what the fuck did you just say to me?”

Jungkook leaned back. Calm. Unbothered. Smug. “I said—”

“Fuck you.”

“—that you sound—”

“Shut your enormous face.”

“—like maybe—”

“Go fall off a fucking tree, Jungkook, I swear to the fucking stars above—”

Jungkook grinned. “—like you’re in love.”

Jimin made a noise that didn’t belong to the human species. “I HOPE A BEAR EATS YOUR KIDNEYS.”

People were looking now. Seokjin, seated at a distance with Namjoon and two hunters, raised a perfect brow. Namjoon sighed softly into his tea. Jimin briefly considered crawling under the table and never coming out.

“I am not in love,” he hissed under his breath, furious and red-cheeked. “I don’t like Yoongi. I despise him. I loathe him. I dream of his humiliation and downfall every night like a bedtime story.”

Jungkook reached for a piece of grilled rabbit, totally chill. “Mmhmm. And you never talk about him.”

Jimin, snarling, grabbed his water cup and threw it directly at Jungkook’s face.

He missed. Obviously. But it was the intent that mattered.

He fumed the entire meal. Even when Seokjin brought him an extra piece of venison and kissed the top of his head. Even when Namjoon rubbed his back and told him he was a very strong little hunter. He still fumed.

In love.
With Yoongi.

He was going to murder Jungkook in his sleep. But only after he kicked Yoongi’s smug ass tomorrow and wiped that stupid smirk off his stupid handsome face.

Chapter Text

It was too quiet. And not in the way Yoongi liked it—peaceful and unbothered with the wind slicing neatly between trees, air thick with birdsong and pine needles and the faint hum of prey in the undergrowth.

No. This was wrong.

The kind of quiet that made the hair between his shoulder blades prickle. That made the forest feel hollow, like it was holding its breath.

Yoongi snarled softly as he padded along the edge of the riverbank, jaw clenched around a half-grown buck. His third of the morning.

He’d left the other two kills at the storehouse after sunrise, like the responsible fucking head hunter he was. Swung by the border on his way back out again, expecting to catch the scent of one omega-shaped problem who, by every unholy promise of the moon above, was supposed to show up today and try to claw his face off.

They’d agreed. Today. Fight to the death. Or until one of them cried. Or passed out. Whatever came first.

But the border was empty. Still fucking empty. And now it was almost noon, and Yoongi had hunted, cleaned, and stored enough meat for a feast while a certain sparkly, spoiled omega was apparently too busy rolling in flower beds and whining to his pack alpha for attention to show the fuck up.

“What a fucking joke,” Yoongi muttered, voice low in his chest as he dropped the deer by a stump and shook out his fur. “Figures. Little bitch was all bark anyway.”

Still—he didn’t turn back toward his pack. Not yet. Instead, he lingered near the narrow trail where the border split like an old scar, the familiar scent of the Kim territory making his nose twitch. He should’ve gone home. Should’ve just said fuck it and gone to the creek with Hoseok and Taehyung like normal people did on their off days.

But he didn’t. Because Jimin was late. And Jimin was never late. He was obnoxiously early, with that stupid smug face and ridiculous little hip sway and his fancy hunting belts like they were fashion accessories. He always showed up with that fucking attitude, mouth on overdrive and perfume-thick pheromones sprayed in a ten-meter radius. But not today.

Yoongi circled again. Once. Twice. And on the third pass—He froze. There. Just a whisper, faint and curling like smoke. Sweet—cloyingly so—but off. Twisted with something sour. Something wrong.

His fur bristled. He turned sharply toward it, nose tilted to the wind, and—Jimin. It was Jimin. No doubt. But it wasn’t his usual vanilla-and-sunlight bullshit, not even that smug citrus scent he got when he was being especially fucking dramatic.

This was distressed. Thick. Wild. Frantic. And worse—laced with the unmistakable edge of pre-heat.

Yoongi’s paws thundered over roots and brush before he could think about it.

What the fuck.
What the everloving fuck.

Was he hurt? Attacked? Did some rabid fucking alpha catch the scent and try to—No. No, no, no.

Yoongi’s stomach flipped, bile in his throat as the scent got stronger.

When he finally found the clearing, he had to skid to a stop, claws digging into the mossy earth.

Jimin was there. Human form. Curled in on himself under a huge gnarled oak, back pressed to the trunk, knees pulled up, shoulders trembling. And crying. Like. Ugly crying. Loud, choked sobs, the kind that tore straight out of the chest and didn’t stop for air. His face was buried in his arms, shaking so hard his whole body jolted with every inhale, scent radiating in frantic waves.

The pre-heat was faint—early enough that it hadn’t thickened the air with seduction yet—but it was there. Buzzing under his skin like a live wire. It mixed with the grief-sour panic stench that made Yoongi’s throat close.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

He ducked behind a bush and shifted instantly, hissing when his bones cracked into human form. He fumbled into the satchel he kept tied to his back—thank fuck he’d had the sense to bring it—and pulled on his cloak.

Not for modesty. Fuck that. To block scent. Because walking in smelling like an alpha in peak condition when a distressed, pre-heat omega was sobbing alone in the middle of the goddamn woods was not how Yoongi wanted to die today.

He crept out slowly, carefully. Voice low, steady, the way he’d use with a panicked pup or a feral animal. “…Jimin?”

The omega jolted. Hard. His head snapped up so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash, and Yoongi flinched when he saw the mess of red around his eyes, cheeks streaked, lips wobbling.

“Go away,” Jimin spat, voice wrecked, thick with tears and heat and misery. “I don’t wanna fucking see you—”

Yoongi crouched a few paces away, hands up, cloak drawn close.

“I’m not here to fight,” he said, softly. “Just saw you didn’t show. Figured I’d come beat your ass for being a coward but, uh—” He glanced around the clearing. “Doesn’t look like you’re doing so hot.”

“Fuck you.” Jimin wiped his face with the sleeve of his cloak, sniffled, then glared through the tears. “You think I care what you think? Fuck off back to your crumbling murder-den or whatever you psychos call home.”

Yoongi ignored that. Instead, he let himself sit, cross-legged, cloak pulled tight to keep his scent as muted as possible. He didn’t move closer. Didn’t speak for a long moment.

Jimin hiccuped. Looked down at his knees.

Yoongi watched, expression unreadable. “…Who was it?” he finally asked, voice a thread of steel beneath the quiet.

Jimin blinked. “What?”

“Who made you cry?”

Jimin scowled. “No one. I’m just—” His voice broke again, weak and pathetic. “It’s nothing.”

Yoongi’s fingers twitched against his knee. He wanted to get closer. Wanted to smell him properly. Check him for injuries or worse. But he stayed still. He was many things—a bastard, a dick, a violent little nightmare with unresolved trauma—but he wasn’t a fucking predator.

“I can smell your heat,” Yoongi said flatly. “You’re not safe out here alone.”

“I wasn’t trying to be!” Jimin exploded, tossing his arms out in exasperation, face crumpling all over again. “I wanted to fight you, dumbass! I was waiting for it—I needed it, I needed something to—fuck!” He choked again, shivering all over, palms digging into his eyes. “I just woke up like this,” he mumbled. “Everything felt wrong. Papa and Appa were being weird, Jungkook was treating me like I was about to shatter, and—and I hate this, Yoongi. I hate how everyone looks at me like I’m breakable just because I’m an omega—” His voice cracked. “I didn’t even want to cry, okay? I just— I wanted to spar. I wanted to feel normal, and then it hit, and I thought I could fight through it, but it just kept getting worse—”

Yoongi swallowed hard.

Okay. So. No one hurt him. Good. Great, actually.

But fuck, that made it worse in some ways. That this little spoiled omega had come all the way out here while on the edge of heat, alone, unguarded, and decided the best idea was to go pick a fight with a full-grown alpha because he didn’t want to be seen as delicate.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Yoongi muttered, running a hand down his face. “You’re so fucking stupid.”

“I know,” Jimin snapped, voice wobbling. “You think I don’t know that?”

Yoongi looked up. Their eyes met. And for the first time, there wasn’t fire there. Not sarcasm. Not venom. Just… hurt. Raw, pulsing, ugly hurt. Like Jimin had been holding everything in for too long, and today it all cracked open.

Yoongi exhaled. Long. Slow. Then he stood, walked the last few steps, and dropped to a crouch in front of him. “Fucking idiot,” he murmured. “Are you seriously crying like a pup just ‘cause you can’t fight me today?”

He expected a dramatic huff, maybe a flying pinecone, maybe a dramatic ‘fuck you’ and a promise to duel next week instead. What he did not expect was for that lunatic, heat-scented, puffy-eyed omega to launch himself at Yoongi like a feral fox and bite him. Hard. Right in the neck. Close enough to Yoongi’s gland to burn.

“FUCK—!” Yoongi roared, stumbling back and catching himself against the tree. “WHAT THE FUCK, JIMIN? ARE YOU FUCKING TRYING TO MATE ME—?!” The bite throbbed. Blood welled.

Oh fuck, fuck, did this brat just—

“I bit you,” Jimin spat, lips curled back and eyes wild with tears and fury. “Not mated you, you delusional hormonal shit-for-brains. That wasn’t even near your scent gland. If I wanted to fucking mate you, you’d be on your knees with my scent flooding your nose, not standing there looking like a constipated elk!”

Yoongi gaped. That was near his gland. Not directly on it, sure—but it was close. Too fucking close. Close enough to stir up his alpha instincts and make his skin buzz like it was laced with fire ants. Close enough that his chest felt tight and hot and something inside him howled, wanted to snarl, claim. And Jimin had the audacity to look offended.

“You bit me,” Yoongi growled low, voice going rough with instincts he refused to indulge. “Because I called you a crying pup—?”

“YES,” Jimin shouted, like that was a perfectly rational answer. “Because you were being a dick! You’re always a dick but I swear to the Moon, today you’re being a walking hemorrhoid! I’m—” his breath hitched and his face crumpled, “—I’m emotional, okay?! I’m on the edge of pre-heat and I can’t fucking breathe and my head is all foggy and everyone left me alone this morning!”

Yoongi’s ears rang. Jimin’s pheromones were a whole fucking storm. Sour distress. Guilt. Panic. That cloying edge of slick sweetness, like wet honeysuckle, tainted with the sting of rejection and heat nerves and every chaotic thing an omega could throw into the air when unraveling.

“And yeah, I’m spoiled,” Jimin snapped again, pacing in short, frantic steps in front of him, curls bouncing, hands flailing, voice breaking like his chest might split in half. “But I’m not a crybaby! I’m a hunter! I trained, I fought, I killed a bear once, okay?! A real fucking bear! This is just—just a pre-heat panic! And I didn’t even ask for this heat to come early and now I’m crying under a tree like some rejected pup—!”

“You are crying under a tree,” Yoongi muttered, and immediately regretted it.

Because Jimin’s face broke. And then, like a dam snapped, words tumbled out in one endless, spiraling rush:

“And Namjoon didn’t say he loved me this morning, not even once, not even in passing, and Seokjin was busy with the twins and didn’t even make me breakfast—he always makes me breakfast, even when he’s tired—and what if they don’t love me anymore?! What if they’re tired of me calling them Appa and Papa when they have real pups now?! They don’t need a grown-ass omega orphan loser who’s only nine years younger than Namjoon calling them Appa like some desperate pup—!”

His breath broke off. His hands were shaking. “I’m not their real pup. I never was. They just took me in because they pitied me and I keep—keep pretending I belong there but I don’t. I don’t.”

And fuck. Fuck, Yoongi didn’t want this. Didn’t ask for this. He didn’t want to be the shoulder for a Kim-pack omega to sob on like some rejected fucking flower. He didn’t want to get entangled in this shitstorm of Jimin’s heat and guilt and abandonment issues.

But his alpha instincts didn’t care what he wanted. Before he could even stop himself, his feet moved. His arms reached. And suddenly Jimin was in his chest, curled and trembling, his scent burning Yoongi’s lungs with every breath. It wasn’t even a conscious choice. Just something involuntary, primal, like his heart had been gripped and forced open.

He hugged him. He fucking hugged Jimin. Fuck.

“What the fuck am I doing,” Yoongi muttered under his breath, eyes darting up to the canopy above like maybe the Moon Goddess could offer a trap door to escape through. “You’re a pain in the ass. You know that? The biggest fucking spoiled, brat-faced, heat-slicked mess of a pain in the ass I’ve ever met.”

Jimin sniffled into his chest.

“And you bit me,” Yoongi added, gritting his teeth. “Like, bit me. Drew blood. Fucking sank your teeth in like a rabid weasel.”

“You deserved it,” Jimin mumbled, voice thick and ruined with snot and heat and whatever other tragic emotions were spiraling in that head of his. “Don’t say I’m a pup when I’m having a crisis. I was spiraling. I had every right to bite you.”

“No you fucking didn’t.”

“I’ll do it again.”

Yoongi almost laughed. Almost. Instead, he let out a long, slow breath through his nose and pressed his palm lightly against the back of Jimin’s head. He hated this. He hated this. But he didn’t push him away. Even as Jimin shook in his arms, clinging like Yoongi was the only thing tethering him to the ground, Yoongi held him still.

He couldn’t smell any alpha on Jimin, no foreign scent claiming space on his skin. No bruises, no bite over his own scent gland. Which meant no one had touched him. No one had taken advantage of the heat panic. Thank fuck.

The scent of Jimin’s distress was still overwhelming. But underneath it, there was something painfully honest. Something raw. Cracked open and bleeding, pouring into the air like wildfire. He really was spiraling. He really thought they didn’t love him.

Yoongi scoffed to himself, voice low and bitter. “You’re a dumbass.”

“I know.”

“They probably love you more than the Moon loves the sky.”

“I know that too, but it doesn’t feel like it.”

Yoongi was quiet for a beat. Then, flatly: “Still a dumbass.”

Jimin whimpered and nodded miserably against him. “I know.”

They stayed like that for a long moment. Yoongi didn’t know what to do with his hands. Or his nose. Or the fact that his fucking neck was bleeding from a bite that every cell in his body wanted to lean into and respond to like a fool.

But he didn’t let go. He stayed, grounding Jimin against the weight of his chest and the steady, bitter scent of Lee-pack alpha.

Until Yoongi smelled that fucking scent. It slid under his nose like honey dipped in sin—sweet and sharp and so damn slick, it was practically crawling into his lungs. Wet. He could smell wetness, real heat-slick drenching through layers of fabric like it was seeping through dimensions. One second it was just background noise under Jimin’s panic, and the next—Fuck. It hit him like a freight train.

“Nope.”

His whole body tensed. Yoongi's spine went stiff like a blade was shoved into it. He gritted his teeth and shifted back, trying to untangle Jimin’s shaking arms from around his torso.

“Okay—okay—enough,” he muttered, jaw clenched, trying to slide his hands between them and push. “You’re crying and spiraling, sure, but your slick is bleeding through your fucking pants and this is getting way too—”

The omega whined. A high, broken, desperate whine that curled into Yoongi’s ribcage like a fuckin' parasite and gnawed. And then the little demon latched on harder. Pressed closer. Climbed onto his lap like he fucking belonged there, like Yoongi’s thighs were omega territory and not the resting place of someone who’d nearly clawed his throat out five moons ago.

Yoongi’s breath hitched. His eyes snapped open wide. Jimin’s fat ass—Moon damn it, Yoongi had never allowed himself to think it like that before, but now? Now? That ass was planted right the fuck on Yoongi’s crotch, full weight, warm and soft and radiating heat like a furnace through the thin cotton layers of his pants.

And underneath that, Yoongi could feel it. The wet. The actual wetness. Slick soaking through Jimin’s pants, into Yoongi’s cloak, warm and fucking sticky, and Yoongi’s entire brain short-circuited so hard he almost shifted into wolf form right there out of sheer panic.

“Get off,” he hissed, voice gone low and dangerous, shaking from how tightly he had to hold himself back. His claws itched under his skin. His inner alpha was growling, pacing like a beast behind the bars of his teeth.

He tried to tilt his hips away. Tried to move Jimin without touching him too much, because if he touched that omega’s waist right now, he was going to leave bruises. But Jimin just curled tighter. Pressed his stupid, sniffling, spoiled little face into Yoongi’s neck like this was comfort and not a biological death trap.

If that brat as much as tried to rut against him, Yoongi was going to snap his own neck. Or Jimin’s. Probably both.

“Jimin,” Yoongi growled, through clenched teeth. “You’re dripping slick all over me like a broken faucet, and if you even twitch those hips, I swear to the Goddess I will tear your throat out and feed it to the ravens.”

But Jimin didn’t move away. No, of course not. He just gave another trembling exhale, voice muffled. “You’re warm.”

Warm.
WARM?!

Yoongi’s eye twitched. “I’m not your fucking heat pad, Park.”

“And you smell good.”

Yoongi almost blacked out.

No. No no no no no. This could not be happening. They were mortal enemies. They’d fought in the river two seasons ago until Jimin almost drowned him under an uprooted log. They weren’t friends. They weren’t even allies. They were two bastards from rival packs who had almost killed each other like three hundred fucking times, give or take a few duels.

And now? Now Yoongi had a slick-drenched omega sniffling into his neck, grinding absent-mindedly against his dick, and acting like it was a fucking hug?

“Moon above,” Yoongi whispered, stunned. “This is how I die.”

He could already feel it. His instincts were howling, tugging at the tight reins he kept them bound in. He was sweating under his cloak, scent flaring with warning—sharp, spiced, high alpha, get off me scent—but it was useless.

Jimin was already gone. Mentally, emotionally, chemically. A wreck of hormones and feelings and fucking fat-omega-heat-bunny energy, and Yoongi was losing his goddamn mind.

His cock twitched—traitorous bastard—and he froze. Prayed to every old god, ancestor, and spectral spirit that Jimin hadn’t noticed.

Spoiler alert: he did.

Jimin hiccupped. Lifted his head just enough to peek at him from where his wet lashes stuck to his flushed cheeks.

“You’re hard,” he said flatly.

“No I’m fucking not!” Yoongi barked. “It’s a fucking—reflex! You’re dripping on me like an overripe fruit, what do you expect?! I’m still an alpha, not a fucking tree branch! My dick does shit on its own! I’m not into this! I’m not into you! And if you even think—”

Jimin’s lower lip trembled. Yoongi froze again, instincts slamming into a wall.

Do not cry again, Yoongi thought wildly. If you cry again while riding my lap like a fucking village heat-whore, I will go into the woods and chew off my own leg.

“I didn’t mean to get slick on you,” Jimin whispered. “I’m sorry.”

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

His scent changed. Like smoke curling into the sweetness. Embarrassment. Shame. And Yoongi couldn’t breathe through it. Couldn’t breathe through the way it hurt to smell.

He should’ve shoved him off. Should’ve barked at him to go crawl back to his Appa and Papa and get hugged there, where it was safe and normal and not giving Yoongi a heat complex. But his hands just stayed where they were, locked around Jimin’s waist like they had a fucking will of their own.

He bit his tongue so hard he tasted blood. “This is a war crime,” Yoongi muttered, deadpan. “You sitting on my dick while leaking through your pants is a war crime. You should be tried and executed.”

Jimin curled back in.

Yoongi closed his eyes and dropped his head back against the tree, exhaling like he was dying. Because maybe he was.

This wasn’t how he was supposed to go out. But maybe suffocating on omega pheromones while being used as a fucking heat pillow by Park Fucking Jimin was the price of every terrible thing he’d ever done in his life.

And the worst part? Was that he didn’t push him off. Not yet. Not even when he should.

Yoongi didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. Because if he did—if he so much as shifted—he was going to go feral.

He’d barely survived the last minute of Jimin being draped over his lap like a heat-ridden plush toy, his fat ass pressed full and heavy against Yoongi’s dick. But then the little shit whimpered. A sound so soft and desperate, so helplessly omega, it punched straight through Yoongi’s chest and yanked every last rational thought out by the roots.

And then came the gush. A warm one. Yoongi felt it like a sin—hot, damp, slick seeping out of Jimin again, soaking through both their layers with a slow, suffocating heat that was now definitely past the threshold of “accident” and into the territory of biological warfare.

It stuck to Yoongi’s cloak. Sticky and humid and soaking into the seam right where his cock strained against the fabric like it was trying to escape. The omega's scent flared again—honey-wine sweetness with a rotting, feral edge of distress and shame and desperation—and Yoongi nearly howled. He clenched his jaw so hard his molars hurt.

“No. No. No. No—”

He was chanting it internally, a mantra against every cell in his body lighting up with one simple, ancient instinct:

Breed.

He was not going to fuck Jimin. He wasn’t going to mount a bratty, treacherous Kim-pack omega in the middle of a fucking forest like some starved feral. He wasn’t going to rut him into the dirt just because he cried a little and leaked slick like a broken faucet.

He wasn’t that kind of alpha. He had standards. He had honor. He had—

Jimin moved. Shifted in his lap.

Yoongi felt it. All of it. The way the omega rolled his hips without even meaning to, like he was just trying to get comfortable—but that fat ass ground right on top of Yoongi’s cock, plush and slick and fucking perfect, and Yoongi’s whole body seized.

He made a sound. A strangled, broken thing that was halfway between a growl and a death rattle. “Don’t—” he gritted. “Don’t you fucking move.”

But of course the little heat-gremlin didn’t listen. Jimin shifted again—scooted forward a few centimeters—and Yoongi’s soul left his body.

“Are you—are you actually trying to kill me right now?” he rasped, blinking hard like it would reset reality. “Because if this is your revenge for the river thing, just poison my food like a normal person.”

Jimin peeked up at him with a flushed face, eyes still glossy and wet, lips pink and parted. “I didn’t mean to.”

“Didn’t mean to my dick, Park.”

Another shift. Another slide of wet slick dragging between them, leaking out like Yoongi’s lap was a fucking heat nest. His cock throbbed so hard he felt dizzy.

This was it. This was how he died. A slow, painful death by accidental omega lap dance.

“You are a menace,” Yoongi hissed, voice rough with restraint. “A fucking—heat-baiting, hormone-dripping brat—and if you don’t get off me right now, I swear on the Moon, I will rut the stupidity out of your skull and then jump into the river myself.” The words came out before he could stop them. Rough. Honest. Ferocious.

And Jimin—of course—whimpered again. The kind that made Yoongi’s hands clench around his hips hard enough to bruise. The kind that made him see red. The kind that made his instincts slam up against the back of his throat like a wild animal, howling for release.

He squeezed his eyes shut. “It’s not heat. It’s not heat. It’s not heat. He’s just messed up. He’s just upset. This isn’t on purpose. You can survive this. You’re stronger than this. You’re not Jungkook. You don’t fuck your enemies because they smell good and cry pretty.”

He dragged in a breath through his nose. That was a mistake. Because now he could really smell it. The scent of ripe omega slick. Wet and earthy and sugar-rich. It clung to him like humidity, soaked into his clothes, stained his thighs. And underneath it—faint, but there—was Yoongi’s own scent, rising through his pores like a slow wave of rot. He was scenting back.

Fuck.

Jimin shifted again.

Yoongi snapped. “If you move one more fucking inch,” he growled, deadly low, “I will knot you right here and make you regret every bad decision your spoiled ass has ever made.”

Jimin froze. Went still in his lap like a startled rabbit. The flush on his cheeks went deeper—deeper, Moon help him, and he looked up with that same wide-eyed expression he’d used when his aim missed and Yoongi let him live anyway. Like he expected Yoongi to kill him, but maybe wouldn’t mind it.

Fucking masochist. Fucking beautiful. Fucking stupid, heat-drenched little spoiled brat.

“I’m sorry,” Jimin whispered. And somehow that made it worse. Because now Yoongi’s instincts wanted to comfort him, too. Wrap around him, scent him, protect him like they were bonded.

And they weren’t. They were enemies. Yoongi didn’t do mates. Didn’t do pretty crying omegas with sad eyes and perfect asses who sat on his lap and whined like it was an invitation.

But his dick didn’t care. His scent didn’t care. His fucking soul didn’t care. He was dangerously close to losing control. His claws were half-shifted in his palms, his fangs pressed into the inside of his lip, and his body was vibrating with the effort of not thrusting up into that warm, plush weight and claiming it.

“Yoongi…”

The way Jimin said his name—soft, breathy, almost confused—like he hadn’t just set his lap on fire and melted his fucking brain—

Yoongi grit out, “If you call me that again while sitting on my cock, I will toss you into a cold stream and let you cry this out alone.”

“But—”

“Off.”

A beat of silence. Then slowly, reluctantly, Jimin moved. Peeled himself off Yoongi’s lap like a limpet being dislodged from a rock. And Yoongi could feel everything. The stickiness between them. The obscene wet sound of slick clinging to his cloak. The ache in his cock screaming for friction, for relief, for more. He bit his tongue so hard this time he tasted iron.

Jimin settled on the ground beside him, red-faced and small, hugging his knees. The air between them thick with pheromones. With the raw, lingering scent of want.

Yoongi dragged the edge of his cloak over his lap. Prayed for snow. Or wolves. Or death. Because Moon help him, if this happened again—If Jimin ever got on his lap again—He wasn’t going to survive it.

Yoongi didn’t move for a long time. Didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t look. Because if he did, he’d see it. And he couldn’t fucking see it right now. But the scent hit him anyway—wet, soft, and sharp-edged like bruised fruit left in the sun too long. Not heat-slick this time. Not arousal. Just—Tears.

Yoongi’s whole spine went rigid.

No. Nope. Absolutely the fuck not.

He squeezed his eyes shut, because he knew—he knew—if he glanced over and saw those puffy eyes, that trembling lower lip, those damp lashes clinging to flushed cheeks like some kind of tragic omega poetry, he was going to snap. Not in a sexy way. In a grab-his-own-hair-and-run-into-the-woods-screaming kind of way.

He’s crying. He’s actually crying. Again. What the fuck. What the actual fuck. Had he traumatized him?

Yoongi dared a peek. And yeah. There it was. The little brat was curled in on himself again, shoulders shaking, face buried in his arms, trying to hide it—but that scent didn’t lie. That soft, stinging omega sadness. Like milk gone sour. Like something delicate melting in the heat.

Yoongi swore under his breath. Raked both hands through his hair, clawed hard at his scalp like that would reset his brain.

“Fuck me.”

He was being punished. That was the only explanation. This was divine retribution for every mean comment he’d ever made. Every time he shoved Hoseok into a snowdrift or told Taehyung to shut the fuck up. This was the Moon herself flipping him the finger.

He sat very still. Stared at the ground. Maybe if he didn’t acknowledge it, the crying would stop.

Spoiled little prince, dripping slick all over the place and then bawling because I wouldn’t let him rub his fat ass on my dick like a heat-crazed lunatic.

Yoongi clenched his jaw. Hard. Because even just thinking about it brought back the memory of that soft weight in his lap, that soaked heat grinding on him, that scent—all silk and sugar and need—coating his thighs like—

“Don’t think about it.” He growled the words out loud.

Too late. His cock throbbed in protest again, as if offended he’d denied it. And Jimin sniffled. That was the final nail in the coffin.

Yoongi whipped around, barely suppressing a snarl. “Are you actually crying because I wouldn’t let you ride my dick?” he snapped. “Is that what we’re doing now? Is this how low you’ve sunk?”

Jimin flinched.

Oh. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck, now he felt like an asshole. Which—fine. He was an asshole. But usually not to crying omegas. Especially not ones who looked like—Nope. Not going there. That’s a cliff made of feelings and pheromones and I’m not flinging myself off it.

Yoongi rubbed a hand down his face, tried again. “Are you—” his voice cracked slightly, so he cleared his throat. “Are you actually crying because I… pushed you off?”

Jimin didn’t answer. Just curled tighter into himself, cheeks blotchy and damp, lashes clumped from crying.

“Fucking hell,” Yoongi muttered. “What do you want from me?”

A moment of silence. Then a whisper, muffled into his knees. “I don’t know.”

God, Yoongi wanted to scream. How was he supposed to deal with this? He was a head hunter. A fucking elite warrior. He killed ferals in their sleep and ripped rival alphas apart at the border. He didn’t do this. Sad omegas with tear-sticky cheeks and thighs that leaked slick like they didn’t know what to do with themselves.

He should walk away. Leave Jimin to cry it out like the overcoddled brat he was. Let the woods chew on his feelings for a while. Teach him that you don’t get to climb into a rival alpha’s lap, grind your heat-soaked ass on their cock, and then sob when they don’t fuck you.

Except—Except—Yoongi’s instincts were roaring. Snapping at him from every angle. Fix it. Soothe. Comfort. Scent. Shelter.

His entire pack code was written to respond to this. To trembling omegas and grief-slick pheromones. To tears and sniffling and the faint, pathetic hitch of breath that sounded like it hurt.

And Yoongi was losing. He cursed under his breath. “You’re not even in a proper heat yet. Fuck’s sake, Jimin. It was a mistake—what happened back there. You’re not thinking straight.”

“Don’t call me Jimin,” the omega muttered suddenly.

Yoongi blinked. “…What?”

“I don’t want you to call me Jimin.”

“What the hell am I supposed to call you, then? Slick-leaking disaster? Heat-brained parasite? Park Brat?”

Jimin’s head shot up, eyes red-rimmed and furious through the tears. “Hunter Park to you, asshole.”

Yoongi stared. And then he laughed. Short and sharp, like a bark. Not because it was funny. But because it was just—so ridiculous.

He was hard as stone, slick-soaked, pheromone-drunk, and arguing about honorifics with an enemy omega who’d accidentally lap-danced him into a psychotic break. His life was a fucking joke.

“Fine,” he said through his teeth. “Hunter Park. Is that better?”

Jimin sniffed. “Maybe.”

More silence. More stifling heat. Yoongi could still feel the fucking outline of him on his thighs. Could still smell him like he’d marked the air.

“Are you going to cry again if I don’t let you crawl back into my lap?” Yoongi asked finally, bone-tired and defeated.

Jimin didn’t answer. But his eyes welled up again.

“Oh my fucking god,” Yoongi hissed, dragging his hands down his face. “Do you hear yourself? You’re like—like some cursed omega fairytale. The spoiled one that throws tantrums and seduces every wolf that walks past.”

“I’m not—!”

“You are! You’re oozing slick through your pants, rubbing your ass all over me like a fucking pillow, and crying because I wouldn’t give you a courtesy dick.”

“I didn’t ask for it!”

“YOU SAT ON IT.”

They glared at each other. Both flushed. Breathing hard. Pheromones choking the air between them.

Yoongi’s voice dropped, low and tight. “I’m barely holding it together, Hunter Park. So unless you want a real reason to cry, you need to stop acting like I owe you a knot and start acting like a fucking hunter.”

That should’ve ended it. Should’ve shut the omega up, sent him retreating with that big brat ego bruised and smarting.

But Jimin just stared. And then—maddeningly—his chin wobbled. And a fresh tear slipped down. And Yoongi swore the Moon herself reached down and punched him in the dick.

“Fuck me,” Yoongi whispered, looking skyward like the stars might offer divine rescue. “What the hell am I supposed to do with you?”

Jimin just sniffled again. And Yoongi knew—knew—he was absolutely, irreversibly fucked. Not because he wanted to fuck Jimin. But because he might actually care that the brat was crying.

Yoongi almost bit his own damn tongue off trying not to howl.

The brat’s cheeks were flushed red, pupils blown, lashes clumped with tears. His scent was a goddamn storm—cinnamon and fury and slick and sorrow, muddled into something dizzying, dangerous. It clung to Yoongi’s nose, his tongue, his skin.

The worst part? That scent—the panic and arousal and confusion—wasn’t even faked. It wasn’t some heat-ploy manipulation like Yoongi would’ve assumed from any other omega that looked this fucked-out. No. This was real. Which made it so much worse.

Jimin was trembling, lower lip wobbling like a kit lost in the dark. His arms were wrapped around his middle like he didn’t know what to do with them. Then—fuck—one hand moved, snuck down, slipped under the waistband of his pants.

Yoongi’s brain stalled. There was no hesitation in that hand. Jimin's fingers had purpose. And Yoongi saw the exact second realization left the brat’s eyes and instinct took over. His wrist shifted, dipped, and—

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?!” Yoongi growled, lunging forward, grabbing Jimin’s wrist and yanking it out before anything could start. He didn’t even think—just reacted, heart jackhammering in his throat.

Jimin gasped, startled, like he’d just woken up from a trance. And then—Then came the tears again.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Yoongi released his grip, threw his head back and groaned, dragging his palm over his face like it could erase the last ten minutes of his fucking life.

“You—” he pointed at Jimin, still crouched and sobbing, eyes glassy, scent lashing out like it wanted to crawl down Yoongi’s throat and make a nest. “You can’t just—fucking do that in front of someone. What the hell is wrong with you?!”

“I didn’t do anything!” Jimin snapped between tears, voice cracking like dry wood. “You stopped me!”

“Exactly! Because you were about to jerk off like a feral rabbit in front of me! Me, of all alphas!”

The omega glared at him through snot and fury, eyes all fire and unfiltered misery. “So what?! You think I want you to watch?! You think I’m trying to get your fucking knot? Get over yourself, you narcissistic, territorial, emotionally constipated swamp troll!”

Yoongi’s jaw clenched. “Then what the fuck was that?!”

“I don’t know, okay?!” Jimin shouted, voice rising with his scent—bitter, angry, sweet. “I don’t fucking know what I’m doing right now! I’m— I’m messed up and it’s not like I planned this—fuck, I hate you, I hate you so much—”

“Not the best way to show it, getting slick all over my lap.”

“You should be honored!” Jimin shouted, eyes blazing despite the tears. “Most alphas would kill to have me sobbing in heat all over them!”

Yoongi scoffed. “Most alphas are brain-dead.”

“You’re brain-dead!”

Yoongi leaned in, ignoring the dangerous proximity. “You’re lucky I’m the only one here, because if this had been anyone else—any other alpha—” He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to. The unspoken weight of it dropped like a rock between them.

Jimin’s face crumpled.

Fuck.

Yoongi’s anger instantly cracked under the sound of Jimin’s choked little sob, high and broken and honest. His scent twisted again—humiliation, frustration, heat-drunk grief.

He shouldn’t have said it like that.

Shit.

Yoongi sighed and sat back on his heels, staring at the canopy above like it held answers. “...This isn’t what you want,” he said after a long moment, voice quieter. “Right? You don’t want this. Me. Fucking you like some rutting beast against a tree. Right?”

Silence.

He looked down. Jimin wasn’t answering. Of course he wasn’t answering.

Yoongi grit his teeth. “Say something.”

Still nothing. The omega’s fists were clenched now, knuckles white, and his whole body was shaking again. His lip trembled, but he didn’t speak.

“Jimin,” Yoongi tried again, more firmly, dragging his gaze back to him. “You don’t want me. We hate each other. We’ve literally tried to kill each other like—what, three hundred fucking times? This is stupid. You don’t—”

“I don’t know what I want,” Jimin finally shouted, breaking apart again. “Okay?! I don’t fucking know, Yoongi! I’m confused and I’m angry and my head is foggy and I’m lonely and—fuck! I didn’t ask for you to find me, or sit with me, or touch me, or yell at me—!”

His voice cracked at the end and Yoongi’s chest twisted. He couldn’t breathe. Not through the scent, not through the guilt, not through the molten fucking need chewing at his insides. This was a bad idea. All of this was a bad fucking idea. But there was no going back now.

Yoongi swallowed down the knot forming in his own throat, clenched his fists to keep them off Jimin, and forced himself to breathe through his mouth.

“Don’t ever do that again,” he said lowly, voice rough, eyes burning holes into the dirt between them. “If you’re going to fall apart in the middle of a heat panic, do it away from me.”

Jimin sniffled, didn’t answer. Yoongi closed his eyes. And tried to survive the urge to pull him back into his arms.

“I should get Jungkook,” he muttered, more to himself than Jimin, eyes narrowed as he tried to calculate the least disastrous option.

“No!” The brat's voice came out in an instant. Too fast. Too panicked. And of course Yoongi noticed.

His brows drew together. “What, why not? You want an alpha to stay with you, you need help. You trust him, don’t you?”

“I do,” Jimin hissed like he was personally offended. “That’s not the point.”

Yoongi tilted his head. “So it’s because he’s an alpha? You scared he’ll—”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Jimin growled, eyes blazing as he actually sat up straighter—despite the way his thighs trembled and his lower lip quivered with suppressed whimpers. “Jungkook’s family. He’s my friend. He wouldn’t ever—ever—do something like that.”

Yoongi blinked, caught off guard by the venom in Jimin’s voice. Alphas didn’t often get their throats torn out by omegas mid-heat, but judging by the way Jimin was glaring, it could damn well happen today.

“I didn’t say he would,” Yoongi grumbled, running a hand through his hair. “You’re the one twisting it.”

“Yeah? Then why the fuck did you say it like that? Like he’s some rabid rutting beast. He’s not you, Yoongi.”

Oh. Fuck you, Jimin. That one hit like a knife between the ribs.

“Okay, fine,” Yoongi snapped, throwing his hands up. “Then why the hell don’t you want me to go get him?”

And there it was again. That soft, vulnerable beat of silence. Jimin’s jaw clenched, eyes flicking down and away. His hands fisted in Yoongi’s cloak again. Like he hadn’t even realized he was still holding on.

“Because you can’t leave me,” he said, voice small. “Not now. You can’t just go. I’m—I’m in fucking heat, dumbass. Alone. What if something happens?”

Yoongi stared. “You’re acting like I’m not the thing that could fucking happen.”

“You won’t.” Jimin’s lip trembled again, but he glared fiercely through it. “You haven’t. You won’t.”

Why the fuck did he say that with such confidence?

Yoongi’s stomach twisted. Guilt, want, fury—it was all tangled together in a mess he couldn’t name. “You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

And just like that, the brat curled back into him, forehead pressing to Yoongi’s collarbone again, like the argument hadn’t just happened.

Yoongi froze.

This was a nightmare. A fever dream from hell. Jimin was still slicking through his fucking pants—he could feel it, warm and damp, soaking into the fabric between them. The omega's scent was everywhere, syrupy and desperate and threaded with that pleading whimper that scraped against every last nerve in Yoongi's skull.

He was going to snap. Actually snap. Because he couldn’t leave, couldn’t stay, couldn’t touch—and couldn’t not touch. His whole body was coiled like a live wire. It was a miracle his knot hadn’t popped yet, but it was damn close, and if Jimin so much as shifted—

“Do you want me to call Taehyung?” he croaked. “He’s an omega. Maybe—”

“I want you, Yoongi.”

The world tilted.

Yoongi’s pulse stuttered, his breath caught in his throat, and every hair on his body stood up.

Jimin looked up at him, wide doe eyes shining and red-rimmed from crying, lips parted and wet. And the scent that rolled off him after he said those words—it was pure heat. No shame. No filter. Just instinct and want.

“You don’t mean that,” Yoongi said immediately. “You’re—your brain’s scrambled, you’re not thinking straight. You’re in heat, Park, you don’t even like me.”

Jimin didn’t answer. Just stayed there, close enough to feel every tremble in his body, every shallow breath. His lashes fluttered once, twice. Then he moved again—shifted, like a bratty little devil—grinding his fat fucking ass into Yoongi’s thigh with an unintentional whimper that made Yoongi actually see red for a second.

“Fuck—stop moving.”

“You said you’re not gonna go,” Jimin mumbled. “So stay still.”

“I’m gonna commit homicide,” Yoongi muttered under his breath. “Real, actual murder.”

His hand twitched with the urge to push Jimin off him again, to snarl and bare teeth and run, but he didn’t. His instincts wouldn’t let him. The omega was shaking—he could feel it now, full-body tremors—and his scent was turning desperate again, like he was scared. Not of Yoongi. But of being left alone.

It was that scent that kept Yoongi frozen. Not lust. Not ego. Not any of the usual fuckery. Just that soft terrified twist in the air that said please don’t leave me like this.

God fucking damn it.

He took a breath. Shaky. Bitter. Tried to calm his own heart.

“Alright,” he finally muttered, low. “But if anyone from your pack smells me on you, Jimin—I swear on god, it’s war. You get that, right?”

Jimin didn’t say anything. Just nodded against him, clinging tighter.

Yoongi sighed again, low and miserable. He was fucked. Fucked six ways from Sunday. But he stayed right there. And he didn’t let go. He stilled. Like fucking stone. Like tree bark. Like prey caught between the jaws of fate and heat and an omega who clearly had no clue what the hell he was doing.

He was already barely breathing, sitting there in that goddamn patch of forest where no sane alpha should’ve been—blanketed in scent-heavy heat, soaked in pheromones so sweet they scraped at his damn molars—but when Jimin nuzzled against his neck, soft and warm and so clearly needy, something inside him cracked.

Yoongi’s spine snapped stiff, every inch of him prickling with awareness.

“Jimin,” he ground out, low, quiet, trying not to inhale. Fuck, why was he breathing? His own neck pulsed, nerves sparking from the contact. “Stop.”

But the omega didn’t stop. Of course he fucking didn’t. Instead, Jimin’s plush mouth brushed right against the edge of Yoongi’s scent gland. Not just a graze. Not just a nuzzle. The little shit kissed him there. Just a light, soft press like it was fucking nothing. Like he hadn’t just shattered some invisible goddamn line that separated war from surrender.

Yoongi’s entire body went rigid. “Jimin,” he warned again, this time sharper, angrier, the panic curling into his gut like barbed wire. “Don’t.”

But Jimin’s head was probably so far gone—heat-clogged, drunk on instinct—that he didn’t even flinch. He just made this tiny whimper, lips still against Yoongi’s neck, like he was fucking comforted by the pulse he could feel there.

And then—Then the brat did the unthinkable. Yoongi didn’t even see it coming. Jimin shifted in his lap, and before Yoongi could blink, those pouty, pink, heat-flushed lips brushed right up against his.

Yoongi’s brain short-circuited.

There were no words in the ancient tongues of wolves to describe the fuckery of that moment. No curse invented strong enough. The world went still, like the forest itself was holding its breath to see if the foolhardy little omega had just signed both their death warrants.

Because this wasn’t a joke. Not anymore. Not when Jimin—Park fucking Jimin of the Kim Pack—kissed Yoongi, Lee Pack’s head hunter, like they weren’t enemies. Like they didn’t have blood on their hands. Like he didn’t just try to crawl inside Yoongi’s mouth with nothing but heat-blurred eyes and slick-drenched pants and zero fucking self-preservation.

And Yoongi lost it. His hands flew up to grab Jimin’s shoulders, grip iron-tight, yanking him just barely back, breaking the kiss, even though his own lips still tingled like they’d been set on fire. He stared down at the brat in his lap, heart hammering like a fucking war drum.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” he barked, voice cracking around the edges, full of heat and disbelief and the sheer chaos of every instinct screaming at once.

Jimin blinked at him, dazed, lips parted, breath shaky and scented so thickly of omega-heat sugar Yoongi could taste it on his tongue like poison. Or honey. Or both.

“I—I didn’t mean to—” Jimin whispered, and Yoongi’s hands spasmed.

“Didn’t mean to? You kissed me, you stupid spoiled little—” He cut himself off, panting now, eyes wild. “Fuck. You don’t get it, do you?! You think this is a game?”

Jimin’s mouth trembled. “I just—just wanted—”

“No,” Yoongi snarled. “You don’t get to ‘just want’ things when your heat-addled brain is making decisions for you. Do you even know what you smell like right now? You smell like you want to be mounted. You’re practically—fuck, Jimin, your slick is on my damn cloak.”

Jimin flinched, face twisting like Yoongi had smacked him. Good. Maybe he needed the cold slap of reality. Except… that expression—hurt and heat and stubborn defiance—goddammit, it stabbed Yoongi right in the chest. Right where his restraint lived.

“I wasn’t trying to seduce you,” Jimin muttered, small and offended, looking away. “I just didn’t want to be alone.”

Yoongi dropped his head back against the bark of the tree, eyes squeezed shut. “You kissed me,” he repeated like a prayer. Or a curse.

“Because you smelled safe,” Jimin mumbled, voice barely a whisper. “I didn’t mean to—fuck, I didn’t plan any of this.”

Yoongi scoffed. “Yeah? Well, neither did I. Yet here we are. Your ass is in my lap, your scent is all over me, and I’m one fucking second away from being declared a war criminal.”

Jimin sniffled. Again.

Yoongi cracked one eye open and glared at the top of the omega’s head. “Don’t cry.”

“You yelled at me.”

“I’m trying to save both our necks, you spoiled heat-soaked menace.”

“You said I wanted to be mounted.”

“You kissed me!”

Silence. Except for the soft panting between them, thick with pheromones and misery and the shared realization that this was the stupidest, most dangerous situation either of them had ever been in—and they were hunters. They’d almost died together. More than once.

“You can’t go,” Jimin whispered eventually, voice soft like the wind threading through ruined branches. “You can’t leave me. You can’t call Jungkook. And you sure as hell can’t touch me. So what the fuck are you gonna do, Yoongi?”

Yoongi pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, digging in like he could gouge the heat out of his skull. His breath was shaky, chest tight with the kind of restraint that left bruises inside. Not from Jimin. From himself.

Because he wanted to—god, he wanted to grab this reckless, heat-sick omega and fuck the attitude out of him against the nearest tree.

What the hell was he supposed to do?

The head hunter of the Lee Pack. The one who made alphas piss themselves and omegas bolt just from a growl. And here he was—frozen. Fucking helpless in the face of this spoiled, shaking, maddening boy melting in his lap like a curse Yoongi couldn’t shake.

Jimin whimpered. Just barely. A tremble of breath that might’ve passed for weakness—if not for the sound that followed. A needy, breathless, bone-deep whine that cut through Yoongi’s gut like claws.

Then the little shit moved.

He rolled his hips. Bold and unthinking and wrecked with instinct. Slick-soaked shorts grinding against the obvious bulge in Yoongi’s pants like he didn’t care if it killed him.

“Don’t—” Yoongi hissed, grabbing his waist so hard Jimin gasped. “Fucking stay still.”

But he didn’t. Of course he didn’t. He writhed like he needed to be held down, like his own skin was too much to bear.

“I can’t,” Jimin said, breath ragged. “It’s too much—I can’t think—fuck, Yoongi—please—”

Yoongi’s hands were iron. Holding Jimin still. Barely. His knuckles ached from the pressure, and his vision swam in red.

This scent—Jimin’s heat, fully bloomed now—was everywhere. Sweet and ripe and molten. Laced with honey and ash, wild and wrong and perfect. Yoongi’s mouth watered. His cock throbbed. He was going to lose it.

“You’re not thinking clearly,” Yoongi snapped. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I do.” Jimin shook his head, messy hair clinging to his flushed cheeks. “I do know. I know I’m begging. I know you want it too. I know I don’t care if you hate me after.”

Yoongi wanted to snarl. Wanted to grab him by the jaw and shove him off just to get one fucking breath of clean air, one second where he wasn’t drowning in scent and instinct and need.

Instead, he growled, “Are you sure this is what you want? Because I’m not going to be gentle, Jimin. This won’t be some storybook mating with silk sheets and moonlit promises. I will ruin you.”

And Jimin—Park fucking Jimin—smirked.

That wicked, dangerous curve of his lips made Yoongi’s stomach flip.

“Good,” he said, pupils blown wide and voice a raw rasp. “I don’t want gentle. I want you. Rough. Angry. All of it. I don’t care if we’re enemies. Just… be my enemy who fucks me so hard I forget my own name.”

Yoongi blinked. Then stared.

Enemies with benefits?

What in the holy, pheromone-drunk fuck was this omega even made of?

“Goddamn it,” Yoongi groaned, hands shaking where they still gripped Jimin’s waist. His head fell forward, bumping against Jimin’s collarbone with a dull thud. “You’re going to be the death of me, you feral little brat.”

And Jimin just laughed. Airy and broken and soaked in need. His hands fisted in Yoongi’s shirt like he’d tear it off himself if Yoongi didn’t hurry the hell up.

So Yoongi stopped thinking.

“Fuck it,” he muttered—and then his mouth crashed against Jimin’s like a breaking point.

It wasn’t soft. Wasn’t sweet. There was no poetry in it. Just teeth and tongue and months of unspoken rage and lust and hate tangled up into a single desperate collision.

Jimin moaned against his lips, body trembling in Yoongi’s lap, arms wrapping around his neck like he was starving for it. Yoongi held him tighter, dragged him closer, devoured the sound like a dying man taking his first breath.

Jimin tasted like heat. Like salt and sweet and danger. His mouth opened under Yoongi’s without hesitation, like he’d been waiting all fucking year to be kissed like this. And maybe he had. Maybe they both had.

Yoongi didn’t think. Just moved. Just felt. Just let it happen. Because if this was war, if Jimin was the weapon sent to destroy him, then Yoongi was already on his knees.

Yoongi didn’t mean to grab him that hard. Didn’t mean to yank at the fabric like it had personally wronged him, didn’t mean to bare so much skin, didn’t mean to let his own cloak fall off like he’d finally fucking snapped—but he had. Of course he had. Because Jimin was still in his lap, still pressed close, still radiating that goddamn scent like sin-drenched wildfire, and Yoongi couldn’t take it anymore. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t not touch.

He didn’t even remember how Jimin’s shirt got shoved up. Didn’t remember deciding to curl his fingers into the waistband of his pants and jerk. All he knew was that suddenly the omega was sprawled beneath him, slick and scent and skin and heat, and Yoongi was biting down on his own tongue just to keep from fucking snarling.

His cock was already hard and leaking against the inside of his thigh like it was trying to break free and wreck them both. And Jimin—Fuck, Jimin was leaking like he was trying to drown them.

The smell of it made Yoongi feral. It was sweet and thick and alive, tangled with anger and confusion and need, pouring out of the brat like it had purpose. Like his whole body had decided it wanted to fuck an enemy and didn’t give a shit about the consequences.

And maybe it didn’t. Because Jimin was looking up at him like this was war, like he dared Yoongi to ruin him. So Yoongi obliged. His hands gripped tight—too tight—around Jimin’s hips, dragged the omega against him so hard he could feel every tremble, every twitch, every desperate grind of slick skin. Jimin cursed at him, eyes blown, lip curled in something halfway between hatred and hysteria.

“You’re such a fucking asshole,” Jimin spat, voice wrecked, hands clawing at Yoongi’s shoulders.

“Shut up,” Yoongi hissed, dragging his nails down Jimin’s thigh hard enough to leave marks. “You’re the one who started this.”

“I said I wanted you, not that I wanted you to manhandle me like a fucking boulder-brained animal!”

“Too late for regrets now, sweetheart.” He bit the Jimin’s shoulder and left a mark deep and hot and furious. “You want rough, you get rough. Don’t start sobbing now, you slippery little menace.”

Jimin snarled. Actually fucking snarled, like a wildcat in silk, and then rutted his hips up again like he wanted Yoongi to lose what little control he had left.

Yoongi grabbed both wrists and shoved them over Jimin’s head, holding him down in the dirt, biting at a shoulder, an arm, the soft swell of his ribs. Not the neck. Never the neck. But he marked him everywhere else.

“You’re gonna be fucking purple tomorrow,” Yoongi growled, dragging his teeth over the curve of Jimin’s stomach. “Better lie to your whole damn pack if you don’t want Appa Namjoon gutting me alive.”

“Shut up,” Jimin gasped, writhing like he was trying to fuck the air. “You talk too much—fuck—just—move, you useless uptight cave beast!”

Yoongi snarled, fingers digging into Jimin’s thigh until he heard the omega hiss. “You’re lucky I don’t knot your goddamn mouth shut.”

“Then do it, coward.”

It was a blur after that. Heat, scent, motion. No softness. Just swearing and panting and Yoongi's body slamming against instinct like it could beat this madness back. His hips ground forward again and again, and Jimin took it—took everything like he was born for this kind of ruin, for this kind of hate-soaked rhythm that made Yoongi feel like he was falling off the edge of the fucking earth.

He didn't mean to bruise Jimin's waist—but his hands wouldn't stop grabbing. He didn’t mean to dig his teeth in—but his mouth wouldn’t stop searching for somewhere to mark.

Jimin cried out—sharp, ragged, furious—and Yoongi pressed his forehead to the omega’s collarbone, growling low and desperate.

"Fucking hate you," Jimin gasped.

"Right back at you, you slick-drenched parasite," Yoongi bit out.

But he didn’t let go. Didn’t stop touching. Didn’t stop panting against sweat-slicked skin, didn't stop rutting like every breath hurt. Because it did hurt.

It was agony, this—trying to fuck someone you were supposed to despise and realizing that somewhere in the middle of bloodlust and hate-sex and rut-burned skin, your body stopped getting the memo.

Because Yoongi felt it—beneath the cursing, beneath the fury, there was something. Something wet and unspoken clinging between every frantic touch. Jimin smelled like a storm, like heat and want and shame all wrapped into one. His voice cracked again, not from pain, but from everything else—from the way his chest stuttered against Yoongi's, from the way his hands kept curling in Yoongi’s hair like he didn’t mean to hold on.

It was supposed to be nothing. Just fucking. Just a mistake. Just—

“Don’t look at me like that,” Yoongi ground out, chest heaving, hand tightening around Jimin’s thigh. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“I’m not,” Jimin whispered, even though he was. His eyes were all glass and fury and desperation, pupils wide and rimmed red, staring at Yoongi like he was the only thing holding him upright in a storm.

And Yoongi almost broke. Almost let go of the fury. Almost gave in to the ache beneath it. Almost—But instead he twisted Jimin’s wrist behind his back, pressed his mouth to the omega’s shoulder, and whispered, “I’m going to regret this until the day I die.”

Jimin moaned—sharp and guttural—and arched up like he wanted Yoongi to regret it. Like he wanted to be the kind of mistake that ruined someone for life.

And maybe he already was. Because Yoongi didn’t pull away. He stayed. Even after it was over. He stayed. Breathing hard. Chest pressed to Jimin’s back. Hands still curled like claws around bruised hips. His knot didn’t pop—thank the god—but he was close. Too close. Every nerve in his body screamed to finish, to claim, to do what biology was howling for.

But he didn’t. He just buried his face in the dirt-streaked skin of Jimin’s shoulder and tried not to think. Because thinking meant remembering what he just did. What they just did. And Yoongi didn’t know what was worse—fucking Park Jimin like a goddamn heat-frenzied lunatic, or realizing he wanted to do it again. Wanted to hear more curses from those slick lips. Wanted to taste that fire again. Wanted—No. Fuck.

He pushed off with a curse, rolled away, and sat back on his heels like the forest had just chewed him up and spit him out.

His body was shaking. Still hard. Still leaking. Still desperate.

Jimin lay sprawled in the dirt, bare skin scraped and slick, breathing like he’d run a fucking marathon. His arms covered his eyes, and his lips were red and bitten. And passed out. Just like that. Mid-breath. Mid-whimper. Mid-fucking-disaster.

Curled up on the forest floor like some kind of ruined forest sprite, dirt-streaked thighs tucked in, lips parted, skin flushed with post-fuck heat and glistening sweat. His scent was syrup-thick now—dense and hormonal and full heat, no longer hovering on the edge of pre. It clung to everything like it had claimed the earth itself, crawling into Yoongi’s nose, his lungs, his bones, until it coated every fucking thought he tried to form.

And that little shit—that menace of a spoiled omega who Yoongi had spent half his life despising—had the audacity to nap. After that. Like he hadn’t just flipped their entire reality upside down, shattered every rule between them, and soaked Yoongi’s body with scent and slick and sins that would haunt him for decades.

Yoongi stared at him. Then stared at his own hands. Then—just for good measure—looked up at the sky and muttered, “I fucking hate you.”

Not Jimin. The god. The universe. Himself. Every single force of nature that had conspired to drop a fever-drunk omega in his lap with eyes like fire and a mouth that made even fury taste sweet.

He should leave. He should leave.

Pack boundaries were already a nightmare. Political tension. Hunting territory disputes. Training cliques. If anyone—anyone—caught wind of this, it wouldn’t just be Yoongi’s head on a pike, it’d be war. Real war. The kind where people bled and packs scattered and Jimin—Jimin would look at him with that same betrayed rage he always wore when someone failed him.

Yoongi hated that look. Almost as much as he hated the little snort Jimin made in his sleep just then. The way his lashes fluttered against his cheek. The way he instinctively rubbed his nose against Yoongi’s discarded cloak like it was a comfort item.

“Fucking hell,” Yoongi groaned, slumping back against the nearest tree. He dropped his head into his hands and dragged his fingers through his hair like they could scrape the insanity out of his skull. “You’re a plague. An actual pestilence sent to ruin me.”

The forest around them was quiet now, heavy with the reek of sex and musk and a heat so rich it warped the air. The distant chirp of birds didn’t help. Neither did the breeze brushing across his oversensitized skin, carrying Jimin’s scent—ripe and sweet and maddening—right back into his mouth.

Yoongi gagged on it. Then groaned again, because of course he didn’t actually gag. No. His traitorous fucking alpha brain liked it. Liked the weight of it, the richness, the way it stuck to his tongue like a goddamn addiction.

He glared at Jimin’s sleeping form like it owed him an apology.

“You little feral heat-sponge,” he muttered. “Look at you. Fucking wrecked. And it’s my fault.”

It was. God, it really fucking was. He should’ve walked away. Should’ve knocked Jimin out cold and gone to get Jungkook or Namjoon or someone with enough sense to handle this properly. Not—not—mount the omega against a tree like some glorified hormonal bandit with a grudge.

And now Jimin was full heat. Full fucking heat. And Yoongi was the last alpha dumb enough to be caught in a hundred-yard radius of him, covered in scent, cock still half-hard, brain short-circuited and instincts louder than ever.

He looked down again.

Jimin whimpered softly in his sleep. Legs shifting. Slick still glistening at the inside of his thighs like a goddamn crime scene. The omega’s fingers twitched, hand brushing over his own stomach like he was chasing comfort in his dreams.

Yoongi’s gut twisted.

This wasn’t just an accident anymore. This wasn’t a one-time mistake to be buried under silence. Jimin’s body had committed. He was in it now. His hormones wouldn’t back down, not after that level of contact and stimulation. Not after being pushed past the pre-heat line by an alpha’s scent and weight and—fuck, Yoongi’s teeth.

His eyes dropped to the bite marks. All of them carefully not on the neck or gland, but still angry and red. Shoulder. Hip. The inside of a thigh. One just above the omega’s ribs, right where his body curved in delicate.

Yoongi ran both hands down his face and muttered into his palms, “I should die. I should dig my own grave with my teeth and bury myself in it.”

Because there was no fixing this. Namjoon was going to kill him. Seokjin would resurrect him just to kill him again.

Yoongi stood, finally, dragging himself to his feet like a man escaping his own execution. His legs ached. His back was sore. His jaw hurt—probably from clenching it too hard while trying not to knot.

But he didn’t move away. Didn’t run. Didn’t turn his back. Just hovered near Jimin’s sleeping form, staring at him like he was both a sleeping threat and something Yoongi wasn’t supposed to want.

This was fucked. Messy. Dangerous. And it wasn’t done. Not even close. Because the minute those lashes lifted again, the minute Jimin woke to find Yoongi still near, still scent-drenched, still warm and present, he’d reach out again. And Yoongi didn’t trust himself not to respond.

Not when Jimin’s scent made him ache. Not when his own body was still vibrating with the phantom touch of it all. Not when his damn heart had started to do weird things in his chest the second Jimin whimpered his name during sleep.

He crouched beside the omega again, frowning down at him.

This couldn't go on. The longer that scent clung to either of them, the worse it’d be—politically, hormonally, psychologically. His instincts screamed to keep Jimin close, to scent-mark him all over again until there was no trace of anyone else. But that was the same feral part of him that had already screwed this up once.

He forced himself to move.

"You're lucky you're light, you little shit," Yoongi muttered as he bent and lifted Jimin into his arms, the omega’s bare thighs instinctively curling against his sides. His body was boneless and pliant, barely stirring except to nuzzle closer. Like he wanted to be held. Like Yoongi was safe.

Yoongi's throat closed.

The river wasn’t far—just past the hill where the trees thinned out. He reached it in minutes, the late afternoon light glinting off the slow-moving current. Dropping to his knees at the edge, Yoongi laid Jimin down carefully on a patch of moss, then got to work.

Cold water. Strong-smelling herbs. A fucking guilty conscience. That was the recipe.

He started with Jimin. Pulled the last of the mess off of him gently, though his fingers trembled when they brushed over bruised hips and bitten shoulders. Shame burned through him.

"Sorry," he muttered, voice cracking. Jimin didn’t respond—just whimpered softly in his sleep and pressed his face to his bicep.

Yoongi took a sharp breath, then began scrubbing. He used the minty herb paste from his hunting pouch, grinding it between his palms with river water until the sharp scent overpowered the lingering musk of heat. He lathered it over Jimin’s neck, arms, chest—anywhere Yoongi’s scent had touched. Which was… everywhere.

It took a long time. And the whole time, Jimin just laid there, drifting in and out of hazy, half-lucid heat-sleep. Every now and then he’d sigh and murmur something—nonsense words, sleepy whines—but he didn’t fight it. He let Yoongi dress him again too, slow and careful, one limb at a time. His eyes fluttered open for half a second as Yoongi pulled the hem of the shirt down over his hips, and he gave the smallest nod. Trusting him. Which was worse. So much fucking worse.

Once Jimin was clothed and covered in neutralizing herbs, Yoongi scrubbed himself next—viciously, like he could scour the guilt out of his own pores. His skin burned raw by the time he finished, the peppermint sting just barely dulling the memory of Jimin’s breathy moans against his throat.

He shook his hands off, water dripping from his wrists. Then knelt in front of Jimin, exhaling shakily. "Alright," he said quietly. “Listen, brat.”

Jimin blinked, barely conscious.

“I’m gonna shift now. You stay in your human form and get on my back, alright?”

Jimin blinked again.

Yoongi hesitated. “I’ll take you home. To your pack. I’ll get you to your—Namjoon.” Another long pause. Then a small nod. Barely there, but Yoongi caught it. “You’re gonna be okay,” he said, almost to himself. “I promise.”

He shifted. The world bent around him, bones snapping and reforming as fur exploded across his limbs. Wolf-form came with clarity and wildness, with instincts screaming and senses sharper than knives. But it also came with control. Detachment.

He turned, nudged Jimin once, gently, and the omega clumsily slung himself over Yoongi’s back. Legs hugged his ribs. Arms wrapped around his neck.

Yoongi lowered himself just enough to balance the weight. Then he ran.

The Kim pack border crept closer with every mile, and with it came the scent of home—but not his home. The scent markers were strong. Pine, citrus, deep alpha musk that said: you are not welcome here.

Yoongi crossed anyway.

He was halfway up the slope, weaving through the thick trees, when another scent slammed into him like a freight train.

Namjoon. Alpha. Commanding. Cold. And furious.

Yoongi’s stomach dropped.

The Lee Pack’s head hunter slowed instinctively, paws sinking into the mossy earth just as Namjoon emerged ahead—massive, towering in his wolf form, gold eyes blazing like molten fury. Hackles raised. Posture rigid. A snarl peeled his lips back, all teeth and warning.

Fuck.

Yoongi froze mid-step. Heart pounding.

Namjoon’s gaze locked on Jimin slumped across Yoongi’s back—flushed, unconscious, limbs limp like a broken doll. Then his gaze snapped back to Yoongi, and the growl that tore out of his throat was enough to make Yoongi’s spine curve into a bow.

He dropped low. Belly to the dirt. Tail tucked. Head down.

He whimpered once—high and sharp. Submit. Submit. Submit.

“No harm,” Yoongi tried to say without words. “I brought him back. I didn’t let him die.”

But he had touched him. More than touched. And now his mouth tasted like ash.

Namjoon stalked forward. Circling. Sniffing. His snarl hadn’t faded. Yoongi didn’t dare move. Every cell in his body screamed lie better, lie faster, or die where you crawl.

Finally, Namjoon paused beside Jimin. He nosed him gently, checking scent, pulse, fever. Yoongi could feel the tremor that passed through Namjoon’s massive frame. Could feel the moment the other alpha realized just how close this had come to catastrophe.

Then Jimin stirred, a soft little sound, and whispered, “Appa…”

Yoongi shut his eyes.

That one word unraveled whatever leash Namjoon had on himself—but instead of rage, what followed was cold silence.

“I did no harm,” Yoongi forced out, voice low and wrecked. “I found him alone. His heat came too fast. I neutralized his scent, cleaned him up… I didn’t—I didn’t touch him.”

The lie cracked on his tongue. He felt it tear something on the way out.

Namjoon stared. Hard. For a long, suffocating moment.

Yoongi didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. He couldn’t afford to.

Finally, Namjoon spoke—his voice low and almost unreadable. “Thank you for bringing him home.”

Yoongi nearly collapsed.

Namjoon stepped closer, and with a gentleness Yoongi had no right to witness, lifted Jimin from his back and cradled him against his own. Jimin whimpered faintly, then sighed and buried his face into Namjoon’s thick fur.

Yoongi looked away. Jaw clenched. Throat burning like something had torn loose.

He didn’t wait for more words. Couldn’t. Didn’t want to face Seokjin. Or Jungkook. Didn’t want to answer questions he’d have to lie through.

So he nodded once. Turned. And ran.

The forest blurred. Shame clung to him heavier than blood. And Yoongi didn’t stop until the familiar scent of Lee Pack borders filled his lungs and even that felt like too much.

He didn’t go home. He couldn’t—not when the memory of Jimin’s voice, his hands, his kiss still clung to him like scent-marks. He needed to be alone. He needed to forget the way Jimin had held him like he was safe. Or worse—like he wanted to be his.

Chapter Text

The worst part wasn’t the heat. It was the silence that followed it. The quiet, echoing stillness in his den, after the fevered haze broke, when his body had finally cooled and his mind came crawling back into itself like a wounded animal. The scent of burnt-out pheromones clung to the walls, stale and bitter, but the fire was gone. The ache was gone. The need was gone.

And what was left? Shame. Guilt. Confusion. And Seokjin.

Seokjin had been there, like he always was. From the very beginning, since Jimin’s first heat. It didn’t matter how clingy or snotty Jimin got, or how many times he whimpered for things he didn’t even understand—Seokjin never left. Not once. He fed him, cooled his body down with cold cloths, sat beside him in the long nights when Jimin tossed and sobbed through the fever. He never asked questions during. Never pushed.

Which was why Jimin had known it was coming.

He could feel it—like a thunderstorm rumbling in the distance—every time Seokjin’s eyes lingered too long on the faint purple bruises that still peeked through Jimin’s collar. He hadn’t said a word. Not a single one. But Jin's scent had changed. It was tight. Controlled. Like he was holding something back behind his teeth.

And now? The storm broke.

“Who did it?” Seokjin’s voice was soft. Too soft.

Jimin was curled up on his bed, still too tired to sit up fully, legs wrapped in a blanket and hair a greasy mess he refused to let anyone touch. Seokjin stood at the edge of the room, arms folded across his chest, eyes locked onto the side of Jimin’s neck. The worst bruise had already faded, but it was still there. The ghost of a bite. A claim never made.

Jimin blinked. “Papa, I don’t—”

“Jimin.”

Shit. Shit.

He knew that tone. It was rare. Seokjin didn’t yell, didn’t growl, didn’t snarl like Namjoon did when he was angry. But he had that voice. The one that could cut sharper than any claw.

“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,” Seokjin said calmly. “But I need to know if someone hurt you.”

Jimin’s throat burned. “No,” he whispered. “No, no one hurt me. I swear.”

Seokjin exhaled, but it was through his nose, like he didn’t believe a fucking word.

The silence stretched.

Jimin chewed his lip, then sat up a little, wrapping the blanket tighter around his bare shoulders. “...But you have to swear,” he said finally. “Swear to the fucking moon above, Jin. You can’t tell Namjoon. I mean it. You can’t.”

Seokjin narrowed his eyes. “Jimin—”

“Swear,” Jimin begged, eyes wet, heart pounding. “Please. I’m serious. If you love me, you’ll swear it.”

There it was. The brat-card. Jimin rarely pulled it—not with this. But Seokjin froze, mouth twisting, and then finally, he gave a stiff nod. “I swear. I won’t tell Namjoon.”

Jimin closed his eyes. Inhaled. Then let the words tumble out. “It was Yoongi.”

He heard the stillness before he saw it. Like the air in the den froze.

“Yoongi,” Seokjin repeated, too slowly. “Min Yoongi?”

“Yeah,” Jimin muttered, tucking his face into his knees. “Head hunter Yoongi. Lee Pack’s grumpy bastard. That one.”

Seokjin said nothing.

So Jimin kept going. “My heat wasn’t until next week and so I wasn’t prepared for it and my head was all fucked up and I was on the woods alone when it hit me. And he—he found me.”

Another long pause.

“Found you,” Seokjin repeated flatly. “And then?”

Jimin sighed. “Then it got complicated.”

Seokjin’s scent was shifting now. Slowly, but violently. From faint soap and calm rain, to rising ozone. The kind that rolled in just before lightning struck.

“He took care of me,” Jimin went on, voice small. “He didn’t force me, okay? He actually tried to leave. Twice. But I wouldn’t let him. He… he stayed. And it happened. We… did things. A lot of things. And then he cleaned me up and brought me home.”

Seokjin blinked slowly. Then turned and walked to the other side of the den. For a moment, Jimin thought he was leaving. Then Seokjin slammed his fist into the wall. The whole fucking structure rattled.

Jimin jumped. “J—Jin?!”

“That absolute shit-bastard, no-good, flea-infested rotten-tongued mutt—!”

“Whoa!” Jimin scrambled back on the bed. “Okay, whoa, calm down—”

“Calm down?! Jimin, are you fucking kidding me?! He’s a Lee. He’s their head hunter. He’s twice your size and he found you unconscious in heat—do you have any idea how illegal this could be?! How fucked—?!”

“I told you! He didn’t hurt me!”

“I don’t give a fuck! He shouldn’t have touched you at all!” Seokjin’s face was flushed with fury, scent spiking into sharp, protective omega panic. “That fucking lee-blooded bottom-feeder. I will gut him. I will peel his skin off his bones and braid it into the Lee Pack border markers.”

Jimin's mouth fell open. “You’re—you’re cursing. You never curse.”

Seokjin’s eyes were wild. “This is me restrained, Jimin. If Namjoon finds out, there will be war.”

“There won’t be war—”

“Do you think Namjoon will let that fucking alpha breathe another day when he finds out his baby—his spoiled, bratty baby omega—got fucked stupid by a Lee on enemy land?”

Jimin flinched. “It wasn’t like that—”

“It was exactly like that, and I’m going to kill him—”

“No, you’re not!”

“I’m going to make his death slow—”

“Seokjin!”

Seokjin stopped, chest heaving, hand still clenched in a fist. His scent filled the whole den now. A storm of furious lavender and bitter herbs. Rage like Jimin had never seen on his papa’s face before.

“I love you,” Jimin whispered, lip wobbling. “But you can’t tell Namjoon. You promised.”

Seokjin stared at him. Long and hard. Then exhaled through his nose. “We’re going to talk about this again when you’re not coming off heat.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re a goddamn disaster with bite marks and a half-bonded scent. You smell like regret and sex and stupid decisions.”

Jimin scowled. “You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m an omega, of course I’m dramatic!”

That, at least, made Jimin crack a weak smile. He curled deeper into his blanket pile, tucking his face down.

Seokjin sighed and rubbed his face. “...Enemies with benefits,” he muttered. “That’s what this is?”

“I don’t know what the fuck this is,” Jimin said honestly. “He pisses me off and I want to climb him like a tree.”

Seokjin made a strangled sound. “I hate this timeline.”

Jimin closed his eyes. He didn’t know what came next. But he knew Yoongi wasn’t done with him. And he sure as hell wasn’t done with Yoongi.

By the time Seokjin left with a long-suffering groan and a muttered “I need wine,” the house had gone quiet again. Jimin stayed curled on the nest until the silence started to itch.

Eventually, he dragged himself to the bath.

The water wasn’t hot enough. Jimin sat with his knees pulled to his chest in the old stone tub, surrounded by steam and milky water, skin wrinkled and lips pouting as if he was personally offended that the week had happened at all.

Which, to be clear—he was.

Because what the actual fuck.

A whole week. Eight days. Lost to the blur of heat and haze and Yoongi’s fucking scent in his hair. Jimin had scrubbed himself raw twice already and still he could smell it.

That earthy, pine-heavy, smoke-and-musk scent—carved into the walls of his brain like claw marks.

"Gross," he muttered, voice echoing against the stone. "Fucking bastard stench-ass mongrel alpha."

He slapped water over his shoulder like that would help rinse away the ghost of teeth. Or the fucking memory of how he’d begged, of how he’d nuzzled into Yoongi’s chest and kissed his neck like some desperate little heat-drunk pup—

“Ughhhhhh,” he whined out loud, kicking one foot out of the water in frustration. “Why is the universe so fucking rude.”

His heat was over. His dignity, however, was still missing in action.

Jimin leaned his head back against the edge of the tub with a dramatic sigh, lips jutting into a pout so sharp it could slice through bark. “He’s gonna pay for this,” he mumbled. “That stupid, slow-witted, emotionally stunted, growly-eyed tree stump of an alpha—I’ll make him choke on my tail feathers. If I had tail feathers.”

He paused. Then added, “Thank the Moon I don’t have tail feathers. I’d never be able to accessorize.”

Another splash echoed through the bathroom as he sank lower, just his eyes and wet lashes peeking above the surface like a grumpy swamp creature.

The water was still warm, but the haze of scent that lingered from the heat—faint sweetness, lingering slick, burned-out pheromones—was only just starting to fade. It clung stubbornly to his skin, like shame. Like memory.

And so he reached for the lavender soap that Seokjin made him use even though it made his skin feel squeaky, and started scrubbing again.

He would be clean. Clean like a mountain spring. Clean like innocence. Clean like he hadn’t spent the last week moaning about an alpha while wrapped up like a heat-starved brat.

He would reclaim his title as the prettiest, smartest, most vicious omega hunter in the entire Kim pack. Damn it.

By the time he stumbled back into the den, towel wrapped dramatically around his waist, hair damp and clinging to his forehead, Jimin was exhausted. And also in the mood to manipulate the fuck out of Seokjin.

Seokjin was perched on the bedding, arms crossed, mouth tight like he was still debating whether or not to murder Yoongi in broad daylight with a soup ladle. His scent was calmer now—still tense, but not as explosively homicidal. That was progress.

Jimin blinked at him with wide, innocent eyes, then shuffled over in small steps like his legs were still weak (they weren’t).

“Papa,” he said softly, voice all sugar and baby powder, “do you still love me?”

Seokjin blinked.

Jimin took that as permission. He flopped dramatically into the blankets next to him, practically crawling into Seokjin’s lap like a needy housecat, towel be damned. “I’m all clean now,” he sniffled. “Smell me. I smell like your soap. Not like… other things.”

Seokjin tried very hard to keep his frown.

Failed.

Jimin batted his lashes, nudging his nose into Seokjin’s neck, letting out the faintest little purring sound in his throat that always made Seokjin melt. “I missed you when I was all messed up in my dumb heat brain,” he added. “I wanted to cuddle with you so bad but I didn’t wanna make you smell gross things.”

“You’re such a manipulative little bastard,” Seokjin whispered, but his arms came around him anyway, pulling him close.

“I know,” Jimin sighed, clinging. “But I’m your manipulative little bastard.”

Seokjin huffed a laugh against his temple. “You're disgusting.”

“I’m adorable.”

“You smell like heat-wreckage and denial.”

Jimin tilted his chin up. “But make it fashion.”

Seokjin laughed—finally, properly—and that was when Jimin knew: mission accomplished.

-

The next morning, Jimin could feel it. That restless, itchy, boiling sensation under his skin. Not heat. Not yet. But freedom. Energy. He needed out.

So the second the sun crested the trees, painting the dirt paths gold, Jimin shot out of the den like a sleek, moisturized missile, eyes gleaming, pheromones bright and sugar-sweet with joy.

“I’m alive!” he announced to no one.

The village felt different after a week inside. The air was crisp, and smelled like bark and food and home and pack. Smoke curled from cooking fires. Omega children were darting between huts, giggling. Hunters passed by with bows slung over their backs and the scent of pine in their hair.

He could smell Namjoon before he saw him—heavy and grounding. Jimin ran across the open path and threw himself onto the Pack Alpha with all the force of a spoiled cannonball.

“APPA!”

Namjoon grunted, catching him midair like he’d been braced for it, even though he clearly wasn’t.

“You’re up early,” he muttered, but his hand found Jimin’s back immediately, warm and steady.

“I missed you! I missed your big scary scent and your grumpy eyebrows and even your lectures about discipline and maturity that I totally never listen to—”

“Clearly.”

“—and also? I’m healthy now. Like super healthy. Like ready-to-hunt healthy. So, Appa—can I go hunting? Right now?”

Namjoon raised one dark brow. “Absolutely not.”

Jimin gasped like he’d been stabbed. “Why?! I’m perfectly fine! Ask Papa! I took a bath!”

Namjoon’s eyes narrowed. “That’s the bare minimum for existing in this house, not a reason to be trusted with hunting taks.”

“Appaaaa—!”

A second scent approached—Jungkook. Jimin’s savior.

“Jungkook,” Jimin wheeled on him, grabbing his arm, “tell Appa I’m ready to hunt. Look, I can even do flips again.”

“I’m not sure flips are part of the job requirement—”

“LOOK!”

Jimin dropped to the ground, did a slightly crooked somersault, and sprang up with both arms in the air like he was a wolf-gymnastics gold medalist.

Jungkook blinked. “...You’re gonna pull something.”

“I pulled your heartstrings, admit it.”

“You’re a menace.”

“You love me.”

Jungkook sighed and turned to Namjoon. “...Let him go on a short hunt. Just the outer ridges. I’ll go with him.”

Namjoon looked between them—one tired, overworked Head Hunter, and one wide-eyed, freshly-bathed menace with clasped hands and a face like a kicked pup.

“No,” he said flatly.

Jimin whimpered. Real, actual whimpering. He pressed his hands together tighter. His lower lip trembled. His eyes sparkled like he was auditioning for a tragic stage play titled The Omega Who Was Never Allowed Outside Again.

Namjoon groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fine. Short hunt. Outer ridge only. And if you so much as sweat weird, I’m dragging you back by the scruff so fast your scent glands will reverse.”

Jimin screamed in triumph and immediately threw himself onto Jungkook’s back. “Let’s go let’s go let’s go—!”

“Wait—Jimin—are you even wearing boots—?!”

“Nope! Nature will kiss my feet!”

“You’re impossible!”

“I’m reborn!”

Jungkook rolled his eyes and hoisted him up higher. “Get your ass in gear, moonchild. You’ve got ten minutes before Namjoon changes his mind.”

Jimin didn’t need telling twice.

By the time they hit the edge of the trees, both had shifted—one sleek cream streak of omega speed, and one black-shadow blur of alpha muscle, tearing through the underbrush like the gods had flung them loose.

Jimin ran like wildfire. Paws pounding across damp earth, his lungs sucked in the sharp air, rich with moss and cold bark and prey. Every stride echoed through his bones like thunder—pure instinct, no thought, just hunt. His golden coat gleamed beneath the dapples of afternoon light, legs stretching long as he leapt over gnarled roots and snapped branches behind him.

This. This was what his body had ached for while buried in blankets and heat-scents and guilt. The wind in his fur. The speed. The way his heart beat like war drums and his mind—finally—shut the hell up.

Jungkook flanked him, silent and fast. They moved like two pieces of a broken storm—chaotic, untouchable. Brothers in instinct, if not blood.

“We’re too far, Jimin!” Jungkook barked, teeth flashing. “This isn’t the outer ridge anymore—Namjoon’ll rip my spine out through my ass!”

Jimin didn't slow. Didn’t even think of slowing.

“Then you better run faster, dumbass,” Jimin shot back without turning around. “We’re hunting, not tiptoeing around like timid squirrels. Grow a dick.”

Jungkook snarled, frustrated, but still followed. He always followed.

The scent of the deer was getting thicker—earthy and rich, trembling with fear. Jimin’s muscles bunched. He’d already picked his target, a young buck near the stream just below. Idiot thing was limping slightly, separated from the herd. Perfect. He crouched low in the tall grass, tail twitching behind him. His breath steadied, paws adjusting minutely in the dirt. Focus narrowing. Ready to strike.

And then it happened. A blur of black fur crashed from the trees just beyond, fast as a shadow and twice as smug. The buck shrieked and scattered—and the blur took it down in one smooth, brutal move.

Jimin stopped breathing.

He watched in seething, disbelieving rage as the bastard clamped his fucking teeth around his deer’s neck—his kill—and twisted with practiced ease. Blood scented the air. Hot. Metallic. Final.

“You have got to be shitting me.”

Jungkook skidded to a halt beside him. “Shit.” He was panting. “We’re not supposed to be this close to the border, Jimin, and he—shit, that’s Yoongi.”

It was Yoongi.

Of course it was.

Fucking Min Yoongi. Head hunter of the Lee pack. Annoying, brooding, emotionally constipated asshole with a superiority complex the size of the moon and a stupidly smug face Jimin wanted to slap with a brick. Or a tree. Or both.

The black alpha stood over the twitching body of the deer like some triumphant dark god, muzzle stained with blood, hackles raised in dominance. His scent punched through the clearing like a territorial mark—intense and musky, like pine smoke and iron and unearned arrogance. Jimin’s fur bristled, the scent making something snarl low in his chest, a confusing mess of shame and memory and white-hot fury.

That scent had been all over him last week. All through his heat. Burned into his skin.

“That’s my kill, you flea-bitten knothead!” Jimin snarled, lurching forward before Jungkook could stop him.

Yoongi didn’t even flinch. The older alpha calmly looked up, bloodied muzzle still pressed to the warm carcass. Then, ever so slowly, he blinked. “Then maybe you should’ve caught it faster, princess.”

“I was about to pounce, you limp-dicked deer thief!” Jimin growled, fur flaring along his spine as he bared his teeth. “Go suck on a cactus, you scent-drunk, heat-fucking leech!”

Yoongi’s ears twitched. His lip curled slightly in the barest hint of a smirk. “Your insults are getting more creative.”

“And your face is still a crime against the moon.”

“You talk a lot of shit for someone who couldn't keep their tongue to themselves last week.”

Jimin snapped. He lunged before Jungkook could blink, paws colliding hard against Yoongi’s side with a snarl that could’ve split trees. They rolled through the clearing in a snarling tangle of fur and claws and bloodstained teeth. Yoongi matched him bite for bite, strength coiled and precise, but Jimin was fueled by rage—by a week of fever and shame and Yoongi’s scent filling places it never should’ve touched.

He wanted to tear something. Scratch the smirk off his fucking soul. Bite until Yoongi hurt as much as he did.

“You—stupid—fucking—alpha—dickforbrains—pisslicker—!” he shouted with every snap of his teeth, every rake of his claws.

“You kissed me,” Yoongi growled back mid-tackle, throwing Jimin off with a shove of his hind legs. “You fucking kissed me, you insane heat-soaked omega—”

“I wasn’t thinking straight!”

They slammed into each other again, tangling in a heap of growls and grunts. Jimin bit at his neck—not hard enough to break skin, just enough to mark. Yoongi twisted and shoved him down, panting hard against his ear.

“Then stop thinking now.”

Jimin went still. Chest heaving. Fur bristling. He could feel Yoongi’s scent coiling around them like smoke. Wrapping his ribs. Sliding under his skin like poison and warmth all at once.

It made his stomach twist. His brain short-circuit. His claws trembled in the dirt. He hated him. He hated Yoongi so much.

But he didn’t move. Couldn’t. Not until Jungkook finally stepped in, teeth snapping, dragging Jimin back by the scruff.

“Enough!” the younger alpha barked, dragging Jimin off like a furious babysitter. “Are you trying to get kicked out of the pack?! Namjoon’s gonna kill me—kill me—if he finds out you fought a Lee on neutral ground!”

Jimin struggled in his grip, fur still puffed, chest burning. “Let me go! I’m not done with that jackass!”

Yoongi was already back on his paws, stalking off like nothing fucking happened. He didn’t even look back. Just flicked his tail like a smug bastard and walked away with his kill.

“Next time,” he called over his shoulder, “try hunting in your own territory, brat.”

Jimin was seething. No—fuck that. Seething was too polite. Jimin was one snapped nerve away from committing an act of territorial war and proudly pissing on Yoongi's face like a rabid skunk. Every muscle in his wolf body twitched with the sheer effort of not biting Jungkook, who was still trying to herd him back toward safer borders like Jimin was some confused pup who couldn’t tell north from his own asshole.

“Jimin, seriously—enough,” Jungkook growled behind him, practically dragging his paws. “We’re going back. Right fucking now. You can scream at Yoongi later—like, from behind Namjoon’s back, preferably—”

“Shut up before I chew your tail off,” Jimin snapped, not even bothering to look at him.

His ears were pressed flat. His tail whipped like a pissed-off banner behind him. He could still smell Yoongi—still feel him on his fur, that smug, rich pine-and-smoke stink clinging like filth. Worse, it was under his skin. Everywhere. That sharp, controlled alpha scent—steady and slow-burning like it knew exactly how to undo him, make his instincts itch, remind his body what it felt like when—NOPE. Not thinking about that. Not again.

Jimin snarled at the treeline and kept walking, faster now. He didn’t care that they were practically straddling the borderlands. He didn’t care if a Lee patrol sniffed them and sent a fucking hunting party. He didn’t care if Namjoon tracked his scent all the way back and smacked him straight into next week.

Because Yoongi had stolen his kill. Again. And Jimin was going to kill him for it. Or worse—talk to him. And that would be truly unforgivable.

The forest opened up ahead. Sunlight slanted golden across patches of fern and soft ground, and just as Jimin was about to launch into another mental insult-laden tirade, a new scent hit his nose. Prey. Fresh. Close.

“Don’t,” Jungkook warned behind him.

Jimin didn’t answer. He was already moving. Fast and low, wind whispering past his fur. The trail was crisp and recent—rabbit, maybe. No, deer again. Smaller this time. Probably a yearling. Just enough meat for a proper kill. Just enough to reclaim his goddamn pride.

He spotted it a breath later. A young doe near a brush of tall reeds, head down, pawing gently at the dirt. It hadn’t scented him yet. Jimin’s paws slowed. Every step deliberate. Controlled. This time, no one would steal his shot. This time, he was going to win.

He crouched low, muscles singing. Three... two... And then—snap. A blur of black. Again. Jimin could barely process it. The deer let out a strangled sound and crumpled instantly, taken down by a devastating snap of jaws and speed that should not have been possible.

Jimin stood there, frozen mid-pounce. His heart went dead quiet. And then began to explode.

“Are you fucking kidding me?!”

Yoongi lifted his head from the fresh corpse like a goddamn horror movie villain, muzzle soaked, chest heaving, and scent rampaging across the clearing like he owned the earth. Jimin’s brain short-circuited. He was seeing red—red like blood, red like embarrassment, red like rage and pheromones and whatever the hell Yoongi had done to him last week to make him still feel this unbalanced.

Behind him, Jungkook skidded to a stop, winded and panicked. “Jimin—no. No. Don’t—don’t fucking do it—!”

But it was too late. Jimin launched. He slammed into Yoongi like a meteor falling from heaven. They rolled through the underbrush in a tumble of snarls and claws, Jimin spitting curses and baring his teeth like a demon.

“You absolute fucking piss-scented deer-thieving cockroach!” he shrieked, trying to bite Yoongi’s ear. “That was mine! That was mine, you overgrown furball freak!”

Yoongi grunted under him, body tensed, but his goddamn smirk was back.

“Gotta be quicker than that, sweetheart,” he drawled through the link, and Jimin’s whole body tried to combust.

“Don’t call me that!”

Jimin bit—hard, jaw locking against the thick muscle just under Yoongi’s shoulder, not enough to wound but definitely enough to mark. The scent of his own fury mixed with Yoongi’s musky, infuriating calm, coiling like smoke and something dirtier.

And then Yoongi moved. He flipped them with brutal efficiency, shoving Jimin’s chest to the ground and bracing his weight over him, not enough to pin but way too close for someone who was supposed to be fighting, not grinding. Jimin’s back legs kicked at the air, furious, but Yoongi just leaned down—until their muzzles were almost touching.

Their scents collided. Electric. Charged. Jimin could smell himself on Yoongi’s tongue. He hated that he knew that scent. His whole body lit up like a mating flare, angry and aroused and burning in the worst, most humiliating cocktail of need and kill-the-alpha. His hips twitched without his permission, betraying him, and Yoongi’s gaze darkened.

“Still not thinking straight, huh?” Yoongi said low, voice like gravel and sex and smug disaster.

Jimin snapped his teeth—missed by a hair. “Still hiding that knot you begged to put in me, bastard?” he snarled back, every word dripping venom.

Yoongi froze for half a second. And then—growled. Not a warning. Not a threat. It was possessive. And Jimin’s breath hitched.

Behind them, Jungkook let out a strangled howl of sheer desperation. “WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING?! STOP IT—STOP IT—”

Yoongi didn’t move.

Jimin’s chest heaved under him, heart slamming in erratic, confused bursts. His mind was screaming, his body was thrumming, and for one terrible second, he thought he might actually lean in. Might actually press their muzzles together. Might—No. NO.

Jimin shoved him off with a furious burst of strength, hackles bristling, tail up, teeth bared.

“This means war,” he spat, voice like broken glass. “You thieving, rut-drunk, deer-humping maggot. I swear on the moon—next time you touch my prey, I’ll chew your balls off and wear them as fucking earrings.”

Yoongi just licked his teeth slowly. Smiling. “Looking forward to it.”

Jimin shrieked with rage. And maybe a little bit of something else he would rather die than admit.

Jungkook, trembling and wide-eyed, just collapsed onto the dirt with a broken whine. “I’m gonna fucking die. Namjoon’s gonna kill me. I’m gonna die because you two decided to fight at the border. I hate my life.”

Jimin ignored him. His eyes were still locked with Yoongi’s. Still burning. Still wanting. And the war had only just begun.

Jimin was already vibrating with rage, but then that smug bastard—that thief of prey, dignity, and apparently all functioning brain cells—had the fucking audacity to smirk wider and say:

"Face it, princess. You’re just not built to finish the job."

And that—That was it. That was fucking it. Every last shred of control Jimin had—snapped. Just snapped. It disintegrated like spit on hot stone, and before Yoongi could so much as blink, Jimin lunged with every ounce of fury roaring through his body.

He slammed into the alpha’s chest like a falling boulder, teeth bared in a feral snarl, and this time it wasn’t some territorial scuffle or horny push-pull of pheromones and snarled flirtation.

This was war. Real, brutal, blood-soaked war.

Jimin sunk his fangs into the muscle of Yoongi’s shoulder without hesitation, hard enough to draw blood—hot and coppery, flooding his mouth, dripping over his tongue, and he bit down harder just to taste more of it. To hurt.

Yoongi roared—snarled with an alpha’s wrath, and Jimin didn’t give a single shit. He wanted the fury. He wanted the fight. If Yoongi thought he could talk down to him, mark him with that scent, steal his kill, and then mock him like some beta mutt in heat, he had another thing coming.

Jimin kicked out with his hind legs, caught Yoongi in the gut, and the bigger alpha was momentarily knocked back. Jimin followed him into the dirt, jaws snapping, claws raking.

“Finish this, asshole,” he snarled, voice trembling with fury, “I dare you.”

Yoongi didn’t hesitate. He matched him.

They rolled, clawing, biting, tearing at each other like wild animals. Because they were. They were more scent and rage than reason now, pheromones slamming into the clearing like a stormcloud, sharp with blood and heat and the kind of tangled instinct that had nothing to do with territory and everything to do with unresolved tension clawing its way through their skin.

Yoongi got his jaw around Jimin’s side and bit, hard enough to draw a yelp from him—more surprise than pain, but it hurt. Jimin twisted beneath him, slammed his shoulder into the alpha’s chest, and finally got enough leverage to flip him again.

“Come on, you cock-brained caveman!” he howled, eyes wild. “You think I’m weak?! I’ll fucking rip your tongue out and shove it up your ass sideways!”

Yoongi laughed. Laughed. Even with blood in his teeth. “At least I’d still be tasting you, baby.”

Jimin screamed. He launched again, going for the throat this time, and Yoongi met him.

They collided like a thunderclap, teeth clashing, growls so loud the trees seemed to shudder. Jimin’s vision narrowed to fur, muscle, the overwhelming scent of Yoongi—ash and pine and blood, mixed with a heat-soaked pheromone that made Jimin’s body betray him even now. Even now, when he was trying to murder the bastard.

He hated how good Yoongi smelled. He hated how his body remembered that scent, how it ached around it, how it sang some buried, stupid omega song in his chest that made him want to bite harder, dig in deeper, until Yoongi couldn’t tell where Jimin’s scent ended and his began.

No. No.

Jimin shoved that thought out of his skull like rot and bit Yoongi’s ear, tearing it halfway. He wanted screaming. He wanted the taste of dominance. He wanted Yoongi to submit, to suffer, to—

A howl pierced the chaos.

“STOP IT! BOTH OF YOU!! I SWEAR TO THE FUCKING MOON, I WILL DRAG YOU BOTH BY THE SCRUFF TO NAMJOON AND LET HIM NEUTER YOU!!”

Jimin barely heard Jungkook anymore.

Yoongi snarled under him, claws raking across Jimin’s flank, drawing a shallow line of blood that stung—made Jimin snarl back, foaming with red, vision swimming.

Jungkook charged them, this time physically yanking Jimin back by the scruff of his neck with a desperate grip, pinning him down with his full alpha weight.

“Jimin, please!” he barked, panting, furious. “You’re bleeding. Yoongi’s bleeding. You’re both out of your fucking minds!”

Jimin thrashed, kicking, claws still reaching toward where Yoongi lay in the dirt, bruised and blood-slick, but grinning like the sick little feral bastard he was.

“Let me go! Let me go! I swear I’ll rip his knot off and toss it to the crows!”

“You are not fighting him!” Jungkook snapped.

The clearing stank of blood, sweat, and fury. Pheromones hung like smoke—spiked with want, ruin, and something dangerous. Something hot. Something forbidden.

Jimin shook beneath Jungkook, panting, trembling, burning. He locked eyes with Yoongi again. This wasn’t over. Not even fucking close.

Jimin was seething. Still pinned under Jungkook’s heavy, panting body, his limbs twitching with leftover adrenaline, his mind a chaotic storm of insults, regret, and a deeply inappropriate ache that wouldn’t shut up no matter how hard he tried to shove it down.

Yoongi stood a few feet away now, blood trickling down the torn edge of his ear, one shoulder bruised and slick where Jimin had bitten him—properly, deeply—and that fucker still had the nerve to smirk like he’d won something. That damned wolf didn’t even look winded. Just smug.

Jungkook growled low in warning and jerked his chin. “Back off, Yoongi. I swear to Moon if you so much as smirk again, I’ll throw your entire dumb ass across the border myself.”

Yoongi didn’t smirk this time. He grinned, tongue swiping the blood from the corner of his lip, eyes glinting as he met Jimin’s.

Jimin snarled from under Jungkook. He wanted to lunge. He wanted to claw that look off Yoongi’s stupid, infuriatingly hot face and maybe bite that neck until—

“Go,” Jungkook barked again, louder now.

And—miracle of fucking miracles—Yoongi actually turned.

His scent lingered though. Spiced smoke and pine and that underlying molten thing that always made Jimin’s omega instincts want to curl and press and bite. It drifted on the breeze as Yoongi padded off in wolf form, tail flicking once in final, shameless mockery, and Jimin had never wanted to punt someone directly into the sun more.

“Fuck,” Jimin spat when he finally stopped trembling enough to speak. “Let me go, Koo.”

Jungkook growled. “Not a fucking chance.”

And then he grabbed Jimin’s scruff between his wolf jaws, and dragged him like a misbehaving pup.

“HEY! Jungkook! JUNGKOOK!!” Jimin flailed, twisting in a fury, tail low and ears pinned. “I swear to Moon, if you don’t let me go right fucking— OW! Don’t tug like that!”

But Jungkook wasn’t listening. His scent was one long rope of angry alpha reprimand, and even if Jimin squirmed and twisted and kicked, he was no match for Jungkook’s brute strength and terrifying moral compass.

This was it. This was how he died. Not from Yoongi’s teeth, not from blood loss, not even from emotional damage—but from humiliation.

Jungkook shifted back once they reached the forest’s edge, then grabbed Jimin—who had reluctantly, bitterly shifted to human form—and hauled him upright by the elbow like some disobedient child.

“You’re so fucking dead,” Jungkook growled.

Jimin blinked, still catching his breath. “...What?”

“I’m telling Namjoon.”

Jimin’s soul left his body. “No. Koo. Koo. My sweet, muscly angel, you wouldn’t. You couldn’t.” Jimin latched onto his arm like a limp noodle, dragging his weight. “Koko! Please don’t! I’ll do anything—literally anything!”

“I know, and that’s exactly why I’m telling him.” Jungkook shoved him forward with a grunt. “You nearly killed Yoongi!”

“Good, he fucking deserved it!”

“You bit his ear off.”

“Just a bit of it!”

“You were snarling like a feral heat-drunk rogue, Jimin!”

“He started it!”

Jungkook stopped in his tracks, turned, and gave him the look. The infamous head-hunter ‘You Are Not Getting Away With This Shit’ look that made even pack omegas shut up and stand straighter.

Jimin wilted like a kicked mushroom.

“Koo, I’m serious, please don’t tell Namjoon,” he whispered, voice suddenly small. “He’ll ground me for weeks. He won’t let me go out again. He’ll make me stay at their den forever.”

“Namjoon will be the least of your problems,” Jungkook snapped. “Do you know what it looks like, Jimin?! You and Yoongi fighting like that? Covered in bite marks?!”

Jimin flushed. “They’re battle wounds.”

“They’re sex-coded, you idiot!”

“NO THEY’RE NOT!”

Jungkook groaned like he was in actual pain. “Do you even think before you throw yourself on him in front of the whole damn forest?! The scent you were putting off—Moon above, I’m lucky Taehyung didn’t come down here with a mating blanket and a fucking bell!”

Jimin’s face burned so hard it could’ve powered a forge. “That is not what was happening!”

Jungkook pinched the bridge of his nose like he was begging the spirits for strength. “Namjoon’s gonna kill me for letting this happen.”

“Sweet Jungkookie,” Jimin tried again, turning on the full omega charm with pouty lips and big watery eyes, “Koko, you wouldn’t rat out your dearest childhood friend, would you? Your most beloved cuddle buddy? Your prettiest packmate with the softest hair?”

Jungkook glared.

Jimin blinked. Flashed some lashes. Clung to his arm like a koala.

“...You’re such a manipulative little brat.”

“And you love me, so please don’t tell him,” Jimin whispered with trembling, pitiful sincerity. “Please, Koo. Seokjin will cry. You know he will. He’ll cry and then he’ll guilt Namjoon into making me do chores. Chores, Jungkook. With my delicate omega hands.”

Jungkook growled. Not angry, just done. Fully cooked, seared on both sides, and ready to yeet Jimin into a time-out cave.

“I should have left you in the fucking dirt,” he muttered.

Jimin sniffled. “But you didn’t.”

“And that’s my first mistake.”

They crested the rise of the village then, huts sprawling below them in neat rows, smoke curling from hearths. The scent of home hit them both like a blanket—fresh bread, clean grass, pups playing in the dust. And beneath it all, sharp and unmistakable, the comforting scent of Alpha Namjoon. Calm, authoritative. Always there.

Jimin swallowed hard.

If Namjoon saw the scratches. The blood. The bite marks—Oh no. Oh fuck.

“Okay, okay, maybe I was a little feral,” Jimin mumbled as Jungkook started dragging him down the hill. “Maybe just...slightly out of line. A bit. But you know, understandably. He stole my prey. Again. That’s psychological warfare.”

“You tried to kill him, Jimin.”

“I almost succeeded!”

“THAT’S NOT A WIN!”

Jimin whimpered. “Please don’t tell Namjoon.”

“You can beg all you want. He’ll smell the blood anyway.”

“Maybe if I roll in flowers?! Or dirt? Mud? Shit, I’ll roll in shit!”

“You are absolutely not rolling in shit.”

“You’re heartless.”

“You’re insane.”

They reached the village gate.

Jimin dug his heels into the dirt, wild-eyed. “Wait. Wait wait wait—I need to plan my apology. I need to cry. I need to look pitiful!”

“You already do,” Jungkook said without missing a beat, yanking him forward again. “Start rehearsing your ‘I’m sorry I acted like a rabid raccoon’ speech now.”

Jimin should’ve run. Should’ve thrown himself off the nearest hill and let the Moon decide his fate. Should’ve wrestled Jungkook into the river or faked a seizure or bitten his own tongue off before they reached Namjoon’s den.

Because sweet Koo. Adorable Koko. His precious dumbass Jungkookie, his sunshine musclehead who once carried him four miles when he twisted his ankle crying about a ruined manicure, had dragged him right to the Alpha den with all the gentleness of a mother bear throwing her brat cub into a river.

Jimin could hardly breathe, stumbling behind Jungkook like a prisoner being marched to his own public execution. His ankle throbbed from being dragged, his shoulder ached, and there was still dried blood in the corner of his mouth. His lip was split. His neck burned from where Yoongi’s teeth had clearly sunk in way harder than necessary. The nerve of that smug, pine-scented piece of shit—

But none of that mattered now. Because Jungkook had already fucking knocked on the den post. And Kim Namjoon’s scent was heavy in the air. Dominant. Furious. Like a thunderstorm pressed into a scent—ozone and snapped wood and crackling tension that made Jimin’s omega instincts scream danger danger danger. The alpha’s anger hit before the door even opened, rolling in waves that made Jimin’s knees buckle slightly.

“Koo,” Jimin whispered, clawing at Jungkook’s arm. “Koo, please, I can explain. I can lie. I can manipulate. I can be good. Let me talk first. Let me talk first—”

Too late.

The door opened. And Namjoon was standing there. Not seated. Not reading. Not sipping tea with his glasses on and that soft ‘talk to me’ tone. Standing. Which was so much worse.

Jimin froze.

Namjoon’s eyes flicked once over Jimin—bloody clothes, wild hair, visible scratches—and then slowly moved to Jungkook.

Jungkook didn’t even blink. “He fought Head Hunter Min Yoongi.”

Fucking betrayal. He fucking OUTED HIM. The traitor. The two-faced, muscle-brained, sweet-voiced bastard actually did it.

“What?” Namjoon’s voice was low and cold. Too cold.

Jungkook kept going, unbothered by Jimin’s nails digging into his arm. “On neutral grounds. Jimin crossed the river. Picked a fight. Bit his shoulder and his fucking ear. Drew real blood, Namjoon. Enough blood to start a war.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

“Namjoon,” Jimin cut in, stepping forward and tripping slightly over his own feet. “I—I didn’t start it. I swear, he stole my prey! Twice! And then he tried to bait me, and I—”

“You crossed the border.” Namjoon’s voice was razor-sharp.

Jimin flinched. “Only barely. Like, a paw-length—”

“You attacked the Head Hunter of the Lee Pack.”

“He fought me back! Look—” Jimin tugged down his ripped collar, revealing red gashes across his chest and one nasty bruise along his ribs. “See?! He bit me too. My face is literally ruined.”

Namjoon’s eyes narrowed. “You think that justifies—”

“Appa,” Jimin whispered desperately, his voice starting to shake. “Appa, please don’t be mad. I didn’t mean for it to go that far. He—he was being such a dick! And you know I can’t let him get away with that—he always thinks he’s better, and he’s not, he’s a smug, twig-legged, permanently constipated bastard—”

“Jimin.”

Namjoon’s voice snapped across the den like a whip.

Jimin’s mouth slammed shut.

“You crossed into enemy territory. You disobeyed every single hunting protocol. You endangered yourself, your entire pack, and you mutilated another pack’s head hunter.”

Namjoon stepped closer, and for the first time in a long time, Jimin realized how tall his alpha was. How the den suddenly felt a little smaller. How Jin’s scent of calming herbs was completely overwhelmed by the fire and smoke pouring off of Namjoon’s skin.

“You bit off part of his ear, Jimin.”

“He’ll live,” Jimin muttered.

“Do you want us to live?!” Namjoon roared.

Jimin stumbled back.

“Do you have any idea what Lee Jiyeon could do with that? What message that sends? You—!” Namjoon jabbed a finger toward his chest. “You, an omega, unprovoked, attacking her head hunter?! That’s not a fight. That’s an act of war.”

“I wasn’t unprovoked!” Jimin cried, voice high and cracking. “He—he deserved it! And I’m bleeding too! Look at my arm, it’s gushing! And my ankle’s probably broken, and—and Jungkook dragged me like a sack of rice, he didn’t even carry me like a proper friend—”

“Don’t drag me into this again,” Jungkook said flatly.

Namjoon exhaled hard through his nose, pacing like a caged beast. His pheromones were blazing now, thick with fury, and Jimin’s stomach turned with guilt so real it made him dizzy.

“Appa…” he tried again, soft and trembling this time. “Joonie… Namu…”

“Don’t,” Namjoon snapped, and Jimin flinched like he’d been hit.

Actual tears stung his eyes now. Not the dramatic, flutter-lash ones he used to get out of etiquette lessons. Real ones. His hands curled into fists, nails digging into his palms.

“I was just—” his voice cracked again, this time beyond repair. “I just… I didn’t think. I didn’t mean—”

“No, you never think, Jimin.” Namjoon’s voice was lower now, but not gentler. “You just do. You bite. You fight. You throw tantrums and flirt with danger like it’s a fucking game—”

“I didn’t flirt with danger, I punched it—!”

“SHUT UP.”

The words slammed into him like a boulder. Namjoon had never raised his voice like that at him. Not even when he broke Jin’s favorite vase. Not even when he ran off during winter hunting season and got stuck in a snowdrift.

Jimin couldn’t stop the tear that fell. One. Then another. His lip trembled. He wiped his face angrily, as if that would erase the shame.

“I didn’t mean to make you hate me,” he whispered.

Namjoon froze. The silence hit like a slap. “I don’t—” Namjoon’s jaw clenched. He looked away. “No one hates you, Jimin.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Jimin muttered, turning his face toward the wall so they wouldn’t see him cry harder.

Behind him, Jungkook let out a long sigh. Jin’s scent was beginning to thread into the den now, but Jimin couldn’t even look up. Because the truth was, he fucked up. Bad. And for the first time since he was four and Namjoon took him in, Jimin wasn’t sure how to fix it.

Namjoon exhaled like he was letting go of a mountain. The scent of firewood and snapped pine began to cool, dimming into something calmer—still sharp, still alpha, but less like a storm about to break bones and more like a fire tamped down to simmering embers.

Jimin didn’t dare move. His face still burned with the shame of it all—his dramatics, his whining, the stupid trembling in his legs that wouldn’t stop, and worst of all, the pitiful little “I didn’t mean to make you hate me” that had slipped out like a goddamn kicked pup.

Namjoon stepped closer.

Jimin didn’t lift his head. He heard the soft shift of feet on the den’s stone floor. The rustle of cloth. Then—A hand on his shoulder.

Jimin flinched so hard he almost knocked over the table behind him, his entire body going rigid like a bowstring pulled taut.

But Namjoon didn’t pull away. Instead, he gently tugged him forward. And the next thing Jimin knew, he was being crushed to a broad chest that smelled like cedar smoke and home.

“Appa,” he gasped, voice muffled against warm fabric. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean it—I didn’t want—I was just—I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

Namjoon hushed him softly, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other pressing firm against his spine, locking him close.

“It’s okay,” Namjoon murmured into his hair, lips brushing the crown of Jimin’s head in a kiss that undid whatever pitiful hold he still had on his emotions.

And Jimin broke. He sobbed. Messy, hiccuping, gut-wrenching sobs. No performance, no drama, just raw, stinging regret and terror. His fingers clenched in the front of Namjoon’s tunic, and his knees buckled until Namjoon had to hold him up, rocking him gently as if he were still a little pup who scraped his knee and needed cuddling.

“I’m sorry,” Jimin choked again, face buried in his chest. “I didn’t mean to—I was just—I was so mad, and he was smirking like he always does with that smug rat face—and he stole my kill, Appa, twice!—”

“I know,” Namjoon said softly, still holding him. “I know, pup. I know.”

Jimin gasped a breath, the smell of Namjoon’s steady alpha pheromones helping him calm. The tension in his muscles began to ease, and the tears slowed, dripping now instead of pouring.

“I didn’t think,” he mumbled.

“No,” Namjoon agreed, with the faintest trace of a tired chuckle. “You didn’t.”

A beat passed. Then Namjoon pulled back slightly and cupped his face, large fingers rough but careful. His thumb brushed under Jimin’s eye, then traced gently down the side of his cheek.

Jimin tried to look away, but Namjoon tilted his face up firmly, eyes scanning him in that way that always made him feel like a cub being examined after falling off a tree branch.

“Let me see.”

“I’m fine,” Jimin muttered, but the sniffle ruined the effect.

Namjoon ignored him. He pushed the hair out of Jimin’s face and frowned immediately. “Your cheek is scratched. Your nose is bruised. He bit your waist?”

Jimin blinked, hesitating. “…Maybe.”

Namjoon’s nostrils flared. “Show me.”

“Appa—”

“Show me, Jimin.”

With a heavy sigh and a deep pout, Jimin turned slightly and lifted his tunic on one side. The bite mark curved along his waist, just above his hipbone, sharp enough to bruise and bleed.

Namjoon inhaled sharply. “Oh hell no,” he muttered. Then, quieter: “That little pale fucker put teeth on my omega?”

“Ex-omega,” Jimin corrected, pouting. “I’m not a baby anymore.”

Namjoon gave him a look so sharp it could cut bark. “You’ll always be my omega.”

Jimin flushed. Not that kind of flushed. Not the kind that made his legs weak and made him think about—No. No.

He nodded quickly, eyes wide.

Namjoon’s scent pulsed again, darker now. Protective. A thick wall of dominance radiating out, overtaking Jimin’s own lighter citrusy omega scent, drowning out everything until it felt like a warm, alpha-weighted blanket had been thrown over his entire nervous system.

“Listen to me carefully,” Namjoon said, eyes still fixed on the mark as if he could erase it through sheer will. “I’ll talk to Lee Jiyeon.”

Jimin’s head snapped up. “You’ll what?! No—no, Appa, please, I can fix this—”

“You won’t fix this,” Namjoon snapped. “Because your version of fixing things usually ends in someone bleeding, or crying, or stealing ceremonial berries from the Seers’ hut and blaming it on raccoons—”

“They looked like raccoon tracks—”

“I am not arguing about that again.”

Jimin crossed his arms tightly but didn’t say more.

Namjoon softened slightly and reached for his face again, this time cupping both cheeks gently. “You’re injured,” he said firmly. “You’re not just some rogue pup picking fights for fun. You were hurt. And no one—no one, Yoongi or otherwise—gets to lay a hand on my omega without me handling it.”

“But I bit his ear off.”

“He deserved it.” Namjoon’s voice turned dark. “You don’t put your teeth on a Kim unless you’re prepared to lose a limb.”

Jimin’s jaw dropped. “…That’s the most violent beautiful thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Namjoon rolled his eyes, but his mouth twitched faintly. “Go to Seokjin. He’ll clean your wounds. We’ll talk more after I meet with their pack.”

“But—”

“No more arguing.”

Namjoon guided Jimin inside gently with a firm hand on the small of his back. His alpha scent—dense like rain-slick earth and ash—still clung thickly in the air around them, protective and grounding. Jimin breathed it in like it was oxygen, even though he’d never admit that out loud.

“Jimin-ah!”

Fuck.

Jimin flinched instinctively, already knowing what was coming.

“My baby, what the hell—” Seokjin crossed the space in three quick steps, hands hovering over him without touching, like he didn’t know where to start. “Oh my—your chest is gushing—and your ribs, oh god, those are bruised—Namjoon! Did you let him hunt again?!”

Namjoon huffed. “I tried to stop him but he manipulated me.”

“I’m not a baby,” Jimin mumbled under his breath, but it didn’t matter—Seokjin was already grabbing his chin and tilting his face upward with his impossibly soft but annoyingly strong hands.

“Oh baby, your nose, your cheeks—did you fight a bear?!”

Jimin scowled, swatting Seokjin’s hand away half-heartedly.

“No, I fought a rat-faced, worm-brained, flea-bitten asshole alpha who thinks every kill on the shared land belongs to him just because his jaw is wider than his forehead—”

“You mean Yoongi.”

“I don’t wanna say his name. I might start throwing furniture.”

Seokjin sighed, visibly torn between fussing and scolding. He gently started dabbing at the cuts on Jimin’s face with a soft cloth soaked in warm water. Jimin hissed at the sting, but Seokjin ignored him like he always did when tending to his many, many dramatics.

“And you bit each other. Again?” Seokjin asked with a raised brow.

“I bit first,” Jimin said proudly. “He started it. He’s the one who shoved me after I already told him the deer was mine.”

Seokjin dabbed harder.

“Ow!! Okay, okay, fuck, I’m sorry, don’t kill me!”

“Language,” Seokjin said sweetly. “You still want to keep your pretty lips, don’t you?”

Jimin grumbled and crossed his arms, refusing to look at the other end of the room. Because standing near the corner—awkwardly silent, arms crossed, and pretending to be busy examining the floor—was Jungkook. The traitor.

Jimin could feel his alpha scent in the air: adrenaline, tinged with nervous regret. Normally, it was a comfort. Familiar. The scent of stupid hunting jokes and wrestling near the creek. The scent of one of the only people who never made him feel like he had to act tougher than he was.

But right now? Right now, it was the scent of a backstabbing, oversized, betrayal-serving bitch.

“You told him,” Jimin said coldly, still not looking at him.

Jungkook shifted, guilt leaking into the air like wet smoke. “You were bleeding, Jimin.”

“I wasn’t dying.”

“You couldn’t walk.”

“I limped!”

“You had a bite mark on your waist!”

“Which you had no right to look at—pervert.”

Jungkook groaned and turned away, raking a hand through his messy hair. “I’m not doing this.”

“You already did,” Jimin snapped. “You ran to Namjoon like a scared little bitch, and now he’s gonna go have a diplomatic meltdown over something we could’ve handled like grown wolves!”

“You were about to kill each other!” Jungkook snapped back. “On shared land, Jimin! You could’ve started a fucking war!”

“Well maybe it’s worth it if I get to shove that smug, sneering boneheaded tsundere dickwad into a damn grave!”

“Language!” Seokjin snapped.

“Sorry,” Jimin muttered, then glared at Jungkook again. “You still suck.”

Namjoon cleared his throat, finally stepping back toward the door. His scent had cooled, but the tightness in his shoulders said everything. This wasn’t just about Jimin anymore.

“I’m going,” Namjoon said simply, looking straight at Seokjin. “To the Lee pack. Before this turns into something worse.”

Seokjin’s mouth opened, but Namjoon raised a hand. “I won’t start a fight,” he said. “I’ll talk to Jiyeon. I’ll fix this.”

Jimin’s stomach turned.

He hated that look in Namjoon’s eyes—the one that said this isn’t just about you anymore, pup. The one that meant meetings and territory councils and old alphas arguing about things Jimin didn’t understand. The one that always made Jimin feel like a selfish little mess who’d pulled too hard on the edge of something he didn’t know could unravel.

“…Appa,” Jimin said quietly, voice catching despite himself. “Don’t let them say it was my fault.”

Namjoon’s face softened instantly. He walked back over and put a warm hand on Jimin’s cheek, thumb brushing a spot just beside the swelling.

“They won’t,” he promised. “And if they try, I’ll remind them exactly what happens when someone touches my omega.”

Jimin flushed, warmth flooding from the inside out. He nodded, too proud to speak again.

Namjoon’s scent swept the room one last time and then the door creaked shut behind him, heavy footsteps disappearing into the quiet.

Silence settled.

Seokjin pressed the cloth to his ribs more gently now, and Jimin sighed, resting his head against his shoulder like he used to when he was smaller.

“Papa?”

“Yes, baby?”

“…Can we pretend I won and he cried?”

“Of course we can,” Seokjin said, kissing the side of his head. “That’s what delusions are for.”

Seokjin worked like a damn war medic, muttering under his breath the entire time about brainless alphas and impulsive omegas with no survival instinct, but his hands were gentle. Frustratingly so. Warm water had long since turned pink in the bowl beside him, soaked with blood and dirt and that one stubborn leaf that had clung to Jimin’s neck like it had a vendetta.

“Hold still,” Seokjin ordered softly, thumb smoothing ointment across the deep scratch under Jimin’s left eye.

“I am still,” Jimin bit back.

“You’re twitching.”

“It’s a trauma response.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“I was attacked.”

Seokjin didn’t answer, just taped down the last bandage over Jimin’s ribs and gave him a warning glare that said if you rip this off before it heals, I’ll personally break the rest of your bones. Jimin huffed and flopped back against the cushion pile he’d claimed on the floor, shirt pulled halfway down but still clinging to the tape across his bruised chest. He winced. Fuck, it stung. And ached. And burned. And—

And, okay, maybe Yoongi had gotten a good hit in with that bite on his waist, but that didn’t mean he won. Jimin was still prettier, which was basically a win by default.

The den had grown quiet in the lull of tension. Jungkook had slunk into the kitchen like a guilty mutt, and Seokjin followed shortly after, tossing a pointed “Don’t move,” over his shoulder like Jimin was the kind of person who didn’t listen to orders just to be annoying.

(Okay, valid.)

Jimin was just about to let himself melt into the cushions, legs sore and body bandaged, when the soft patter of small feet sounded from down the hallway. His ears perked.

The scent hit him first—like warm milk, sweet berries, and sleepy pups. He barely had a second to brace himself before two tiny bodies barreled around the corner, all fluffy hair and too-big eyes and squeaky voices that could shatter stone.

“Jiminie!!”

Jimin grunted as both twins launched into his lap like cannonballs. Jihoon’s little face smushed against his stomach, and Jieun immediately flopped across his thighs like she was trying to fuse with his femur.

“Be careful, you little feral beasts—Papa just patched me up!”

But his arms curled around them anyway. Automatically. Instinctively. As if his body had already decided that being crushed under three-year-old twins was its new normal.

“Why you got a booboo?” Jihoon mumbled, poking his bandaged rib with a chubby finger.

Jimin wheezed. “Because your big brother is very brave and fought a big mean alpha all by himself.”

Jieun gasped. “A bad alpha?”

“The worst alpha,” Jimin whispered conspiratorially. “Smelled like rotten pinecones and sweaty socks. And his ears were pointy. Like a demon.”

“Did you bite him?” Jihoon asked with wide eyes.

“Of course I did.”

“Good!”

Jimin beamed. Finally, someone with good instincts in this pack.

The twins settled against him with the floppy weight of sleepy pups, warm and sticky and content. Jihoon’s head was tucked under his arm while Jieun fiddled with one of the strings on his shirt, humming softly. Their scents were soothing in the most obnoxiously gentle way—like sugared air and soft fur and the sound of rain hitting leaves.

And for a moment, Jimin could breathe again.

The ache in his ribs faded. The gnawing guilt about Namjoon storming off toward Lee territory dulled. The echo of Yoongi’s fucking snarl stopped bouncing around in his skull.

This was fine. He was fine. Everything was going to be—

“Jiminie?”

“Mmh?”

Jihoon looked up at him with big sleepy eyes. “Can you fight the monster under our bed next?”

Jimin grinned. “Sweetheart, I am the monster under your bed.”

The twins squealed, giggling as they wriggled against him. Jihoon latched onto his waist like a leech, and Jieun started trying to climb up his chest like she was a tree frog.

“Okay—okay—ow—watch the rib, you tiny terrorists!”

From the kitchen, Seokjin peeked around the corner, hands covered in flour, and smiled like he hadn’t just spent twenty minutes yelling at Jimin for getting into a border brawl.

“Lunch in ten!” he called.

“Tell Jungkook to do all the hard parts!” Jimin yelled back. “He’s trying to buy back my forgiveness!”

“Not working,” Jungkook muttered from the stove.

“Not even close, you traitorous butterfaced pinecone licker!”

Jimin leaned back with a smug sigh as the twins nestled in again, more blanket than children, both of them half-asleep on his lap. His scent curled around them protectively, warm and spicy and distinctly omega-who-could-rule-the-world. The den smelled like family.

Yeah.

Maybe he’d been scratched, bit, and insulted within an inch of his life. Maybe Namjoon was out risking war. Maybe Yoongi still had that stupid smirk seared into his memory.

But right now, with two sleepy pups in his lap, a warm den, and lunch being made by people who loved him? Jimin could almost forget that he wanted to rip Yoongi’s smug tsundere head off…Almost.

Chapter Text

The river was cold, but Yoongi liked it that way. He crouched low in the shallows, the blood still clinging to his paws and snout washing off in long, lazy trails. His kill had been clean—fast, deep bite to the throat—and he let Hoseok drag it back to the village because he wasn’t done yet. He had more in him. He needed to run, to bite, to burn off the leftover aggression simmering in his chest like coals that refused to die.

Fucking Jimin. That overgrown drama ferret with a god complex.

Yoongi dunked his head under the water for a second, scrubbing his muzzle with his paws before shaking himself out. The cold water sprayed around him in a shimmering arc. He was still in wolf form, thick black fur slicked along his spine, eyes narrowed against the glare of sunlight on water. The forest buzzed behind him, wind threading through pine needles. Everything smelled clean—earth and bark and the fading trail of prey he might chase after in a few minutes.

He was fine. He was—

Something slammed into his side. Yoongi let out a sharp snarl, paws slipping on the slick stones, and then—

“FUCK—”

He hit the river hard, back first, the breath knocked clean out of him as freezing water surged over his face and filled his nose. He gasped, head breaking the surface, paws scrambling for purchase, and—

Shoved again.

Yoongi’s body folded under the weight, water rushing over his face. Something snarled in his ear, and teeth clipped dangerously close to his cheek.

Park. Fucking. Jimin.

Yoongi’s instincts kicked in like a gunshot. He twisted beneath the smaller wolf, muscles bunching under soaked fur, and lunged.

“You flea-ridden bastard—!” he choked as their heads slammed together and water sprayed between their snapping jaws.

Jimin snarled like a wildling, muzzle wrinkled, paws pushing at Yoongi’s chest as if he could pin him underwater by sheer fury. His scent was everywhere—sharpened citrus and spiced omega heat and blood. Yoongi’s blood. Jimin’s blood. Their blood.

“You nearly broke my fucking rib, you rabid duckling—”

“I meant to break your fucking neck, tree stump!”

They tumbled again, white foam kicking up as they rolled. Water flooded Yoongi’s nose, his mouth, and he thrashed blindly, claws scrabbling for leverage while Jimin bit his goddamn ear. Again.

“Get off me, you unwashed pelt-humping menace!”

“Make me, you swamp-scented dicktwig!”

Yoongi got a paw around Jimin’s scruff, dragged him under, and held. Just for a second. Just long enough for the little brat to sputter and choke and—

Jimin’s hind paws kicked straight into Yoongi’s gut, and he lost his grip with a wheeze.

Water crashed around them like thunder. Their growls echoed through the trees, a mess of snarls and curses and feral fury. Jimin’s teeth snagged at Yoongi’s shoulder. Yoongi shoved him off with a violent twist of his neck and went straight for his throat.

They collided again, two wolves soaked and seething, claws scraping across slippery stone, muscles straining. They weren’t even fighting for dominance anymore—it was chaos. A full-body tantrum with fangs.

“Why the fuck are you even here?!” Yoongi barked, breath heaving, fur soaked and heavy.

Jimin spat river water and rage. “Because you exist and I haven’t drowned you yet!”

“Your dads know you’re out here acting like a feral goose on crack?!”

“You smell like raccoon piss!”

“You bit my ass!”

“You deserved it!”

They crashed together again, limbs flailing, tails lashing. Yoongi caught sight of Jimin’s teeth just before they latched onto his scruff again. His head snapped back and he howled, snarling through the water and the ache in his muscles.

Jimin’s omega pheromones flooded the air like a damn hurricane. Sweet and sharp, biting with emotional static, drenched in fury and bloodlust and something else. Something Yoongi didn’t want to name. He could barely breathe through it.

The scent had no business being that good.

“Get—off—me—”

“DIE—”

“You’re a fucking menace, Jimin! A bite-sized chaos goblin!”

“And you’re a washed-up piss-stained mutt with ego issues and too much forehead!”

Yoongi howled again, lunging one last time, finally managing to flip the little beast onto his side and pin him with his weight, muzzle bared, chest heaving.

The river stilled. Only the sound of their panting remained—wet fur slicked against wet fur, scents tangling in the air like snare wire. Yoongi’s chest hovered over Jimin’s, dripping water down into the younger wolf’s already-furious eyes.

Jimin blinked.

Yoongi blinked back.

“…You done?” Yoongi growled, voice hoarse and trembling with effort.

Jimin didn’t answer. He glared, teeth still bared, tail flicking like he might launch again. But he didn’t move.

Yoongi leaned in closer, muzzle almost touching the younger wolf’s, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.

“Next time, at least let me finish washing my fucking paws first, princess.”

Jimin snarled. Yoongi smirked.

And just like that, Jimin bit him again.

Yoongi snarled and slammed his paw down in the shallow water beside Jimin’s ribs, just to startle him—not hurt him—but the brat took that as a challenge, of course he did, and wriggled out from under him with a full-body shake that sent water flying straight into Yoongi’s face.

“Fucking—!” Yoongi choked on a growl.

Jimin shifted. Right there. Just—shifted. Wolf form melting into skin and bone with that familiar snap of power. In an instant, where the wet, snarling omega had been, there was now a soaked, narrow-shouldered boy with a bleeding cheek and a bruised chest, skin flushed with heat and rage and maybe something a lot more dangerous.

Yoongi froze for half a second too long.

Jimin huffed, standing up in the river like it wasn’t even cold, arms crossed over his scratched-up ribs, steam rising off his soaked skin. His eyes locked on Yoongi like crosshairs. “Well?” he snapped, tone razor-sharp. “Still need your paws washed or are you done pretending you’re a real alpha?”

Yoongi’s jaw clenched. His hackles would’ve risen if he still had fur. He shifted too—too fast, too annoyed, too affected. And then he was human, standing across from Jimin, drenched and bare in the waist-deep water, hair dripping into his eyes and his chest heaving with restrained fury. Their pheromones hit like a damn sledgehammer. Thick and sickly sweet, syrupy with aggression and unspoken heat, flooding between them and twisting in the wet air.

Yoongi could taste Jimin’s scent in the back of his throat. That stupid sharp citrus clinging to his skin like static. The water did nothing to dull it. If anything, it intensified.

“I could kill you right now,” Jimin seethed, chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths. “And no one would miss you. Your own pack would probably throw a fucking party.”

Yoongi stepped forward. Just one step. The water swirled around his thighs, pulling and sucking at their legs, but neither of them moved again. Not really. Not away.

“You’re all bark and no bite,” Yoongi said low, voice thick like molasses. “You act like a hunter but cry to your dads the second you scrape a knee. You're a spoiled, bratty omega who thinks he's dangerous.”

“I am dangerous, you useless lopsided eyebrow,” Jimin hissed, stepping in too. “You’re just too slow to fucking dodge.”

Their chests bumped. And neither backed down.

Jimin’s eyes gleamed—part heat, part fury—and Yoongi knew that look. Knew it because he saw it in the mirror after bad hunts and long nights. That electric line between violence and something else. That heat-hazed confusion when instincts turned teeth into touch.

“Touch me again and I’ll gut you,” Jimin breathed.

“Try it,” Yoongi dared.

His hand came up without thinking—grabbing a fistful of Jimin’s dripping hair and yanking hard enough to make the omega hiss. Not pull away. Not flinch. Hiss. Like he liked it.

Jimin’s nails raked across Yoongi’s ribs, catching on old scars and fresh bites, scraping just enough to sting.

Their faces were too close. Their noses brushed. The river felt hotter than it should’ve been.

“Say please,” Yoongi murmured against Jimin’s mouth, low and filthy and wrong.

“I’d rather choke.”

Yoongi grinned—mean and sharp and so turned on he could hardly breathe. “Oh, I’ll help.”

Jimin lunged first.

Their mouths crashed, not a kiss, not really—more like violence disguised as contact. Teeth, tongue, fury. Yoongi tasted blood—Jimin’s or his, who the fuck knew—and the omega bit his lip again and Yoongi let him.

His hands dug into Jimin’s hips, dragging him closer, water sloshing around their bodies as they pushed, clawed, kissed like they were trying to consume each other.

This wasn’t affection. It wasn’t anything soft. It was fire and fangs and the unholy need to win.

Jimin groaned into his mouth, low and guttural, and Yoongi felt it in his spine.

“You’re pathetic,” Jimin panted against his jaw. “Think this makes you powerful?”

Yoongi shoved him backward, and Jimin stumbled, slipping under the water again for a second before he rose up—soaked, panting, burning with heat.

“I’m the only one who knows how to handle you,” Yoongi growled, pressing into him again.

Jimin’s scent twisted violently in the air—hot, reckless, too honest. Omega heat and frustration and need barely reined in by pride.

Enemies. Fucking enemies.

Yoongi dragged his mouth down Jimin’s throat, not even kissing, just claiming space with his teeth. Not a mark—he wasn’t that far gone—but close. Close enough to feel Jimin shudder under him.

Their pheromones were choking the air, thick and cloying. If anyone walked into the river clearing right now, they’d either vomit or drop dead from the sheer fucked-up tension of it.

But no one was stupid enough to come looking for them. Not when Yoongi and Jimin vanished into the woods at the same time. This happened sometimes. They hated each other. And sometimes, this happened.

Jimin dragged his teeth over Yoongi’s jaw, nails biting into his back, and Yoongi felt himself tremble from the restraint it took not to sink his own canines into that delicate, infuriating throat.

“Still think I’m spoiled?” Jimin whispered, voice like smoke.

Yoongi exhaled against his neck. “You’re a walking tantrum with legs.”

Jimin shoved him again, but this time it wasn’t meant to hurt.

They didn’t stumble out of the river—they tore out of it like animals loosed from a cage. Still clawing. Still kissing like it was war.

Yoongi didn’t even feel the rocks beneath his feet. All he could feel was Jimin—soaked skin, slick lips, biting tongue. His mouth barely left the omega’s long enough to breathe, and when it did, it wasn’t for air. It was to bite. He dragged his teeth over Jimin’s lip, then sank them in—hard—until the skin split and that sharp, copper taste burst against his tongue.

Jimin laughed. Actually laughed. Low and throaty and smug, like Yoongi hadn’t just tried to mark him through his goddamn mouth.

“Fucking omega,” Yoongi growled, drunk off the scent—sweet and bitter, full of heat and challenge and the kind of feral temptation that made his bones ache.

Jimin’s scent wasn’t just slick—it was dangerous. It clung to Yoongi like sap and burned like smoke, and it didn’t matter that he’d already had him before, that they’d clawed and grunted and fucked in secret like enemies starving for a truce they didn’t want.

This wasn’t over. It never was.

Yoongi shoved him. Hard.

Jimin’s back hit the muddy riverbank with a splash and a hiss, breath punching from his lungs. “Fucking—dickhead—”

“Lie still,” Yoongi snapped, voice breaking under its own heat.

Jimin bared his teeth. “Make me.”

So he did.

Yoongi crashed down, mouths colliding, hips grinding, their wet bodies slamming together like they were trying to crush this thing between them before it swallowed them whole. Jimin was feral beneath him—biting, squirming, scent spiking with syrup and vinegar and fire. His claws raked Yoongi’s ribs in jagged streaks, dragging sharp lines down his back like a dare.

And Yoongi? He took it personally. He broke the kiss with a snarl, panting hard, and kissed lower. And lower. Until Jimin went quiet. Not from fear. No—Yoongi would’ve smelled that a mile away. This was the quiet of anticipation, of every nerve pulled taut, every breath sharpened to a tremble. The omega’s chest heaved beneath his mouth, sweat and riverwater beading at the hollow of his throat. His lips were parted. Barely breathing.

Yoongi’s tongue dragged over the sharp line of his ribs, slow and pointed. Then lower—across Jimin’s fluttering stomach, where the muscles twitched like they couldn’t decide whether to tense or surrender. He left a trail of half-kisses and not-so-soft scrapes of teeth along the curve of Jimin’s hipbone, breathing him in like the only thing that mattered was imprinting this scent—his scent—into his lungs forever.

Then Yoongi gripped him by the thighs and wrenched them open.

Jimin gasped.

There. Right there—where the skin was softest. Inside the crease of his thigh, just shy of where his heat burned loudest, where his scent clung thick and slick, drugging the air with molten citrus and some darker, saltier undercurrent. It was maddening. It was filth and fire and sweetness all wrapped into one.

Yoongi growled. Then bit. Hard.

Jimin screamed. Not in pain—no, not really. It was that raw, ruined sound Yoongi only ever heard when he crossed the line between control and chaos, when it hurt just enough to feel like a revelation.

Yoongi’s teeth sank into the tender flesh again, right beneath the curve of muscle, hard enough to leave indents. His jaw clenched, holding the bite a beat too long before pulling back with a hot, sucking drag that left the skin purple and swollen.

The omega bucked. Clawed at the ground. Gasped his name like it was a curse or a cry for help or both. “Yoongi—fuck—Yoongi—”

And Yoongi didn’t stop. Not when Jimin twisted his hips. Not when he writhed like he was trying to crawl away—but not really. His thighs parted wider. His scent spiked again, sharp enough to burn.

Yoongi bit higher. And again. Then again, just to see what sound he’d make this time. He left bruises in crooked constellations. Bright welts and broken blood vessels and the raw red stamp of his mouth. He sucked until Jimin’s whole body trembled—until his thighs spasmed beneath his hands, until his breaths hitched out in shallow, shattered little moans that didn’t sound like begging but sure as hell weren’t protests either.

Yoongi pulled back just to look. Damage bloomed across the omega’s skin like war paint. Some marks already purpling. Some wet with spit. All of them made by him. Claimed. Ruined. And Jimin was shaking. Not with fear. No. With need.

Their eyes met. And Yoongi froze. Because Jimin—spoiled, smug, aggravating Jimin—looked back at him with lips parted and lashes wet and want scrawled across every inch of his face. His body trembled, bruised and bitten and open, but not broken.

He didn’t say please. He didn’t have to. He wanted more. And Yoongi wanted to destroy him all over again.

Jimin rolled, slick with sweat and river sheen, and shoved Yoongi down with surprising strength.

“Stay,” the omega snapped, voice rough, breath catching on the command like it cost him nothing and everything.

Yoongi stayed. Because how could he not?

The omega climbed over him like he owned the world and Yoongi was just one more piece of it. His thighs bracketed Yoongi’s waist, knees digging into the grass, body trembling but purposeful. His palms slammed against Yoongi’s chest, pressing him down with bruising force.

He looked ruined—hair stuck to his cheeks, lips bitten red, throat striped faintly with teeth marks from earlier. His scent was madness: open heat, angry sweetness, and something burning just beneath it.

But that smile—That fucking smile. It was the kind of smile you saw just before everything went up in flames. A smirk of bare teeth and firelit pride. A demon dressed in moonlight, trembling but still terrifying.

“You think you’re the only one who gets to wreck things?” Jimin growled, leaning in, letting Yoongi feel the heat dripping off him.

Then he moved. And Yoongi forgot how to breathe.

The omega rocked forward, one long, brutal motion—no prep, no pause—just slick and heat and the hiss of agony in his breath as his body took it. Took all of it. Yoongi’s eyes rolled back, vision going white at the edges as Jimin’s body stretched and swallowed him, inch by inch, without flinching.

No one should be able to take that. Not like this. Not with no warning. But Jimin did.

Yoongi’s hands flew to his thighs—gripping hard, almost desperate. He dug his fingers in, anchoring himself to something before he shattered. Flesh gave way beneath his nails, soft skin molding around his grip. He held tight, until he felt the muscle twitch, until he knew there would be bruises.

Jimin didn’t care. He was panting now, eyes squeezed shut as his hips rolled slowly, forcing the rest of Yoongi in with little gasps of pain. His whole body was tight, muscles straining, sweat trickling down the curve of his back. And yet—he didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. Didn’t ask. Didn’t need to.

Yoongi couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. His claws threatened to break skin, and still Jimin just kept going—riding the pain, riding him, like he was determined to bury every ache, every bruise, every fight they'd ever had between their bodies.

When he bottomed out—when Yoongi felt Jimin’s body lock around him in a fierce, choking grip—Yoongi nearly blacked out.

And then the omega moved. He didn’t ride him sweet. Didn’t build up to it. He ground down in sharp, punishing circles, hips snapping hard and low with each breath. Yoongi’s body jerked beneath the onslaught, back arching with every merciless drag. Each grind was a command: Stay down. Take it. Watch me.

The force of it shook him. It was pain and pleasure braided together. Hot. Unrelenting. God, tight.

Jimin’s hands slid up his chest, nails dragging thin trails across Yoongi’s skin. He leaned in, hovering close enough for his breath to ghost Yoongi’s lips.

“Still think I’m delicate?”

Yoongi’s control cracked. His hands flew up, caught Jimin’s back, slammed their chests together with a low, broken snarl. “You’re fucking insufferable.”

Jimin’s smirk split his face. Arrogant. Gorgeous. Wild. “And you like it.”

That was the final straw. Yoongi didn’t think. Didn’t speak. He moved. A low snarl broke from his throat as he hooked his arm around Jimin’s slick waist and flipped them—rough, fast, brutal in its precision. Jimin yelped as his back slammed into the grass again, his body bouncing slightly from the force of it. Air rushed out of his lungs. But even breathless, even pinned, there was no fear in his eyes.

Only hunger. Only want. Only him.

Yoongi didn’t pause. Didn’t give him space to breathe. He stayed buried deep—had never left—and shoved forward again, hips crashing into slick heat with unrelenting force.

Jimin screamed.

Yoongi swallowed it.

His mouth found Jimin’s—messy, bruising, teeth scraping as he poured his fury into the kiss. His hand pressed down on Jimin’s hip, pinning him hard, nails sinking in deep. Not to hold him still—no, Jimin arched into it, welcomed the pain—but because Yoongi needed something to anchor him before he tore them both apart.

It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t romantic. It was need, sharpened to a weapon, and Jimin met it with the same unholy fire.

Their bodies slammed together, wet and frenzied, grass tearing beneath them, the scent of heat and sweat and river still clinging to their skin. Jimin’s legs locked around his waist, heels digging in to drive him deeper. His claws dragged angry red down Yoongi’s back, marking every inch he could reach.

Yoongi didn’t slow. Couldn’t. He drove forward—hard, fast, punishing—chasing something unspeakable, something buried in the way Jimin moaned against his mouth and bit back like he wanted to start a war.

And Yoongi let him. Let him take. Let him fight. Let him burn.

Then he pulled back just far enough to bite. His teeth sank into Jimin’s shoulder—not the gland, never the gland—but just below, where the skin was tender and soft and the scent of heat was thickest. Jimin bucked, back arching clean off the ground with a broken cry, hands fisting in Yoongi’s hair.

So Yoongi bit again. Harder. Lower, now—dragging his mouth down Jimin’s collarbone, across his ribs, to the side of his chest. Open-mouthed, bruising kisses that bled into bites, into dark blooms of color that would linger for days.

Jimin writhed beneath him, wrecked and glorious, breath stuttering in wild, helpless gasps. “More,” he panted, eyes blown wide and wet with something dangerous. “More, Yoongi, I—fuck, don’t stop—”

Yoongi didn’t. He couldn’t have if he tried.

His hands gripped Jimin’s thighs—hard enough to bruise, enough to leave handprints—and shoved them open again, wider, until Jimin’s body strained with the stretch. He held him there, shoved deeper, rocked harder, until Jimin’s voice cracked around a curse and his scent turned feral.

And then Yoongi dropped his head and bit the inside of Jimin’s thigh. Not a love bite. Not something gentle. He sank his teeth in. The skin was soft there—sensitive, flushed, rich with heat and nerve endings—and Jimin screamed, voice raw and furious, thighs trembling in Yoongi’s grip.

He didn’t stop. Bit again. And again. Marked him up like territory he’d never be allowed to claim. Bruises bloomed under his teeth—angry red, deepening fast. His mouth worked along the inner thigh, just where the muscle met the curve of his hip, biting and sucking hard enough to feel Jimin quake beneath him.

The omega sobbed—from pleasure, from pain, from all of it—and Yoongi shoved back in deep, making him take every inch through the shock of it. Their bodies slapped together, slick and raw. Every movement burned.

“This never happened,” Yoongi growled again, voice torn and trembling against Jimin’s ear. But his body didn’t stop moving. His mouth didn’t stop bruising. His hands didn’t stop pinning Jimin like prey he couldn’t stop devouring.

Jimin’s head lolled back, chest heaving, mouth split in a half-laugh, half-moan that should’ve been illegal. “Then stop making it unforgettable,” he rasped.

Yoongi wasn’t sure how long they moved like that—clawing, biting, wrecking each other in the grass like no one would ever find them. But at some point, through the haze of heat and fury, Jimin tugged him closer by the back of the neck, lips brushing his ear, trembling and flushed and feral.

“I took suppressants,” the omega rasped. “Days ago.”

Yoongi’s rhythm stuttered, his whole body locking up.

Jimin smirked, even now, even ruined. “You don’t have to hold back.”

Yoongi’s heart slammed against his ribs. His breath hitched—once, hard—then left him in a growl. “You’re sure?”

Jimin’s nails dragged down his back, legs tightening around his waist. “Knot me, alpha.”

That was all it took. Whatever leash Yoongi had wrapped around himself snapped. He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t think. He shoved in deeper, rough enough to bruise, hand fisting in the grass beside Jimin’s head as he let instinct take over. All control gone. All reason devoured.

Jimin cried out, body seizing around him, too tight, too hot, his whole frame arching as if it could swallow Yoongi whole. And Yoongi let it. Let himself sink, let the pressure build until the tension in his core twisted into something wild and uncontainable.

His hips jerked, sharp and unforgiving. His grip on Jimin’s thighs turned savage, nails dragging hard enough to break skin. The scent between them spiked—riotous, choking, thick with heat and spent adrenaline.

Yoongi didn’t slow. Didn’t ease. Jimin had asked for this. Begged for it. So he gave it to him. He forced their bodies together, chasing that unbearable pressure—his body shuddering as it locked inside Jimin, as deep as he could go, buried in heat that refused to let him go.

Jimin screamed—not in pain. In relief. In triumph. Like he’d won.

Yoongi’s hands shook where they gripped the omega’s hips, holding him down as their bodies strained together, tension ripping through them both like lightning through a dry forest.

And then—It hit. That final surrender. That dizzying crash of instinct and pressure and overwhelming heat, slamming through them in waves. Jimin’s breath hitched, his arms wrapping tight around Yoongi’s shoulders as he went rigid beneath him.

Yoongi could barely breathe. Could barely think. He buried his face in Jimin’s neck, biting down hard, not marking but claiming, shaking with the force of release he couldn’t stop.

They didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Yoongi stayed locked inside, panting, heartbeat rattling like a war drum against Jimin’s chest. Jimin’s hands curled into his back, trembling with aftershocks.

No words. No lies. Just skin on skin. Breath to breath. Bodies still trembling with the violence of what they’d done. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t safe. But it was real. And that was the most terrifying part of all.

They stayed like that—pressed together, caught in the raw aftermath—because they had to. Because Yoongi was still locked inside him, body straining against the involuntary hold, breath ragged with each second that passed. Jimin wasn’t speaking. Just lying there under him, chest heaving, eyes closed like he couldn’t bear to look at anything. Especially not Yoongi.

The scent between them was suffocating. Slick, heat, sweat. Grass and dirt crushed beneath their bodies. The bruising grip of what they'd done hung in the air like smoke after fire—nothing warm left, only ashes. Only the burn.

Yoongi didn’t speak. Didn’t touch. Not more than he had to.

Jimin’s thighs still trembled around his waist, the bite marks glaring red against his pale skin, the ones on his inner thighs already beginning to darken. Yoongi had put them there. Claimed space like he had the right. He didn’t. He never did.

The silence stretched. It wasn’t peaceful. It wasn’t companionable. It just was—thick, weighted, bitter like copper on the tongue.

Eventually, Yoongi felt the swelling ease. His body unlocked, the tension loosening from his gut like a snapped cord. The knot slipped free.

Jimin exhaled sharply, but he didn’t move. He didn’t even flinch when Yoongi pulled out of him, slow and mechanical, like the act was a task—surgical, not intimate. He peeled himself back, his own body screaming from the effort, and collapsed beside him in the dirt.

Not touching. Not close. Just… there.

Their bodies cooled in the day air. The sounds of the forest crept back in—distant, indifferent. Crickets. Wind in the branches. Water running in the nearby stream like nothing had happened. Like Yoongi hadn’t just ruined the one thing he swore he wouldn’t touch.

His eyes stayed on the sky. Not Jimin. Never Jimin. And Jimin didn’t look at him either. They didn’t speak. Didn’t reach for each other. Didn’t try to fix the silence. Because there was nothing to fix. This wasn’t a mistake. It was something worse. It was intentional.

Yoongi stared at the sky. Cloudless. Blue. Mocking. Then, very slowly, his eyes slid sideways. And landed on him. Park fucking Jimin.

Laid out like a wreckage in the grass, arms flung up over his head, chest rising and falling, skin still glistening from the river and the heat. His hair was a mess—mud-smeared, tangled, water-darkened. His lips were swollen. Neck decorated in red and violet marks that Yoongi’s own mouth had just painted across him.

But what made Yoongi’s jaw clench—was the rest of it.

Jimin’s body was littered. Ruined, really. Bruises forming on his sides where Yoongi’s fingers had held too hard. Bite marks up his collarbone and shoulder, some already deepening, some still red and raw. His thighs—fuck, those thighs—were absolutely wrecked. Faint crescent indentations from Yoongi’s nails, small welts from where their bodies had collided too rough, and one particular spot on his inner thigh that Yoongi was pretty sure would sting every time Jimin sat down for the next day or two.

Yoongi cursed softly under his breath. He should’ve held back. He should’ve not gone that far. But Jimin had asked for it—dragged it out of him with that wicked mouth, that maddening scent, that whole smug I-bet-you-won’t energy that made Yoongi’s blood go sideways in his veins.

Still. Seeing him now… looking like that… made something in Yoongi’s gut twist. Because it wasn’t just lust anymore. It was something else too—tangled in there like thorns wrapped around nerve endings.

“Stop looking at me like you broke me,” Jimin croaked without opening his eyes.

Yoongi blinked. “I did break you.”

“I’m not glass, asshole.”

“No, but you’re fragile in the ego.”

Jimin’s lip curled. He didn’t respond, but his scent—still clinging sharp and heavy—spiked again, not with want but with smug contentment.

The worst part was that Yoongi couldn’t even regret it.

He sat up with a grunt, running a hand through his damp hair. His own body felt like it had been in a landslide. Teeth marks on his ribs. A dull ache in his thighs. Probably a fingerprint-shaped bruise on his hip from when Jimin had yanked him down and clawed at him like an animal in heat.

“Fuck me,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

“No thanks,” Jimin mumbled, voice lazy. “Already did.”

Yoongi picked up a twig and threw it at his head. Missed. “Get up.”

“Why? I live here now.”

Yoongi rolled his eyes so hard he saw a flash of stars. “Because you smell like a fucked-up fruit basket and we’re both gonna get hunted if any patrol catches this stench.”

Jimin stretched like a cat, completely unbothered, and Yoongi had to look away because his thighs were still spread, and the fucking marks—Nope.

Yoongi got to his feet and stalked toward the small grove just past the riverbank. He knew there was something useful here—he’d been trained on it as a pup. A cleansing herb that helped wash out pheromones and arousal-scent when heats or ruts got out of control. Not foolproof, but it’d at least mask enough to make the walk back to the village less obvious.

He crushed a few of the leaves in his hand. Earthy and strong, almost citrusy in a bitter way. Exactly what they needed.

When he came back, Jimin had finally sat up and was inspecting the bruises on his shoulder with an unreadable look. The omega didn’t cover himself. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t even glance at Yoongi’s face. Just held out his hand like he was expecting something.

Yoongi dropped the leaves into his palm with a grunt. “Rub it everywhere,” he muttered. “Everywhere, Park. You reek.”

“You reek worse,” Jimin shot back, crumpling one of the leaves and dragging it across the top of his thigh with a hiss.

Yoongi forced himself not to look. He grabbed another cluster and began rubbing it into his chest, neck, arms, trying to scrub out the lingering musk that still clung like smoke.

“You know Jungkook’s gonna know,” Jimin said, smearing herb paste onto a new bruise. “He’s like a damn scent hound.”

Yoongi sighed through his nose. “Then lie.”

“Like you will?”

“I’m better at it.”

Jimin snorted. “Sure. You’ll just glare and grunt and pretend it never happened, like the emotionally repressed little bitch you are.”

Yoongi bit the inside of his cheek and dragged his eyes back to the sky. “I will pretend it didn’t happen,” he muttered. “I’m already pretending.”

Jimin looked at him then. Long. Silent. Yoongi didn’t meet his gaze. The silence stretched until Jimin flopped back onto the grass with a sigh, arms folded under his head.

They didn’t speak again for a while. Just rubbed herbs over bruises and scrapes, trying to erase the chaos they’d left on each other’s skin.

But the scents didn’t lie. And Yoongi knew—deep in his chest, under all the denial and sarcasm and bitter heat—that no amount of scrubbing was ever going to wash this clean.

Not when he could still taste Jimin’s mouth on his tongue. Not when he could still feel the imprint of Jimin’s thighs locked around him like a trap. And not when the omega—Park fucking Jimin—was still lying naked in the grass beside him, smirking to himself like he’d just won the war.

Yoongi hated him. He hated how much he didn’t hate him.

“Yoongi,” Jimin said lazily, still lying face down in the grass, arms folded under his chin, “come do my back.”

Yoongi looked up from where he was rubbing herbs over his own hip, one brow twitching upward. “What?”

“My back,” Jimin repeated, without turning his head. “Can’t reach. You broke me, remember?”

Yoongi scoffed, half hoping the omega would drop it, but of course he didn’t. Jimin just stretched his arms a little further like a lounging brat and added, “Unless your fingers suddenly fell off, Alpha, you’re gonna help.”

God. Of course he was.

“Fine,” Yoongi muttered, dragging himself over with a handful of crushed leaves, still slick and pungent with the sour-sweet bite of cleansing oil. His thighs protested every movement. His spine cracked when he knelt beside Jimin’s bare back.

“You’re lucky I don’t leave your ass smelling like arousal and regret.”

Jimin hummed. “You wish I regretted it.”

Yoongi grunted and pressed the first smear of crushed herb into Jimin’s upper back, between his shoulder blades. The omega shivered.

Yoongi didn’t say anything. Just worked the paste in with slow, firm movements, dragging his fingers across the damp stretch of Jimin’s skin. It was absurd how soft it felt, even with half of it bruised or bitten. He tried not to think about it. Tried not to notice the faint musk still curling out from underneath the masking herbs—the true scent of Jimin’s post-sex, clinging low and sweet and maddening.

“Lower,” Jimin murmured.

“Yeah, yeah.”

He slid his hands down. Between his shoulder blades. Along his spine. Past the dimples at the small of his back. Yoongi’s hands were mechanical at first—focused, clinical. Just rub the damn herbs in and move on.

But then his thumbs swept just under the curve of Jimin’s hips, and the omega arched slightly, like he couldn’t help it. Like a reflex.

And Yoongi’s hands—just kept going. Down. Over the curve of Jimin’s ass, slow and firm, fingers pressing into muscle without real thought, just following the line. His palms slid wide, dragging the crushed leaves with them, coating bare skin in thick strokes.

Jimin hissed. “The fuck did I just say?” His voice was sharp now, breathless. “We’re trying to scrub it off, not make it worse, you feral bastard.”

Yoongi blinked hard, fingers still splayed over Jimin’s ass. “I wasn’t—” he started, voice going raw. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Oh really?” Jimin twisted his head enough to glare back at him. “You just accidentally started massaging my ass like you’re kneading fucking bread?”

“I wasn’t thinking, alright?” Yoongi snapped, jerking his hands away like they’d been burned. “I was trying to finish the job.”

“You’re gonna finish me back into heat at this rate,” Jimin growled, shoving himself up slightly on his elbows. “And I swear, Yoongi—if I start leaking again, I’m gonna claw your fucking balls off.”

Yoongi stood up so fast he nearly tripped. “Stars above, don’t flatter yourself,” he barked, backing a full step away like Jimin was made of molten iron. “You’re not that irresistible.”

Jimin just flopped back down with a low laugh, his scent now laced with smugness and something annoyingly close to pleased satisfaction. “Sure,” he said airily. “That’s why your dick twitched when I bent forward.”

Yoongi turned away so fast his head spun.

It had. It fucking had, and he hated it. Hated that the scent still hung low in the air, even beneath the bitter overlay of crushed herbs. Hated how his hands still remembered the curve of Jimin’s body. Hated that even now, half-naked and bruised and trying to pretend this meant nothing—it still did. Meant something. Something terrifying.

Yoongi exhaled through his nose, dragging a hand over his face. He wasn’t supposed to feel like this. Not about him. Not about a spoiled, arrogant, sharp-tongued Kim pack omega who called his fucking pack alpha Appa and pouted his way through village politics like he owned the damn forest.

But god help him, Yoongi could still feel him everywhere. On his hands. In his throat. Under his skin. The scent wouldn’t come off. No matter how hard he tried to scrub.

The river was colder now. Or maybe Yoongi’s skin was just raw from scrubbing. He crouched in the shallows, hands dipped into the running water as he dragged the crushed herb paste from his arms, from the hollow of his throat, from every damn spot where Jimin had bitten him like a starving wolf with no concept of restraint. It didn’t matter that Yoongi had been just as feral. It didn’t matter that some of the bruises blooming along Jimin’s thighs and throat were from his teeth.

It didn’t matter that he wanted to go back in time and do it again.

“Fuck,” he muttered, under his breath this time.

The water rippled with the force of his curse, like it wanted to wash the whole day off him.

Behind him, Jimin had sunk down to his waist, still naked, hair damp and clinging to the sides of his flushed face. The omega was scrubbing himself in half-hearted circles, pouting at the water like it had personally offended him.

“Get your scent off before your appa smells it and loses his goddamn mind,” Yoongi growled without looking.

“Shut up,” Jimin said, bored. “I am.”

Yoongi splashed water over his own chest again, harder. The scent was mostly gone now—mostly masked by bitterroot and river moss. But every so often, when the wind shifted just right, he could still smell it. That fucking cloying sweetness that curled under his skin and stuck to the back of his throat. The scent of post-sex pleasure and omega satisfaction and something that was definitely not just fighting.

He ground his jaw. “Just—when you get back, remember what I said.”

Jimin looked up.

Yoongi finally glanced back. The omega was lounging now, elbows resting on a smooth river stone, one knee drawn up lazily out of the water, as if this entire day had not just been a disaster of sweat, pheromones, and impulse control.

“Say it again,” Jimin said, too innocently.

Yoongi narrowed his eyes. “Tell anyone who sees the bruises that we fought. Again. Especially if they sniff around.”

Jimin rolled his eyes, lips quirking. “I’m not stupid.”

“No,” Yoongi said tightly. “You’re worse.”

That earned him a grin. Sharp. Satisfied. Infuriating.

“I got it, alright?” Jimin stood up and walked back to shore, completely unbothered by the way the wind dragged across his soaked skin. “You mauled me in the forest like the territorial bastard you are. We argued over prey or territory or your personality disorder. Whatever.”

Yoongi turned back toward the water with a groan, scrubbing his face. “You are gonna be the death of me.”

“Oh, please. You’re gonna die from repressed emotions long before I get the chance to kill you.”

He didn’t have a comeback to that. Not one that wouldn’t sound like a confession. Instead, he shifted. Bones cracked and twisted with a sharp, familiar burn, flesh melting to fur in seconds. His paws hit the muddy riverbank with a wet thump, claws digging into earth still warm from the afternoon sun. The scents around him dulled immediately—no longer layered with desire or skin, just nature, water, and faint traces of Jimin’s omega behind him.

Jimin shifted a beat later with an exhausted huff of breath. Smaller frame, soft blond coat, his scent still puffed out behind him like sugar-coated thorns.

They stared at each other for a long second. Then, wordlessly, Jimin padded forward and bumped his nose once against Yoongi’s jaw. A quick nudge. Light. Not affectionate. Not really. But Yoongi felt it in the marrow of his bones anyway.

Fucking omega.

He didn’t say goodbye. Didn’t even flick his tail. He turned and loped back toward the Kim pack territory, disappearing into the trees like he’d never been there at all.

Yoongi watched him go until the brush swallowed his silhouette, then slowly turned away and padded in the opposite direction, heading back toward the Lee village.

His paws sank into the damp ground. Leaves crunched beneath him. His coat ruffled with the evening wind.

The scent of Jimin still clung to him, buried deep in the creases of his ribs, in the ghost-touch of bruises layered under his fur. The herbs had stripped most of the surface scent—but the rest? The rest was under the skin now. Buried in the blood.

He didn’t know how the fuck he was supposed to show up to a Lee pack dinner looking like this. He didn’t know how he was supposed to survive pretending that nothing had happened—again.

He reached the hill that overlooked their border trail and paused, tail twitching once.

They were rivals. They were enemies. Hunters from bloodlines who’d clashed for generations. Their packs barely tolerated peace treaties. Every snarl between them was technically expected.

But this? This was war of another kind. Quieter. Deadlier. The kind that settled in silence after the fight and waited.

Yoongi exhaled through his nose and padded on.

Maybe tomorrow, he’d pretend he didn’t remember how Jimin sounded when he gasped against his throat. Maybe he’d laugh in Hoseok’s face. Maybe he’d shove Taehyung in the mud and snarl at Jiyeon when she asked about the new scratches on his side.

Maybe he’d pretend he hadn’t touched the Kim omega like he belonged to him.

But not tonight. Tonight, he walked back to the Lee village with his body aching, his scent barely masked, and his mouth still tasting like fuckin’ trouble.

And god help him. He already missed the bastard.

The village fence came into view up ahead, woven branches strung with bone charms and feathers, creaking slightly in the breeze. Yoongi slowed, ears still tuned behind him like he expected to be followed — by pawsteps, or laughter, or maybe that brat’s voice hissing at him again to stop being a feral alpha, as if he hadn’t been the one moaning like he wanted to be eaten alive.

Yoongi huffed.

Shifted the second he was past the trees.

The pain hit sharp and familiar—knees locking, spine cracking, claws retreating into skin. He stood upright in seconds, completely naked, covered in dirt, scratches, and river-washed regret.

He moved fast.

Not because he was embarrassed. Fuck no. He just—he didn’t want anyone seeing the bruises. Or the bite on his shoulder. Or the one high on his throat that Jimin had left like a damn brand, hidden only by his own filthy fingers when he swiped up the first shirt he could find from the stash near the fence post.

He didn’t even bother with a towel. Just yanked on his pants with still-wet hands, hair dripping down his neck, and bolted through the village entrance like a half-feral storm.

And of course. Of course. The universe hated him. Because no more than three seconds into the clearing, he caught the stench of syrup and citrus, nauseatingly in love and utterly unmistakable.

“Don’t you two have a den to roll around in?” he snapped without looking, scrubbing water from his eyes.

“Oh my god, he talks,” Taehyung gasped dramatically from somewhere near the well. “Quick, say something nice. Did you miss us?”

“No.”

“Yoon,” Hoseok drawled, voice smug and warm like the fucking sun. “Did you get your ass handed to you again by the Kim omega hunter or did a tree fall on you this time?”

Yoongi’s spine stiffened. He didn’t visibly flinch, but his hand did tighten around the hem of his shirt.

Taehyung was sniffing now. Not subtly. The way only an omega mated for years could get away with. Full inhale. Eyes narrowing.

Yoongi glared. “If you value your nose, you’ll stop that.”

Taehyung ignored him completely. “You smell like crushed mint and… river mud. And rage. And”—he sniffed again, closer this time—“some kind of omega scent under that. Like the remnants of—”

“It’s nothing,” Yoongi growled, yanking the collar of his shirt higher.

Too late. Hoseok was already squinting. His sharp alpha eyes locked onto the faint, reddish blotch peeking from under Yoongi’s jaw.

“Oh,” Hoseok said flatly, pointing. “So he bit you again. Seriously? That omega’s fucking crazy. He could’ve crushed your artery if he hit just a little higher—”

“He didn’t,” Yoongi snapped, voice a little too tight.

“Why are you letting that brat use your neck like a chew toy?” Taehyung asked, voice laced with judgment and something worse—curiosity.

“I didn’t let him,” Yoongi lied. “We fought. Over prey. Again. Like we always do.”

Hoseok raised an eyebrow. “That’s a weird spot for a fight wound.”

Yoongi shrugged, feigning boredom. “He lunged. Missed. Caught skin. That’s how fights work, dumbass.”

Taehyung didn’t look convinced. He was circling now, like a cat with nothing better to do. “I don’t remember your shirt looking that inside-out when you left this morning. Or your pants. Are those even yours?”

“Mind your own damn knot,” Yoongi muttered, tugging the waistband higher.

“Language,” Taehyung sang. “There are impressionable omegas in the vicinity.”

“You are mated to the worst influence in the pack.”

“And yet I still have standards. You smell like you rolled in trouble and liked it.”

Yoongi resisted the urge to bare his teeth.

He didn’t have the patience for this. Not with Jimin’s ghost scent still clinging to his skin like silk after a bad decision. Not with the dull ache still curled low in his belly, the phantom pulse of too-sharp teeth and that smug omega smirking up at him like he’d won something.

He didn’t need Hoseok’s knowing looks. Or Taehyung’s sniffs. Or the god-damned truth crawling under his skin.

“We fought. Over prey,” Yoongi repeated, louder now. “Same as always.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Hoseok sighed, like he pitied him. “You two are gonna get each other killed.”

Taehyung giggled. “Or mated.”

Yoongi turned, fully ready to snap something that would make them both shut the fuck up for at least a week, but before he could, Hoseok clapped him on the shoulder—right where a fresh bruise bloomed under his shirt.

Yoongi snarled low in his throat, sharp and reflexive.

“Easy,” Hoseok said, backing off. “Just glad you’re not bleeding this time.”

“Yet,” Taehyung added with a grin.

Yoongi didn’t answer. He turned on his heel, headed toward his own den, jaw tight and shoulders burning. Every step felt like walking through fog. His clothes clung damp to his skin, the bite on his throat throbbed with the rhythm of his pulse, and beneath all that—beneath the irritation and exhaustion and layers of excuses—was one quiet truth gnawing at his chest.

He’d told Jimin to lie. And Jimin had said he wasn’t stupid. But Yoongi was. Because deep down, he wanted Jimin to leave that bite uncovered. To not mask it. To not pretend. He wanted him to remember. He wanted to look across the training field, or the border, or the damn river again—and see it there. Proof. Not of a fight. Not of a rivalry. But of what they’d done. And that was the most dangerous thing of all.

Chapter Text

The hut smelled like antiseptic balm and steamed rice, warm and comforting, which was maybe why Jimin let himself sulk there like a scolded pup, half-naked on the woven mat with his arms crossed over his chest and a royal pout set deep on his face.

Seokjin clicked his tongue behind him. “Hold still.”

“I am still,” Jimin muttered, flinching as the cool ointment touched the fresh bite on his hip.

It wasn’t even the worst one. Not by a long shot. The worst was probably the one behind his shoulder blade—deep, angry, almost purple—and shaped so perfectly like Yoongi’s fucking teeth that Jimin hadn’t even tried lying about it when Seokjin yanked up his shirt earlier with a horrified gasp.

“You’re lucky Namjoon didn’t see this first,” Seokjin said now, voice tight with barely contained maternal rage. “He’d have taken a spear to the Lee pack by now.”

Jimin rolled his eyes. “Joonie doesn’t use a spear.”

“He would have.”

Another dab. Another hiss. Jimin winced and tried not to squirm, because every part of him hurt, but in that good, buzzed way—like his body had been used, claimed, even if it wasn’t allowed to be.

And god, he hated how much he liked it.

“You’re not even mated,” Seokjin said, biting off the words like he was chewing glass. “You’re not courting. You’re not anything. Just sneaking off and letting that emotionally constipated bastard ruin your body like—like—” He made a strangled noise. “Three times this month, Jimin. Month!”

Jimin huffed. “You don’t know it was three times.”

“I know you came back limping twice and smelling like his scent was ground into your spine, and this—” Seokjin pointed sharply at the bruise blooming on the inside of his thigh—”this is a third.”

Jimin flushed. Tried to turn away. “It’s not that deep.”

“It’s his scent in your goddamn sweat glands, baby. You reek like you spent a week in his den, not an hour at the river.”

He had scrubbed. Until his skin turned pink. Until his hands ached and his legs shook. But it was never enough. Yoongi’s scent clung under his skin like sap, sticky and impossible to shake. Just a little too much alpha for someone he claimed to hate. Or at least... not like.

“He’s my rival,” Jimin said weakly.

“Oh my god.” Seokjin tossed the balm aside with a dramatic thunk and sat back on his heels. “Do you hear yourself?”

“I’m an adult,” Jimin snapped, more out of habit than conviction. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Do you?”

The question hung in the air like smoke.

Jimin’s mouth opened, then closed again. Because… did he? His throat felt dry. He wanted to think he did. Wanted to believe he was making choices, not just reacting to something hot and cruel and stupid that burned between them like it didn’t care who got singed. It wasn’t like he’d planned to let Yoongi fuck him again. He hadn’t gone out to the border this morning thinking, hmm, maybe I’ll let my least favorite person in existence pin me against a rock and bite me until I can’t walk straight.

It just… happened. Like always. Every time they fought, it started sharp and violent. Teeth bared. Pheromones flaring. Fangs close enough to kill. And every time it ended with Jimin on his back, clawing at Yoongi’s shoulders, mouth parted in a moan and his pride bleeding out at his feet. It was disgusting. Addictive. And not something he could explain.

Seokjin’s gaze softened slightly, like he could smell Jimin’s tangled shame curling around his scent like barbed wire.

“Baby,” he said more gently now, brushing Jimin’s damp hair from his temple. “You can’t keep doing this. Not with him. He’s—he’s poison. You know that, right?”

Jimin didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because Yoongi was poison. Bitter and biting and cold on the outside, the way a toxin tricked you into thinking you’d survive it. But underneath—

Underneath, there was heat. A touch that lingered too long. A kiss that was too soft for something born out of hatred. A hand that held his waist like it wanted to protect instead of conquer. And Jimin didn’t know what the fuck to do with that.

“I’m not a child,” he whispered, voice caught in his throat.

Seokjin sighed, pulling him into a loose, careful hug. “You’ll always be my baby, bruises and all.”

Jimin bit his lip. Breathed him in. He still smelled like pack. Like laundry soap and wind and the faint herbal notes of Namjoon’s jacket. Safe. Familiar. Not like Yoongi’s clawed-up pheromones that made Jimin’s spine melt and his instincts scream.

“I just…” Jimin shook his head, burying it against Seokjin’s shoulder. “He’s not supposed to make me feel like that.”

“Like what?”

Like he wasn’t just an orphaned omega hunter pretending to be tough. Like he mattered. Like there was something more under all that biting and bruising and growling—something unspeakable and real and completely forbidden.

Jimin didn’t say any of that. He just mumbled, “Like an idiot.”

Seokjin snorted and kissed the top of his head. “Well, at least you know.”

They sat like that for a while—Jimin wrapped in too much love and not enough logic, and Seokjin still mumbling death threats about Yoongi under his breath. At some point Namjoon came by the doorway, peeked in, smelled the emotional disaster happening, and backed out slowly without saying a word.

Which was fine. Because Jimin wasn’t ready to face Namjoon’s disappointment on top of everything else. He wasn’t even sure he could face himself. Especially not when every breath still tasted like Yoongi. Like claws and teeth and something he shouldn’t want. Something that would ruin him if he let it. But god. Didn’t that already feel a little too late?

The room had gone quiet again. The balm was cooling on his skin, but Jimin still felt hot all over—like something rotten and swollen had cracked open inside his chest and started leaking out, slow and acidic.

Seokjin hadn’t said anything in a while. He was just sitting there beside him, folded legs tucked neatly under his thighs, his warm omega scent curling gentle and patient through the space like tea steam. Jimin hated that it made him want to cry.

He exhaled slowly. “What if I’m getting attached?” The words felt like teeth breaking in his mouth.

Seokjin didn’t respond right away, just tilted his head slightly, lips parted like he wanted to tread carefully. Jimin appreciated it, even if it didn’t make any of this easier.

“I’m not,” Jimin rushed to add. “I know I’m not. That’s not what this is. It’s not like that.”

Seokjin hummed, unconvinced. The bastard was always good at waiting him out.

Jimin swallowed hard. His fingers curled into the hem of the blanket draped over his lap. “But… what if it turns into more?” His voice cracked. “What if—what if I fuck around and catch feelings for that emotionally-stunted, ice-veined, shit-talking asshole?”

There it was. The real terror. Not the bruises. Not the bites. Not the fact that half his pack already probably suspected something was going on.

It was this—this fragile, pulsing thing fluttering in his chest whenever Yoongi held his hips a little too gently. Whenever his growling quieted down into something almost like a whisper. Whenever he lingered after, like maybe he didn’t want to go.

They couldn’t do this. Couldn’t be anything. It was already dangerous enough sneaking off like hormone-rabid teenagers to rip each other apart on neutral ground. If it turned into… more? If it ever got real? He’d lose everything.

Jimin looked down at his lap, and his voice came out small, bitter around the edges. “We can’t be mates, Jin.”

Seokjin’s eyes flickered, but he didn’t interrupt.

“Even if the moon decides to fuck with me like that—” Jimin laughed hollowly. “Even if the bond starts pulling or some shit—I can’t be mated to someone from Lee pack. They’d exile me. Or him. Or both. And even if they didn’t—how would I live? My home’s here. My life is here. You and Appa and koo are here. I’ve bled for this pack, I’ve worked—” His throat went tight. “And—and it’s not even like that,” he added, voice sharper now, desperate. “It’s just—tension. Just release. That’s all. Nothing romantic about it. No slow kisses. No sweet fucking forehead touches or—whatever the hell people in love do.” His nose wrinkled, defensive and bratty. “It’s just him being a dick and me letting him because I have… heat haze or brain rot or whatever. It’s gross. It’s not soft. He bites like he wants to mark me, but he never does. He touches me like he owns me and then runs like a coward the second I breathe too hard.”

Seokjin blinked. “So… no forehead touches?”

“Fuck you,” Jimin barked, throwing a pillow at him.

It hit Seokjin square in the face. He laughed behind it, bright and unbothered, because of course he did.

Jimin flopped back on the mat with a frustrated groan, his bare stomach heaving with stress. “I’m serious,” he muttered, voice muffled against his arm. “What if this isn’t just me being horny and stupid? What if something’s actually wrong with me?”

“Like… biologically?”

“Yes, biologically. Like my instincts have been smoking crack.”

Seokjin pursed his lips. “I don’t think crack exists in the forest, baby.”

“Well something’s wrong,” Jimin grumbled. “Because he smells like a fucking thunderstorm and still I—I let him—” His voice broke off.

There was still the faintest trace of Yoongi’s scent under his nails. That wild forest alpha musk, so sharp and bitter, like pine needles and burning leaves, and—comfort. He hated that part the most.

“I think maybe I want him to care,” Jimin whispered. “And that’s so fucked.”

It was. Because Yoongi didn’t do care. He didn’t do feelings. He didn’t do talking, for fuck’s sake. He just stared at you like he was trying to decide if you were prey, then said something rude and left.

But sometimes… sometimes, he didn’t leave. Sometimes he stayed longer than he should, fingers pressed to Jimin’s ribs like he was afraid they might crack if he let go too fast. Sometimes he looked at him like he didn’t hate him at all. And Jimin didn’t know what to do with that. He didn’t know how to be wanted by someone he wasn’t allowed to have.

Seokjin sighed again and reached for his hand, threading their fingers together. His palm was warm, solid. Unshakable. It smelled like home. “You’re scared,” he said softly.

Jimin stared up at the thatched roof above them, eyes wet. “Yeah,” he whispered. “I am.”

Jimin didn’t cry. He wouldn’t. He’d rather choke on Yoongi’s knot—god, what the fuck was wrong with him—than cry in front of Seokjin like he was a pup again.

But his eyes stung, his throat felt like someone had sandpapered it from the inside, and the soft rub of Seokjin’s thumb against the back of his hand was not helping at all.

The silence hung for a while. It wasn’t uncomfortable. It was worse than that—it was kind.

And Jimin didn’t want kindness right now. He wanted someone to slap sense into him or drag Yoongi here by the hair or at least tell him he was being an idiot, because that, at least, he could bite back against. This? This gentle understanding, this warm lavender omega scent that Seokjin always carried around like a goddamn lullaby? It made him feel like a cracked egg.

Seokjin’s voice finally broke the silence, low and even and too damn soft. “You know,” he started, “I don’t think you’re broken.”

Jimin scoffed without looking at him. “You’d be the only one.”

“I think,” Seokjin continued, undeterred, “that you’re scared because for once in your life, your heart is telling you something your brain refuses to admit.”

Jimin rolled his eyes. “Spare me the moon-blessed fairytale bullshit, Jin. This isn’t poetry, it’s a political nightmare with teeth.”

Seokjin smiled sadly, brushing a strand of Jimin’s hair behind his ear like he was still nine and throwing tantrums about torn capes. “Sometimes it’s both.”

“Gross.”

“Honest,” Seokjin corrected.

Jimin finally looked at him. “So what, I just keep doing this? Letting him fuck me until my soul turns into soup and I can’t breathe without wondering when he’s gonna ghost me next?”

“No.” Seokjin shook his head, serious now. “I think… you have to figure out what you want.”

The words landed heavy.

What did he want? He wanted Yoongi to look at him like he meant something. He wanted to stop waking up sore and sore-hearted. He wanted to be able to kiss him without tasting war. He wanted to stop lying to himself and everyone else, especially Jungkook, who would probably lose his mind if he ever found out. He wanted too much.

“I want a different fucking life,” Jimin muttered bitterly.

“Okay.” Seokjin nodded. “Then maybe we change something.”

“Like what?” Jimin snapped. “It’s not like I can walk up to Yoongi and ask if he’s into the idea of moving into my hut and meeting Namjoon over tea.”

“You could,” Seokjin said dryly. “He might stab you. But it’d be a start.”

Jimin groaned, dragging his hands over his face until the skin around his eyes stung.

“Look,” Seokjin continued, gently now, “if this isn’t what you want anymore—if it ever was—then stop. Don’t go back. Don’t meet him again. Cut it off. I’ll help. We can make up a new patrol schedule, shift you out of the hunting border rotation. Maybe you take a break from solo runs for a while—”

Jimin sat up too fast. “No.”

Seokjin blinked. “No?”

“I mean…” Jimin swallowed. “Don’t—don’t take me off patrols. I’m still a hunter.”

“Jimin-ah—”

“I can’t let him win like that,” he snapped. “I can’t let him think I’m too weak to stand in the same forest as him. I’m not.”

Seokjin’s scent flared a little, soothing and just slightly concerned. “No one’s saying you’re weak. I just—”

“I’ll figure it out,” Jimin insisted. “I just need to… think. And stop letting him climb me like a goddamn tree every time we argue.”

There was a beat of silence.

“...Did he actually climb you like a tree?” Seokjin asked, lips twitching.

“Do you want me to throw up in your lap?” Jimin said flatly.

Seokjin laughed. “You’re such a brat.”

“You love it.”

“Unconditionally, unfortunately.”

They lapsed into quiet again. This time it was easier to sit in. Jimin’s pulse was still buzzing like a mosquito trapped under his skin, but at least he wasn’t on the verge of a full-blown omega breakdown anymore. That was something.

“I think you should talk to him,” Seokjin said finally. “Not as rivals. Just… as two people who keep finding each other. Ask him what he wants. See if it lines up with what you need.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“Then you leave with your dignity intact and a few extra scratches,” Seokjin said, lifting Jimin’s wrist with a pointed look at the faint crescent marks left by Yoongi’s nails. “And maybe some sense of closure.”

Jimin’s face twisted. “I hate closure.”

“No, you hate emotional vulnerability and being loved. Closure is just collateral damage.”

Jimin threw another pillow at him. Missed this time. Seokjin didn’t even flinch.

“Papa?”

“Mhm?”

“Don’t tell Appa.”

Seokjin snorted. “Oh, hell no. If Namjoon even sniffs Yoongi’s scent on your skin, there’ll be blood in the river.”

“Exactly.”

“I’m serious, Jimin. He’ll dig that alpha a grave with his bare hands.”

“He’ll have to beat me to it.”

Seokjin looked at him, really looked at him, and his voice softened.

“I’m proud of you, you know.”

Jimin blinked. “For what? Letting the village enemy rearrange my guts?”

“For telling the truth. For being brave enough to admit you’re scared. For letting someone get close to you, even if he’s a knife with legs.”

Jimin exhaled shakily, eyelids falling shut for a second. He didn’t say thank you. He didn’t have to. The warmth of Seokjin’s scent did the talking for both of them. And for the first time in days, Jimin didn’t feel quite so alone in it.

Seokjin left with one last lingering look, the kind Jimin hated—soft and knowing and wrapped in unspoken worry. The scent of him clung to the hut for a bit after, lavender and almond tea and fucking love. It made Jimin feel sick in a way that had nothing to do with his stomach and everything to do with the tight coil of guilt digging into his ribs.

The second the door shut behind Seokjin, Jimin let himself drop face-first onto the blankets. Groaned. Kicked a pillow. Bit it. Screamed into it.

It didn’t help. His skin was still buzzing, like it hadn’t quite registered that Yoongi was gone yet, and every inch of him itched to run.

So he did.

He didn’t shift—didn’t trust himself not to sprint straight toward the southern woods if he was in wolf form—but his boots were on and his jacket was slung over one shoulder in seconds, and then he was walking fast enough to make his lungs burn.

The village was quiet this time of day, with only a few hunters and omegas out by the well, and no one looked at him twice. Good.

He didn’t know where he was going until he was already halfway up the hill overlooking the east ridge.

And of course—because the universe was an asshole—Jungkook was there, crouched near a line of tracks like the perfect model of a hunter in training. His nose was twitching, eyes narrowed at the soil, his whole body alert in that overly intense, bunny-to-predator way he had when he was trying to impress someone.

Jimin almost turned around. Almost. But Jungkook looked up. And frowned.

“Jiminie?”

Fuck.

Jimin pasted on a lazy smirk and rolled his shoulders like he hadn’t just been emotionally dissected by Seokjin an hour ago. “Hey, Koo.”

Jungkook’s brow scrunched. “You okay?”

Jimin kept walking. “Peachy.”

“...You smell like blood,” Jungkook said, voice tight now. “And Yoongi.”

Double fuck.

Jimin tried to shrug it off, tried not to feel the way his stomach flinched at the sound of his name in someone else’s mouth.

“We fought,” he said casually. “Over prey again.”

Jungkook straightened up slowly, arms crossing. “This is getting out of hand.”

Jimin rolled his eyes and flopped down beside him like nothing mattered, even as the ache in his hips flared. God, he needed ice. Or an exorcism. Probably both.

Jungkook turned to look at him properly now, eyes narrowing. “Jimin. You’re covered in bruises.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You’re literally holding your ribs like you just got kicked.”

“Maybe I did. He's an asshole, remember?”

“That’s not the point.” Jungkook’s voice dropped, low and serious now, edged with something alpha and worried, which made it so much worse. “I can’t keep this from Namjoon for much longer. If he catches wind of this—”

“He won’t.”

“Jimin—”

“He won’t,” Jimin snapped, louder this time, leaning away instinctively even though Jungkook wasn’t scenting aggressively. “It’s not like I’m writing love letters to the fucking Lee pack, okay?”

Jungkook flinched at the bitterness in his voice. “Still. This is the third time this moon. You come back smelling like blood and them—”

“I can’t help what scent lingers after a fight,” Jimin muttered.

“You can help starting the fights.”

That landed. Harder than it should’ve.

Jungkook sat back on his heels, clearly frustrated but trying to stay calm. “So what if Yoongi stole your prey? It’s not the end of the damn world.”

“It’s principle,” Jimin hissed.

“No,” Jungkook said firmly, eyes hard now. “It’s pride. And yours is going to get you killed, Jimin. Or worse—banished.”

Jimin’s stomach twisted violently. “I’m trying,” he said, quieter. “I am.”

Jungkook’s shoulders softened a little. “Try harder.”

Jimin rubbed at the back of his neck, trying to force the tension out. It was crawling beneath his skin, electric and mean, and he didn’t know how to explain it without laying himself bare.

“I don’t mean for it to happen,” he said slowly, fingers curling into the cold earth beside him. “It just… does.”

He could feel Jungkook watching him, could feel the weight of the concern pouring off him like steam.

“It’s like—one second we’re arguing, and the next…”

His hands are on me, his mouth is on my neck, I’m begging and I don’t know if it’s because I want to win or if I just want to be ruined.

Jimin cleared his throat. “Next thing I know, I’m bleeding and pissed and—fuck, it’s a blur.”

Jungkook exhaled. “You don’t have to fight every time you see him.”

Jimin huffed. “Tell him that.”

“Seriously,” Jungkook said, staring him down. “Stop letting him get to you. Let. It. Go.”

Jimin almost laughed. He couldn’t. Not when Yoongi looked at him like he wanted to be hurt. Like Jimin was a weapon, and he was begging to be stabbed. It was fucked up. It was so fucked up.

But he couldn’t stop. Couldn’t look away. Couldn’t breathe without thinking of the way Yoongi's scent clung to his skin like a warning and a promise all at once.

Jungkook sighed hard beside him and scrubbed a hand through his hair. “You look like shit.”

“Thanks.”

“You smell like war.”

“I always do.”

Jungkook gave him a long look. “You sure you’re okay?”

No. Not even a little.

“Yeah,” Jimin lied, cracking a smirk. “Just bruised my ego.”

Jungkook didn’t laugh. He just leaned back and tilted his head toward the sky. “You know I’ve got your back, right? Always.”

“I know.”

“So don’t make me pick between you and the pack.”

That one landed deeper than the rest. Jimin flinched but didn’t show it.

He stood, dusted himself off, and offered a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t worry, bunny. I always fall alone.”

Jungkook looked like he wanted to say something else, but Jimin didn’t give him the chance. He turned and walked back down the ridge, steps fast and sharp, heart thundering in his chest.

And behind his eyes, Yoongi’s scent burned like smoke.

-

The forest reeked of spring. Wet soil, blooming grass, tree bark slick with morning rain, and something feral simmering underneath it all—pheromones heavy and confused in the warming air, everything rut-scented and restless.

Jimin darted through the underbrush, paws slick with mud, fur matted at the legs from pushing through brambles. His lungs ached, but it wasn’t from exertion—it was frustration. White-hot and sour, curling in his chest like smoke.

He wasn’t even pretending to hunt prey. No stalking deer. No sniffing for hares. He was hunting Yoongi. Because fuck this.

They needed to talk. Actually talk. No teeth, no claws, no pinning him down in the dirt and dragging his moans out like secrets. Just words.

Jimin’s tail lashed once in irritation as he sniffed at a fallen log, catching the faintest curl of a Lee Pack alpha scent layered into the moss. Too old.

He huffed and kept going, bounding up a ridge, sharp claws scraping stone. His breath fogged in bursts before him, body overheated despite the chill still clinging to shaded parts of the woods. Spring in these mountains meant weather that couldn’t make up its mind—and it mirrored the chaos rotting in his ribs.

Because sex was one thing. Good sex? Sure. It was more than good. It was goddamn ruinous. No one had ever touched him like that. No one had ever fought him like that—kissed him bloody and bitten down hard enough to leave bruises Jimin wanted to hide, not out of shame, but because he couldn’t explain the grin that came with them.

Yoongi wasn’t gentle. Not even close. He was mean. Hot-tempered. Rough in the way that made Jimin's hips ache for days and his chest squeeze tight in the dark of his den at night, wishing he could hate him properly again.

But this was getting out of hand. Jimin couldn’t keep coming back with Yoongi’s scent ground into his skin like a confession. Couldn’t keep lying to his packmates—especially Jungkook, who was getting too damn smart for his own good—with the same half-assed story about border fights and prey scuffles. Namjoon hadn’t said anything yet, but his nose twitched every time Jimin walked past.

Jimin snarled low in his throat, angry at himself more than anything. Because he wasn’t some fragile little thing to be tucked away and protected—but he also wasn’t fucking invincible. He couldn’t be everyone’s precious omega one minute and then roll into the village smelling like another alpha’s spit the next. Even if that alpha kissed like a goddamn deathwish. Even if Jimin let him. Worse, even if Jimin wanted him to.

He vaulted a narrow stream, paws thudding into soft moss on the other side, and—there. He skidded to a stop so fast he kicked up dirt and half a bush with it. There was a paw print in the mud. Larger than his. Deep-set. Heavy. And it reeked of Yoongi.

His tail whipped behind him as he inhaled, and his eyes narrowed. Fresh. Close. Finally.

Jimin took off again, paws silent this time, nose twitching, head low. He let his wolf guide him—slipping through low brush, padding soft and deliberate, ears angled toward every shuffle of wildlife, every distant crack of a branch. The wind shifted, and Yoongi’s scent slammed into him full-force—all alpha heat and hostility—but now layered with something else, something ripe.

Jimin nearly tripped over himself.

That fucker was in rut. Or close to it. No wonder the last time nearly ended with Jimin unable to walk for two fucking days.

He should’ve turned around. Should’ve stopped. Instead, he pushed forward faster.

The clearing hit him like a slap. Open air, bright sun. And right in the center, sprawled beneath a crooked pine, was him.

Yoongi, in wolf form, lounging like he hadn’t singlehandedly shattered Jimin’s spine forty-eight hours ago and then walked away like it hadn’t meant a thing.

His black fur gleamed in the sunlight, thick and unkempt in patches near his nape. His tail flicked once. His eyes—those sharp, amber-dagger eyes—landed on Jimin with a slow, bored blink like he’d known Jimin was coming. And he didn’t fucking move.

Jimin’s ears flattened. He padded into the clearing, stiff-legged, lips curled. “We need to talk.”

Yoongi yawned. The bastard yawned. “Don’t feel like it,” he said lazily, curling his front paws and flopping onto his side like some spoiled housecat.

“Then I’ll bite your fucking ear off.”

Yoongi snorted. “Is that foreplay, or are you actually pissed?”

Jimin growled.

Yoongi rolled onto his back, paw swiping the air lazily. “You didn’t seem so mad when you were whining under me.”

“You almost dislocated my shoulder, you overgrown, scent-happy dick.”

Jimin lunged. Not to fight. To get close. Close enough to let Yoongi feel the shake in his shoulders, the bitter twist in his scent, the wild, feral edge of his pheromones—not angry, not lustful. Just cornered.

He circled once, brushing Yoongi’s ribs with his flank, snarling low and deliberate. “We can’t keep doing this.”

Yoongi tensed.

“Not like this,” Jimin clarified, tail twitching. “I can’t keep walking back home smelling like your goddamn cock and bite marks. My pack is going to kill you.”

Yoongi’s ears flicked. “Let them try.”

“No. That’s not the point. I don’t want them to. I—fuck.”

He shifted back before he could stop himself, fur rippling, bones cracking. Cold air slapped his bare skin, but he didn’t care. He stood there naked in the sun, chest heaving, bruises on full display.

Yoongi shifted seconds after, slow and unbothered, hair a tangled mess around his ears, mouth pulled into a smirk so sharp it could cut through bone.

Jimin pointed at him, shaking. “You. Need. To fucking chill.”

Yoongi blinked. “You came looking for me.”

“Yeah, to talk.”

“You found me naked under a tree.”

“I found you being a lazy, rut-drunk asshole who clearly doesn’t care that my pack is two seconds from thinking I’m being assaulted every time I go hunting!”

Yoongi tilted his head. “You’re not, though.”

“I know that,” Jimin hissed. “You know that. But they don’t. And if I keep saying we fought, Namjoon’s gonna send an actual patrol. With teeth. And rules. And war declarations. And I’m gonna have to explain that no, we weren’t fighting, I just like it rough when your stupid hands are on me—” He snapped his mouth shut, too late.

Yoongi stared. A long, loaded silence. Then—”…You like my hands on you.”

Jimin wanted to evaporate. “Shut up.”

“You said it.”

“I will bite your dick off.”

Yoongi smirked. “That’s not a no.”

Jimin groaned and sat down hard in the grass, yanking leaves into his lap like modesty mattered anymore.

“I’m serious,” he said, softer now. “We need to stop doing this without… something. I dunno. Boundaries. Rules. Some kind of—fuck, a system?”

Yoongi was quiet. Then he sat beside him. Close enough that their knees brushed. “…I don’t like anyone else like that,” Yoongi said, so quiet it barely registered.

Jimin blinked.

“Just you,” the alpha muttered. “Which sucks. Because you’re loud and dramatic and you smell like spoiled berries.”

“I do not—”

“And you talk too much.”

“Okay, fuck you, I was trying to—”

“But I’d kill anyone else who laid a hand on you.”

Jimin’s throat went dry. “…You can’t say that shit,” he whispered.

Yoongi’s eyes flicked to his. “I just did.”

They sat in silence again, spring wind rustling the leaves around them, and Jimin hated how warm his face felt.

“…We still need rules,” he mumbled.

Yoongi leaned in, nose brushing his neck. “Fine.”

“No marks where others can see.”

“Hm.”

“No scenting unless we’re alone.”

“Debatable.”

“No biting unless I say—”

Yoongi grinned against his skin. “You never say no.”

“I will now, if you keep being a smug little shit.”

“Promise?”

“Shut up.”

Jimin pushed him away, but Yoongi didn’t go far. Just laid back in the grass again, arms behind his head, scent curling sweet and sharp in the breeze. But the stillness didn’t last. Without warning, Yoongi shifted back toward him, mouth hot on his jaw—open and greedy, like he couldn’t help himself. Like restraint was a word that didn't live in his goddamn vocabulary.

Jimin huffed sharply and tilted his head just enough to give him access, but not enough to give him permission. “Yoongi,” he warned, voice low and edged with irritation. “I’m serious.”

“I know,” Yoongi muttered, lips brushing against his skin with maddening softness, breath heavy, scent sweet and spiced and burning at the edges—fucking pre-rut, of course. “I heard you.”

His hand slipped lower and squeezed at Jimin’s thigh—right where the muscle met the soft inner part. A teasing threat, like he already knew he’d get away with it.

“Only bites in your thighs then,” Yoongi murmured against his jaw, the heat of it crawling down Jimin’s spine. “From now on. I promise.”

Jimin slapped his hand away. “You're not branding me like livestock,” he snapped, even though his breath hitched. “We’re compromising, not negotiating with a goddamn savage.”

Yoongi pulled back just slightly, licking over his lips like a smug bastard. “No more neck. Or shoulder. Or wrist,” he listed, eyes fixed on Jimin’s bare skin, still damp from the shift and the dew. “Fine. Chest?”

“Maybe,” Jimin muttered after a moment, eyes narrowed. “No biting, though. I’m still finding bruises from last time, asshole. Seokjin started folding my tunics with his eyebrows raised.”

Yoongi’s lips curled. “So... nibbles are fine.”

Jimin sighed, dramatic and long-suffering. “Fine. Nibbles are okay.”

The smug fucking grin Yoongi gave him in return should have been criminal.

“Good,” Yoongi said and immediately pinched one of Jimin's nipples between thumb and finger, sharp and fast.

Jimin yelped and slapped his hand again—harder this time, glaring murder. “Not right now, you deranged horndog!”

Yoongi just laughed, low and rough, rubbing at the red spot on his hand like Jimin had offended him. “You’re the one naked in my territory—”

“Because I shifted here to talk, not to get fucking manhandled by a rut-riddled swamp gremlin.”

Yoongi raised a brow, licking over his teeth like he was proud of the insult. “Swamp gremlin? You really know how to sweet talk a guy.”

“I'm not here to sweet talk anyone. I'm here because you're—” Jimin exhaled, running a hand through his tousled hair. “—a walking hormone with no self-control, and I’m tired of limping back home smelling like you and looking like I got mauled by a bear.”

Yoongi didn’t look particularly sorry. If anything, his pheromones spiked with interest, the air heavy with that earthy, sharp edge that always hit a little too low in Jimin’s gut. Even in spring, the forest breeze couldn’t mask the heat rolling off of him.

“I like the way you smell after,” Yoongi said simply, like that explained everything.

Jimin’s jaw clenched. “Well I don’t. And my pack doesn’t either. Jungkook’s been sniffing me like he’s about to file a report to Namjoon. And I had to lie to them—again—and say we were fighting so they wouldn’t start asking why I came home half-dead and soaked in your alpha funk.”

Yoongi tilted his head. “You could tell them the truth.”

“Oh yeah? ‘Hi Appa, hi koo, I’ve been throwing hands and dicks with the enemy head hunter in the woods every week like some unhinged masochist with unresolved trauma’—they’d kill you. And then me. And then dig us both up just to kill us again.”

Yoongi actually snorted.

Jimin glared. “This isn’t funny.”

“I know it’s not,” Yoongi said, more serious now, voice rough around the edges. He stepped a little closer, careful this time. “That’s why we said we can tone it down.”

Jimin hated how the apology made his stomach twist. Hated more that Yoongi looked like he meant it.

“Just… fuck, I like the rough stuff. You know I do.” Jimin’s voice dipped low, eyes flicking up. “But we can’t keep playing like this. Not when I’ve got half the Kim pack ready to rip your balls off because they think you’re beating me bloody every time I disappear.”

Yoongi’s gaze softened, barely. His hand lifted again, this time to brush knuckles over Jimin’s bruised hip, where a faint mark still bloomed from the last time they’d— well, last time Yoongi had gotten possessive and forgot the concept of moderation.

“Not gonna lie,” Yoongi said, quiet, “part of me likes knowing they’re scared of me.”

Jimin shoved at his chest. “You cocky, feral, testosterone-leaking shitstain. You wanna die?”

“No,” Yoongi said mildly, catching his wrist. “I wanna keep kissing you.”

His scent flared—intense and hungry and hot, threaded with unmistakable rut tension. It coated the air like smoke, warm and dark and heady.

Jimin’s skin prickled. His instincts screamed to either bolt or climb Yoongi like a tree. “I said talk, not fuck,” Jimin muttered, even as his breath stuttered, even as he let Yoongi draw him close again, noses brushing. “You’re gonna lose your mind any day now and I’m not sticking around to get claimed like some… some idiot omega that wandered into your den.”

Yoongi’s arms slid around his waist, holding him flush. “You did wander into my den.”

“I did not. This is still neutral zone, technically.”

“You crossed the creek.”

Jimin blinked. “...Fuck.”

Yoongi grinned like a satisfied bastard. “You always cross the creek when you want me.”

“I want to talk.”

“You always say that.”

“And you always try to eat me alive like it’s gonna help.”

Yoongi’s hands settled on his lower back, firm and grounding. “I mean it this time. No more bite marks you can’t hide. No more fights either. And if it helps, I’ll keep my hands to myself until you're the one crawling into my lap.”

Jimin narrowed his eyes. “If?”

“Big if,” Yoongi admitted, eyes gleaming. “I’m trying here, sweetheart. That’s gotta count for something.”

His voice was softer now. That impossible, rare vulnerability slipping through the cracks. It always made Jimin’s gut twist into knots he couldn’t name.

He hesitated, fists resting on Yoongi’s chest. He could feel the thump of his heart beneath his palm. Steady. Warm. Stupid.

“...Fine,” Jimin muttered. “You get nibbles. No bruises. Thighs only. No neck, no wrists, and if someone so much as squints at my tunic again, I’m neutering you myself.”

Yoongi smiled like he’d won a fucking war. “Deal.”

“And don’t think I’m staying.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Jimin glared harder. “Or sleeping here.”

Yoongi kissed his temple.

“I said I’m not—”

“Just a nap.”

“You’re in fucking pre-rut!”

“I’ll behave.”

Jimin scoffed, but his limbs already felt heavy. His own scent was knotted with Yoongi’s now, wound around them like warm fog. And Yoongi’s heat… even when dulled by control, it pulled at something in Jimin’s core, something traitorous and soft and too fucking real.

He sighed, resting his forehead against Yoongi’s collarbone. “If you hump my leg in your sleep, I swear to god I will castrate you with a twig.”

Yoongi just held him tighter. “You say the sweetest things.”

And Jimin—tired, bare, and still lowkey vibrating with anger—let himself stay. Just for a nap. Maybe.

-

The first thing Jimin became aware of was the sun against his bare back—warm, sticky, and too fucking bright for how exhausted he felt. The second thing was the sharp throb of Yoongi’s scent surrounding him. Hot, dense, oppressive.

Shit.

He blinked open crusted lashes and shifted slightly, only to realize—

Yoongi was plastered against his back, one leg hooked over both of his, hand sprawled over Jimin’s hip like he owned it, face buried against Jimin’s chest. And worse—far worse—his dick was hard as a rock and rutting helplessly against Jimin’s thigh, slicking him up with precome like some overgrown mutt trying to mark territory.

“Oh, for the love of—”

Jimin was about to curse him out when he felt tongue—hot tongue—against his nipple. Then teeth. Then—

“YOONGI.”

The bastard groaned against his chest and didn’t stop. In fact, he sucked.

“Yoongi, I swear to the moon goddess, I will rip your balls off and feed them to the fucking crows!”

The alpha flinched, and then groaned again—frustrated, half-asleep, and so deep in rut-brain that it took him another second before he really realized what he was doing.

Jimin twisted around and smashed his knee between Yoongi’s legs. Not hard enough to damage anything. But hard enough to make a fucking point.

Yoongi yelped and jerked back like he’d been struck by lightning, eyes wide, hair a tangled mess, lips red and wet and jaw slack.

“What the hell, Jimin—?!”

“You were humping me like a deranged mutt in front of the damn sun, you dick-for-brains! You promised you’d behave!”

Yoongi blinked at him, eyes hazy, unfocused. “...I didn’t mean to.”

“Oh, you didn’t mean to slobber all over my chest and rub your rutting dick against my thigh like a feral beast?”

Yoongi winced. “I was asleep, Jimin.”

“You bit me.”

“…Okay I didn’t mean to bite you,” he said weakly, cheeks flushing like he’d just noticed the full extent of what he’d done. “Fuck. I—I thought I was dreaming.”

Jimin rolled his eyes so hard it nearly gave him a headache. “Your dick didn’t think so. That thing was grinding like it owed someone meat.”

Yoongi made a wounded noise in the back of his throat and looked down, finally realizing how embarrassingly slicked up he was against Jimin’s thigh. His scent was thick with frustration and lust, but also guilt—sour at the edges, crawling like shame.

“I didn’t mean to,” Yoongi said again, quieter now, more like himself. “I swear.”

Jimin sighed, dragging a hand through his hair, still trying to blink off the sleep.

He could feel the way Yoongi’s rut pheromones pulsed—warm, sharp, heavy. They clung to Jimin’s skin, snuck under his ribs, curled hot in his stomach. And Yoongi looked like he’d die if Jimin left him now—eyes glassy, pupils blown, bare and trembling at the edges of self-control.

It wasn't his fault. Not really.

Yoongi had warned him. Pre-rut's hitting early this year, he'd muttered last week after snapping at Hoseok over nothing and nearly picking a fight with a Lee pack omega over elk meat. Jimin had teased him about it. Had smirked and said, You always get needy when the flowers start blooming, don’t you? Well. Fucking guess who was blooming now.

Jimin groaned and rubbed his hands over his face. “Do you need help with that?”

Yoongi blinked. “What?”

“Your fucking dick, you idiot,” Jimin said, looking directly at him now. “Do you need help with it? Because it’s apparently got a fucking death wish if it tries grinding on me in my sleep again.”

Yoongi’s mouth opened. Closed. Then, helplessly—so fucking pathetically helplessly—he nodded.

Jimin stared at him a long second. This wasn’t Yoongi at his smug, cocky worst. This was Yoongi coming apart at the seams—quietly. Trying not to move. Trying not to inhale too deep. Trying not to beg, which he was clearly one second away from doing.

He could feel the heat rolling off the alpha’s skin, his scent all tangled with want and restraint and fucking need. Not the kind Jimin could laugh at. The kind that pulled at his chest like a string knotted between them.

“…Fine,” he muttered. “But this is because I feel pity, not because I like you.”

Yoongi actually smiled at that, the stupid bastard.

“Not a word,” Jimin warned, already pushing him back down into the grass, fingers pressing against his chest. “Not one smug, smirking, heat-dazed word, or I’ll leave you here with your dick swinging in the wind and Hoseok will never let you live it down.”

Yoongi’s smile faltered at the threat of Hoseok knowing, and Jimin snorted.

The clearing around them was full of day-noise—buzzing insects, rustling leaves, the distant hum of wind threading through the treetops. Sunlight filtered down through the branches overhead, dappling their bare skin in flickers of gold and green. It was bright, indecently bright for something this ridiculous. This messy.

The grass was warm and soft beneath Jimin’s knees as he straddled one of Yoongi’s thighs, palms braced on either side of his chest. He could feel the tremble beneath him—tight muscle pulled taut, rut pheromones coiling like tension wires under the surface. Yoongi’s chest rose and fell in shallow bursts, his eyes locked on Jimin’s face, wide and unguarded and wrecked.

His mouth was parted like he wanted to speak—but he didn’t. Smart alpha.

The scent of him was cloying. Pine, sweat, salt, the sharp edge of want. It clung to Jimin’s arms, soaked into the skin behind his ears, crept like heat across the backs of his knees. It made his pulse tick faster. Made him aware of every inch of bare skin between them.

This is a bad idea, he told himself again, for the fifth time in under a minute. And then reached down anyway.

Yoongi gasped—sharp and surprised—as Jimin’s fingers wrapped around him. He was hot, too hot, skin flushed and slick and pulsing. Pre-rut had him swollen and aching already, leaking from the tip like his body couldn’t bear holding back a second longer.

Jimin didn’t look away from his face as he gave a slow, deliberate pull. “Don’t even think about it. You keep those hips where they are, or I’ll neuter you.”

Yoongi whimpered and let his head fall back into the grass, groaning like it took every ounce of strength not to move. “Yes, Omega.”

Fucking hell.

Jimin’s spine shivered despite himself. The way Yoongi said it—wrecked and reverent and barely hanging on—struck something raw inside his chest.

“You’re lucky I’m nice,” Jimin muttered, voice lower now, fingers moving slow and punishing. “Or I’d make you go rut this out with your own damn hand.”

“I tried,” Yoongi gasped, hips twitching before he caught himself. “It didn’t work.”

Jimin rolled his eyes but didn’t stop. “Maybe your hand’s smarter than you. Because this is exactly what we said we wouldn’t do.”

“But you’re here,” Yoongi whispered, desperate. “You’re still here.”

“Against my better judgment.”

The sun was high overhead now, heat gathering in the hollow of Jimin’s back, making everything feel sticky and slow and sharp-edged. His knees were starting to ache against the grass, and his own skin was beginning to burn from where Yoongi’s scent clung, thick and invasive.

“Fuck,” Yoongi rasped, whole body shuddering as Jimin twisted his wrist slightly. “You smell so fucking good when you’re pissed.”

“Yeah?” Jimin leaned in, breath hot against his ear. “You smell like you’re one fucking heartbeat away from humping the dirt. So get your rut under control, Yoongi. Or next time I will let Jungkook neuter you.”

Yoongi whimpered again, knuckles going white where they clutched the grass. His jaw was clenched, his throat bare, his whole body wound so tight he looked like he might snap. Jimin didn’t stop—kept stroking him, slow and rough, not giving him the rhythm he wanted. Just enough to hurt. Just enough to tease. Just enough to keep him at the edge and make him beg with his whole scent.

The sounds were embarrassing—slick, wet, and urgent—but Jimin didn’t look away. He watched everything. The way Yoongi’s mouth dropped open. The way he kept trying to keep his hips still. The way his brows twisted when Jimin sped up, just slightly.

He was beautiful like this. Stupid. But beautiful.

By the time Yoongi came with a choked, broken sound—head tipped back, whole body jerking under Jimin’s hand—his scent practically exploded in the clearing. It coated the air like smoke and musk and heat and rut, thick enough to taste. His hips stuttered once, twice, before finally falling still.

He didn’t even touch Jimin. Didn’t reach for him. Just lay there, panting, trembling, throat exposed like he was offering it. Jimin didn’t mark him. Didn’t even kiss him.

He rolled off with a heavy sigh, flopping onto the grass beside him like someone who’d just finished a long, annoying chore. Then reached for the nearest patch of moss and wiped his hand clean.

“Next time you get hard in your sleep,” he muttered, eyes shut against the sun, “I’m feeding your dick to the squirrels.”

Yoongi groaned like that thought might actually finish him off. But he didn’t speak. Didn’t move. For once—blessedly—he said nothing at all.

Jimin stayed where he was, sprawled beside Yoongi in the flattened grass, one arm slung over his eyes as the alpha’s panting finally began to slow. The thick, post-orgasm scent of Yoongi’s pheromones clung to everything—him, the grass, the inside of Jimin’s lungs. It was rank, warm and bitter-edged and completely overwhelming.

Jimin resisted the urge to gag.

“I swear to fuck,” he muttered under his breath, “if your scent stains my clothes, I’m making you clean it with your tongue.”

Yoongi gave a low, barely conscious grunt in response—still blissed out, eyes half-lidded and glassy, that dumb little post-orgasm smile playing at his lips.

Jimin glanced over at him and scowled. It wasn’t fair. No alpha should look that good after being scolded, kneed in the dick, and jerked off out of pity. His cheeks were flushed, dark lashes messy, curls sweaty at the temples, scent still rolling out of him in slow, lazy waves of want.

And under it—fuck—under it, Jimin could already feel it building again. The low, boiling rumble of rut hormones kicking back up.

Yoongi shifted closer unconsciously, and Jimin shoved him away with a firm heel to the thigh. “Nope. Don’t even think about it.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Yoongi murmured, voice still wrecked and hoarse and too damn pretty for his own good.

Jimin rolled onto his side and fixed him with a glare that could skin a deer. “You didn’t have to. I can smell it, you idiot. Your pheromones are practically doing cartwheels.”

Yoongi huffed a slow breath. “It’s not like I can control it.”

“Well figure it out, genius. Because this—” Jimin gestured at the two of them, at the grass stained with slick and sweat and the air thick with sin “—this is getting way out of hand.”

Yoongi blinked at him, dazed. “But—”

“Nope. Shut up.” Jimin sat up, scrubbing a hand through his hair, and leveled a finger in Yoongi’s face. “You need to shift. Right now. You need to get up on those four big dumb paws and call one of your Lee pack idiots to come drag your sorry pre-rutting ass back to your den before I lose what’s left of my fucking mind.”

Yoongi stared at him, blinking slowly like it hadn’t quite processed. Then. He had the audacity to pout. Pout. That pretty little bottom lip poked out, eyebrows drawn together, voice soft like Jimin hadn’t just had to babysit his heat-crazed ass through the worst morning of his life.

“But can’t we just—” Yoongi’s voice dropped an octave, low and almost purring, “—do it once? Just one time, omega. I’ll be good. I swear I won’t—”

“Are you out of your fucking mind?!” Jimin snapped, nearly leaping to his feet. “You think I’m gonna let some unhinged alpha in rut—your rut, mind you—stick his dick in me like I’m some easy, loose-tail omega from the bottom hills?!”

Yoongi flinched. “I didn’t mean it like that—”

“Oh, fuck you,” Jimin seethed. “I don’t care what your brain is doing, I’m not a warm hole for you to use and knot and then forget about when your hormones wear off!”

Yoongi looked gutted, and for half a second Jimin almost—almost—felt bad. But then he remembered waking up to his chest being slobbered on like a chew toy, and that guilt evaporated like morning dew under fire.

“I am not gonna sit here and coddle some hormone-rabid alpha who can’t keep it in his pants!” Jimin barked. “I’m not your mate. I’m not your fucking heat toy. And I don’t have it in me to babysit your rut when you clearly don’t have two brain cells left to rub together!”

Yoongi’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, jaw tight. His scent flared with shame and something else—loss?—before he turned his face away.

Jimin stared him down, arms crossed, biting the inside of his cheek. “Shift,” he said coldly. “Now.”

“But—”

“Yoongi.” The name came out sharper than claws. Final.

For a long moment, Yoongi didn’t move. Then, slowly, almost sulking, he pushed up onto all fours. His hands trembled, breath ragged, like it hurt to leave. Like it killed him to shift away from Jimin. His scent stung the air with regret and arousal and something wounded, something that curled bitter in Jimin’s chest.

But Jimin held firm.

He watched Yoongi’s skin ripple, bones crack and slide, limbs twisting down into fur. It took longer than usual—he was resisting it, even if he didn’t mean to—but eventually the wolf stood there, big and shaggy and pale-gray with black tips around the ears, eyes still painfully human. Still looking at Jimin like he might fall apart if he blinked.

“Go,” Jimin said tightly. “Howl for Hoseok or whoever. I don’t care if it’s your dumbass alpha Jiyeon. Just go.”

Yoongi didn’t move.

“Don’t make me call Namjoon,” Jimin threatened, voice rising, eyes narrowing.

Yoongi’s ears flattened like a guilty pup, and Jimin swore he heard him whimper. Then Yoongi lifted his head and let out a howl that split the quiet forest in half—low and drawn, deep and wounded, a call loud enough to reach any Lee hunter nearby.

Jimin didn’t wait. The moment the sound faded, he shifted too—bones cracking, muscles reforming, fur bursting from skin—and launched himself into the trees. His paws hit the earth hard and fast, and he ran, lungs burning, scent trailing like smoke behind him.

He didn’t look back. Didn’t stop to think. Didn’t let himself feel.

Fuck that alpha. Fuck his stupid scent and his heat-dazed eyes and the way his fucking voice had cracked when he said Jimin’s name.

He wasn’t Yoongi’s keeper. He wasn’t Yoongi’s anything.

And if the bastard ever so much as looked at him with that dumb, needy expression again, Jimin was going to personally drag him to Namjoon and let their Pack Alpha deal with the consequences. Because Jimin wasn’t sure how many more times he could walk away. And if he didn’t… He wasn’t sure he’d want to.

Chapter Text

Yoongi wasn’t sure if his rut had really passed, or if he was just… hollow enough now that it didn’t matter.

It had been stronger this time. Longer. Meaner. Like something primal had torn itself free inside him and decided to eat through his ribs from the inside out. And it had all centered around him.

Fucking Park Jimin.

That spoiled, sharp-tongued, too-pretty-for-his-own-good omega.

Yoongi exhaled through his nose and tried to focus on the trail ahead, eyes scanning the undergrowth as his claws flexed and retracted. He padded silently next to Hoseok, both of them in wolf form, both gliding through the trees like ghosts. They were meant to be hunting, patrolling the border for signs of overstepping Kim hunters, but Yoongi couldn’t stop the gnawing buzz under his skin.

Jimin was out here somewhere. He could smell him. Light, crisp scent on the air—citrus blossoms and late-summer apples with that undercurrent of something luxurious and fucked-up sweet, like honey spiked with poison. That scent had branded itself into Yoongi’s nose, into his glands, into his goddamn spine. He swore he could still taste it in his sleep.

He fucking hated him. He fucking wanted him. And that made Yoongi hate himself more than anything.

Two days. It had been two full days since the rut haze broke. Seven days total of bone-deep heat, of pacing in his den like a chained animal, of snapping at Hoseok and snarling at Taehyung, of trying not to tear his own skin off every time he remembered Jimin’s hand on him—tight, unyielding, mean—the only thing between Yoongi and total madness.

He’d been this close to breaking. He remembered the moment too clearly—Jimin's voice, cold as steel, telling him to shift. Like Yoongi was nothing more than a threat that needed to be neutralized. Like he wasn’t even Yoongi anymore. Just another out-of-control alpha.

And the worst part? Jimin had been right.

“Don’t make me call Namjoon,” Jimin had said.

And Yoongi had fucking whimpered.

Hoseok had found him maybe half an hour later, still in wolf form, pacing circles in the mud like a lunatic. He hadn’t even tried to speak. Just dropped into a crouch beside him and rested a hand on Yoongi’s neck until the worst of it ebbed.

Now, here they were, tracking deer and pretending things were back to normal.

Yoongi caught Hoseok’s glance from the side. Even in wolf form, the other alpha radiated judgment. Or maybe it was concern. Hoseok was annoying like that—always watching, always worrying.

Yoongi growled under his breath. Not at him. Not really. At everything. Especially at the way Jimin’s scent tilted again, just faintly, carried on the wind like a goddamn trap. He was close. Too close.

Yoongi stopped short. His hackles rose. He tasted something bright and sour on the back of his tongue—nervousness, not his. Jimin’s, probably. That brat always acted like he had claws, but underneath it he was just… too young. Too brave. Too stupid.

A sharp click of jaws made him snap his head around. Hoseok had stopped, too, tail low, ears swiveled forward in alert.

They both knew it. They weren’t alone anymore.

Another wolf emerged through the brush, cream-furred with white streaks along the belly and legs, lean and quick-footed. Yoongi didn’t even need to scent him. He knew that gait. That sassy little head toss.

Jimin.

Yoongi’s whole body reacted—claws digging into soil, shoulders locking. His glands flared without permission, and his pheromones spiked so suddenly that Hoseok huffed out a warning snarl and swatted him across the face with his tail.

Yoongi didn’t respond. He couldn’t. His heart was in his goddamn throat.

Jimin hadn’t seen them yet—was moving slowly through the trees, probably tracking a buck by the smell of it. Efficient. Quiet. Elegant, even in wolf form. Yoongi wanted to bite him. He wanted to roll in his scent like a feral dog and ruin him.

He wanted to crawl under the nearest tree and die.

This was exactly why he’d brought Hoseok. Because even now, even days after, he didn’t trust himself to be near Jimin without doing something catastrophic.

And Jimin—Jimin—had the fucking nerve to pretend like nothing happened. As if he hadn’t stroked Yoongi through one of the most humiliating moments of his entire life, snapped at him like a feral omega matron, then disappeared without so much as a backward glance.

Yoongi’s ears flattened. He could still feel that moment in his bones—how small he’d felt, how powerless. The way Jimin had looked at him like a walking disaster barely worth containing. The way he’d darted off like the idea of being near Yoongi even a second longer might taint him.

Fuck him. Fuck his smug, spoiled, pretty little face.

Yoongi’s tail lashed once behind him. His scent spiked again—hot, sharp, threatening—and Hoseok growled low, stepping between them in warning.

“Don’t,” he warned.

Yoongi flicked an ear. “I’m not gonna,” he replied, even though his body still ached. Even though every part of him screamed to get closer.

Jimin turned finally, nose lifting. His head cocked. He froze mid-step when his eyes landed on the two Lee hunters, and even from a distance, Yoongi saw it—the flicker of something behind his eyes. Recognition. And beneath that—annoyance.

Yoongi’s blood went cold.

Jimin trotted a little closer, just enough to be seen clearly between the branches, tail held high in that arrogant little arch that made Yoongi want to chew the bark off a tree. His scent rolled forward—clean, untouched, like Yoongi had never happened. Like nothing had been taken or given or felt.

God, he hated him.

Hoseok stepped forward and yipped in greeting, trying to keep things neutral, but Yoongi didn’t move. He just stared at Jimin like he could burn him with his eyes alone. Like he could unfeel everything.

Jimin yipped back politely—too politely—and turned away without another pause. Just… walked the fuck away. Like Yoongi was nothing.

Yoongi let out a low, strangled growl. Hoseok gave him a hard shove with his shoulder.

“Don’t,” Hoseok’s whole body warned. “Don’t start.”

Yoongi didn’t. He stayed there in the trees, heart hammering, mouth dry, scent betraying every raw edge he was trying to hide.

He was better now. He wasn’t in rut anymore. He was fine. So why the fuck did it still feel like he was one wrong breath away from throwing himself at the one omega who’d seen him at his lowest and walked away without flinching? And worse, why did some sick, stupid part of him want him to come back?

Yoongi didn’t want to leave the forest. He didn’t want to go back. He didn’t want to talk. He wanted to hunt. To chase. To snarl and rip into something until it bled. Until his lungs stopped burning and his head wasn’t full of Jimin's stupid perfect scent.

But Hoseok, stubborn bastard that he was, wasn’t letting him off the hook this time.

“You’re done for today,” Hoseok huffed in a snarl, nudging him with his snout before Yoongi could even take another step. “We are done. You’re not hunting like this. You’re one noseful away from ripping the kid's throat out or bending him over a fucking tree.”

Yoongi snapped his teeth, but it was hollow. Defensive. He didn’t want to admit Hoseok was right. He never did. But his scent betrayed him again—sharp, volatile, too charged for a post-rut alpha. He was still buzzing. Still dangerous. Like his body hadn’t gotten the memo that the worst of it had passed.

“Come on,” Hoseok growled. “Let’s go. Now. I’m not asking.”

Yoongi wanted to tell him to fuck off. Wanted to sink back into the brush, curl up in the scent trail Jimin left behind, and stay there until he forgot what shame felt like. But Hoseok turned and started walking, tail flicking like a warning. And Yoongi followed. Because of course he did.

By the time they reached the village, the sun was hanging low and warm against the treeline. The cool sweat of rut withdrawal clung to Yoongi’s spine as they padded through the clearing in silence, shifting back behind the cover of the trees and pulling on the spare clothes stashed behind Hoseok’s den.

Yoongi was still buttoning his shirt when Hoseok grabbed his wrist.

“Let’s go,” Hoseok said, already dragging him toward his hut.

Yoongi stopped short. He knew where that path led. His boots scraped the dirt. “Nope.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

Yoongi’s heels dug in harder. “I’m not going into your love shack, Hoseok.”

“It’s not a love shack, it’s my fucking house. And Taehyung’s still out. It’s just us.”

That didn’t make Yoongi feel better. If anything, it made it worse. “Why the fuck does it have to be there?”

“Because if I try to have this talk in public, you’re gonna pretend everything’s fine and then punch me in the throat the second someone walks by.”

Hoseok yanked him again, and Yoongi grunted as he stumbled forward, dragged up the stone step like an angry sack of fur and pride. The door creaked open and slammed behind them, and suddenly Yoongi was surrounded by the too-warm, too-sweet scent of Taehyung and Hoseok’s stupid happy-mated life.

It was awful. It smelled like stability. Like comfort. Like everything Yoongi didn’t have and didn’t deserve.

He didn’t sit. Just stood near the wall, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the floor like if he didn’t move, maybe Hoseok would forget why they were here.

No such luck.

Hoseok stood in front of him, arms crossed, that look on his face. The look. The one that meant Yoongi was about to get called on his shit.

“I need to ask you something,” Hoseok said slowly, watching him like he was handling a half-feral wolf in heat.

Yoongi didn’t answer.

Hoseok pressed on. “That day. Last week. When I found you in the forest. You remember?”

Yoongi’s jaw tightened. Of course he remembered.

“I’m not talking about your eyes rolling back in your skull while I tried to drag you back to your den,” Hoseok said, voice low. “I’m talking about what the clearing smelled like.”

Yoongi still didn’t look up.

Hoseok took a step closer. “It reeked of Jimin.”

Yoongi’s throat bobbed.

“Yoongi.”

He didn’t answer.

“And not just him,” Hoseok said. “It smelled like arousal. Like you. Like him and you together.”

Yoongi let out a slow breath.

The silence stretched long enough for Hoseok’s scent to shift—uncertain, edging on concern.

Then Yoongi spoke. Flat. Deadpan. “We didn’t fuck.”

Hoseok’s brow lifted. “Swear.”

Yoongi finally looked up, and god, he hated how defensive he sounded. “I swear. No fucking. He didn’t even touch my knot, alright?”

Hoseok blinked.

Yoongi sighed, rubbed his face like he could scrape the memory off his skin. “Okay. Maybe. Maybe my stupid dick got hard because my brain was melting out my ears and I couldn’t fucking think. Maybe he gave me a hand. That’s it.”

“A hand job?”

Yoongi groaned. “Why do you say it like that? Like it’s some fucking scandal. It’s not like I tied him in the fucking trees and—”

“But you wanted to,” Hoseok said flatly.

Yoongi shut up. His heart was pounding again. He hated that Hoseok could see through him so easily.

Hoseok crossed his arms again, waiting. “Why would Jimin even do that? I thought you two hated each other. Aren’t you always trying to gut each other? What the fuck changed?”

Yoongi sat down. Collapsed, more like it. He rested his arms on his knees, head in his hands. His voice came out quiet. Tired. “We started fucking two months ago.”

Hoseok blinked. “What?”

Yoongi snorted bitterly. “Yeah.”

“Jimin?”

“Yeah.”

“You?”

Yoongi glared. “Don’t say it like that.”

“You mean to tell me you’ve been sneaking around fucking Park Jimin—Kim Seokjin and Kim Namjoon’s baby omega hunter—behind their backs like it’s some goddamn side quest?”

Yoongi scowled. “He’s not a baby.”

“He’s barely twenty-four.”

“He’s a hunter.”

“He calls his pack alpha Appa when he’s in a mood.”

Yoongi groaned and flopped back onto the rug. “I know, alright?”

Hoseok stared down at him. His scent was complicated now—half disbelief, half judgmental younger brother energy. Yoongi fucking hated it.

“You’re out of your mind,” Hoseok muttered.

“I didn’t plan for this,” Yoongi snapped. “It wasn’t supposed to be anything. Just sex. Just fighting and kissing and—fuck, he’s got this mouth on him, Hobi, you don’t understand.”

“I don’t want to understand.”

“Well, good. Because it’s over.”

Hoseok tilted his head. “Is it?”

Yoongi hesitated. “…I don’t know.” And god, didn’t that just sum it all up.

He scrubbed both hands down his face, groaning as he sank onto the edge of Hoseok and Taehyung’s damn overly-scented bed, elbows on his knees, head in his hands like he could scrub this whole conversation out of existence by sheer force of palm pressure alone. The scent of sweet omega comfort still lingered faintly in the blankets—Taehyung’s scent, all sugar and moonlight and everything not fucking relevant right now—but it didn’t help. If anything, it made him more uncomfortable. Like he was dirtying this place with his stinking mess.

And Hoseok was still staring at him like a motherfucking priest who’d just heard Yoongi confess to banging a ghost during Sunday service.

“Well?” Hoseok said flatly, arms crossed, one brow cocked in that you-better-speak-before-I-set-you-on-fire way. “You gonna tell me how that even started or do I have to beat it out of you with a chair leg?”

Yoongi groaned and let his hands fall, rubbing at his temples like it would summon the strength of every dead wolf in his bloodline.

“You’re not gonna let it go, are you?”

“Not even slightly.”

“Fuck’s sake.” Yoongi exhaled so hard it came out like a growl. His own scent was leaking into the space. Hoseok scrunched his nose but didn’t comment, probably because he knew better.

“…It was two months ago,” Yoongi said finally. “I was patrolling alone near the border—south edge, near the red creek—and I picked up a scent.”

Hoseok tilted his head. “A Kim scent?”

Yoongi nodded. “Jimin’s. In pre-heat. Alone.”

Hoseok frowned, arms loosening just slightly. “You sure it was a pre-heat?”

Yoongi scoffed. “What do I look like, a clueless cub? Of course it was. His scent was fucking everywhere, clinging to tree bark, curling down into the moss. I thought—fuck, I don’t know what I thought. That maybe one of their omegas got attacked or panicked and lost control, or someone crossed into Lee territory to bait us or—whatever. So I followed it.”

“And found Jimin.”

Yoongi nodded again, jaw working. “Curled up under a fucking tree like a kicked pup. No one around. No Jungkook, no Namjoon, not even that tight-ass pack omega of theirs.”

Hoseok let out a low whistle, eyes narrowing. “And you didn’t just turn around and leave him?”

“I almost did.” Yoongi gritted his teeth. “But he was crying.”

That shut Hoseok up for half a second. Yoongi glared at the floor like it had personally betrayed him. “Not like, dramatic omega sobbing. I mean real crying. Silent, shaking, nose-bloody and eyes red. Just… fucking raw. And I’m not a bastard, okay? Even if it’s Jimin.”

“Since when do you give a shit about Jimin’s feelings?” Hoseok muttered.

“I don’t,” Yoongi snapped. “But you try walking away from a barely-functioning omega in the middle of the woods while they’re dripping slick into the dirt and see if you feel good about yourself afterward.”

Hoseok’s face pinched slightly, but he stayed quiet. So Yoongi kept going, voice rough.

“He started talking before I could even open my mouth. Just… venting. Shit about his life.” Yoongi's hands curled into fists on his thighs. “I didn’t say anything. I just sat near him. Didn’t touch him. Just listened.”

“You? Listening?” Hoseok gave a short, humorless laugh. “Must’ve been an out-of-body experience.”

Yoongi ignored him. “He calmed down a little. We weren’t even fighting. And then—fuck, I don’t know how it happened. One second he was sitting across from me, and the next he was in my lap.”

Hoseok blinked. “What.”

“He was in my fucking lap, alright?” Yoongi snapped. “Grinding. Sniffling. And I tried to push him off. I really fucking did, okay? But he was… fuck. He was leaking slick and whimpering and mouthing at my jaw, and I didn’t know what the fuck to do.”

“You could’ve walked away, Yoongi.”

“Oh, really?” Yoongi barked out a bitter laugh. “Because alphas are just so good at walking away from an omega in pre-heat who’s nuzzling their knot through their pants while crying about how no one loves them.”

Hoseok’s nose twitched. Judging. Hard.

“And then he asked,” Yoongi muttered. “He asked me to be his enemy who fucks him so hard he forget his own name. Like it was nothing. Like he was offering me a piece of fucking jerky.”

“And you just said yes?”

“I didn’t say anything,” Yoongi muttered. “I was too busy trying not to blow a load in my cloak. He started it. He asked for it. What the hell was I supposed to do when he was already moaning and grinding into my lap?”

Hoseok made a disgusted sound in his throat. “Maybe remember that this is Park Jimin, not some nameless heat rut fuck from the village bathhouse?”

“Oh, I remembered,” Yoongi growled. “Every damn second. It’s not like it was romantic. It wasn’t slow or sweet or any of that shit. It was teeth and scratches and name-calling and me shoving his face into the moss so he’d stop looking at me with those big fucking omega eyes.”

The silence after that felt heavy. Ash-thick. Hoseok didn’t say anything, just stared at Yoongi like he was trying to see through him.

Yoongi shifted uncomfortably. The inside of his mouth tasted like regret and blood. “And then it happened again. The week after.”

“During hunting?”

“Yeah. We ran into each other. Started fighting. He bit me, I pinned him, we fucked. And… then again. The next week. And again.”

“How many times.”

Yoongi swallowed. “Six. Seven? Maybe eight.”

Hoseok let out a long, slow breath, shaking his head like he needed to reboot his brain. “Jesus fuck, Yoongi.”

“It’s not love,” Yoongi said, more sharply than he meant to. “It’s not fucking romantic. We don’t cuddle after or braid each other’s fur in wolf form or any of that soft pack-bonding bullshit. He insults me. I insult him back. He calls me a useless mutt. I call him a stuck-up omega brat with a leash shoved so far up his ass Namjoon can tug his fucking spine.”

“That’s horrifying.”

“It’s true.”

Hoseok’s lip curled. “You left out the part where you like it.”

Yoongi glared. “I don’t.”

“You do. You like fucking him. You like fighting and then fucking. You like how he bites you like he wants to own you.”

Yoongi didn’t answer.

“…You’re in deep shit, Yoongi.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I hate him.”

“Sure,” Hoseok said blandly. “So much that you’re bruised up from his bites and you smell like him for days after, and you practically murdered a boar today just because someone said his name.”

Yoongi’s stomach twisted, because yeah—he did smell like Jimin sometimes. That sweet omega scent that stuck to his skin like guilt. He tried to wash it off every time. Scrubbed till he bled once. Didn’t help.

Hoseok’s eyes softened a fraction. “Does he know how fucked up this is?”

“He’s the one who started it.”

“But does he know?”

Yoongi didn’t answer.

“…Fuck,” Hoseok whispered.

And Yoongi, head tilted back against the wall, stared up at the ceiling like it might offer divine intervention and muttered, “Yeah. Fuck.”

“You need to end this,” Hoseok said, low and hard, like the words were carved into stone. His scent was sharp with frustration, tinged with the bitter sting of disbelief, and it burned Yoongi’s nose worse than the fucking guilt already sitting heavy in his chest.

Yoongi pressed his palm against his face, dragging it down slowly. “I can’t.”

Hoseok scoffed, loud and disbelieving. “What the fuck do you mean, you can’t?”

“I mean—” Yoongi dropped his hand and looked him dead in the eye, jaw tight. “I fucking tried, okay? He said that last week. That it was getting out of control. That we had to stop.” His throat worked around the knot that always showed up whenever he thought too hard about it—about him. “But we didn’t. We figured rules were safer than pretending we could stop and failing again.”

“Rules.” Hoseok said the word like it tasted sour. “What, like a fucking casual rutting contract? ‘Enemies with benefits: don’t get attached, don’t die, don’t bleed too much on the grass?’”

Yoongi grimaced. “Something like that.”

“And you thought that’d work? With Jimin?” Hoseok’s voice cracked up into disbelief. “The omega who tried to throw a rock at you three weeks ago and then tackled you behind a tree an hour later?”

Yoongi rubbed at the back of his neck, eyes narrowing. “You think I don’t know it’s insane? You think I haven’t tried—fuck, we’ve tried. But every time we see each other, we fight, and then—fuck, Hoseok, it’s like—” He grunted, curling a fist in the air before letting it drop, helpless. “It’s like he gets under my skin and I get under his and the next thing I know I’m slammed against a fucking tree with his slick all over my thighs.”

Hoseok flinched like he didn’t want the image, which made Yoongi weirdly want to give him more.

“He gets so fucking angry,” Yoongi muttered, staring at nothing, “about how no one listens to him, about how his pack treats him like a spoiled decoration and not a real hunter. He vents. He rages. He cries sometimes. And then he climbs into my lap and ruts.” His voice cracked into a near-growl. “And I try—I try to push him off. I do, Hobi. But he keeps crying and begging and grinding on my dick like it’s the only fucking thing keeping him sane, and I—fuck, what the hell am I supposed to do?”

“Say no?” Hoseok snapped. “Be a responsible alpha?”

Yoongi’s jaw clenched. “He starts it, alright?”

“Yoongi,” Hoseok hissed, “I believed you. You came back with your neck half chewed off, reeking of Kim pack omega, and I said, ‘Ah, must’ve been a rough fight,’ like a fucking idiot. And when you limped into the den three weeks ago smelling like heat and slick and your fucking soul, I said—‘He probably wrestled Jimin into the mud again.’” Hoseok leaned in, eyes flaring. “I thought he was just a crazy little omega with a vendetta. But no. You’ve been fucking him.”

Yoongi didn’t respond. He couldn’t. Because what the fuck was he supposed to say? That he didn’t plan any of it? That he never meant for it to go past that first time, that one disastrous night when he found Jimin curled up in the leaves, shaking, slick pooling under him, tiny body hot and feral with pre-heat?

That Jimin had cried in his arms and then kissed him like he hated him, bit him like he meant it, rode him like revenge?

That after that, it was like something cracked open in both of them, and every time they clashed at the border it ended in a snarl, a bruise, and then Yoongi’s dick down the omega’s throat or Jimin bent over a tree root clawing at his arms and cursing him out between moans?

No. He couldn’t say that. Didn’t need to. Hoseok knew. Hoseok was staring at him like he knew all of it.

“Yoongi,” he said slowly, like it hurt him, “rough sex is one thing. I’m not judging you for that.”

“You were judging.”

“I am judging. But I’m also your fucking friend. And I’ve seen the way Jimin comes out of it too. Taehyung caught him limping last mont. Bruises all over his hips. You think his pack isn’t noticing?”

Yoongi’s stomach twisted. “They have noticed. That’s why we made the rules. That’s why we’re trying to tone it down.”

“Oh, you’re trying,” Hoseok echoed bitterly. “How noble.”

Yoongi growled, scent flaring with hot embarrassment. “We talked about it. He told me we can’t go as hard. And I said I’d—I said I’d try.”

“Try isn’t enough, Yoongi,” Hoseok said, softer this time, but not kinder. “He’s an omega. One under Namjoon. If the Kim Alpha gets wind of what’s happening—really happening—do you think he’ll give a shit about your scent trails or that Jimin offered?”

Yoongi’s breath caught. He didn’t want to think about that. He didn’t want to think about what would happen if Namjoon figured it out.

Hoseok shook his head. “You need to end it.”

“I can’t!” Yoongi snarled suddenly, fists clenched, heart hammering. “You don’t get it—I can’t, Hobi! I see him and everything just goes white. He starts mouthing off with that bratty attitude and his cheeks all red and eyes all fire and I just—I lose it, okay?! I lose every ounce of sense I’ve got.”

Hoseok looked at him, long and quiet. “Yoongi,” he said finally. “You’re falling for him.”

“No.” Yoongi’s voice was dead flat. “No, I’m not.”

“Then why can’t you stop?”

Yoongi didn’t answer. Because the thing was—He hated Jimin. Hated his perfect pout and the sharp way he talked. Hated how good he looked in his stupid little hunter gear and how he smelled like moonlight and honeysuckle and danger. Hated that he could cry into Yoongi’s neck like the world was ending and then call him a dog and bite his shoulder the next second.

But also, he hated that he wanted to see him again. That he waited for the border clashes like they were dates. That when Jimin didn’t show, his whole fucking body went tight with disappointment. That when Jimin moaned his name, it sounded real.

Yoongi swallowed hard. “I’m not falling for him,” he said again, quietly. “I just… can’t let go yet.”

Hoseok let out a long breath. “Fuck.”

Yoongi nodded. “Yeah. Fuck.”

Yoongi heard the door creak open behind him just as he clenched his jaw, eyes narrowing at Hoseok who looked like he was about to give another "friendly" lecture. The familiar scent of sweet omega scent floated in on the breeze before Taehyung even stepped inside.

Yoongi groaned low and sharp, already standing from the couch. “I’m leaving.”

“No, you’re not,” Hoseok snapped, getting up with him, hand half-raised like he might grab his arm. “Come on, let’s just get you drunk, buddy—”

“What’s going on?” Taehyung blinked at them, eyebrows drawn in that puppyish confusion that Yoongi hated and, okay, maybe found a little endearing on a good day when he wasn’t spiraling through fucking emotional vomit. “Why does it smell like anxiety and regret in here?”

Yoongi opened his mouth to say none of your damn business, but Hoseok beat him to it.

“He’s lovesick,” Hoseok said with a smirk, crossing his arms like he’d just solved the goddamn mystery of the century.

Taehyung gasped so loudly it echoed against the wooden beams of the hut. “What?”

“Don’t,” Yoongi growled, glaring daggers at Hoseok. “Don’t fucking say it.”

But the bastard had no mercy. “He fucks Jimin,” Hoseok said like it was the weather. “And it looks like the dumbass caught feelings.”

Yoongi saw red. “You motherfucker—!”

“You WHAT?” Taehyung gasped again, louder, his whole body jerking back like he’d been slapped across the face. “Wait—Jimin Jimin?? Like—Kim Pack omega hunter Jimin??”

Yoongi groaned and pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. “I hate you both. I hate you so much.”

“The same Jimin you tried to kill like seventy times?” Taehyung asked, eyes wide, voice rising in pitch. “That Jimin?? The same Jimin who tried to shove a spear down your throat that one hunt? The one who kicked you in the nuts on border patrol?! That Jimin?!”

“Yes, that Jimin,” Yoongi hissed through his teeth, then turned a venomous look on Hoseok. “You traitorous son of a fox-bitch.”

Hoseok shrugged, utterly unrepentant. “You needed the intervention.”

“I needed you to shut the fuck up,” Yoongi snapped.

“You needed to stop coming back smelling like peaches and shame, actually,” Hoseok replied calmly, then waved a hand in front of his face like Yoongi’s scent physically offended him. “Fucking reeks in here. You smell like omega heat and terrible decisions.”

Yoongi growled again, but it was more like a wounded groan this time. He turned toward the door, ignoring the way Taehyung was still staring at him like he’d just sprouted two dicks and offered to mate a Kim. He was going to walk. He was going to shift, run into the woods, throw himself into the freezing stream and hope it froze his goddamn brain off.

But Taehyung chased after him, sandals slapping against the wood floor. “Yoon, you’re in love with Jimin?”

“No!” Yoongi shouted without turning around. Then, a second later: “Shut the fuck up!”

“But you like him?” Taehyung asked, breathless and confused, like his world was being rewritten in real time. “I thought you hated each other! I thought he called you a flea-bitten mangy—”

“He does!” Yoongi yelled, rounding on him, eyes wide. “He does! He calls me every fucking insult in the moon’s damn book, Tae!”

“And you’re… into that?” Taehyung asked slowly, eyebrows drawn together like he was calculating an algebra problem. “Is this a kink thing or a trauma bond or…?”

Yoongi looked at him like he might start throwing furniture.

Behind them, Hoseok sighed, loud and long. “It started as hate-fucking.”

“Oh my god!” Taehyung clutched his head like he was in actual pain. “This is so bad! Yoongi, he’s a Kim! That’s, like—Pack Alpha Namjoon’s precious little orphan omega! You realize you’re going to get torn apart, right? Jungkook is his best friend! That alpha’s so territorial he growls if someone looks at Jimin wrong!”

“I know!” Yoongi barked, rubbing at his temple like it could erase this whole fucking disaster from his memory. “Don’t you think I fucking know that?!”

He could feel his scent rolling out of him in frustrated waves—hot cedar and the acrid bite of burned wood. Everything was tangled in his chest, knotted and tight and furious and fucking stupid. He couldn’t think about Jimin without feeling like someone was wringing him out from the inside. Couldn’t smell peaches without remembering the way Jimin whimpered when Yoongi kissed the corner of his mouth too soft. Couldn’t walk past the fucking border without remembering what Jimin looked like after they—

“Goddamnit!” Yoongi growled, punching the doorframe on his way out. It splintered with a satisfying crack. “You happy now?! You’ve ruined my night and my brain!”

“You ruined your own brain, dumbass,” Hoseok called after him. “Stop sticking your dick in your problems!”

“I can’t!” Yoongi shouted without turning back.

That was the worst part. The most humiliating, pathetic part. He couldn’t. He couldn’t stop. Even when Jimin’s scent lingered on his hands for days. Even when his neck carried the faintest bruises from Jimin’s fucking teeth. Even when Hoseok sat him down like a parent ready to lecture a wolf pup about consent and boundaries.

Yoongi was already fucked on all counts. He marched straight out of the den and into the night, not bothering to shift. He needed the cold. Needed the sting of wind against his face to anchor himself, to clear the stench of guilt and longing out of his lungs. But Jimin’s scent clung like a curse—warm skin, the faintest salt of sweat and something softer that Yoongi was too much of a coward to name.

He could still feel the weight of Jimin's body. Still hear the way Jimin panted his name like it hurt. Still remember the way Jimin flinched last time—just a little, but enough.

“Fuck,” Yoongi spat into the dirt, dragging a hand down his face.

He was going to die. If Namjoon didn’t kill him, Jungkook would. And if they didn’t, his own heart was going to carve its way out of his chest and slap him for being the stupidest alpha in the fucking forest.

And even then, even when his fingers curled into fists and his scent flared like a spark trying to catch flame, all he could think about—stupidly, weakly, pathetically—was how much he wanted to see Jimin again. Even if it killed him.

Chapter Text

The water was cold against Jimin’s skin, but he didn’t mind. The river always felt like a reset. And after tripping in the mud like a fucking rookie while chasing a buck—he needed one.

He scrubbed at his thighs, hissing softly when he rubbed over a healing bite mark. Yoongi's bite mark. His fucking signature.

Of course, the bastard’s scent had floated in about five minutes ago. Muskier than usual. Alpha-rich. He’d masked it, but Jimin knew better. He always knew when Yoongi was near. Even if Yoongi didn't say a word, even if he stalked through the trees like some brooding forest demon—his scent was always the first betrayal.

And now, Yoongi was lurking again. Of course.

Jimin rolled his eyes, raking wet fingers through his blond hair before sighing, loud enough for the trees to hear him. “You can join. I don’t bite.”

The answer came so fast it startled him. “You do bite,” Yoongi's voice slid from behind the brush like the low drag of smoke—smirking. Bastard. “Hard.”

Jimin snorted, shaking his head and not bothering to turn around as the sound of the bastard wading into the river like he had every right to. And maybe he did. Jimin didn’t know anymore.

He kept his back turned. He could feel Yoongi’s eyes on it anyway.

“Is there still mud on it?” he asked, casually enough.

“Yeah,” Yoongi answered.

Jimin tilted his chin. “Well, help then. Since you’re here. Make yourself useful.” It was supposed to sound bratty. Superior. But the words left his mouth softer than he meant them to.

Yoongi’s hand slid up his spine a moment later, the water dripping off his fingers as they ghosted over skin, slow. Gentle. Too gentle.

Jimin almost shivered, but he refused to give Yoongi that satisfaction. Until that hand slid just a bit lower than needed. Right past his back. Palm resting firmly over the curve of his ass.

Jimin whipped around so fast the water splashed. He raised an eyebrow, lip twitching with the threat of a smirk. “Really?”

Yoongi only had the audacity to shrug. “It’s been two weeks.”

Jimin squinted at him, heart hammering far too loudly for his own good. “So? You missed me or you missed fucking me?”

Yoongi tilted his head like he was genuinely considering it. “Maybe both.”

Then he was kissing him. Just like that. No warning. No words. Just warm, demanding lips pressed against Jimin’s, breath crashing between them, arms suddenly curling around Jimin’s bare waist like Yoongi was starving for him—starving and desperate and full of fire.

Jimin’s knees nearly buckled at the intensity of it. That familiar heat surged up his spine, sharp and possessive and achingly sweet, laced with Alpha pheromones that curled in his lungs like smoke.

But still—he pushed him away. Just for a second. Both of them panting.

“Rules,” Jimin breathed, eyes locked to Yoongi’s.

Yoongi gave a crooked smile, one that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll be gentle.”

Gentle. That… wasn’t in the rules. Rules were no marks where others could see. No bruises on his arms or neck. No bites unless they were on his thighs or hips. No claiming. No mating. No fucking around with pheromones on purpose. But gentle? That wasn’t in the list. Not even once.

Jimin opened his mouth to call him out, to maybe say something like "since when are you a soft fuck, Yoongi?"—but the way Yoongi was looking at him, like he was made of something fragile and divine all at once, made the words shrivel in his throat.

Because Yoongi really was being gentle. His hands were slow, not bruising. His mouth didn’t dominate, it asked. His fingers moved along Jimin’s waist like they were memorizing a map instead of gripping a weapon.

No barked orders. No shoving him against trees. No biting until he bled and cursed Yoongi’s ancestors. No Alpha-high growling about how good Jimin looked wrecked or how he needed to be taught a lesson for bratting. Just touch. Warm. Careful. Focused.

Jimin blinked, confused. "Did you get hit on the head? You... you're not trying to seduce me into a murder trap, are you? Because you’re acting like a fucking romantic and it’s disgusting.”

Yoongi huffed a low laugh against his cheek, nose brushing Jimin’s temple as he murmured, “Don’t flatter yourself, brat. I’m just tired.”

But Jimin felt the tremble in his voice. Heard the waver. Smelled the truth. Yoongi’s scent was wrong. Still smoky, still sharp—but there was something else now. Something warmer. Like a storm cloud that wasn’t quite raining, but hung heavy overhead. A tightness. Something bruised in his chest.

He wasn’t rough because he couldn’t be. He was gentle because something had cracked inside him. Jimin could tell.

And Jimin—against all logic, against every rational bone in his spoiled omega body—leaned in.

Their lips touched again, but this time Jimin kissed him first. Let himself press into it. Let Yoongi’s fingers skate up his sides. Let his hand rest on Yoongi’s chest, where his heartbeat thumped loud and frantic under warm skin.

Two weeks without this. Without him. Not just the sex. Yoongi. And fuck him sideways, but maybe Jimin missed it too. Maybe he missed how Yoongi always kept one hand on his hip like Jimin might slip away. Maybe he missed how the Alpha would kiss his pulse like it was sacred, even if he pretended it meant nothing later. Maybe he missed being looked at like this. Wanted, yes. But something else too. Something quieter. Something softer.

Yoongi nuzzled behind Jimin’s ear, breath hitching. “You smell like home.”

“Gross,” Jimin whispered back, biting his lip even as his voice cracked a little.

He turned around, back to the Alpha again. “…Is there still mud?” he asked, quieter this time.

Yoongi kissed the back of his neck before answering. “No. Just you.”

The river lapped at Jimin’s hips, warm now from the sun and the Alpha’s heat seeping into the water around him. Yoongi hadn’t stepped back. He was right there. His presence curled around Jimin like smoke—dense and slow, not the usual wildfire he unleashed when they fucked.

And Jimin… He was trying to make sense of it. He should hate this. He liked it rough. That was the whole damn point. He liked being bent over the nearest tree trunk and split open without warning. Liked when Yoongi cursed into his skin, when the Alpha grabbed his wrists too tight and left him marked in places no one else could see.

That was why he kept letting Yoongi do it. Again and again. Because Yoongi didn’t coddle him. Didn’t talk to him like he was breakable. Didn’t treat him like Namjoon did—like one wrong look would shatter him. Or like Seokjin did, always checking his wrists for bruises after hunting like Jimin couldn’t fight off a rogue wolf with bare hands.

But Yoongi treated him like a weapon. Like a wildfire. A bratty, mouthy, spoiled omega with claws and a filthy tongue—and fucked him like he could take it. And he could. Jimin was not soft. Not the way they all assumed he was, just because he was small and pretty and smelled like fucking cherry blossoms when he got too warm.

He could handle rough. He liked the pain, liked the bite of teeth on thigh, the way Yoongi sometimes lost control and pressed his whole weight down like he wanted to ruin Jimin from the inside out.

So now that Yoongi was kissing the back of his neck instead of biting it? Rubbing gentle circles into his waist instead of manhandling him? Now that he was breathing like Jimin was something precious instead of something filthy? Jimin should hate it. He should. But god, he didn’t. Not even a little.

“Fuck,” he whispered under his breath, not even sure what he was cursing. Himself, maybe. Or Yoongi. Or whatever the hell was happening between them lately.

Yoongi’s hands were on him again—sliding from the dip of his waist up to his ribs, not squeezing, just… feeling. Exploring. His fingers brushed over Jimin’s side like they didn’t want to leave.

His scent was heavy. Too heavy. Curled tight with something new. Something almost sweet. Not arousal. Not dominance. Not even the usual tension they walked on like a razor wire. It was… affection. Like Yoongi wanted more than just Jimin’s body. Like he wanted him.

Jimin’s throat went tight. And yet, he didn’t pull away. He let the Alpha touch him. Let Yoongi’s mouth press soft, open kisses to his shoulder. Let the heat between their bodies build—not in frantic thrusts or grabbed hair or biting growls—but in something slow and steady and awful.

Because it meant something. And Jimin wasn’t ready for that. Still, he leaned back just a little. Just enough for their hips to touch under the water. For Yoongi to wrap an arm around him from behind, chest to his spine.

“This isn’t how we do it,” Jimin muttered. The words sounded pathetic even to his own ears. “You don’t… do this. You're a feral, possessive, knot-brained bastard who ruins me in the mud. Not—whatever the fuck this is.”

Yoongi chuckled low. The sound rumbled against Jimin’s back, and Jimin hated how warm it made his chest feel.

“I can be both,” Yoongi murmured against his ear. “A bastard who knows when to be careful.”

Careful. There it was again. And god, it burned. Because Jimin knew what careful looked like. It looked like Namjoon making him tea after a hunt. It looked like Seokjin tucking his hair behind his ear when he pretended not to cry. It looked like the stupid fur blanket in his den he never asked for but always woke up wrapped in after bad nights.

Careful meant someone gave a shit. Careful was dangerous. Careful was hope. And Jimin couldn’t afford hope.

He twisted in Yoongi’s arms and glared up at him, even as his legs tangled with the Alpha’s under the water. “If you keep acting like this, I’m gonna start thinking you actually like me.”

Yoongi blinked once. Slow. “Maybe I do.”

That knocked the air out of him. Jimin’s heart stuttered violently. His breath caught halfway out of his chest. He opened his mouth, shut it again.

What the actual fuck?

“Say that again and I swear I’ll drown you,” he managed, voice a high whine of panic and fury. “I will hold your smug ass underwater.”

Yoongi just smirked. “You’re not that strong.”

“You wanna bet?”

“You’d miss me.”

Jimin shoved him. It did nothing. Of course it did nothing—he was a wet, naked omega up against a broad-shouldered Alpha built like war. But still. It felt necessary.

“Arrogant prick,” he spat, turning his head so Yoongi wouldn’t see the way his cheeks were heating. “This is exactly why I like it when you shut up and fuck me into the dirt.”

Yoongi leaned closer, lips brushing just under his jaw, where his scent gland pulsed.

“And yet,” the Alpha whispered, “you haven’t asked me to stop.”

Jimin went still. Because he hadn’t. Because part of him liked this. The gentle hands. The soft kisses. The way Yoongi held him like he wasn’t just a body, but something else. Something whole.

And fuck. Fuck him for liking it. Fuck Yoongi for making him feel like he deserved to be touched like this. Because he didn’t. He didn’t. Not when the rules were so clear. Not when they weren’t supposed to fall. Not when he’d promised himself this thing—whatever this was—would never mean more than the way Yoongi’s knot felt or how his voice sounded when he lost control.

This was never supposed to be soft. So why did it feel so good?

Jimin exhaled shakily. He let himself rest his forehead against Yoongi’s chest for just a breath, eyes shut, body trembling.

Then he spoke, voice small and mean all at once. “If you ever tell anyone about this, I’ll rip your dick off and feed it to the hogs behind the den.”

Yoongi chuckled. Kissed the top of his head. “Fair enough.”

They eventually left the water, skin sun-warmed and dripping, Jimin’s legs a little unsteady—not from exhaustion, but from whatever the hell had just taken place in the river.

Yoongi didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. His hand found Jimin’s wrist beneath the surface, fingers curling just firm enough to guide but not drag. He led them to the shallows, onto the smooth, mossy river rocks, and then up onto the bank where the grass was thick and damp from recent rain. The sun filtered hot through the trees, dappling across Yoongi’s bare shoulders and chest like the forest couldn’t help but kiss him.

Jimin hated it. He hated how fucking beautiful the bastard looked in the light. Hated that his scent was already flooding Jimin’s lungs before he even got a chance to catch his breath.

Yoongi turned to him once they reached the grass, watching him with that infuriatingly unreadable expression he always wore when he was thinking too much. And then—because he was a menace—he reached out with both hands and touched Jimin’s face. Thumb brushing under Jimin’s cheekbone, other fingers slipping behind his neck like he wanted to hold him there, grounded and still.

“Lie down.”

The command wasn’t rough. It wasn’t even particularly alpha. It was quiet. Warm. Soft in a way that made Jimin’s chest twist up with something ugly and beautiful all at once.

Jimin didn’t answer. He let Yoongi push him down. The grass was still wet beneath him, clinging to the backs of his thighs, but Yoongi didn’t seem to care. The Alpha knelt over him—one leg between Jimin’s thighs, one bracing beside his hip—and leaned down slow enough that Jimin could’ve stopped him if he wanted.

But he didn’t. And that was the problem. Because Yoongi was still being too careful. Still fucking gentle. He kissed Jimin like he wasn’t in a rush. Like there weren’t centuries of pack rivalry pressing on their backs, like Namjoon wouldn’t fucking explode if he saw his precious omega hunter writhing under a Lee Pack Alpha with a knot that could ruin him.

Jimin groaned into the kiss, annoyed with everything and nothing. His fingers fisted in Yoongi’s hair and yanked, hard. “You keep touching me like I’m glass and I swear I’ll break your damn face.”

Yoongi smirked against his mouth. “You keep acting like you don’t like it, and I’ll start calling you liar.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

Yoongi’s answer was a kiss just under his jaw, teeth barely scraping—not hard enough to mark. Not hard enough to satisfy that part of Jimin that needed to be devoured.

“Try me,” Yoongi whispered.

And yet, his hands—those same hands that had bruised Jimin’s hips under a tree two moons ago—were soft. One rested on Jimin’s side, warm and slow, tracing the curve of his ribcage like memorizing it. The other slid up to tangle gently in the wet strands of Jimin’s hair, combing through with patient, maddening affection.

His scent rolled out thick and heavy, curling into the grass like fog. Not rut-heavy, not full of desperate need—but intentional. Focused. It wrapped around Jimin’s body like a claim without force, like an invitation he could still walk away from if he wanted. And god, Jimin should want that. He should hate this. Where were the bruises? The pressure? The desperate knot-driven thrusting that left him clawed up and cursing Yoongi’s name into the dirt? Where was the filth? This wasn’t how they did things.

He was a brat. A spoiled little shit who ran his mouth and begged for more only when he was already half-fucked and shaking. He liked being used. Liked when Yoongi called him a needy fucking omega and made him choke on his own moans. That was what this was supposed to be. Not… this. Not this aching, unbearable softness.

But then Yoongi leaned down and kissed him again—slower this time, lips dragging over Jimin’s like they had all the time in the damn world. He kissed Jimin like he’d been starving for him. Like touching him was sacred.

And something in Jimin’s gut just gave. He felt it. That collapse of something tightly held. He hated it. Hated that it made his hands shake.

Yoongi’s palm slid up, pressing flat over Jimin’s heart. “You’re burning up,” he murmured.

“No shit, I’m lying naked in the sun with a heat-tripping bastard pinning me down.”

Yoongi laughed, low and quiet, and nuzzled his cheek against Jimin’s like they were lovers. Like they’d been doing this forever and would keep doing it until their bones were dust and their scent marked every inch of the damn forest.

“Do you want me to stop?”

Jimin froze. Because it was the worst question. The one that dug under his skin, peeled him open.

Because Yoongi always asked. Even when he was knotted and panting, even when Jimin was already gasping and clawing at him for more. He always asked. Because he cared. And Jimin hated it so fucking much, it made his eyes sting.

“I hate you,” he whispered, voice cracking.

Yoongi didn’t flinch. “I know.”

He bent down and kissed Jimin’s throat, tongue dragging slow over the thudding pulse there. His nose brushed Jimin’s scent gland, breathing in deep. A shiver rippled through Jimin’s whole body.

“You smell scared,” Yoongi said.

“Fuck off.”

“But you’re not.”

Jimin bit down on his own tongue, furious at the way his thighs had parted instinctively. Furious that his scent was thick with want—something sweet and high like bruised fruit and desperation.

“I don’t know what I am,” he admitted, voice barely audible.

Yoongi pressed his forehead to Jimin’s, one hand still resting steady over his chest. “That’s okay,” the Alpha whispered. “I do.”

And then he kissed Jimin’s wrist. Not the inside where he usually bit down, not the place he’d claimed a dozen times before. No. This was the outside, the delicate ridge of bone. A kiss meant for comfort, not heat.

Jimin made a noise in his throat. Half sob, half curse. “You’re gonna ruin me,” he breathed.

Yoongi smiled. “You already let me.”

Jimin’s legs shifted, opening wider without permission, like some part of him had surrendered under the weight of that impossible softness—those maddening touches that weren’t trying to claim or ruin, just feel. It should've pissed him off. Should’ve made him squirm and fight and call Yoongi every vulgar insult he knew.

But instead, he was aching. Ache pooling low in his gut, coating his skin from the inside out, his scent flaring embarrassingly sweet. He smelled like needing.

Yoongi smelled like restraint. Too much of it.

“Touch me like you mean it, you fucking coward,” Jimin hissed, clawing at the Alpha’s shoulders now, digging nails into damp skin. “You think I came out here to be petted?”

Yoongi made a sound in his throat—dark, a little ragged—and pressed his face against Jimin’s neck, breathing in like he couldn’t help himself.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he murmured, voice deep, too deep, all Alpha and warning and cracked self-control.

“Bullshit. I know exactly what I want.”

Yoongi pulled back just enough to look him in the eye. “Then say it.”

Jimin hated him. Hated him for making him say it out loud. For holding him like a thing worth treasuring instead of just fucking.

But his hips rolled up anyway, grinding against Yoongi’s thigh like a spoiled brat in heat. “I want you to ruin me.”

And that—that—was what finally broke him. Yoongi's hand moved, fast and rough now, grabbing the back of Jimin’s thigh and jerking it up, around his waist. The motion ground them together, cocks pressing tight between their bodies, and Jimin gasped—back arching, neck baring instinctively. Pheromones surged.

Yoongi’s scent turned sharp and wild, thick and heady like it had boiled over all at once. It slammed into Jimin like a wave, his own scent curling back—sweet, submissive, need-stricken—until the air between them was soaked with it.

Jimin was drowning in it. He loved this part. The losing-control part. The part where Yoongi’s hands stopped being careful and started gripping—pinning, claiming, sliding rough down his side and dragging over the curve of his hip like he couldn’t stand not touching all of him.

Yoongi didn’t say anything. Just pressed him down into the grass and kissed him like it was the last time they'd ever be allowed to do this.

Jimin moaned into it, loud and broken. His own hands fumbled, dragging over Yoongi’s back, nails scraping, searching for leverage. For grounding. Because this was too much now—too good. The pace of it. The desperation. Teeth clashed. Tongues licked. Skin slid over skin.

Yoongi bit—barely, not hard enough to leave a mark—on the underside of Jimin’s jaw, and Jimin lost it, crying out and rolling his hips hard enough to leave no doubt what he wanted.

“You’re such a fucking tease,” he panted, voice wrecked. “Always acting like you’re better than this, but look at you. Look at you—about to split me open ‘cause I begged.”

Yoongi growled then, a low sound that rumbled in his chest like a threat. “I’m not teasing now,” he said.

And he wasn’t. Because he shifted, gripped Jimin’s hips, dragged him up into his lap like he owned him—and Jimin let him. Worse: Jimin liked it. He wasn’t supposed to. This wasn’t the deal. He let Yoongi fuck him because it was hot, because it was filthy, because Yoongi didn’t treat him like something to be protected. Yoongi was the only one who didn’t look at him like fragile royalty. But this? This wasn’t filthy. This was reverent.

Yoongi moved like he was trying to memorize every reaction—slow grind, slow pressure, slow drag of his mouth over every inch of skin that made Jimin whimper or buck or whisper “fuck” into his shoulder.

He didn’t rut. Didn’t shove his knot in and fuck Jimin into the dirt like Jimin sometimes needed to be ruined. No. He coaxed him open with his fingers. Made Jimin feel everything. The stretch. The burn. The way his body shuddered around him with every slow push forward.

And worst of all—Yoongi kissed him through it. Mouth against his temple. His nose. His lips. Again. And again. Like they had something to protect. Like this was worth protecting.

Jimin tried to speak—some stupid insult, anything sharp to bite through the unbearable intimacy—but all that came out was a choked whimper.

He was shaking now. His legs had wrapped around Yoongi’s waist without him realizing. His hands were trembling where they fisted in the Alpha’s hair, pulling him closer, holding him like he was scared he might fall apart if Yoongi let go.

“You’re doing so good,” Yoongi whispered, voice so low and rough Jimin felt it in his spine. “You’re so—fuck, Jimin—you feel like…” He didn’t finish the sentence. Just kissed him harder, like it hurt not to say it.

And when Yoongi finally moved—hips rocking slow but deep, every motion dragging friction across the spots that made Jimin tremble—it was too much. Too full. Too everything.

Jimin keened. He hated how loud he was being. Hated how quickly he was unraveling. He was supposed to be in control. Supposed to be the brat who got what he wanted and walked away smirking.

But he couldn’t smirk now. Could barely breathe. Because Yoongi wouldn’t stop looking at him. And Jimin couldn't stop needing it.

Yoongi was so deep inside him. And slow—still so goddamn slow. Each drag of his hips, every breath between them, stretched time out like some cruel game. Like Yoongi wanted to make him lose his mind. Like he was trying to etch himself into Jimin’s body with every roll forward, claiming him without saying it.

It burned. It throbbed. But Jimin didn’t beg him to stop. Didn’t shove him away and tell him to fuck properly, like he’d done in the past when Alphas got too soft with him. No, this—whatever Yoongi was doing to him now—was wrecking him in ways Jimin hadn’t even known he could be ruined.

Yoongi’s mouth was at his neck again, hot breaths feathering over Jimin’s gland. His tongue flicked against it, slow and maddening, and Jimin’s fingers clawed at his back, unsure if he wanted to drag him closer or tear him apart.

“You feel so good,” Yoongi whispered, hips stuttering like he was losing pace.

His voice was cracked gravel now, fraying at the edges. “Too tight. You’re… fuck, Jimin. I can’t—”

Jimin knew what was coming. He could feel it. The pressure. The stretch. The weight building low, coiling around them both like a trap that had been set from the moment they’d laid eyes on each other across enemy borders.

Yoongi’s knot was swelling. It didn’t hurt—not exactly. But it was too much, too thick, pushing in slow and deep, and Jimin’s body trembled under the pressure of it, slick noise between them making his face burn. His thighs twitched, too weak to clamp tight, and his head fell back against the grass as a raw moan tore from his throat.

“F-Fuck,” he gasped. “You’re—shit—you’re knotting me.”

His own scent spiraled up, thick and dizzying—sweet and open and needy in a way he never let himself be. He should’ve been ashamed. Should’ve snarled and spat some cutting insult about how Yoongi was just another pathetic Alpha, acting like Jimin was someone to keep instead of use. But instead, he was clawing for more.

“Do it,” he whispered. “Go ahead. Tie me like I’m yours.”

And Yoongi did. The knot seated with a final, desperate grind of his hips, locking them together—flesh-to-flesh, scent-to-scent—and Jimin cried out, back arching off the grass, slick spilling down his thighs as his whole body seized with it. Everything snapped in that moment: the heat in his gut, the clench of his core, the way his vision blurred around the edges like he’d looked straight into the sun.

“Fuck—fuckfuckfuck—”

He was gone. Yoongi held him through it. Not just physically, though his arms were tight around Jimin’s waist, holding him still as his body jerked and twitched with aftershocks. But emotionally, too.

The bastard didn’t let go. Even when Jimin came down, panting and sore and soaked in scent and sweat and grass, Yoongi was still there. Still inside. Still breathing against his mouth like they were made of the same air.

The tie throbbed between them. Warm. Anchored. Jimin had never felt so full. Or so fucked. And yet… his body was going pliant. His bratty brain, usually wired for insults and second-guessing and clawing his way out of vulnerability, had gone strangely quiet.

He didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to pretend. So he just—laid there. Eyes fluttered shut. Fingers flexing weakly in Yoongi’s damp hair. They were still tangled up like the mess they were. Still stuck. The knot would take time.

Yoongi’s nose brushed his cheek. “You okay?”

The question scraped something raw in Jimin’s chest. It was too nice. Too real.

He swallowed. “…You sound like my fucking papa.”

Yoongi snorted. “Your papa knows you like it rough?”

“Shut up.”

“‘Cause if he saw how you begged—”

“I said shut the fuck up.”

Yoongi just laughed. And then pressed a kiss to the center of Jimin’s forehead that felt like it didn’t belong in this kind of story.

Jimin shifted, uncomfortable with the way his chest tightened. “This doesn’t mean anything,” he muttered. “Don’t get all weird and Alpha about it.”

Yoongi didn’t reply right away. Just adjusted them, rolling slightly to the side so Jimin wasn’t crushed under his weight. The knot tugged, and Jimin hissed, burying his face in Yoongi’s shoulder.

“I know what this is,” Yoongi said after a beat. “You keep coming back to me when you want to be treated like a real fucking person, not someone wrapped in silk and fed with gold spoons.”

Jimin flinched. That one hit too close. Because it was true. And Yoongi knew it. Saw right through all the attitude, the spoiled words, the sharp tongue Jimin used like armor.

His scent dipped again—bitter with embarrassment. But Yoongi only breathed him in deeper, knot still locked tight, heat trapped between their bodies like it belonged there.

“You smell like mine,” Yoongi whispered, not like a claim—just an observation.

Jimin didn’t answer. Didn’t know how to. So he stayed quiet. Tucked against the chest of the Alpha he was supposed to hate, knot inside him, breath synced to Yoongi’s without meaning to.

The grass itched his thighs. The sunlight hit his eyes. Their packs were probably hunting their scents already. But for now Jimin let himself be still. Let himself feel it all. Even the parts that hurt. Even the parts that felt… good.

After some time, the knot came down slowly. It ached more than it relieved. A slow stretch, a slick slide, and then—Empty. Too empty.

Jimin’s breath caught in his throat, chest rising fast as his body clenched around nothing, trying to keep something that was already gone.

Yoongi slid out with a grunt, hips twitching like his body was protesting the separation too.

And Jimin just—lay there. Naked, sore, leaking, open to the day air in every sense of the word. His thighs trembled, tacky with cooling slick. Grass stuck to the sweat on his back, his scent curling sticky-sweet around him—spent, knotted, marked without a single fucking mark to show for it.

No bite on his neck. No bruises blooming across his hips or jaw. Just soft touches. Soft everything. And it was weird. So fucking weird. Since when did the Alpha leave nothing behind?

Jimin didn’t look at Yoongi, even when the older man rose with a grunt and muttered, “I’ll get herbs. You’re—uh. Sore.”

No shit.

Jimin didn’t answer. Just turned his face toward the clouds and tried to breathe like his lungs weren’t still tangled in Yoongi’s scent. The air stank of him. Muskier than before. A little sharp around the edges now, like it wanted to linger on Jimin’s skin forever. Which, to be fair, it probably would.

The grass rustled as Yoongi padded away. Jimin heard the river in the near distance, soft and steady, like nothing had just shattered between them.

He was still leaking. Still aching. Still somehow needing. God, he hated this. Hated how vulnerable it felt to lie there without the afterburn of a bite or the bruising teeth of a fight. Normally he would’ve clawed at Yoongi’s face until he left a mark. Would’ve demanded it. Begged, if it came to that. But today, Yoongi hadn’t taken. He’d given. And Jimin didn’t know what to do with that.

The rustling returned before he could spiral deeper. Yoongi’s scent crept closer again—wet, fresh, earthy. He was crouching beside Jimin a second later, palms smeared with something green and grainy.

“Move your arm,” he murmured.

Jimin turned his head. “What the fuck is that?”

“Wild comfrey, river mint, and crushed calendula,” Yoongi said. “For swelling. And scent-masking. It won’t last long, but…”

Jimin blinked as Yoongi rubbed the paste between his palms and leaned in.

The scent hit first—sharp, herbal, clean. It cut through some of the Alpha fog still clinging to Jimin’s skin, but it didn’t erase it. Not really. Yoongi’s scent was too thick, too deep inside him now. It clung behind his ears, under his jaw, between his fucking legs.

Still, the cool of the paste felt good. Too good.

Yoongi’s hands worked gently over his hips, spreading it in long, even strokes. He avoided the most sensitive spots, but even so, the sensation made Jimin’s breath hitch. It was… intimate. Too much. More than the sex had been.

“You don’t have to do that,” Jimin muttered, trying to keep his voice sharp, but it cracked on the edges. “I’m not some—delicate little thing.”

“You’re sore.” Yoongi’s voice was low. Steady. “And I tied you. That means I clean you.”

“Didn’t know you were such a traditionalist.”

“I’m not. I’m just not a complete piece of shit.”

The paste moved lower. Down his inner thighs. Over the stickiest parts of him. Yoongi’s fingers didn’t linger, but they didn’t rush either. And Jimin—god, Jimin had to clench his fists in the grass to keep from grabbing him.

It was like this was the real knot. This slow, silent thing happening after. The washing. The way Yoongi’s thumbs pressed lightly into the swell of his hips like he knew what kind of ache still sat deep in Jimin’s bones. The way his scent was calm now, like some fucking protective animal curling around its mate. Not that they were mates. Fuck no. Still. The way he touched made Jimin’s throat tighten.

“I can walk,” Jimin said, half-snapped, when Yoongi tried to help him up.

“You limped last time I saw you leave my side,” Yoongi said. “You looked like a prissy little duckling.”

“I hate you.”

“Cool.”

But his hand stayed under Jimin’s arm as he led him to the river. The water was cold. Too cold. Jimin hissed as he waded in, the shock stealing his breath. It lapped at his sore thighs, washing away slick, paste, grass, everything. He lowered himself slowly, teeth chattering as the current pulled at him.

Yoongi followed. They didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. They just drifted there in the moonlight—shoulder to shoulder, scent barely clinging now, hair wet, skin flushed from exposure and heat and whatever the hell they were pretending this wasn’t.

Eventually, Jimin broke the silence. “No bite,” he said flatly.

Yoongi glanced over. His expression unreadable. “Would you have wanted one?”

“…I don’t know.”

“I didn’t want to give you something you’d regret.”

That stung. More than it should’ve.

“Coward,” Jimin muttered.

Yoongi snorted. “You’re not exactly subtle either, you know. You want me to bite, fight, fuck, and then vanish. Like some fucked-up bedtime story.”

Jimin glared at the water. “That’s rich coming from you, head hunter.”

Yoongi went quiet. Too quiet. Then: “I’m not going to pretend this is nothing.”

Jimin’s stomach twisted. Because it was something. And that was the worst part.

The river cooled the flush from his face, but not the burn in his chest. Not the ache left behind by Yoongi’s knot. Not the strange, aching longing that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with how gently he’d rubbed that stupid paste into Jimin’s skin.

They stayed in the water until their fingertips wrinkled. Yoongi looked reluctant to leave. Like he was about to say something—ask something. But he didn’t. And Jimin didn’t press. Because what could he even say? “Thanks for the knot and the flower rub, please fuck off back to your enemy pack?”

So instead, he muttered, “I’ll find my own way back,” and started toward the bank, body still aching, pride barely stitched together.

Yoongi followed. Of course he fucking did.

They didn’t speak as they shifted. It was awkward—how normal it suddenly felt. Just two wolves crouched in the brush, stretching bones, rolling shoulders, shaking off the mess of their human skins.

Yoongi didn’t look at him. Jimin didn’t look back. Because if he did—if he hesitated even a second—he was scared he might ask. Ask what this was. Ask if it would happen again. Ask why the fuck his chest still ached and why there still wasn’t a bite on his neck.

So instead, he bared his teeth once in Yoongi’s direction—nothing real, just a formality, something to fill the space where a goodbye should’ve been—and turned.

Yoongi huffed out a breath.

And then, just like that, they both bolted into the trees in opposite directions. Pawsteps on moss. Faint growls echoing under their breath. The knot was gone, the heat had passed, but the scent still clung—his and Yoongi’s all tangled together, dulled by the herbs but not gone. It never went away completely, not when the connection still fucking ached like this.

By the time Jimin reached the creek that snaked near the Kim pack’s northern border, his paws were muddy and his patience was wearing thinner than his pride. His limbs felt too heavy—still sore, overused. Every time he moved too fast, he could feel that weird hollowness inside him like a bruise that wouldn’t settle.

He was almost to the village, just starting to think about finding clean clothes before someone smelled too much—when a familiar bark echoed nearby. Great. Fucking perfect.

Jungkook came bounding through the underbrush like a damn deer on caffeine, his slick black coat catching glints of sunlight. The younger alpha wolf skidded to a halt, nose twitching, tail wagging like he wasn’t the most annoying thing on four legs.

“You smell like shit,” Jungkook barked.

Jimin growled in response—light, lazy, just enough to say not now, asshole.

“You hunt something? You stink like wet prey and swamp ass.”

Jimin shook out his fur and huffed, limping slightly as he turned toward the village clearing. “I was about to hunt,” he muttered, low and irritated. “But I fell in the mud.”

Jungkook’s ears twitched. And then, annoyingly, he laughed. “You? Mud? What, your little princess paws slip on a leaf?”

Jimin snapped his teeth just shy of Jungkook’s muzzle. “I hate you.”

“You love me,” Jungkook teased, padding after him with an obnoxious bounce in his step. “Besides, I can smell something else on you too. You sure you didn’t get into it with that grumpy prick Yoongi again?”

Jimin’s heart stuttered. Fuck. He knew he should’ve rolled in more herbs. But Yoongi’s scent had been too deep, slicked into the crease of his neck, threaded through his spine. There was no washing it out completely.

“Wasn’t a big fight,” Jimin said, trying to keep his tail loose, casual. “Just some wrestling over territory. It’s whatever.”

“Mhm.” Jungkook slowed a little, head cocking to the side as he gave Jimin a long sniff. “Weird. You’re quieter than usual. Normally you’d be bitching about how you almost tore out his throat or whatever.”

Jimin rolled his eyes, picking up speed. “I’m just tired, that’s all.”

Jungkook didn’t answer right away. Just padded after him, a little closer now, not pushing—but watching. Like he knew something wasn’t adding up.

Jimin hated how warm his face felt, even in wolf form.

When they finally crossed into village territory, Jimin slowed, paws landing softer on packed earth as huts came into view. The sun was still high, casting golden rays through the canopy, lighting up the gardens and den entrances. The air smelled like pack—baked earth, home herbs, warm fur.

Safe.

He shifted behind a tree, shaking off the river mud and dried leaves. His bones ached as they settled back into human shape—tender where Yoongi had held him, marked without being marked. His thighs were sore. His lower back twinged. His neck was naked. No bite. Just ghosts.

His clothes were folded where he’d left them near a basket tree. He tugged them on quickly—too quickly, wincing as the waistband of his pants brushed against sensitive skin. He smelled like soap now, faintly herbal from the river herbs—but Yoongi’s scent still lingered beneath, like a secret buried under his skin.

Jungkook shifted a few seconds later and didn’t bother hiding his stare. “You sure you're not sick or something?” the younger Alpha asked, tossing on his loose pants and tying them with lazy fingers. “You look like you just got plowed by a wild boar.”

Jimin bared his teeth. “Fuck you.”

Jungkook laughed again. “You wish.”

They walked side by side toward the main den, the scent of late afternoon cooking starting to rise from the communal kitchen. Somewhere behind the trees, kids were sparring under the watch of an older hunter. A wind breeze blew through the clearing—and Jimin could feel it again. The lingering trace of Yoongi on his skin. A phantom heat. Too much.

He scratched at the back of his neck and muttered, “I’m gonna nap before lunch.”

“You’re sure you’re okay?”

“I’m always okay.” It came out sharper than he meant.

Jungkook raised a brow but didn’t argue. Just clapped him on the back once—way too hard—and said, “Don’t die in your sleep, princess.”

Jimin flipped him off and stalked toward his den, jaw tight, heart louder than it should be.

The moment he stepped inside, the familiar scent of his home hit him—namely Seokjin's soft floral musk and the faint earthy grounding of Namjoon, warm like sunbaked stone. It wrapped around his chest like a weighted blanket. For a second, he thought about crawling into Seokjin’s arms like he did when he was younger, nuzzling into the crook of his appa’s shoulder and pretending he was still just a spoiled little thing that needed protecting.

But he couldn’t. Not when he reeked of a rival Alpha’s knot. Not when he didn’t even regret it. Not when his body still wanted.

He curled up on his bedding instead, face turned toward the wall. Eyes open. Throat tight. And all he could think—over and over like a curse—was: He didn’t even bite me.

-

The nap hadn’t helped. Jimin had curled in on himself, limbs sore and skin still haunted by touches he could feel, even with his eyes shut tight. For a moment, it had almost been peaceful—until his nose twitched, and the faintest, stubbornest wisp of him curled into the back of his throat like a ghost.

Yoongi. The bastard. Still clinging.

Jimin’s eyes had snapped open, heart racing like prey in the brush. He sat up, furious at himself and even more furious at how… not furious he actually was.

His body felt hollow again. Stretched out. Not raw, not bruised, not even marked. Just sore and… confused.

Fuck. What the hell was that earlier?

He got up and stalked to the bath without a word, steam already drifting from the hot tub inside. He stripped down and didn’t bother looking in the mirror—he didn’t want to see his own face, didn’t want to catch himself looking for marks that weren’t there.

He scrubbed like he was trying to scrape his skin off. Fingers dug into his arms, dragged the lye soap across his chest, down his thighs, his neck—especially his fucking neck, where Yoongi had kissed him, slow and tender like they weren’t supposed to hate each other, like they weren’t breaking every goddamn rule. The scent of wolf musk and slick and pine was mostly gone now, but Jimin still imagined it was there.

Because it had felt different. All of it. Usually, they fucked like enemies—because they were. Snarling and biting and slamming each other into trees, trading insults with their teeth between moans, clawing for dominance until one of them gave in and the other walked away smirking. Yoongi always left bruises. Deep ones. Sometimes teeth marks that didn’t fade for days. He never kissed him. Not really. Not unless it was to shut him up or distract him from a bite coming next.

But today… Today it had been… Gentle. Soft kisses on his jaw, his cheeks, his fucking forehead. Arms around him like they meant something. No claws, no insults, not even a bite when he’d begged for it. It was like being touched by a stranger wearing Yoongi’s skin.

Jimin slammed the bar of soap down and muttered, “Fuck you, Yoongi,” under his breath before dunking himself beneath the water one last time.

When he emerged, shaking and clean, he breathed deep. No more Yoongi. Just herbs. Ash bark. And Jimin. The confusion stayed, though. Clung tighter than scent ever could.

He dried off, threw on fresh clothes—black linen shirt, loose pants—and didn’t think too hard about where his feet were taking him. He needed answers. No—he needed Seokjin.

If there was anyone who’d understand—anyone who wouldn’t judge him for letting a rival alpha knot him stupid in the middle of the fucking forest and then walk away like nothing happened—it was his papa.

He needed Jin’s calm voice, his scolding maybe, even his judgmental little nose wrinkle. Needed someone to help him make sense of this. Because his brain sure as shit wasn’t doing the job.

The path to Namjoon and Seokjin’s hut was familiar. The scent of their den—earthy and floral, grounding and safe—always hit him before he reached the door. It was late afternoon now, sun lower in the sky, shadows longer. His own footsteps felt too loud on the dirt path.

He hesitated outside the door for half a second—just enough for the nerves to catch up. But then he heard the soft sound of laughter inside, high and sweet and unmistakably pup-like, and it gave him just enough courage to step in.

“Papa?” he called gently, pushing the door open.

The warmth hit him immediately. So did the scent of freshly baked rootcakes and sweetgrass oil, layered beneath Seokjin’s floral musk. The interior of the hut was soft-lit and calm, with woven mats and cushions scattered around the hearth. The twin pups—Jihoon and Jieun—were giggling wildly on Seokjin’s lap, their tiny hands pawing at his cheeks as he made exaggerated faces at them.

Jimin’s chest clenched.

He’d always thought Seokjin looked his most beautiful like this—calm, smiling, surrounded by little chaos monsters and somehow still graceful. Like love itself had grown legs and decided to raise a pack.

Seokjin looked up the moment Jimin stepped inside. One brow rose. “Why do you look like you just committed a crime?”

“I didn’t,” Jimin mumbled, shutting the door behind him. “Probably.”

“Uh-huh.” Seokjin bounced Jihoon gently and gestured for Jimin to come closer with a tilt of his chin. “Come here.”

Jimin padded forward, curling up on the cushions by his papa’s feet like a sulking cat. His fingers twisted in the edge of his sleeve.

“You alone?” he asked quietly.

“No Joonie. He’s out training the new recruits.”

Thank fuck.

“Okay. Good.”

That was all it took.

The moment Seokjin shifted the twins off his lap—distracting them with a soft toy—and laid a hand gently on Jimin’s head, all of it started spilling out.

“I saw him today,” Jimin said, voice low and tight. “Yoongi.”

Jin hummed but didn’t sound surprised. “I thought I smelled his rank Alpha on you when you came in earlier.”

Jimin winced.

Seokjin’s fingers carded through his hair. “He hurt you?”

“No.” He hesitated. “That’s the problem.”

That made Seokjin pause.

Jimin swallowed, curling his knees to his chest.

“It wasn’t like usual,” he admitted. “I mean, we kinda fought, yeah—but only a little. And then we—” He cut off, flushing red. “—you know.”

“I can imagine,” Seokjin said gently, hand still stroking down the back of Jimin’s head.

“But,” Jimin rushed on, “he didn’t… bite. He didn’t bruise me. He didn’t even insult me. It was just—soft. He kissed me. Like, really kissed me. And when we were done, he didn’t even look smug. He looked… guilty. Or something. He even cleaned me up.”

Seokjin’s scent shifted slightly—still warm, but more focused now. “That’s… different,” he said carefully.

Jimin scoffed. “Exactly. What the fuck does that mean? I kept waiting for him to shove me off and call me a pathetic heat-crazed brat or something. But he just—held me. And then left.”

“And you didn’t like that?”

Jimin opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “I don’t know. That’s the fucking problem. I don’t know what I want from him anymore.”

Seokjin let out a slow breath and reached for Jimin’s hand, threading their fingers together. “Maybe it’s not about knowing what you want from him yet,” he said softly. “Maybe it’s about figuring out what you want for yourself first. You’ve let him treat you like a battlefield for so long, Jiminie. It’s okay if your heart doesn’t know what to do with gentleness yet.”

Jimin bit his lip.

The silence stretched between them. The twins had crawled into a corner, content now to babble softly over their toys, oblivious to the crisis brewing two feet away.

Jimin whispered, “It’s stupid, but… it almost made me feel worse. That he was nice. Like—what the hell changed? Am I supposed to feel grateful now that he didn’t tear me up like usual?”

“No,” Seokjin said firmly, voice suddenly sharp. “You are not supposed to feel grateful for basic decency, sweetheart.”

Jimin exhaled. “I just…” He dropped his head to Seokjin’s knee. “I’m so fucking confused.”

Seokjin’s fingers moved gently over his scalp again, soothing and steady.

“Then let’s sit with the confusion for a little while,” he murmured. “You don’t have to figure it all out tonight.”

Jimin didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. He just closed his eyes and leaned into the comfort of the one person who’d always been safe, even when everything else in his world wasn’t. He shifted closer, practically crawling into Seokjin’s lap, cheek smushed against his papa’s soft tunic, breathing in that familiar comfort—vanilla bean and wild fig, a scent that had blanketed his childhood like a lullaby.

“Papa…” His voice was small, a whisper he barely trusted himself to let out.

Seokjin tilted his head instantly. “Hmm?”

Jimin hesitated, thumb curling over Seokjin’s knee before he leaned in further, until he was nearly folded into Seokjin’s side, his face tucked under the elder omega’s jaw.

“Can we cuddle more?” he mumbled. “And… can you scent me? Like—like really scent me? I don’t… I don’t wanna smell like him anymore.”

“Oh, baby,” Seokjin murmured, and just like that, Jimin’s throat closed up.

He hated how fast he melted the second Seokjin used that voice—the kind that made him feel five years old and stupid for thinking he could handle the world on his own.

Seokjin held him, arms warm and sure around Jimin’s trembling shoulders, pulling him flush against his chest. “Of course I’ll scent you. Come here, come closer.”

Jimin did, curling like a wounded fox into Seokjin’s lap, his limbs aching from too many things he didn’t want to name. The scent of home enveloped him almost instantly—stronger now, deeper—Seokjin nuzzling into his hair, jaw, throat, murmuring soft affirmations as he pressed his scent in hard, layering it over the remnants of Yoongi’s—remnants Jimin had scrubbed so hard he’d left red blotches on his skin.

“I washed too roughly,” he whispered, ashamed, voice cracking as he clutched Seokjin’s sleeve. “I still smelled him. On my chest, on my mouth, even behind my knees like some fucking curse—”

“Language,” Seokjin chided gently, but didn’t stop running his fingers down Jimin’s spine. “You're clean now. He’s gone.”

He wasn’t. Not really. Jimin knew it. Yoongi was everywhere, in the curve of his mouth and the ache in his thighs, in the ghost of that soft kiss he’d left behind Jimin’s ear, one that didn’t bruise, one that confused the fuck out of him.

He exhaled shakily, nuzzling deeper under Seokjin’s chin. “Just cover me more, please? Like—so much they can smell you three dens away.”

Seokjin chuckled, though his voice was tight. “I’m going to kiss you on your forehead and remind you that no matter what you do, you are still my pup. Even when you’re being a little disaster.”

A sniff escaped Jimin before he could stop it. He tilted his head up with a dramatic little humph. “Your favorite disaster.”

“The most spoiled, arrogant little storm I’ve ever raised.”

Jimin didn’t correct him. He liked that. He liked it even more when Seokjin began planting kisses across his face—forehead, temples, cheekbones, the tip of his nose. Jimin sighed and sagged into it, boneless with relief as Seokjin continued scenting him, dotting his pulse points, trailing fingers over the back of his neck, rubbing his scent into the skin beneath Jimin’s collar.

His heart finally stopped racing. His thoughts stopped chasing each other in frenzied circles. For a moment, he didn’t feel like a cracked jar waiting to spill open with shame.

And then, a familiar weight shifted near the entrance. Jimin flinched. It was Namjoon. Their alpha stepped in, ducking through the doorway, heavy boots thudding across the wooden floor. His towering frame cast a shadow across the hearth and his warm musk immediately filled the hut, stronger as he stepped closer.

Jimin peeked up through his lashes.

Namjoon’s brows furrowed at the sight of the two of them curled together. “Something wrong?”

Jimin tensed. But Seokjin’s hand was already stroking down his side, reassuring.

“He’s just tired. And a little needy today,” Seokjin answered simply, brushing a strand of hair from Jimin’s eyes.

Namjoon looked at Jimin a little longer than Jimin liked—like he knew something was off, but he wasn’t going to push. Then he smiled gently, hand reaching out to cup the back of Jimin’s head. “You doing okay, pup?”

Jimin wanted to lie. Say yes. But the second Namjoon’s hand threaded through his hair and scratched his scalp just right, he melted into the touch, nodding against Seokjin’s chest with a soft noise.

Namjoon leaned down and kissed the crown of his head, firm and affectionate, before pressing a softer kiss to Seokjin’s lips.

“I’ll make some tea,” he murmured, pulling away, already rolling up his sleeves.

Seokjin smiled as he watched Namjoon go, but Jimin didn’t look up. He stayed curled in his papa’s lap like a child, breathing in the layers of safety that now covered him—Seokjin’s scent strongest, with a hint of Namjoon’s threading in.

Jimin shut his eyes. He was safe. But something inside him still itched—still burned—beneath the scent of Seokjin’s love. Because no matter how hard he scrubbed or how deeply he buried himself in comfort, he could still feel Yoongi’s kiss.

Chapter Text

Yoongi’s jaws were still sticky with blood, a line of it dripping down his muzzle as he stood over the still-warm body of the deer. The hunt had been clean—of course it had. He didn’t do sloppy work. One strike to the neck, another to the haunch to drop it fast. Hoseok was still panting behind him, tail flicking like he was proud, even though Yoongi had done most of the work as usual.

“Go ahead,” Yoongi grunted in wolf form, flicking his ears toward the kill. “Drag it back. I’m going to the river.”

Hoseok snorted. “You mean you’re going to stare into the trees like a haunted asshole and hope the Kim pup shows up again.”

Yoongi bared his teeth. “Fuck off.”

Hoseok barked a laugh but didn’t argue. “You’re getting soft, you know that? You like him.”

“I’ll bite your face off.”

“Aw, alpha’s in love—”

Yoongi turned and snarled, full-body, fur bristling from neck to tail. Hoseok immediately rolled his eyes and grabbed the deer by the neck.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m leaving. But if you howl a sad poem into the wind again I swear I’ll tell Tae and he’ll make you a fucking flower crown.”

Yoongi didn’t respond. He waited until Hoseok had dragged the carcass over the ridge and vanished into the trees before he turned sharply, paws thudding into the dirt as he stalked toward the river.

It had been two weeks. Thirteen fucking days since he’d last seen Jimin—since that heat-fueled, scent-heavy, stupidly soft mistake of kisses and gentle sex.

Yoongi still woke up with the taste of it on his tongue.

He didn’t know what the fuck had come over him.  He hated it. Hated how it played on loop in his head. The softness of Jimin’s mouth. The quiet, breathless sound he made. The way his scent had shifted for just a second—less desperate, more trusting. Like he wanted it. Like he wanted Yoongi.

And then Yoongi had ran and disappeared like a fucking coward. Again. Because of course he did. He wasn’t built for softness. Not for sweetness. And definitely not for a Kim omega who could destroy him with one blink of those big, bratty eyes.

Yoongi reached the river’s edge, pushing his paws into the soft mud, ears twitching.

Nothing. No scent. No rustle. No hint of that bright, sun-warm vanilla that haunted his fucking lungs.

He waited ten minutes. Then fifteen. Then paced the bank twice, muzzle twitching, every inch of him tensed like a drawn bow. But Jimin didn’t come.

Fucking hell.

Yoongi growled, low and frustrated, and turned away from the water—heading deeper. He didn’t mean to cross the border. Not really. He just… lost track. That was all. His paws kept moving, brain spinning, and before he knew it, the familiar trees of the shared land thinned and the scent markers grew dangerously faint. He should’ve turned back. He didn’t. Something was wrong. He could feel it. And then—he saw it.

A blur of creamy fur collapsed by a cluster of brush. The stink of blood hit his nose before anything else. Sharp, metallic, and fresh. Too much. Too fast. Not prey. Jimin.

Yoongi’s heart fucking stopped.

He sprinted the last stretch, claws gouging deep into the earth, breath ragged as he dropped low beside the limp wolf.

Jimin was barely conscious. His left side was torn open, gashes across his ribs so deep Yoongi could see muscle beneath fur. One eye was swollen shut, muzzle bloodied, and one of his hind legs was twisted at an angle Yoongi didn’t like one fucking bit.

“What the fuck—” Yoongi growled, frantic, nose nosing Jimin’s side, breathing in—Blood. Pain. Fear. And worse… Jimin reeked of unfamiliar alphas. Of violence. Of territory Yoongi didn’t know.

And Yoongi lost it. Who the fuck had dared touch him? Who the fuck laid claws on his omega? His omega—No. Not his. Not his. But—fuck. Fuck. Who did he have to rip apart?

“Jimin—wake the fuck up,” Yoongi snapped, voice sharp in wolf-speak. “Who did this? Who fucking touched you?”

Jimin stirred. Barely. His head lolled to the side and one eye cracked open—barely focused.

He smirked. The little shit smirked at him. Even like this.

“Worrying doesn’t suit you, Yoongi,” Jimin slurred, his voice fuzzy with pain. “You look like you’re about to cry.”

Yoongi snarled. “Shut the fuck up. You’re half-dead.”

“Exactly.” Jimin blinked slowly. “So why do you care? You’ve done worse to me before. Right? So what—why does it matter now if I die?”

And that—That did it. Yoongi saw red. He shifted on the spot, body contorting with a crack of bones and a flash of fire behind his eyes, bare skin hitting cold grass as he rose into human form—naked, trembling, fists clenched so tight his knuckles went white.

“You fucking idiot—”

Jimin blinked, weakly shifting into human form too, coughing blood into the dirt. “There’s the asshole I remember.”

“You think I don’t fucking care?” Yoongi snapped, voice shaking. “You think I just fucked off for a week because I don’t give a shit?”

“You always fuck off,” Jimin whispered, smiling weakly.

Yoongi crouched beside him and grabbed his face—hands shaking as he cradled Jimin’s jaw, furious and gentle all at once.

“I ran because I care too much,” he snarled. “I ran because I don’t know how to not care anymore, you arrogant little moonspawn.”

Jimin blinked slowly, lips parting like he didn’t expect that. Like he couldn’t believe Yoongi was real.

Yoongi lowered his head, breathing hard against Jimin’s mouth. “Who did this?”

“I don’t know,” Jimin whispered. “Didn’t smell like a pack. Just… just a bunch of rogues, maybe.”

Yoongi’s teeth bared again. “I’m going to kill them. I don’t care if I have to burn the forest down to find them.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“You’re bleeding out.”

“Still hot, though.”

Yoongi growled. “You’re disgusting.”

Jimin’s smile was lopsided. “You love it.”

Yoongi didn’t answer. He just pulled Jimin into his arms, fuck the border, fuck the risk, fuck everything. And if he pressed a kiss to Jimin’s filthy, blood-slicked forehead before shifting again and carrying him straight toward the Kim side—No one had to know.

The second Jimin whimpered and curled instinctively into his chest—scent curling sweet and shattered around them like crushed sugarcane and moonlit sorrow—Yoongi knew he was fucked.

His fingers trembled where they pressed to Jimin’s side, already sticky with blood. The deep gashes pulsed against his palm like open mouths gasping for help. Jimin’s skin was too cold, his breath too shallow. Every little shiver of pain made Yoongi’s chest pull tighter, like a snare around his ribs.

“Fucking hell,” Yoongi whispered against Jimin’s temple, voice too hoarse, too low, too soft. “What the fuck did they do to you…”

He wasn’t even sure who he was talking to. Jimin? The rogues? Himself?

Jimin didn’t even protest when Yoongi lifted him. That was the worst part. No whining. No bratty little taunt. No overdramatic groan about his precious limbs. Just a quiet gasp of pain and then stillness.

“Don’t fucking do that,” Yoongi muttered as he stood, arms wrapped tight around Jimin’s broken body. “Don’t go quiet on me, you hear me? You do that again, I swear I’ll drag your ass back from the dead just to yell at you.”

Jimin groaned weakly, head lolling to rest against Yoongi’s shoulder. “So… dramatic.”

“Yeah?” Yoongi huffed. “Takes one to know one, Your Highness.”

His nose brushed the side of Jimin’s head again before he could stop himself. He blamed it on instinct—blamed the way his alpha was screaming under his skin. His scent had flared to full force the second he’d caught Jimin’s blood in the air. Now it was thick around them, hot and sharp and wild, a pulse of earth-smoke and anger—rage like molten iron under his skin. He could smell himself all over Jimin now. Some part of him liked that.

Fucking hell.

He couldn’t take Jimin all the way back to the Kim village. It was too far. He wouldn’t make it in this state, not without tearing himself open worse. But the river—the river was close.

There were herbs nearby. Water to clean the wounds. Cold enough to slow the bleeding.

Yoongi carried him there fast, ducking beneath branches and leaping over roots like a wraith in the trees. Jimin was so small in his arms. Smaller than he ever acted. He always took up so much space with his sharp tongue and his bratty little glares, but right now—right now, Yoongi could feel every bone in his narrow back.

He laid Jimin gently—gently, like he was made of glass—on the soft bank, kneeling beside him and immediately scooping water with both hands to start washing the wounds. The river was cold, thank fuck. Jimin hissed but didn’t resist.

His blood clouded the water red.

Yoongi gritted his teeth so hard he tasted iron. “I’m gonna ask again,” he said through clenched teeth. “And you’re gonna answer me straight this time.”

Jimin’s one good eye blinked open slowly. “Mmm?”

“What. The fuck. Happened.”

Jimin’s lips twitched, but there was no smirk this time. Just a worn, broken little curve. “Didn’t see them coming. They weren’t marked. Didn’t smell like any local pack. Three of them. Big.”

“Three.”

“Yeah.”

“And you still fought.”

Jimin gave a weak shrug. “What was I supposed to do, curtsy?”

“Fuck—” Yoongi sat back on his heels, scrubbing a bloody hand down his face. “You stubborn, reckless little—”

“They were trying to cross into our land.” Jimin’s voice dropped, rasping. “They were scouting. I think they thought I was alone.”

“Because you were alone.”

“Namjoon asked me to scout the border near the east ridge,” Jimin mumbled. “Jungkook was supposed to meet me but got delayed. So I went.”

“Why the fuck didn’t you wait?”

Jimin blinked up at him. “Because I can handle myself.”

“Bull-fucking-shit. You think I’m impressed you almost got gutted playing lone wolf?”

“No,” Jimin rasped. “But I’d do it again.”

Yoongi’s snarl was instant. “I’m going to track them. I’m going to find them. And when I do—I swear to every moon and star above—I’m going to skin them alive.”

“You’re not their alpha.”

“I don’t care,” Yoongi hissed, eyes blazing. “They touched you. They bled you like you’re nothing. You think I’m just going to let that go? Fuck no. They’re dead.”

He reached over and ripped a cluster of redroot from the river’s edge, crushing it in his palm. The scent of the herb was bitter and sharp. He pressed it into Jimin’s wounds with hands that trembled.

Jimin flinched. “Ow.”

“Don’t be a baby.”

“Says the one who nuzzled me like a lovesick pup.”

“I was scent-marking. Instinct.”

“Sure.”

Yoongi ignored him. But when Jimin winced again and sucked in a sharp breath, Yoongi’s hands gentled immediately. Too soft. Always too soft when it came to him. He couldn’t stop himself. Couldn’t stop leaning forward again, couldn’t stop resting his forehead against Jimin’s shoulder, couldn’t stop breathing him in—even now, bloodied and hurt and half-passed-out, he still smelled like something good. Like spring morning after a storm. Like moonlight on pine.

Yoongi’s voice dropped, so quiet he almost didn’t recognize it. “I thought you were dead.”

Jimin didn’t answer for a long moment. Then, barely audible, “You would’ve cared?”

Yoongi looked up, meeting that glassy, fever-bright eye. And he didn’t lie. “I would’ve gone feral.”

Jimin smiled—small, tired, more blood than warmth—and something in Yoongi cracked. His lips started brushing over the dip of Jimin’s collarbone. Soft. Again. And again. Like an apology. Like a promise. Like he could will the pain away if he just kissed him enough times.

His fingers trembled as he smeared the last of the crushed redroot over the worst wound—angry and jagged, right across Jimin’s stomach. Too close. Too fucking close to vital.

His throat clenched. “Fucking hell, Jiminie…” The name slipped out broken. Too intimate. Too soft.

He wasn’t supposed to say it like that. He wasn’t supposed to feel this way. Not about him.

But the moment the blood stopped seeping and the herb paste dulled into a greenish film, Yoongi couldn’t help it. He dropped the handful of ruined plants and immediately curled forward again, wrapping his arms around Jimin’s smaller frame and holding. Pressing him close like a talisman, like he needed the proof of him alive and breathing right here against his skin or else he’d fucking lose it.

Jimin whimpered—tiny, breathless. It shattered something inside Yoongi.

“I got you,” he murmured into sweat-slicked hair, rocking them just slightly, scent pouring out heavy and grounding from his glands. “You’re safe, sunshine. You’re okay now. They’re not gonna touch you again, I swear on my fucking fangs.”

He didn’t even mean to release pheromones—but his alpha was clawing under his skin, furious and panicked and spiraling out of control. Jimin’s pain was spiking the air. It hurt Yoongi’s nose. Hurt his chest. So he let instinct take over. Let his scent bleed out—calm and grounding and thick—until it clung to the air like armor. Let it wrap around Jimin, sink into his skin, claim every inch of him without realizing it.

Jimin whimpered again. But this time, he pressed in closer. His bare, fever-warm body curled more tightly into Yoongi’s lap, arms weakly winding around his waist, breath hot and ragged against Yoongi’s neck. He nuzzled blindly into the scent gland there—little trembling sniffs, soft exhales—and Yoongi nearly lost it all over again.

“Stop,” Yoongi whispered, but it wasn’t angry. It was desperate. “Don’t do that, fuck—I’ll go insane, Jimin. Don’t make that noise, don’t breathe like that, don’t smell like that when you’re this hurt—”

But Jimin kept moving. Like he couldn’t help it. Like he was seeking him out even in the haze of pain and blood loss, even half-passed out.

“Yoongi…” he murmured.

Yoongi’s heart fucking screeched. “I’m here,” he answered instantly, brushing more hair out of Jimin’s face, pressing another kiss to the center of his blood-stained brow. “Right here. Not going anywhere.”

Jimin’s lips barely moved. “Hurts…”

“I know, sunshine,” Yoongi breathed. “I know. Just hold on. You’re gonna be okay. I won’t let anything else happen to you.”

More pheromones. Thick now. Too thick. He was scenting Jimin without even trying—without permission, without thought, just marking him with everything he had, like his alpha had claimed him without asking.

And worse? Jimin didn’t resist. He let it happen. Whined low in his throat and tucked his nose under Yoongi’s jaw, pressing deeper, skin to skin. His scent changed again, just a little—still sick with pain, still weak and strained, but softer underneath. Comforted.

Fucking hell, what are you doing to me…

Yoongi breathed him in deep—breathed in his blood, his fear, his stubborn, selfish little omega soul—and tightened his arms like he could hold him together just by holding tight enough.

“Stay awake, yeah?” Yoongi murmured. “Talk to me.”

Jimin’s lips were dry. He licked them slow, dazed. “Don’t wanna talk…”

“Too bad,” Yoongi whispered. “You don’t get to pass out on me, Park. I didn’t almost go fucking feral dragging your broken ass to the river just to watch you bleed out on my thighs.”

Jimin chuckled weakly. “You’re so romantic.”

Yoongi growled. “I swear to every god and ghost in this forest, I will chain you to your den next time. I’ll bite your little omega ass until you learn what the fuck self-preservation means.”

“You wanna bite my ass?” Jimin slurred with a faint smirk, half-lidded eyes dazed but still sparking with sass.

Yoongi blinked. Then growled louder. “Shut up. You’re delirious.”

“And you’re scenting me like I’m your mate.”

That made Yoongi freeze. Dead silent. The words hung between them like a crack of thunder.

Jimin blinked up at him again, chest heaving, eyes wide—but not teasing anymore. Not quite. Then he sighed, and the sound was a whimper. “I’m cold.”

Yoongi snapped out of it instantly. “Shit—fuck—okay, I got you.”

He shifted them, lifting Jimin again so he could press their bare bodies closer. Yoongi sat against a boulder and draped his own arms and legs around Jimin like a makeshift blanket, shielding him from the breeze off the river.

“You’ll be okay,” he whispered against his hair. “We’ll wait till the bleeding stops, then I’ll carry you home. I’ll fucking carry you across the damn border if I have to. Let Namjoon bite my face off, I don’t give a fuck.”

Jimin smiled faintly, dazed. “Appa’ll cry if he sees me like this…”

Yoongi pressed a kiss behind his ear. “Then we’ll clean you up first. Let him cry over a clean brat instead.”

“Don’t wanna go home yet…”

“You need your pack.”

“I need you…”

Yoongi’s lungs stopped. “Don’t,” he said softly. “Don’t say shit like that when you’re dying.”

“I’m not dying.”

“You were.”

Jimin blinked. “But you came.”

Yoongi closed his eyes. And held him tighter. And didn’t answer.

The rhythm of Jimin’s breath changed—shorter, sharper. Not quite gasps, not yet, but wrong. And too warm. The scent against his throat had shifted again, no longer that raw, bark-burned pain of blood loss and shock. No. Now it was hotter, thicker. Smelled like heatwaves over sunburnt sand and too much sugar.

“Jimin,” he said low, pulling back just enough to press his hand against the side of Jimin’s neck.

Too fucking hot.

“Shit—fuck, no—”

Jimin whimpered. And Yoongi tried to move. He tried to lean Jimin back so he could check the worst of the wounds again—see if anything was infected, if the crushed herbs had turned or the river water hadn’t done enough. He needed to look. He needed to fix it. But Jimin, of course—of course, because he was the most spoiled little shit to ever exist—just curled deeper into his lap with a groan like Yoongi had kicked a puppy.

“Don’t—” Jimin mumbled, nuzzling harder against his chest. “Stay like this.”

“Sunshine, I need to check—”

“Don’t care.”

Yoongi gritted his teeth. “You’ve got a fucking fever, brat—”

“I said—” Jimin’s voice cracked, weak but bratty as ever “—don’t care. Want you.”

Fuck.

Yoongi’s whole spine stiffened. Not because it was the first time Jimin had said something like that. No—he’d been teasing, flirting, whining, pouting for weeks now. Just little hints. Testing boundaries. Throwing bait with those pretty little teeth. But this wasn’t teasing. This was raw. Desperate. Fever-slicked and whimper-soft and real.

Yoongi’s heart stuttered in his chest. “I’m right here,” he said, quieter this time, stroking slow circles into Jimin’s damp back. “But you gotta let me check. You’re burning up. That cut on your side—it looked red earlier. Fuck—shit—I should’ve brought willowbark, I should’ve—”

“Yoongi.” Jimin’s fingers curled around his wrist. Weak, but insistent. Nails barely scraping, shaking with effort.

Yoongi looked down and found those eyes again—half-lidded, bleary, pupils wide. Cheeks flushed, lips parted, sweat glistening along his temple. Too pale. Too hot. Too fucking delicate. And somehow, still the most demanding omega Yoongi had ever met.

“Please,” Jimin whispered. “Need you close.”

Yoongi swallowed hard. It hurt. It hurt more somehow—hearing that. Like his bones wanted to crack open and pour out all the pieces he’d shoved down. The truth. The rage. The guilt. The fact that if he’d arrived ten minutes later, Jimin might be—

He shuddered. No. No, fuck that. He hadn’t come ten minutes later. He’d come in time. And now he was here. So he’d stay. Even if it cost him every fucking wall he’d built between himself and this impossible omega.

He let himself settle again, one arm supporting Jimin’s back, the other smoothing damp hair from his eyes. “You little menace,” Yoongi muttered, brushing a thumb across Jimin’s cheekbone. “You really gonna flirt while half-dead and half-cooked?”

“’M not flirting,” Jimin slurred, snuggling back into his throat. “Just... saying what I want.” His lips grazed Yoongi’s scent gland.

Yoongi’s breath stopped. His alpha responded immediately—pheromones surging again, more intense than before. Less calming this time. He barely reined it in before they turned possessive.

He gritted his teeth and let it bleed softer again—still warm, still grounding, but tighter. More controlled. Not a claim. Not yet. But his scent clung to Jimin like a second skin now. No way Namjoon or Jungkook—or anyone—would miss it.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, nose brushing Jimin’s hair. “You’re gonna get me skinned alive.”

Jimin didn’t answer. Just sighed against his throat again, breath hot and shallow.

“Sunshine,” Yoongi said again, voice firmer now. “You gotta stay awake. Just a little longer. I’ll carry you back once the fever drops a little, alright?”

“Don’t wanna go,” Jimin whispered. “If I go back, appa’ll cry and papa’ll scream and Jungkookie’ll fuss and—everyone’s just gonna... worry.”

Yoongi sighed. “They should worry. You almost died, dumbass.”

“But I didn’t.” Jimin blinked up at him slowly. “You found me.”

Yoongi’s chest fucking hurt. “You’re gonna be the death of me,” he muttered.

“Better me than those rogue-shit bastards,” Jimin breathed, mouth twitching like a smile.

And Yoongi snarled. The thought alone made his whole scent spike—dark, bitter, feral. The rogues. The fucking coward-ass flea-ridden sacks of shit who’d dared to put hands on his omega—Not his. Not his.

He pulled in a sharp breath, forced the instinct down. But he couldn’t stop his hand from tightening on Jimin’s hip.

He nuzzled Jimin’s temple once. “You’re lucky I’m not carrying your spoiled ass straight to Alpha Namjoon right now.”

“You won’t.”

“And why’s that?”

Jimin smiled faintly. “Because you’re too soft for me.”

Fuck.

Yoongi cursed under his breath, forehead falling against Jimin’s for a moment, letting his scent pour again—grounding, slow. Telling his omega, without words: safe. safe. safe.

“You’re damn right I am,” he muttered.

And held him tighter, pretending—just for a second—that they had time. That this moment would last. But it didn’t. Because Jimin was burning up. His scent was too sharp now—heat and hurt and wrong, and even if he kept whispering he was fine, even if he kept pressing his nose into Yoongi’s throat and sighing like he was drifting off on a fucking cloud, the truth stank through his pores. He needed medical attention. Not more herbs. Not another whispered lie to calm him down. He needed his pack. Even if they murdered Yoongi for it.

Yoongi looked down, smoothing a hand over the back of Jimin’s head. “Sunshine. I have to take you back.”

Jimin immediately whined. “Nooo,” he whined, curling tighter, forehead sticking to Yoongi’s collarbone, “I’m comfy—”

“Jimin—”

“I said I’m comfy,” Jimin grumbled, then added with a petulant little sniff, “You’re warm. You smell safe.”

Yoongi swallowed hard. That did something to him. More than it should have. The fact that this snarky, spoiled, sunbeam-in-a-silk-shirt little shit could say something like you smell safe while bleeding out in his lap. Like Yoongi was a blanket and not a monster.

Like Yoongi wasn’t the one who’d told himself a hundred times to stay away from the Kim Pack’s omega hunter because it was easier to want someone who would never want him back.

He tipped Jimin’s chin up.

The omega’s lashes fluttered, fever-glossed eyes blinking at him slowly. “Just a little longer,” Jimin whispered. “Just like this.”

Yoongi cursed under his breath and leaned in. Pressed his lips—soft, just once—against Jimin’s mouth.

Jimin froze. Let out a faint noise. Like a breath, or a sob, or a secret.

Then Yoongi kissed his forehead. “You’ll be safe,” he murmured. “I’ll carry you.”

Another whine. Jimin turned his head to the side and pouted. “But I don’t want to go. They’re gonna freak out. And I just wanna stay here—with you—”

Yoongi sighed. “I know, sunshine.”

“You reek all over me, too,” Jimin added dramatically. “They’re gonna skin you. Namjoon’ll go full feral bear and Seokjin’ll cry into his tea set and stab you with a tiny fork and Jungkook—ugh, he’s gonna pull that fake-calm passive-aggressive warrior monk bullshit and act like he’s not mad when he is—”

Yoongi raised his brows. “You done?”

Jimin gave a sulky little sniff. “...No.”

Yoongi tried not to smile. Tried. Even like this—half-dead, naked, covered in bruises and drying blood—Jimin managed to be the most infuriating, entitled, heartbreakingly adorable creature Yoongi had ever met.

“Sunshine,” he said low, brushing his knuckles over Jimin’s temple. “I don’t care if I reek on you.”

Jimin blinked. “You... don’t?”

“No. Let them smell me.” Yoongi’s voice dropped. “You almost died, and I found you. You’re mine to protect, no matter what it looks like. If they try to gut me for it, they’ll have to fucking earn it.”

Jimin stared for a long moment. Lips parted. Still flushed with fever. Still soft with want. Then he huffed. “...Fine.”

“Fine?”

“I said fine, dumbass. You can carry me.”

Yoongi exhaled, relief hitting him like a hammer. He kissed Jimin’s temple again. “Good boy.”

Jimin let out a scandalized little gasp and smacked his chest—weakly. “You don’t get to say that—!”

But Yoongi was already shifting. The snap of his bones cracked loud in the clearing. Fur tore through skin, a shimmer of black flashing into the dark. In moments, where the man had been, the wolf stood—massive, sleek, nearly silent but there, panting as the scent of his omega wrapped around him like fire.

Jimin was still lying in the grass, blinking up at him, eyebrows furrowed.

“Ugh,” Jimin groaned. “Gross. That never gets less disgusting.”

Yoongi huffed through his nose.

Jimin sat up with a grunt, wobbling, his limbs shaky, skin still burning. “Don’t drop me,” he mumbled. “If you drop me and I die, I’m gonna haunt the shit outta you.”

Yoongi lowered himself to the ground so Jimin could climb on.

It was a mess. Jimin was still naked, for one. Still slippery with dried blood and he was still pouting—mumbling things like, ‘your fur’s not even that soft,’ and ‘my wolf is prettier, you know,’ while he scrambled awkwardly onto Yoongi’s back, curling up across his spine like a very mouthy, very bratty sack of heat-stroking omega.

“You better not run,” Jimin whined. “If you sprint, I’ll throw up. I swear to god, I’ll throw up on purpose.”

Yoongi rolled his eyes and huffed, shaking out his fur, carefully balancing Jimin’s limp form.

“I can hear you judging me,” Jimin accused. “Just because you can’t talk doesn’t mean I can’t feel it.”

Yoongi grunted. Gently started forward, paws silent on the dirt path as he headed toward the border between their lands.

Behind him, Jimin yawned. “You’re warm,” Jimin whispered, softer now. “Smell like... home.”

Yoongi’s steps faltered just for a moment. Home. He didn't look back. Didn’t snarl. Didn’t speak. Didn’t let the storm twist out of his chest. He just walked—his scent wrapped tight around the boy he couldn’t stop wanting, his omega draped across his back, spoiled and sick and safe. For now.

And if Namjoon tried to rip his throat out when they reached the Kim village, well—Yoongi would let him try.

Jimin was barely holding on now—fingers knotted in the thick ruff at Yoongi’s nape, lips moving soundlessly against his spine, every breath more wheezy than the last. His blood had soaked clean through Yoongi’s fur by now, sticky and warm and heavy. His scent—heat and exhaustion and a sharp edge of omega panic—clung to Yoongi like oil.

And Yoongi. Was. Fucking. Dying. He hadn’t said a word—couldn’t, in this form—but every fucking second Jimin spent sighing into his fur, nuzzling like Yoongi was some kind of safe, sacred thing instead of the cocked gun aimed at the center of his life, just made Yoongi’s jaw clench tighter. His wolf was screaming. His instincts were a goddamn riot. He wanted to turn around, pin Jimin to the grass, lick him clean and snarl at the whole fucking world to stay away— Instead, he pressed on. Jaw locked. Muscles twitching.

The scent of the Kim pack hit him before the growls did. Strong. Territorial. Heavy with threat. The hairs along his spine bristled, and his steps slowed. And then he heard them. The snap of underbrush. The thunder of paws. The sound of too many wolves moving too fast.

Yoongi didn’t flinch. Didn’t even turn. He knew exactly what this was. He was carrying a naked, bleeding, feverish omega into enemy territory. A Kim omega. With his scent smeared across every inch of Jimin’s skin. Like he’d claimed him. Which—fuck. Maybe he had. Too late to un-fuck that mess now.

The growls came first—low and deep and absolutely not a warning. They were promises. Ripping, snarling, savage sounds of wolves seconds away from tearing out his throat.

Yoongi stopped just at the treeline. Heart thudding. Legs locked. He shifted his weight to crouch low, just enough so Jimin wouldn’t slide off, setting him down with slow, surgical care. Jimin made a tiny sound of protest—one of those half-whimpers, half-sighs that always made something in Yoongi’s chest ache like it was breaking.

But he didn’t move. Didn’t even look at the wolves he knew were now surrounding him. He could feel them. Four. Maybe five. No—six, now. One of them was Jeon Jungkook. Head Hunter of the Kim Pack. Fast, brutal, more loyal than a fucking moonshadow hound. Three others were Alpha Hunters—muscle and speed, all scent-marked with Namjoon’s feral command.

And Namjoon. The Pack Alpha himself. His growl—deep, ancient, rageful—rattled the fucking dirt. Yoongi could practically taste the fury in the air, bitter and electric like stormclouds about to split open.

Namjoon’s massive wolf stepped through the trees first. Towering. Coated in thick golden-brown fur, eyes like hellfire and frozen ice at once. Behind him, Jungkook’s sleek black wolf flanked to the right, low to the ground like a predator, teeth bared. The hunters closed in fast, circling like vultures, growling low in their throats.

Yoongi didn’t move. Didn’t bare his teeth. Didn’t fucking dare. This was it. This was how he died. Not in some heroic blaze on a hunt. Not in some borderland skirmish. Not even of boredom in his shitty hut after a bottle of pine liquor and a bitter argument with Hoseok. No. He was going to get gutted by six wolves for carrying one omega across the border...One spoiled, fever-dazed, silver-tongued little shithead who was still mumbling into his fur even as Yoongi crouched there like a goddamn sacrificial lamb.

“’M cold,” Jimin mumbled, squirming faintly. “Why’re you stopping? Wanna go to my papa...”

Yoongi’s ears flicked. God. The fucking timing. He could feel their eyes raking over Jimin—bruised, bleeding, naked, and draped across the back of a Lee Pack alpha like a gift—or a crime. The scent was damning. Jimin reeked of him.

Yoongi lowered himself more. Flattened his chest to the ground and curled his body slightly around Jimin’s. Submissive posture. No aggression. Just a clear, wordless message:

He’s not a threat.

He isn't taking the omega.

He’s returning him.

Even if it kills him.

The growls rose. One of the Alpha Hunters lunged half a step forward. Namjoon snarled—stay—and the wolf froze.

Yoongi didn’t breathe. His blood sang with instinct. Adrenaline, fury, protect. Protect him. Even now, even surrounded, his wolf wanted to tear out their throats just for daring to get near Jimin. But he held. Every muscle screaming. And then—

“Appa?” Jimin slurred. It was a whimper.

Yoongi flinched like he’d been struck.

“Appa—‘m here,” Jimin breathed, cheek rubbing along Yoongi’s back. “Don’t yell. He’s warm. I was cold. He found me. He—he didn’t touch me. Promise. He’s safe.”

Yoongi’s claws dug into the dirt. That little fucking idiot was defending him. While half-conscious. While naked. While reeking of Yoongi’s goddamn alpha scent.

Yoongi wanted to scream. But Namjoon hadn’t moved. Neither had Jungkook. They were watching. Calculating. And then, Jungkook stepped closer.

Yoongi growled low in his throat. Just once. Instinctual. Not a threat. Just a warning. Touch him, and I swear to god—

Namjoon barked once. Commanding. Final. The other wolves backed off—barely—but it was clear they were still one twitch away from lunging.

Namjoon stepped forward slowly, posture stiff with rage but not attacking. Yet.

Yoongi lowered his head fully, ears flat, exposing the back of his neck. If this was it, then fuck it. He wasn’t going to let go. Not until they took Jimin from his back with their own damn paws.

The pack alpha sniffed once, growled low—and then—Shifted. Bones cracked. Limbs reshaped. Namjoon’s human form emerged, towering and shirtless, eyes burning wild and teeth bared.

“Get my mate,” he growled at one of the hunters. “Now.”

A blur of fur vanished into the trees.

Namjoon stepped up to Yoongi’s side, slow and measured. His voice was low, but razor-sharp. “You have five seconds to explain.”

Yoongi couldn’t answer. He was still in wolf form. Still crouched over Jimin like a shield, nose twitching with the thick, nauseating scent of blood and heat and exhaustion and—

“Yoongi?” Jimin whispered again, barely audible. “Why’d you stop? You said I’d be safe... you said...”

And Namjoon froze.

Yoongi closed his eyes. This was it.

Namjoon’s jaw clenched. “Shift.”

Yoongi whined low in his throat.

“Shift, you bastard, or I’ll skin you alive right here.”

Jungkook was at Namjoon’s side now, still in wolf form, eyes locked on Yoongi like a fucking missile.

Yoongi didn’t move. Didn’t shift. He couldn’t. Not without dropping Jimin. And fuck them all—he wasn’t letting go until Seokjin got here. Until someone safe took Jimin from his back. Not while he was like this. Not while he was still bleeding. So he stayed. Chest low. Eyes averted. Fur bristling with alpha panic.

And Namjoon—bless the fuck out of whatever god taught that man patience—finally looked down at Jimin again. At his boy. His little omega hunter. Fingers twitching in Yoongi’s fur. Lips cracked. Cheek pressed to Yoongi’s spine like it was the only soft thing left in the world.

Namjoon swallowed hard. And when he finally spoke again, it was quieter. Not calm. But not lethal. “Seokjin is coming.”

Yoongi didn’t move.

Jimin whimpered again, sleepily. “Yoongi smells good... don’t let them bite him.”

Namjoon stared at him for a long, long time.

Yoongi said nothing. Did nothing. Just waited. And prayed. Until Seokjin came sprinting down the packed-dirt path, barefoot and barely dressed, eyes wide and glassy like he’d been crying before he even got there. His scent—sweet and anxious omega pheromones, warm like honey and tea and something comfortingly parental-like—hit Yoongi's muzzle hard, nearly choking him. Behind him, a human-form hunter followed with three dark cloaks folded over one arm, panting from trying to keep up.

Yoongi didn’t dare move. Not when Seokjin looked one breath away from shattering.

The first thing Seokjin did was shove the cloaks toward the hunter and drop to his knees beside Jimin’s curled, unconscious form. He didn’t speak. He couldn’t. He let out a broken sound—something between a sob and a whimper—and scooped Jimin into his arms like he was made of paper, instantly wrapping the thick blanket around the omega’s too-pale, too-warm body. Jimin didn’t wake, didn’t even stir, and Yoongi could fucking smell the panic rolling off Seokjin in waves.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Seokjin whispered, voice cracking as he pressed trembling lips to Jimin’s temple, then cheek, then forehead, then nose—like if he kissed him enough, maybe he’d wake. “You’re okay now, you’re okay, baby. Papa’s here.”

Seokjin’s scenting was frantic. Desperate. He nuzzled into Jimin’s sweat-drenched hair and pressed their cheeks together, low whines escaping him as his scent tried to cover Yoongi’s—sweet, soothing, safe—but Yoongi's was embedded deep. Jimin had been clinging to him for so long, rubbed all over him, marked by accident in every way short of being bitten.

And fuck, Yoongi knew how bad that looked.

When Jungkook shifted beside them, his fur vanishing into skin, he was already halfway through a growl, body shaking from the leftover adrenaline. His jaw clenched like he wanted to shift back just to tear something apart—but then he saw Seokjin cradling Jimin, and everything dropped from his face. His alpha instincts took over, calm and focused, and he crouched beside them, whispering, “Let me help you, Jin.”

Together, Jungkook and Seokjin lifted Jimin, now wrapped tightly in the blanket, the boy’s head rolling limply against Seokjin’s shoulder. His cheeks were flushed from fever, lips cracked, a faint trail of blood still smeared under his nose. Yoongi’s fur was matted with it. His own scent clung like guilt.

Yoongi waited until they were a few steps away, until Jungkook glanced back—because he always would, even if he didn’t trust Yoongi worth shit—and then he shifted. The pain of returning to human form bit into him. He hissed low through his teeth, body aching from the long run, his back sticky with half-dried blood. His skin steamed in the day air, and his muscles spasmed once before he dragged the offered cloak off the dirt and wrapped it around himself. It smelled like pine and sun-dried cotton and Kim fucking Namjoon. Fantastic. Yoongi tugged it tighter, forcing himself not to look toward the retreating backs of Jimin and Seokjin.

Namjoon stood stiffly, broad arms crossed over his chest, body pulsing with alpha fury. His dark eyes tracked Yoongi like a wolf ready to pounce. He didn’t speak yet—but the restraint in him looked like it could snap with a wrong breath.

Yoongi didn’t give him a chance to explode. “I found him like that,” he said, voice rough from shifting. “Near the base of the ridge. He was already bleeding. Said it was three rogues. Looked like claw wounds, deep ones—he was feverish and disoriented and barely conscious.”

Namjoon didn’t blink.

“I didn’t touch him.” Yoongi lifted both hands, as if it could help. “I didn’t do this. I didn’t—fuck, Namjoon, I didn’t lay a fucking finger on him. He was injured when I found him. Hurt. Shaking. I couldn’t leave him there.”

A gust of wind whipped through the clearing, carrying the stench of blood and Yoongi’s own scent, still thick on Jimin’s skin.

“I carried him to the river,” Yoongi went on, jaw tightening. “Because it was closer than the pack village and he was burning up. I cleaned his wounds. Washed the blood. He kept clinging to me and whining and fucking rubbing all over me because he’s—because he’s spoiled, alright? You know he is. He wanted comfort. He was delirious. I told him I’d get him home and I did.”

Namjoon’s expression didn’t change.

“He reeks of me because I carried him in my back for the whole damn run and he wouldn’t stop pressing his face to my fur,” Yoongi snapped, because now he was getting pissed. “And I let him. Because I didn’t think he’d fucking survive otherwise.”

Namjoon finally moved. Just a step. Barely a shift of weight—but Yoongi felt it like thunder.

“Your scent,” Namjoon said slowly, dangerously, “is all over an unconscious Kim omega. Who’s naked. Injured. Fevered. And covered in blood.”

Yoongi held his ground. “Do you think I don’t know how bad this looks?” he ground out. “You think I’m that fucking stupid? You think I don’t know you’ve wanted to rip my throat out since the second I stepped into your territory?”

Namjoon’s teeth bared. “Then why the fuck are you here?”

“Because he would’ve died if I didn’t bring him here!” The shout cracked in the air between them, raw and wild and desperate.

Yoongi breathed hard, fists clenched. “I could’ve dumped him at the border and run. Could’ve sent a howl and left. I didn’t. I carried him—bleeding and burning—through half the fucking forest because he asked me to. Because he looked at me with those stupid wide eyes and begged.”

Silence fell like a blade.

Yoongi exhaled through his nose. “I didn’t touch him. I didn’t claim him. I didn’t do anything except save his bratty, needy ass.”

For a long time, Namjoon didn’t speak. His gaze was sharp, too sharp, cutting right through Yoongi like he could smell every half-truth, every selfish thought Yoongi didn’t want to admit.

Yoongi looked away first. He didn’t tell Namjoon about the way Jimin whimpered against him. About the kisses to his jaw. About how sweet he smelled, how soft his voice got, how clingy his little omega hands were. How Yoongi let it happen—how he leaned into it, for just a second, when he should’ve pulled away. Because if he said that, they would kill him. Rightfully so.

Instead, Yoongi wrapped the cloak tighter around his body, now cold down to his bones, and muttered, “You want to throw me in a cell, do it. If not, I’m going back to my territory.”

Namjoon was quiet for a beat too long. Then, in a voice low and calm and terrifying: “You’re not going anywhere until I know exactly what happened to my omega.”

Yoongi’s shoulders locked, his breath sharp. Jimin wasn’t his, not really. But Yoongi didn’t say that either. Because even now—fucked up as it all was—some part of him didn’t want to give that boy back. Not yet. Not when his scent still clung to Yoongi’s skin like a brand. Not when he could still feel the warmth of Jimin’s body curled against his neck.

So Yoongi just nodded, jaw tight. “Fine.”

Namjoon gave a sharp tilt of his head, and two alphas—big, broad-shouldered ones Yoongi didn’t recognize—stepped forward and flanked him. Neither of them growled, but they didn’t need to. Their scents were already thick in the air: hostility and warning, like pepper and steel.

Yoongi didn’t resist. He didn’t snarl or bark or throw some arrogant quip. He just followed, cloak clutched tighter around his sore body, bare feet silent on the dirt path. He didn’t look back toward the healer’s den, didn’t look toward the growing crowd of pack wolves staring at him like he was a rabid mutt that’d gotten loose. He just walked.

The alphas led him past the ring of main dens, away from the scent trails and gathering lights, toward the outer edge of the Kim pack’s village. The hut they shoved him into wasn’t even a proper guest room. It was a damn storage shack—small, dark, and reeking of old straw, oil, and leather. The back wall was stacked with crates of dried herbs and tanned hide. A pile of worn hunting gear sat in the corner, abandoned.

They didn’t just bolt the door. They grabbed him—three alphas, scent spiking with distrust—and forced him down onto his knees. One held him there while another yanked his arms behind his back and tied them with thick, scratchy rope. Too tight. Purposefully cruel. The kind of knot meant to chafe, to bruise. To remind him he didn’t belong here.

Then came the metallic click of the bolt sliding home, the thud of heavy footsteps fading into the path. And silence.

Yoongi stayed where they’d left him, kneeling awkwardly in the straw, cloak clinging to his damp skin, the scent of unfamiliar alphas still curling in his nostrils like a challenge. His wrists throbbed in their bindings, but he didn’t flinch or pull.

He didn’t growl. Didn’t pace. Didn’t yell. He just… sank to the floor.

Fuck, he was tired. Everything ached. His hands, his shoulders, his ribs. His back was stiff from running, skin raw where Jimin’s fevered hands had gripped him too tight. And he was still fucking hard-wired with tension because the moment he let himself relax, his mind shoved up that image again—Jimin curled in a limp pile on the rocks, covered in blood, not moving.

Yoongi leaned his head against the wooden wall, exhaling long and slow. The ropes bit into his wrists with every shift, but he ignored them.

He’s okay. He has to be okay.

Seokjin wouldn’t have let anything happen to him. Namjoon might be a paranoid bastard, but he protected his own. Jungkook looked like he was ready to kill over it. Jimin had a whole pack. And Yoongi? Yoongi had a shack.

He stayed like that for hours. He could tell by the way the sun’s glow faded through the warped wooden boards, the air inside going colder, more still. His stomach started gnawing at itself, and his mouth was dry. He didn’t ask for food. Didn’t shout for anyone. He waited.

Because Jimin would wake up. Eventually. And Jimin—spoiled little omega that he was—would not let them leave Yoongi in this hole. He’d cry. He’d scream. He’d probably stomp his tiny bare feet and bite someone. And then he’d whine that it was too cold and he wanted to go home with Yoongi.

Yoongi snorted.

Fucking brat.

The bolt finally slid free when the sky had gone dark. Moonlight filtered in through the thatched slats in the roof as the door creaked open, flooding the room with cooler night air. Pheromones hit first—familiar, sharp-edged alpha tension. Woodsmoke, bark, and blood.

Jungkook stepped in, holding a tray. It was simple—rice, dried meat, some cooked greens. There was a waterskin beside it. All of it smelled fine. Not poisoned. Not laced.

Yoongi’s stomach growled. But he didn’t reach for it. Couldn’t, anyway.

Jungkook didn’t say a word. Just set it down on the nearest crate, then straightened and stared at him. Like he wanted to rip Yoongi in half and stuff his guts into his own mouth.

Yoongi lifted his chin, still sitting on the floor. “Is he okay?”

Nothing.

Jungkook’s scent flared—hot and sharp like an overheated blade, nostrils flaring, eyes dark.

“Jungkook,” Yoongi said again, firmer now. “Is Jimin okay?”

Still no answer. The alpha’s fists clenched, his jaw working like he was chewing on broken glass. One step closer, his glare boring into Yoongi’s face like it could light him on fire. And for a second, Yoongi wanted him to snap—wanted to bleed, just a little, just enough to deserve whatever the fuck this pack thought he did.

But Jungkook didn’t touch him. Didn’t speak. He just gave a breath—tight, furious—and stormed out. The door slammed behind him, and the bolt slid shut again.

Yoongi stayed sitting. Wrists burning. Mouth dry. He stared at the tray.

Jungkook didn’t answer. That meant Jimin hadn’t woken up. Because if he had, there’d be a pack riot outside this fucking door. That brat wouldn’t keep his mouth shut even if they ordered him to. He’d be shrieking about how Yoongi didn’t hurt him, how he saved him, how he was nice to him and let him press his face into Yoongi’s neck without complaining. He’d throw a fit. Because that’s what Jimin did when he wanted something.

And right now Yoongi wanted him to want something. Wanted him to open those pretty eyes and look around and realize Yoongi wasn’t there and whine until someone explained and then—Then Jimin would come get him. Because no one told Jimin what to do. Not even Namjoon. Not even Seokjin. He’d defend him. That soft little idiot would absolutely defend him.

Yoongi let out a breath through his nose, sharp and shallow. His scent filled the space—damp and tired, blood-salted, tinged with bitter worry. It didn’t help that Jimin’s scent still lingered on his skin, faint now but unmistakable: citrus and clover and something sticky-sweet, like he was made of sunlight and need.

He closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall. Didn’t fight the ropes. Didn’t curse the lock. Just waited. He didn’t care if they kept him in this fucking hole until morning or the next moon or the end of the fucking year. Jimin would wake up. Jimin would remember. And Jimin—god help them all—would not leave Yoongi behind.

Chapter Text

Everything hurt. His chest. His skin. His stupid legs. Even the inside of his nose burned when he inhaled, the room thick with pungent herbs and the faint lingering scent of smoke. He blinked once, groggy and disoriented, his lashes sticky with dried tears and fever. The ceiling above was familiar, thatched with woven reeds and bits of trailing vine—healer’s den.

He was home. Well. Sort of. Still alive, at least.

“Ah, thank the spirits,” the healer’s voice gasped from somewhere to his left. “You’re awake, pup. Don’t move too much. You’ve been sleeping for nearly two days.”

Two—two days?

Jimin’s throat clicked dryly as he tried to speak, but his voice was a brittle whisper, “What…?”

“I’ll call the Pack Alpha,” she said softly, already stepping out. “They’ve been waiting.”

She didn’t have to go far. Because barely a heartbeat later, warmth exploded into the room—familiar scents crashing over him like waves. Seokjin was there, wrapping around him before Jimin even managed to lift his arm, the older omega sobbing against his neck, trembling with emotion.

“Oh, Jiminie—oh, baby—fuck, baby, you’re okay—”

Jimin flinched as Seokjin's pheromones flooded his senses, soothing and thick with grief. Jin was crying, clutching him too tight, and Jimin barely had the strength to nuzzle him back.

Then came Namjoon. A solid warmth on the other side, calm alpha dominance washing over him like a protective storm. Gentle fingers rubbed his hair back, his forehead kissed over and over again with soft little murmurs.

“Jimin,” Namjoon said lowly, crouched at his side, voice tight with restraint. “You’re safe now. You’re home. I promise—no one is going to hurt you.”

Jimin blinked up at him slowly, head still fogged, the scent of too many alphas thick around him. His body ached. His throat felt raw. He tried to speak, but his lips barely moved.

“Can you tell me what happened?” Namjoon asked, soft but serious now. “Yoongi told us it was rogues. That he found you like that—bleeding, delirious.”

Yoongi.

Jimin's heart jumped. “Yoongi—where is he—?”

Namjoon’s jaw flexed. “We locked him up.”

“What?!”

“Listen to me,” Namjoon said, more urgently now, his hand curling carefully into Jimin’s hair. “You were naked. Covered in blood. You reeked of him. Every inch of you. He wouldn’t shift at first. Wouldn’t let us near you. You were mumbling his name in your sleep, and we didn’t—” He stopped, expression twisting. “We didn’t know if he was telling the truth. If he was covering something up.”

“No—no, he wouldn’t—” Jimin tried to sit up, but Seokjin gently pushed him back down, eyes filled with worry.

Jungkook’s voice cut in from the edge of the room. “We didn’t hurt him. Just restrained. In the outer cell. Until we could talk to you.”

“God—no, you don’t understand—he didn’t do anything to me!” Jimin’s voice cracked as he pushed against Seokjin’s hands, panic starting to rise. “He saved me!”

The air changed. Namjoon’s hand stilled in Jimin’s hair. Jungkook straightened, brows knitting.

“I was scouting the southern ridge,” Jimin said, words tumbling out, urgent and rough. “I got ambushed. Three rogues. Not Lee pack. Wild. No scent bonds, no structure—just violence.”

His throat bobbed. “They tore into me. I tried to run, but I—I couldn’t get far with my injuries. I thought I was going to die, Appa. I thought—” He broke off, chest heaving.

Namjoon reached out, steadying him with a hand to his arm. “Breathe, pup.”

“Yoongi found me,” Jimin said, voice trembling but steadier now. “He carried me. I couldn’t even stand. Then I kept—fuck, I kept clinging to him like some annoying little tick. He brought me to the river, cleaned my wounds. He didn’t touch me. Not like that. I made him scent me. I begged him.”

Seokjin let out a quiet, sharp sound beside him.

Jimin’s lip trembled. “I was freezing. I couldn’t stop shaking. He was so warm and I felt so safe, and I didn’t want to be alone. So I pressed against him. He let me. He never made a move. Never even growled. He just—he just held me.”

Jungkook looked frozen, mouth slightly parted.

“I know I was being bratty,” Jimin said, voice cracking. “I know I was scared and out of it. But he didn’t take advantage. He didn’t mark me. He didn’t do anything except keep me alive.” He turned toward Namjoon now, expression anguished. “And you locked him up?”

Namjoon was silent for a long moment.

“You smelled like him,” he said finally, low. “It was everywhere. And you were unconscious, torn up. Fevered. We didn’t know what to believe.”

He pushed off the blankets. Tried to stand, but his legs folded beneath him.

Namjoon caught him.

“Let me see him,” Jimin choked. “Right now. Let me see him, Appa, please—please—he’s alone and he thinks I left him—”

Namjoon held him tight, chin tucked over Jimin’s head, his scent slowly shifting. Less alarm. More regret.

“I… I’ll bring him,” he whispered. “I promise. Just—just rest, pup.”

“No!” Jimin snarled, slamming his fist weakly into Namjoon’s shoulder. “I don’t want rest! I want Yoongi!”

He didn’t care that he was whining now, didn’t care that his voice was shrill and cracking. He was done being handled like some fragile porcelain doll. Yoongi saved him. And he was going to tear this whole fucking village apart if they didn’t let him thank the one alpha who never treated him like a broken thing.

He tried to stand again. He shouldn’t have. He knew he shouldn’t have. The moment his left leg took even the suggestion of weight, a white-hot scream of pain tore through his side and he collapsed forward into Namjoon’s arms with a choked cry.

“Fuck—fuck,” he hissed, panting hard, biting down on a sob as pain rippled through his ribcage and down his hip. “Son of a dead skunk-fucking troll, it hurts—”

Namjoon caught him gently, scent pouring out in waves laced with the panic-sharp spikes. “Baby, you’re not healed yet, please—”

“I don’t care,” Jimin wheezed, clutching Namjoon’s tunic in shaking fists. “He’s been locked up alone for two days—because of me. Because you all thought— god, what if he thinks I hate him? What if he thinks I just—left him after everything?” His throat tightened, eyes burning again.

Yoongi had saved him. He’d cleaned the wounds. Wrapped him in his arms. He'd let Jimin crawl into his lap like a needy little omega cub. He'd scented him without a single complaint, murmuring “It’s okay, sunshine,” in that gruff voice like Jimin wasn’t the most annoying thing alive. He—kissed him. Soft and careful, like Jimin was made of something fragile. It had felt like a dream. Too warm. Too gentle. Too... wrong in a way that wasn’t bad.

And now he was locked up like some criminal beast in a foreign village because Jimin had been too out of it to speak for him.

“I need to see him. Now. Please.”

Namjoon stared at him. Torn between leader and father. Between caution and care.

It was Seokjin who broke the silence, pressing a damp cloth gently to Jimin’s temples with trembling fingers. “Joonie,” he said, voice hoarse from crying. “Let Jungkook go bring him. If we don’t… Jimin will crawl there on a fucking broken leg and we all know it.”

Jimin gave a watery snort. “Fucking try me.”

Namjoon sighed. Deep. Long-suffering. Then nodded once.

Jungkook was already turning toward the door, his jaw still tight but eyes unreadable. “I’ll bring the bastard,” the alpha muttered. “But if he tries anything—”

“He won’t,” Jimin snapped. “He’s not like that.”

Jungkook said nothing more. Just stormed out with all the rage and confusion of an alpha who no longer knew who the hell the enemy was.

The healer fussed. Tried to stop him from sitting up, re-bandaging the deep gash on his side, growling about idiot omegas who had no respect for their own healing cycles.

Jimin ignored her.

He was half-sitting against Seokjin’s chest, legs stretched out over thick furs, Namjoon kneeling nearby with eyes sharp and unreadable. The scent of the hut was now thick with nerves. Bitter herbs, omega pheromones, and the distinct smell of pack guilt.

He didn’t say anything. Just waited. Waited until he felt it. Yoongi’s scent. That smoky, stubborn scent. It filtered in like it had every right to exist, slow and steady and so fucking familiar it made his whole chest ache.

And then the door opened. And there he was. Yoongi. Held between two guards, wrists loosely tied—fucking tied, like he was some feral beast who might bite if you got too close—and looking like he hadn’t slept in a thousand years.

He only wore a cloak, probably still the same one from two nights ago. His dark hair was messy, his jaw sharp and tight, but those eyes—God. Those eyes softened the instant they landed on Jimin.

“Sunshine.” Yoongi whispered it. Like it had slipped out without permission. Like his throat spoke for him before his brain could catch up.

Jimin’s breath caught. That word again. What the fuck was with that word? Why did Yoongi keep calling him that? They were enemies, weren’t they? They hated each other. They’d spent years snapping and clawing and barking threats across the southern border, always one insult away from bloodshed.

And now this asshole was standing there—beat to shit, locked up for saving him, still looking at him like Jimin had just stepped out of a dream.

Yoongi took a step forward, but the guards shoved him back. He flinched—not from the force, but like the contact itself offended him.

“Get your fucking paws off me,” Yoongi growled, voice like gravel.

“They’ll stand down,” Namjoon said, rising to his feet. “If you sit. And speak. With respect.”

Yoongi’s jaw clenched. But his eyes flicked back to Jimin, and something in his shoulders shifted. He gave a curt nod, stepping forward with a limp (fuck, had they hurt him too?) and sank down on the opposite side of the hut like he was sitting at a stranger’s trial.

Jimin tried not to cry. He failed a little.

“Yoongi,” he whispered, reaching out instinctively, “you’re okay—”

Yoongi blinked, surprise breaking through the guarded lines of his face. “You’re crying again,” he muttered.

“And you smell like wet campfire,” Jimin shot back, tears sliding silently down his cheeks. “Have you even bathed?”

Yoongi shrugged one shoulder. “Didn’t feel like it.”

“You idiot,” Jimin spat, voice breaking. “You fucking moron, they thought you—they thought you hurt me, they were going to kill you—!”

“I figured,” Yoongi said softly. “Didn’t matter. As long as you were alive.”

Jimin made a noise. An ugly, furious sound that punched out of his chest without warning. “You—why the fuck wouldn’t you defend yourself?! Why would you let them lock you up like some sick monster?!”

“Because they’re your pack,” Yoongi said, finally looking up. “And I didn’t want them to think I was some unhinged alpha who tried to take advantage of their spoiled little pearl.”

Jimin’s heart stopped.

Spoiled little—

Oh god. He was going to explode.

“You cocky, self-sacrificing tsundere sack of pine-smoked shit!”

Yoongi blinked.

Seokjin choked on something that might’ve been a laugh or a sob.

Namjoon pinched the bridge of his nose like this was giving him a headache.

“I begged you to scent me,” Jimin spat. “I kissed your neck first. I whined until you held me like a pathetic spoiled cub because I was scared and hurting and you let me, and now you’re acting like some tragic martyr so my pack won’t feel bad?”

Yoongi’s lip twitched. Then—a fucking smirk. “You’re alive,” he said simply.

Jimin blinked.

“You’re alive,” Yoongi repeated, softer. “That’s all I cared about.”

Jimin stared at him, chest heaving. The scent of ash. The word “sunshine.” The way Yoongi hadn’t once looked at anyone else in the room.

He wasn’t going to tell them. About the kiss. About how safe it felt. About how when Yoongi whispered “I’ve got you, sunshine,” into his hair, he almost cried from the warmth of it. He wasn’t going to tell them any of that.

Because whatever this weird fucked-up thing between him and Yoongi was—it wasn’t for them to understand. It was theirs. And they were going to talk. Later. When he could walk again. When Yoongi wasn’t tied like a criminal. When the world made sense.

“Cut him loose,” Jimin rasped.

Namjoon hesitated.

“Cut him the fuck loose, Namjoon,” Jimin repeated, firmer.

And this time… Namjoon nodded. Because no one disobeyed a spoiled, bratty omega hunter when he was burning with pheromones, righteous rage, and a broken leg—and still threatening to tear the entire pack apart for one ash-scented alpha who’d dared to call him sunshine.

The scent of Yoongi’s freedom hit Jimin’s lungs before his eyes confirmed it. Clean, sharp, earthy—Yoongi. Not the sour, stale bite of blood and fear from before. The scent unfurled through the air like a fucking balm to every nerve in Jimin’s body. He felt his chest open, like it could finally expand again. His fingers unclenched from the rough edge of the blanket. His breath shuddered out in one long exhale.

Jungkook had cut him loose. Thank the fucking Moon, Jungkook had cut him loose.

Yoongi stood at the threshold of the healer’s den like a shadow that didn’t quite belong here—leaner, darker, even exhausted and bruised. His wrists were still red from the rope. His cloak was bloodied, both from his own wounds and Jimin’s. But his dark eyes weren’t looking at anyone except Jimin.

And fuck, Jimin hated him. He hated him for being the enemy. For being cocky and rude and impossible. For saving him. For kissing him. For scenting him like he mattered. For calling him sunshine in that maddening voice like he meant it, like he wasn’t from a rival pack, like they weren’t supposed to kill each other on sight. He hated Yoongi so much his chest ached with it.

Jimin’s body was too wrecked to sit up. His leg throbbed like it was pulsing with fire. His side—deep, gaping, still leaking—felt like it was being gnawed on by fucking vultures. He started to slump again, the room swaying like it was made of water, and—

“Jimin-ah,” Seokjin gasped, catching him just before he collapsed fully. His papa’s arms wrapped tight around his too-hot body. “Okay, okay, I’ve got you. Shh, baby. You’re safe.”

“I’m not a baby,” Jimin slurred, but he didn’t mean it. He pressed his face into Seokjin’s neck and let himself be held. His fever still hadn't broken. His skin was damp with sweat, and every breath tasted like iron and bile and a trace of Yoongi’s scent, which should not have been comforting—but somehow, it was.

He blinked blearily toward Namjoon, who stood just behind Yoongi. His appa’s mouth was tight, jaw set hard, like he was holding back the world. His alpha scent swirled heavy in the room, crackling with tension.

“What now?” Jimin asked. His voice sounded thin, too small. “We held their head hunter for two days for a crime he didn’t commit. Are they gonna come for us now?”

Namjoon opened his mouth—but before he could speak, Yoongi did.

“It doesn’t need to be war,” Yoongi said, quiet but firm. His voice cut clean through the air. “I’ll speak to Alpha Jiyeon. I’ll explain everything. I’ll make it right.”

Jimin stared at him. “You’re fucking stupid.”

Yoongi didn’t flinch.

“You think they’ll listen just because you explain?” Jimin pushed, breathing harder even though it hurt. “You’re their head hunter, Yoongi. You went missing for two days. They probably think you were tortured or worse. You think you’re gonna walk in there all noble and righteous and say ‘It’s fine, no biggie’ and they won’t go feral?”

“I said I’ll make it work,” Yoongi said, eyes locked with his.

“Well, I said you’re a dumbass.”

Yoongi’s mouth twitched. Jimin couldn’t tell if he was annoyed or trying not to smile.

“I’m serious,” Jimin whispered, the words catching in his dry throat. “You don’t know what war looks like.”

“I know,” Yoongi said, voice suddenly cold and razor-edged. “I was six during the last one.”

Jimin froze.

“And I remember it,” Yoongi went on, lower now. “I remember the fires. I remember my mother dragging me through the snow with blood on her hands. I remember watching her cough up her own lungs while our hut burned. Don’t tell me I don’t know war, Park Jimin.”

The air felt bruised around them, heavy with ghosts. Jimin shivered in Seokjin’s arms, his fever still climbing. He pressed his forehead to Seokjin’s collarbone, trying to ground himself. It didn’t work. He could still feel Yoongi’s scent in his blood like a fucking brand.

He could still feel the ghost of Yoongi’s lips on his, the slow soft kiss that should not have happened. The one that rewired something in his brain. The one that shattered a line they were never supposed to cross.

He was going to scream.

“Appa,” he rasped, not looking up. “Tell me there won’t be a war.”

Namjoon walked closer. His hand came to rest on Jimin’s damp hair. “There won’t be a war,” he said softly. “Not if I can help it. Not if we handle this right.”

Jimin wanted to believe him. But belief didn’t change the fact that Yoongi’s pack would be rabid with rage. The Lee Pack might be smaller, but they were fast, cunning, deadly. Their loyalty to their head hunter was legendary. And even if Yoongi told them to stand down… Jimin didn’t trust the world to listen.

He looked back at Yoongi, who hadn’t moved from the doorway. There were new shadows under his eyes now. He looked like shit. Jimin wanted to scream at him, to punch him, to kiss him again. He wanted to ask, why did you call me sunshine? Why did you look at me like that, like you knew me, like you’d die if something happened to me?

Instead, he just rasped, “Appa,” with his fingers curling weakly into the front of Namjoon’s tunic. “Go with him. Go with Yoongi and fix this. Please.”

He didn’t even try to keep the desperation out of his voice. His skin felt too tight, his heart pounding too loud in his ears. Everything still hurt—his side, his leg, his pride—but the thought of blood spilling again, of warstorm clouds gathering over the border, of children crying while their huts burned like they did twenty years ago—no. No.

Namjoon looked down at him, startled. “Jimin…”

“I mean it,” Jimin said, biting the inside of his cheek. His throat felt swollen, feverish. “You and Jungkook go. Make sure you really fix this. I don’t— I can’t do war again. Not again. I’m not doing that shit.”

There was a long pause. Then Namjoon exhaled softly and knelt beside the bedding.

“Okay,” he said. His voice had that low, rumbly alpha timbre that always made Jimin’s chest ache in a way he never admitted out loud. “Okay, pup. I’ll go.”

His hand came up to Jimin’s sweaty hair, gently ruffling through it with slow, careful fingers.

“You’re not going to be alone. We’ll fix this,” Namjoon promised, his scent curling around Jimin’s senses like the safety of warm dirt after rain. “You just rest, baby. Papa’s here with you.”

And then Namjoon leaned in and kissed Jimin’s forehead—just above the angry red line of a healing bruise—and stood up.

“Come on,” he said, glancing at Yoongi, then Jungkook. “Let’s go before I change my mind and chain you to a tree again.”

Yoongi snorted, but there was no heat to it.

Jungkook didn’t say anything. He just cast one long look at Jimin—eyes sharp and worried—and then turned to follow them out. The door creaked shut behind them, sealing out the late afternoon light. The hut dimmed.

And then it was just Jimin and Seokjin.

The tension in the air evaporated the second they left. Jimin let himself go limp again with a soft grunt, curling into Seokjin’s arms without even trying to pretend he wasn’t being dramatic about it. Seokjin smelled like the soft, sleepy scent only omegas had when they were trying not to cry.

Jimin pressed his nose into the crook of Seokjin’s neck, breathing him in. His skin burned with fever and confusion, but he didn’t want to move.

Seokjin held him like he was made of spun glass.

There was silence for a long time, broken only by Jimin’s harsh little breaths and the occasional groan of wind outside the den.

Finally, quietly, Jimin said, “He called me sunshine.”

Seokjin didn’t speak, but he stiffened just a little, enough for Jimin to notice.

“When I got hurt,” Jimin went on, muffled against his papa’s throat. “Two days ago. He called me sunshine.” A pause. “He kissed me, too.”

Seokjin shifted, just barely. “Soft?”

Jimin nodded. “Yeah.” Another breath. “He held me really close and he kissed me and he scented me like I belonged to him and it was so—fuck, it was warm. Papa, it was so warm. Like I wasn’t bleeding out. Like I wasn’t terrified. Like everything was gonna be okay. Like I was safe.” His voice cracked. He swallowed it down.

“It felt good. But it’s not supposed to, right?” Jimin pulled back just enough to look up at Seokjin’s face. “He’s the fucking head hunter of Lee Pack. He’s supposed to be my enemy.”

Seokjin reached up and tucked a damp strand of hair out of his eyes. “Does it feel like he’s your enemy?”

“I don’t know!” Jimin snapped, frustrated, feverish, heart unraveling. “That’s the problem! I can’t tell anymore! One second he’s smirking like a smug asshole and calling me a brat, and the next he’s fucking—holding me like I’m something delicate. Like he’s afraid to break me.”

Seokjin gave him a soft look.

“And I liked it,” Jimin whispered. “That’s the part I don’t get. Why did it feel good when he called me sunshine? Why did I feel like my whole body exhaled when he kissed me? Why do I miss it now? I should hate him, right? I should hate his scent and his face and his everything. But I don’t. I don’t—” He clenched his fists in Seokjin’s tunic. “I don’t hate him.”

Seokjin sighed. His hand came to cradle the back of Jimin’s head, guiding him gently back to his shoulder. “You know, baby… sometimes what we’re taught about enemies is just a story someone else wrote a long time ago. Doesn’t mean it’s your story.”

“But it should be!” Jimin hissed. “What if I’m just fucking weak? What if he’s playing me? What if I’m just some pathetic little omega who melts when someone finally—finally—calls him something soft?”

“You’re not weak,” Seokjin said firmly. “You’re human. And lonely.”

Jimin didn’t respond.

“You’re not just some omega. You’re you. The same brat who threatened to skin Jungkook alive when he stole your fish last summer. The same sharp-tongued, sassy little shit who made half the Lee Pack flinch with just a glare during last winter’s gathering. The one who survives. Always.”

Jimin sniffled. “Still sounds weak to me.”

“No,” Seokjin said. “It sounds brave. To feel all this and still care what happens to him? That’s not weakness, baby. That’s strength.”

Jimin didn’t know how to respond to that. So he just buried himself deeper in Seokjin’s arms, breathing in his scent until the world stopped tilting.

But Yoongi’s scent lingered, too. Even under the warmth of his papa, even through the ache and fever—Yoongi was still there. Burnt cedar and forest rain and something earthy and warm like freshly turned soil. Safe. His scent shouldn’t feel safe. But it did.

And now Jimin couldn’t stop thinking about that kiss. That soft, ridiculous, wrong kiss. The way Yoongi’s lips had trembled just a little when they touched his. The way he’d breathed Jimin’s scent like he’d been starving for it. The way he’d called him sunshine, again and again like a prayer. And Jimin—stupid, confused, heartbruised Jimin—wanted to hear it again. He was so, so fucked.

Jimin was quiet for a long time after that—too long. Seokjin didn’t push. He never did. He just held Jimin tighter, his scent soft and comforting, warm like bread and sage, like the kind of safety you didn’t question because you’d die if you did.

His throat burned. His cheeks felt hot. And suddenly his hands were shaking. “What if…” he whispered, so quietly it barely felt like a sound. “What if I caught feelings?”

Seokjin stilled.

Jimin didn’t dare look up. He just kept staring at the line of Seokjin’s collarbone, blinking hard. His hands felt numb. His scent must’ve gone wild—he could smell the distress in it now, sour-sweet and spiky, like crushed herbs and hurt pride. It filled the hut with anxiety, the walls suddenly too close, the air too tight.

“What if—” Jimin’s voice cracked, and he forced the words through clenched teeth. “What if I started… liking him?”

He didn't mean like like. He meant fucking LIKE. With all capital letters. With dizzy heat behind his eyes and ache in his gut and lips that still remembered the press of Yoongi’s mouth like a ghost.

“What the fuck do I do then?” Jimin demanded, even though he hadn’t meant to raise his voice. “What the hell happens if I like him? What happens if I’m too fucking stupid to stop?”

He didn’t feel his hands trembling until Seokjin caught them in both of his. “Shh, baby, breathe.”

Jimin didn’t even realize he was panting, chest tight like he’d been running through the forest chased by monsters.

Seokjin pressed kisses to his knuckles—one, then another, and another. Slow. Gentle. Like the world wasn’t spinning off its fucking axis.

“It’s okay,” Seokjin murmured. “It’s okay to be scared.”

“I’m not scared,” Jimin snapped, but his voice came out shaky and small. “I’m— I’m just— This is wrong. It’s not supposed to happen like this. I’m not supposed to feel like this.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s the enemy!”

Seokjin didn’t flinch, just held his hands tighter.

“He’s from fucking Lee Pack,” Jimin bit out. “Their pack alpha would slit my throat if she could. They tried to kill Namjoon in the river ambush five winters ago. They throw rocks at our patrol wolves. They steal game from the border and call it fair. They insult Appa every time they send a messenger. They’re everything we hate, and Yoongi—Yoongi is their fucking head hunter.”

He stopped to catch his breath, heart pounding like a war drum.

“But he…” Jimin’s voice broke again. “He held me. And it felt like home. How the fuck does that make sense?”

Seokjin didn’t speak for a long moment. He just rubbed soft circles into Jimin’s wrists with his thumbs, kissing his fingers when they twitched too fast, like he was trying to ground him. Jimin wanted to be grounded. He wanted to melt into his papa’s arms and pretend none of this was happening. That he hadn’t practically purred when Yoongi called him sunshine. That he hadn’t pressed into Yoongi’s chest and inhaled like a starved omega, like Yoongi’s scent could save him.

“But what if…” Jimin whispered, “what if we could be something else? Not enemies. Just… two wolves.” His voice was trembling again. “What if we didn’t have to hate each other? What if I don’t want to?”

“You don’t have to,” Seokjin said softly, brushing a strand of hair from Jimin’s damp cheek. “You never did.”

“But the pack—”

“Will love you anyway. Always.”

“But I—” Jimin shut his eyes tight. “I don’t think I can stop liking him. Even if I tried. I don’t think it’s a thing you can just pull out of your chest and throw in the river.”

“No,” Seokjin said gently. “It’s not.”

“And that’s a problem,” Jimin said hoarsely. “Because if he feels the same—if he even wants something from me—then what? We sneak behind everyone’s backs like traitors? We become the next Romeo and fucking Juliet, but with claws and scent glands and two packs that’d rather tear each other’s throats out than share a border?”

Seokjin sighed, long and soft and sad. “You’re not a traitor for wanting something good. Not even if it comes in a package you weren’t expecting.”

“But it’ll ruin everything, Papa,” Jimin whispered. “And if it doesn’t ruin me, it’ll ruin him. And I don’t—I don’t want to be the reason he gets torn apart.”

Seokjin kissed his hands again. “You won’t be.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because he held you,” Seokjin said quietly. “He didn’t run. He didn’t take advantage. He didn’t scent-mark you like a beast. He didn’t even ask for anything back.”

Jimin’s heart thudded too hard.

“He kissed you softly,” Seokjin said. “He called you sunshine. And he carried you home even when your scent told him you’d bite his face off if he tried.”

A dry little laugh escaped Jimin’s throat. “I probably would’ve.”

Seokjin smiled faintly. “But you didn’t.”

Jimin’s throat tightened again. He looked down at their hands—his small and shaking, Seokjin’s long and calm and warm—and tried to breathe around the fucking feelings burning a hole through his chest.

“Do you think…” he started, then hesitated.

Seokjin tilted his head.

“Do you think he feels it too?”

Seokjin’s smile was all soft understanding. “I think he’s already drowning in it.”

Jimin’s face crumpled. He didn’t cry—not really. But his eyes stung, and his lips trembled, and he curled up into Seokjin’s chest like he was five years old again and had just scraped his knees in the ravine.

Yoongi had kissed him. Yoongi had called him sunshine. Yoongi had looked at him like he was a wildfire and a miracle in the same breath.

And Jimin didn’t know if he was falling in love or falling into a trap. But either way—he was falling. And fuck, was he scared.

Chapter Text

Yoongi stood at the edge of the Kim Pack’s central hall, jaw tight, arms crossed, and his scent locked down like a vault full of knives. His shoulders ached from two nights of sleeping on cold floors, and his brain felt like it had been chewed on by a pack of rabid foxes, but none of that mattered. Not when the scent of Kim Namjoon’s fucking authority was practically dripping off the thick wooden doors in front of him. Not when every second wasted meant another step closer to bloodshed.

Namjoon was right beside him, broad arms folded, scent calm but firm—thunderclouds held at bay. Jungkook hovered just behind, silent and sharp-eyed, twitchy like he wanted to pace but didn’t dare.

Yoongi sucked in a breath and exhaled through his nose. “I’ll tell her I attacked him,” he said flatly, staring at the doors like he could already see his pack alpha’s furious silhouette waiting behind them. “That I picked a fight. That’s why you kept me locked up.”

Namjoon blinked. “What?”

Yoongi didn’t turn. His eyes stayed locked on the heavy slabs of wood like they were already creaking open under his guilt.

“I’ll say I lost control. That I pinned him down, and you had to hold me until Jimin woke up to explain.”

“That’s not what happened,” Namjoon said sharply. “You didn’t attack him. You didn’t even touch him. You—hell, you could’ve walked out anytime. You stayed. You helped him. You—”

“She won’t care.”

Yoongi’s voice was low, gritted between his teeth like he was biting on a bullet.

Namjoon frowned. “She listens to reason.”

“Not this kind of reason.” Yoongi finally turned, eyes hard and tired. “You kept her head hunter. For two days. Without sending a fucking raven, without escort, without scent-proofing the border to show I was safe. For Jiyeon, that’s a direct challenge. Even if you meant well.”

“She knows you’re hard to deal with,” Jungkook muttered.

“Yeah,” Yoongi said with a humorless smile, “but she also knows I never go down easy. If I don’t give her a reason for why I stayed, she’ll assume you had your claws in my spine. Or worse—that Jimin did.”

Namjoon looked furious now. His scent was turning electric around the edges, like static right before lightning cracked open the sky. “So your plan is to lie and make yourself look violent?”

“Yes,” Yoongi said simply.

“That’s stupid.”

“It’s necessary.”

Namjoon opened his mouth to argue again, but Yoongi held up a hand, already exhausted from the weight of it all.

“She’s not gonna let this slide. Not without some kind of explanation that keeps both sides from accusing the other of playing dirty. And this?” Yoongi gestured toward himself. “I’m a fucking menace on a good day. You saying I attacked Jimin and you kept me to ‘cool off’ before releasing me back? She’ll fucking believe that.”

“She’ll punish you.”

Yoongi shrugged. “Not if I sell it right. She’ll just be pissed. Maybe give me extra patrol duty. Maybe make me babysit the pups again.” His face twisted. “God, anything but the pups.”

Jungkook snorted under his breath.

“Look,” Yoongi said, dragging a hand through his messy black hair. “I know what I’m doing. I know how she thinks. And if I don’t come out swinging with a story, she’ll sniff out the holes. She’s too smart for diplomatic excuses. But if I tell her I lost it again—if I say Jimin and I fought and you stepped in—then that keeps the peace. No investigations. No questions. Just the usual ‘Lee Pack alphas are assholes’ bullshit everyone already believes.”

He looked between them. “So can you just… back me up?”

Namjoon was frowning so hard his brows looked like they might fuse. “You’re really okay with taking the hit for this?”

Yoongi’s throat was tight. He didn’t answer right away. He thought of Jimin—curled up on the bed, scent drowsy and soft, lips swollen from tears and kisses both, whispering Yoongi’s name like it meant something.

Like it fucking mattered.

He looked at the doors again. “I’d rather get clawed across the face than risk her starting something that ends with Jimin caught in the middle.”

His scent spiked—fierce and protectiveNamjoon smelled it, and his expression shifted. Jungkook, too, tilted his head slightly, his alpha instincts prickling, nose twitching like he was trying to decipher something unsaid.

Yoongi didn’t care if they guessed. He didn’t care if they knew. Let them fucking guess. Let them burn with questions. He wasn’t about to drag Jimin into the middle of a political wildfire. Not after holding that stupid, spoiled, beautiful brat in his arms and thinking—for one fucking second—that maybe they didn’t have to hate each other.

“I’ll tell her Jimin and I fought,” Yoongi said again. “We always fight. She won’t even question it.”

Namjoon hesitated. Then, slowly, he sighed and nodded. “Fine. We’ll play along.”

Yoongi exhaled, tension leaking from his shoulders.

“But if this backfires—”

“I’ll take the hit,” Yoongi said. “I’ve taken worse.”

“You’re a dumbass,” Jungkook muttered. “You know that, right?”

Yoongi snorted. “Yeah. But I’m a dumbass who knows how to protect the people he cares about.”

And with that, he stepped forward, scent sharp and locked down, shoulders squared like he was about to walk into a goddamn battlefield—because he was.

Jiyeon would be furious. She’d tear him a new one. But it was better her fury be aimed at him than aimed at Jimin. Or Namjoon. Or the already-thin peace between two packs that didn’t need another excuse to start drawing blood.

Yoongi clenched his jaw, inhaled once, and pushed open the doors. Let the storm fucking come.

The thick wooden doors groaned open under his hand, and he stepped into the Lee Pack council hall like he was dragging a corpse behind him. His own.

The air inside was cold, but not the kind of cold that made you shiver. No—this was the cold that dug into your spine, crawled down your ribs, and made your instincts snarl awake, knowing danger was in the room before you even smelled it. And fuck, did he smell it.

Alpha Lee Jiyeon sat at the head of the wide stone table, her presence heavy and merciless as ever. Her scent was sharp like broken glass in a velvet box. Her eyes were darker than usual, gaze cutting straight through him. Taehyung and Hoseok stood off to the side, flanking the table like they were back on border duty, and both looked like they’d swallowed something sour. Hoseok gave him a raised brow. Taehyung, arms crossed, didn’t even blink.

Behind Yoongi, Namjoon entered with slow, deliberate steps. His scent was calm, but Yoongi could feel it thrumming under the surface. Not threatening. Not yet. Jungkook followed, tight-lipped and silent, doing a damn good job pretending he wasn’t ready to throw himself between the packs if this all went to shit.

Yoongi forced his posture straight, shoulders squared, and walked until he was two paces from Jiyeon’s table. He didn’t bow. Not yet. She’d hate that. She didn’t like groveling. She liked truth. Or at least, what sounded like truth. And he was about to give her the best performance of his life.

“Alpha,” Yoongi greeted, voice even, rough with just the right edge of guilt. He dipped his head—not too low, not too proud. Just the right amount of shame.

“Two days, Yoongi.” Her voice cracked across the room like a whip. “Two days of silence. No raven. No scent trail. No return.”

Yoongi nodded slowly. “I know.”

“Then explain.”

He inhaled—his scent curling around him, masking the lie he was about to shovel out of his chest like it was truth carved in stone.

“I had a fight with Jimin,” Yoongi began, voice flat. “We crossed paths on the northern ridge. You know how we get.”

“Like feral pups fighting over a marrow bone,” she said coldly.

Yoongi didn’t flinch. “Exactly. But this time… it got out of hand.”

Taehyung’s head tilted, just slightly. Hoseok narrowed his eyes.

“I lost control,” Yoongi continued. “He mouthed off. I snapped. I shifted before I could stop myself and—” he paused, swallowing the acid burning the back of his throat. “I pinned him. Slammed him into the dirt. I could’ve killed him.”

There was a long, thick silence.

Yoongi didn’t dare breathe.

Then Jiyeon asked, “Why didn’t you?”

“I don’t know,” Yoongi said. “Maybe I remembered we’re not supposed to start wars during border patrol.”

A low scoff came from Hoseok. Taehyung’s eyes narrowed further. Jiyeon said nothing.

“So what happened after that?” she asked. Her voice was too calm. That was never a good sign.

“Kim Namjoon stepped in.” Yoongi jerked his chin toward the man behind him. “He saw the whole thing. Thought I was going to finish the job, so he took me down. Locked me in one of their dens until I cooled off.”

“And did you try to finish the job?” Jiyeon asked, voice quieter now. Deadlier.

Yoongi looked her right in the eye and said, “Yes.”

Another silence. This one louder. He could feel the disgust spike off Taehyung, sharp and disappointed. Hoseok’s hands curled at his sides. Jungkook shifted slightly behind him, like he might fucking strangle him himself. Even Namjoon’s usually steady scent was tight, reined in too hard.

Good. That meant it sounded real.

Jiyeon leaned back slowly in her chair, steepling her fingers. Her pheromones rolled out, still and glinting but ready to shatter if stepped on wrong.

“You lost control over a Kim omega,” she repeated.

Yoongi nodded once. “Yes.”

“You endangered a treaty we’ve kept for six years.”

“Yes.”

“You’re my fucking head hunter.”

“I know.”

“And yet here you are.” Her eyes bore into him. “Standing in front of me alive, unscathed, after attempting to kill Kim Namjoon’s pup.”

Yoongi’s throat felt like it was lined with thorns. He wanted to scream the truth. That he saved Jimin’s life. That he kept him warm through fever. That he nearly tore himself apart holding back instincts he didn’t even fucking understand yet. But he couldn’t.

So he said, “I failed. That’s the truth.”

Her nostrils flared. “Why didn’t you send a message?”

“Because Namjoon didn’t trust me not to try again,” Yoongi lied. “He kept me locked up. Probably for Jimin’s safety.”

Namjoon finally spoke, voice low. “It was… tense. I thought it was best to wait until Jimin wakes up and could confirm they were fighting.”

“Which he now has,” Yoongi added. “He woke up. Told Namjoon it wasn’t an assassination attempt.”

Jiyeon’s eyes narrowed. “So it was just you being an emotionally constipated brat.”

Yoongi blinked. “Essentially.”

Her mouth twitched. Almost a smile. But not quite.

Yoongi knew that look. That was the I’m going to rip your balls off but I’ll let you walk first look. It was somehow worse than a slap to the face.

“I should hang your sorry ass from the wall and let the pups throw bones at you,” she said.

“You’d be doing them a favor,” Yoongi muttered.

“Do you think this is funny?”

“No.”

“Do you want to be demoted?”

“No.”

“Do you want me to send Hoseok and Taehyung to do your job while you sweep out piss puddles from the den halls?”

“Honestly? Sounds relaxing.”

Jiyeon stared at him. Then she stood, scent tightening into something iron-clad and cold as a mountain ridge.

“Two days,” she said again. “Two days of silence. And you come back here feeding me this bullshit story about nearly killing an omega you’ve hated since you were sixteen.”

Yoongi stayed still.

“I believe you.”

His breath caught.

“I believe you because you’re a short-tempered, emotionally constipated, impossible-to-fucking-love little bastard who starts shit on instinct and apologizes by bleeding.”

Yoongi didn’t flinch. But it hurt more than a blow.

“But,” Jiyeon continued, “you’re also my head hunter. And you don’t abandon your fucking post without cause. So you’re on patrol with Taehyung and Hoseok for the next full moon cycle. No complaints. No reroutes. You sleep where they sleep, eat what they eat, and take orders like a trainee.”

Yoongi nodded. “Yes, Alpha.”

“You so much as breathe near another Kim again without clearance, I’ll gut you myself.”

“Understood.”

She turned to Namjoon. “Next time, send a fucking message.”

Namjoon bowed his head. “Understood.”

And that was it. They were dismissed. Yoongi didn’t breathe again until they were outside.

The second the doors closed behind them, Jungkook shoved him. “Almost killed him? Seriously? That’s the story you’re going with?”

Yoongi shoved back half-heartedly. “It worked, didn’t it?”

“She believed it,” Namjoon muttered, staring ahead, voice tight. “You lied so well it made me want to hit you.”

“Good,” Yoongi said. “Then we’re even.”

But his scent—despite the bravado—was fraying at the edges. Because he hadn’t almost killed Jimin. He’d almost kissed him again. Almost let his instincts turn soft and possessive. Almost lost himself in the way Jimin had clung to him like he mattered. But now that moment was buried. Drowned in lies. And Yoongi had never felt fucking colder.

The council hall doors hadn’t even stopped swinging when Yoongi felt them coming. Yoongi didn’t even turn around. He knew the sound of Hoseok’s boots slamming against the stone path like he was ready to beat someone half to death. And Taehyung’s footsteps—light, precise, with the promise of emotional violence—weren’t far behind.

“Alright, what the fuck was that?” Hoseok snapped the second he reached Yoongi’s side, his pheromones flaring hard enough to sting. “You almost killed him?! That’s what you’re going with? Have you lost what’s left of your moldy excuse of a brain?”

“You’ve got two options, Yoongi,” Taehyung hissed, stepping close, his jaw sharp enough to cut. “One, you start talking. Or two, I knock you into next week and Hoseok drags the truth out of your sorry ass while I narrate it in poetic verse.”

Yoongi didn’t flinch. He just sighed. “Fuck,” he muttered, voice low. “It’s not what I told Jiyeon.”

“No shit,” Hoseok growled, folding his arms. “Try again.”

Yoongi took a breath. The lie he’d just fed his alpha still clung to his scent like smoke, acrid and bitter. But he let it go—exhaled, slow. And when he opened his mouth this time, the truth came out like rot from a wound.

“I found him.”

Taehyung blinked. “Who?”

“Jimin,” Yoongi said. “North of the river. Just past the tree line. He was—fuck—he was torn up. Rogues, at least three of them. Smelled them all over him.”

The air dropped. Taehyung’s expression turned into something dark and unreadable. Hoseok stopped breathing.

“And you didn’t call for help?” Hoseok demanded, but softer now. Confused. Not angry.

“I couldn’t,” Yoongi said, jaw tight. “He was slipping in and out of consciousness. Fever was coming on fast. He needed water. Safety. Something. So I carried him to the river.”

There was a long pause.

“And?” Taehyung prompted, eyes narrowing.

Yoongi glanced at him. “And I cleaned his wounds. Washed the blood off. He was shaking so bad I thought he was gonna go into shock, so—yeah—I scented him. Kept him warm.”

“And you kissed him like a softie,” Hoseok said, deadpan.

Yoongi winced. “Shut up.”

“You kissed him?” Taehyung’s voice went sharp again, but not angry—stunned. “Are you telling me you—you, the emotionally bankrupt menace—kissed a Kim omega in the middle of the woods after scenting him?”

“Not like that,” Yoongi muttered, ears burning. “It wasn’t—fuck, I don’t know, alright? It wasn’t about that. He was scared. Half-lucid. He asked me not to leave. He was—he clung to me.”

Hoseok swore under his breath.

“I carried him home,” Yoongi said. “On my wolf’s back. Barely breathing. He reeked of me—scented to hell, naked, scratched up, fevered, couldn’t even stand. Of course they thought I did it.”

Taehyung blinked slowly. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh,” Yoongi snapped. “They nearly slammed me into the dirt and tore me down. They locked me in a stone den with no fucking light for two days.”

“Fuck,” Hoseok muttered again.

“And when Jimin finally woke up,” Yoongi said, quieter now, “he told them the truth. That I saved him. That I didn’t lay a finger on him.”

The wind shifted. Hoseok’s scent burned with guilt. Taehyung was silent.

“But I couldn’t walk into Jiyeon’s court with that story,” Yoongi said bitterly. “Because the second I say Namjoon locked me up for a crime I didn’t commit, she’ll drag him by the throat. And then he will retaliate. And then we’re back to territory raids and blood on the trees and war.” He scrubbed a hand down his face. “So yeah. I lied.”

“You stupid,” Hoseok began, then stopped. Sighed. “Honorable motherfucker.”

“I didn’t do it for honor.”

“Yeah?” Taehyung said, watching him closely. “Then why did you do it?”

Yoongi looked away.

Because I didn’t want her to hurt the pack he belongs to.
Because I can’t stop thinking about the way he looked at me like I mattered.
Because I can still smell him under my skin, and it’s driving me insane.

He didn’t say any of that. “Because I owed him,” he said simply.

Taehyung crossed his arms, shoulders loosening slightly. “And the kiss?”

Yoongi muttered something incomprehensible.

“What was that?” Hoseok said.

“I said it was just instinct,” Yoongi snapped. “Okay? His scent was all over me. My wolf was halfway unhinged. He was hurt and distressed. I didn’t even mean to do it. It just—happened.”

A beat passed.

“You’re fucked,” Taehyung said.

“I know.”

“You’re so fucking in love with him.”

“I will strangle you with your own braid,” Yoongi growled.

Hoseok smirked. “We should make him a flower crown. You can wear it when you go to apologize to Jimin for lying to everyone and pretending you tried to murder him instead of, y’know, saving his life and being soft.”

“I’m not apologizing to him.”

“You scented and kissed him in a fever-daze.”

“That doesn’t mean—!”

“He’s probably having pheromone crashes and confusion spirals and wondering if you left because you regret it,” Taehyung added cruelly. “And meanwhile, you’re here pretending to be the big bad head hunter who almost ripped his throat out.”

“I’m protecting him!” Yoongi barked. “You think he wants to be the omega who got half a pack slaughtered because an alpha couldn’t control his damn mouth?”

They all stopped at that. Even Yoongi. He hadn’t meant to say it like that. But fuck, it was the truth, wasn’t it?

Hoseok stepped back. “Fine. You lied to protect him. You suffered for it. What now?”

Yoongi exhaled through his nose, slow and sharp. “Now… I wait.”

“For what?” Taehyung asked.

“For the heat to end. For the treaty to hold. For his stupid scent to fade off my skin long enough that I can think straight again.”

They didn’t speak for a while.

The sun was dipping below the treetops now, shadows stretching long over the village paths. The smell of campfires, cooking meat, and distant laughter drifted from deeper in the dens.

Hoseok clapped a hand on Yoongi’s shoulder. “You’re an idiot.”

Yoongi didn’t argue.

Taehyung added, “But if this ends in a love confession, I want to be there to throw something at you mid-sentence.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Yoongi muttered.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

They turned and walked back toward the heart of the Lee Pack village, the weight of unspoken truths thick between them—but for once, shared.

By the time they reached Taehyung and Hoseok’s hut, the sky had darkened fully and the firepit out front had been doused, the only light coming from lanterns swinging low under the eaves. Inside, it was warm and hazy with drink, the air smelling of herbs, smoke, and the sweet bite of plumwine.

The problem wasn’t the drinking.

Yoongi drank sometimes. Rarely. When Hoseok twisted his arm or when Taehyung shoved a cup into his hand with that conniving little grin that said go on, let’s see what happens. He’d never been reckless with it. Never let himself get sloppy. He was the head hunter, for fuck’s sake. Alphas didn’t slip like that.

Except apparently they did, because now he was slouched on a pile of mismatched floor cushions in Hoseok and Taehyung’s hut, shirt off, hair an absolute mess, cheeks flushed, and breath thick with the bite of fermented plumwine.

And Hoseok—bastard that he was—was grinning like he’d caught the moon in a trap.

“So,” Hoseok said, swirling his cup, “how was that softie kiss to little Jiminie?”

Taehyung kicked him from the side, his mouth twitching. “Subtle, babe. Real smooth.”

“Eat my entire ass, Tae,” Hoseok replied sweetly. “Now, Yoongi. Speak.”

Yoongi blinked. A little too slowly. His mouth opened. And to his horror, he actually fucking spoke.

“Oh fuck,” he said dreamily. “His lips.”

Hoseok sat up straighter.

“His lips,” Yoongi repeated, louder now. “Fucking—unreal. Like—like biting into a peach but it moans. Soft. So fucking soft, like they were made to be kissed. Made for me. Fuck, I wanna kiss those lips forever. Just—hold his jaw in my hands and press in and stay there, breathing him in until I stop wanting to tear the world apart.”

The hut went very quiet.

Taehyung blinked. “…okay.”

“Okay?” Hoseok said, eyes wide. “This man is halfway to poetry and you say okay?”

Yoongi laughed, slurring just slightly. “He tastes like—like flower honey. Not the fake kind. The real shit. Wild. Dark. Sweet. With this little—little tang of cinnamon from his stupid lip balm or something, and I licked into it like I was starving. Fuck.” He dropped back against the wall, dazed. “His mouth ruined me.”

Hoseok made a strangled noise.

“Oh my gods,” Taehyung whispered.

“And the way he sounded,” Yoongi went on, voice dipping lower. “When I kissed him. Little gasps, barely there. Like he was surprised I wasn’t hurting him. Like I was the first alpha who ever touched him and didn’t want to own him, just hold him.”

There was silence. The air shifted, pheromones thick with stunned disbelief. Hoseok’s woodsmoke and salt settled oddly calm, and Taehyung’s usual floral bite faded into something watchful.

“…Yoongi,” Hoseok said cautiously, “you okay, man?”

“No,” Yoongi said flatly. “I am not okay. I am so far past okay that okay is a fucking dot in the rearview. Do you know what it’s like to carry an omega like that in your arms, while he’s trembling and feverish and whispering your name like you’re the only thing keeping him from slipping into the dark?”

“No?” Taehyung offered helpfully.

“It’s ruinous,” Yoongi spat. “I should’ve left him there. Should’ve called someone else. Namjoon. Jungkook. Fucking anyone. But I didn’t. I stayed. I held him like he was mine. Like I had a right to him. And now I can’t stop fucking thinking about him. Can’t sleep. Can’t eat. Everything smells like him.”

“You’re scent-bound,” Hoseok said quietly.

“No,” Yoongi growled.

Taehyung leaned in, voice gentle but not kind. “Yes.”

“I am not some simpering, heat-drunk pup who thinks a kiss means—”

“You want to kiss him forever,” Hoseok reminded him.

“Shut up.”

“You called his lips moaning peaches, bro.”

“Shut. Up.”

But Yoongi couldn’t stop. His mouth wouldn’t fucking shut.

“His eyes, Hobi. When he looked at me by the river. Big, dark, glassy with pain. But still—open. Like he trusted me. Like I wasn’t just some asshole from the rival pack, but—something. Someone he could lean on.”

His chest was heaving now, mouth dry.

“And when I said I’d stay, he clung to me. His little hand—fuck, his hand, so small and soft—curled into my chest like he was trying to crawl into my ribs and live there.”

“That’s…” Taehyung said, a little stunned, “really vivid.”

“I felt him,” Yoongi said, eyes glazed. “Not just in scent or touch. I felt him inside. Like his presence sank into me and planted itself and now he’s fucking growing roots in my goddamn soul.”

Hoseok stared. “Oh my god, you’re in love.”

“I’m not in love,” Yoongi snarled.

“You are so fucking in love with him,” Taehyung whispered.

Yoongi bolted upright. “No. I’m in denial, which is a perfectly acceptable emotional defense against catastrophe. I’m coping. With alcohol.”

“Is that why you keep sniffing your own collar like it’s a drug?” Hoseok asked.

Yoongi immediately stopped doing that.

“I hate both of you.”

“You kissed a Kim omega and fell in love and lied to your alpha to protect his reputation,” Taehyung said sweetly. “And now you’re drunk in our hut smelling like yearning.”

Yoongi groaned and flopped back again. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t want to.”

“You don’t get to choose,” Hoseok said, a rare note of sincerity slipping through. “He chose you first. You just caught up.”

That shut Yoongi up.

The hut went quiet again, only the rustle of wind through the reed curtain and the occasional creak of wood under them.

Yoongi stared at the ceiling. His chest felt like it was being peeled open. “I don’t know what to do,” he said finally, voice wrecked.

“You’ll figure it out,” Hoseok murmured, nudging his side.

“Or we’ll bully you until you do,” Taehyung added, stretching like a satisfied cat.

Yoongi gave a long, tortured sigh and dragged a pillow over his face.

Outside, the sun had dipped far enough that the village was bathed in amber. But inside, all Yoongi could feel was the taste of honey and heat on his tongue. And the stupid, unbearable ache for an omega who had ruined him with one fevered kiss.

Yoongi knew it was a setup somewhere in the back of his foggy skull—had known it maybe three drinks ago, when Hoseok stopped pretending to sip and started pouring. When Taehyung sat a little too close, hand a little too quick with the refills, mouth twitching with the smugness of a fox who’d just outsmarted a bear.

Those bastards were doing this on purpose.

And Yoongi, drunk off his ass now, had no way to stop it.

He couldn’t even sit up straight. He was slumped back against Taehyung’s plush wall cushions, legs stretched out like a corpse, head lolled to the side like someone had taken the last working gear out of his neck. The whole hut swayed a little, warm and golden and scented with fermented fruit, sandalwood from the hearth, and Hoseok’s ever-present scent of arrogance.

“Tell us more,” Taehyung said gently, voice soaked in sugar.

“No,” Yoongi muttered, blinking slow, his tongue thick in his mouth. “You already—fucking—made me say enough.”

Hoseok leaned down, grinning like the demon he was. “You said you wanna lick his lips until he forgets his own name.”

“I never said that.”

“Oh, but you meant it,” Hoseok said gleefully. “Go on. What else?”

“Fuck off,” Yoongi slurred, trying to kick him. His foot barely twitched. “Both of you. Get trampled by a moose.”

“Do they even have moose around here?” Taehyung asked thoughtfully.

“Shut up,” Yoongi growled, then groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I hate you both.”

“You love Jimin,” Hoseok said, sing-song.

“No, I fucking don’t—”

“Yes, you do,” Taehyung chirped, patting his head like a misbehaving toddler. “You’re in deep, Yoon.”

Yoongi hissed, baring his teeth like a threatened dog. “I am not—not in love—not even a little bit—”

“Yoongi,” Hoseok said, flatly, “you cried when you talked about how small his hands are.”

“I was drunk!”

“You still are.”

Yoongi made a noise like a dying goat and slumped deeper into the cushions. “I just—” He squeezed his eyes shut. “—He looked so breakable. When I carried him. Like I’d crush him if I wasn’t careful. But he wasn’t scared of me. Even bleeding and burning up and half-conscious, he curled into me like I was safe.” His voice cracked on the last word. Fuck. He hadn’t meant to say that part out loud. “Like I was safe,” he repeated, softer, almost like a secret.

Taehyung’s scent pulsed around him, soft and sweet and tinged with something like sympathy. Hoseok’s calmed too, grounding. No more teasing. Just listening.

Yoongi hated them a little less for it.

“And when I scented him,” Yoongi whispered, voice hoarse, “he didn’t flinch. Didn’t push me away. He—he nuzzled me, Hobi. Like a pup. Like he wanted it.”

The image flashed again behind his eyelids—Jimin’s flushed face, lips trembling, eyes fever-wet as he leaned into Yoongi’s neck and breathed him in.

Yoongi shuddered. His pheromones leaked out with the memory—hot, heavy musk tinged with longing, grief, helpless want. It filled the space like a second skin.

“I didn’t wanna leave him,” Yoongi admitted. “Even when I dropped him off. Even when they were all looking at me like I’d fucking violated him. I still wanted to stay. Wanted to tuck him into those soft-ass furs and crawl in next to him and watch him breathe.”

He let out a laugh, low and wrecked. “Gods, I’m fucked. I’m so fucked.”

“You love him,” Taehyung said softly.

Yoongi didn’t argue this time. Just stared at the ceiling, vision blurred. “Yeah,” he whispered, broken. “I do.”

He hadn’t meant to. It wasn’t part of the plan. He wasn’t even sure when it had started. Maybe in the river, when he was washing dried blood from trembling skin. Maybe the moment those doe eyes cracked open and looked at him like he was good. Maybe the second Jimin whispered, “Need you close,” and Yoongi couldn’t.

“I wanna protect him,” Yoongi murmured. “From everything. From the cold, from rogues, from bad fucking dreams. From assholes who make him cry. From the world.”

His chest clenched, ribs aching like something was blooming too fast inside him and threatening to split him in half.

“I wanna kiss his forehead and feed him soup when he’s sick and kill anyone who makes him feel less than what he is.”

“What is he?” Hoseok asked, quietly now. Like a priest hearing confession.

Yoongi closed his eyes. “He’s… light,” he breathed. “He’s softness in a hard world. He’s warmth when I didn’t think I’d feel anything again. He makes me want to be gentle. He makes me want to try.”

Neither of them said anything for a moment.

Then Taehyung, voice barely audible over the pounding of Yoongi’s heart: “Have you told him any of that?”

Yoongi scoffed bitterly. “Yeah. I think the kiss where I was half-fucked on omega’s distressed scent and cradling him while he was hallucinating probably wasn’t the right moment for a heart-to-heart, genius.”

“You should tell him,” Hoseok said.

“Why?” Yoongi snapped. “So Namjoon can rip my fucking head off for laying claim to his precious baby omega? So Seokjin can gut me with his dad glare and ban me from stepping foot near their borders again? So Jungkook—don’t even get me started on that alpha cockroach—can strut around like he owns him?”

“You don’t want to own him,” Taehyung said softly. “You want to love him.”

Yoongi went still. And that was the difference, wasn’t it? He didn’t want Jimin at his feet or bound to his den or wearing his fucking mark like a trophy. He just wanted to see him. Every day. To hear his laugh. To protect the way his smile bloomed like wildflowers in spring. To be the reason Jimin looked at someone like that again. Yoongi wanted to be chosen.

“I’m in love with him,” Yoongi whispered again, voice cracking open like bone.

And this time, no one laughed.

Chapter Text

Jimin had lost count of the days. Two weeks? Three? Maybe more. Everything blurred. Days bled into nights and then back again, soft like watercolors left out in the rain. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d walked without limping, the last time his body didn’t ache somewhere, somehow. His ribs still throbbed, dull and persistent, like they refused to forget that Yoongi had once carried him against his chest like something precious. His left leg—still fucked. He couldn’t run if his life depended on it. Probably couldn't even trot.

But he could walk. Slowly. If he braced his jaw and bit down on every hiss of pain and moved like he meant it, he could walk.

And god help anyone who tried to stop him.

He’d tried. Really fucking tried. To listen to Namjoon’s soft warnings and Seokjin’s gentle scolding. He stayed put like a good, injured omega. Took the stupid teas and let Jungkook light the damn fire in his den even though it made the whole hut smell like burnt herbs and smug alpha pheromones. He behaved.

But he couldn’t anymore.

Because he needed to see Yoongi.

He didn’t even know what the fuck he wanted to say—only that something inside him was tearing apart a little more each day without it. Without him.

Without the snarly bastard of an alpha who looked at Jimin like he was the fucking moon and called him sunshine like the word had teeth and weight and history behind it.

He needed to know. What that meant. What they meant.

Because they weren’t just enemies anymore. Hadn’t been for a long while.

And they definitely weren’t just fucking. That… that stopped making sense the moment Yoongi kissed him soft, like he meant it, instead of desperate like a starving man.

So here Jimin was—limping through the damn forest, dragging his cloak tight around him like armor, breath fogging the cool air. The shared land was quiet this time of day. The wind whispered in the trees, the river ahead trickled soft like it knew secrets.

His heart pounded harder with each step.

Please be there. Please.

Yoongi always patrolled this stretch, didn’t he? He had to. He would. He had to know Jimin would come looking. He had to feel it.

That weird, invisible thread between them had to mean something. Right?

Jimin reached the river’s edge and stopped, swallowing hard, eyes scanning the banks.

Nothing.

His breath hitched.

“Yoongi?” he called softly, voice thin in the open air.

No answer.

“Fuck,” Jimin muttered, dragging a shaky hand through his hair. “Stupid. This is so fucking—stupid, Jimin. What are you even doing—”

A rustle. He froze. Another rustle. Then pawsteps. Heavy and deliberate, cracking twigs like the trees parted just to let him through.

And then—there. Across the riverbank, sleek black fur catching the gold of the setting sun, claws silent now as he emerged from between the trees like some goddamn ancient forest guardian, Yoongi padded out.

Wolf-form. His eyes locked onto Jimin’s immediately—sharp and golden and alive, like fire trapped in ice. His ears perked, his tail low but not tense, and—

His whole damn scent exploded into the air. Alpha musk, thick and intense, sharp with surprise and something else—need, maybe. Or confusion. It swept over Jimin like a storm surge. Jimin’s own pheromones responded before he could stop them, omega scent flaring warm and sweet, tinged with exhaustion and want and something very close to longing.

Yoongi froze on the opposite bank. His ears flicked. His snout lowered.

“Yeah, hi,” Jimin muttered, trying to keep his voice steady. “I… didn’t tell anyone I was coming, so if Namjoon shows up later with murder in his eyes, that’s my fault.”

Yoongi didn’t move.

Jimin inhaled, slow. “I needed to see you,” he said, softer now. “I’ve been—thinking. A lot. About… everything.”

Still nothing.

Jimin stared at him, aching. “You gonna shift or just stand there judging me with your canine disappointment face?”

A grumble. Low. Wolf-Yoongi trotted forward, eyes still pinned on him, then with a ripple of energy, his wolf form collapsed into his human body, crouched on the grass and dripping wet.

Naked. Of fucking course.

Jimin averted his eyes automatically, cheeks burning, and shoved the extra cloak he brought across the river with a groan. “Here. Take this.”

Yoongi caught it, silent, and tugged it over his shoulders in one smooth move. Then finally—finally—he looked at Jimin properly.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” Yoongi said quietly, voice rough like gravel. “You’re still healing.”

“Thanks for the medical opinion, head healer Min,” Jimin snapped, but it came out tired. Not angry. “I needed to talk.”

Yoongi didn’t move. Just stood there, letting the wind shift his damp hair, letting his scent pulse low and unreadable.

“You called me sunshine,” Jimin said, voice small now. “When I was injured.”

Silence.

“Yoongi,” Jimin whispered. “What are we?”

Yoongi’s eyes closed. His scent spiked again, torn edges of guilt and want and something thick and broken.

“I don’t know,” Yoongi said, voice hoarse. “I thought… I thought it was just a game at first. Enemies fucking behind trees. Hate-sex and teeth and lies. And then you—”

He looked up, face twisted.

“Then you bled in my arms and whispered my name like it was something holy, and I—fuck, Jimin, I haven’t been the same since.”

Jimin’s breath hitched. He stepped forward, cloak dragging in the dirt. “I thought you hated me.”

“I thought I hated you,” Yoongi snapped. “But I didn’t. I was just scared. You get under my skin. You live in my fucking head. You drive me insane. And now, I can’t fucking breathe without wondering if you’re warm or safe or if you’re looking at someone else the way you looked at me.”

Jimin stared at him. Frozen. Heart clawing against his ribs like a trapped animal.

“I want to be yours,” Yoongi whispered. “But not like this. Not in the dark. Not behind borders and with knives at our backs. I want to be yours out loud, Jimin. If you’ll have me.”

The world slowed.

And then, with trembling steps, Jimin closed the space between them, dropped his forehead to Yoongi’s chest, and whispered, “You’re so fucking stupid.”

Yoongi’s arms wrapped around him instantly. His breath was warm against Jimin’s temple, chest rising fast like he was trying to calm himself down. Like touching Jimin had fried something in him and now he was malfunctioning in real time.

Good. Let him malfunction. Jimin wasn’t exactly doing great himself. His ribs ached, his leg hurt, the damn forest breeze kept sneaking under his cloak and making him shiver—but none of it mattered. Not with Yoongi holding him like this. Like Jimin was something fragile, not just the reckless brat who snuck across enemy lines with bruised bones and too much pride. And then—

“Can I kiss you?” Yoongi asked, voice low and wrecked. Like he hadn’t even meant to say it aloud.

Jimin blinked up at him. And nodded. Because yes. Fucking yes. Kiss me. Kiss me.

Yoongi didn’t move right away. He just stared at Jimin, like he was making sure. Like he’d rather wait an eternity than rush him. That stupid, noble, emotionally constipated idiot.

Then, slowly, Yoongi leaned in. His lips brushed over Jimin’s like a prayer. Soft. Too soft. Like he was afraid Jimin might break if he kissed him any harder.

And god, it was too much. Jimin’s knees went weak. Literally fucking shaky. He made a noise—something small and embarrassing—against Yoongi’s mouth and clung to the fabric of the cloak now hanging off Yoongi’s shoulders because if he didn’t hold on to something, he was going to melt into the forest floor.

The kiss deepened. A little. Just enough to make Jimin gasp, to make his omega scent bloom all warm and flustered in the air like spilled honey. Yoongi’s alpha scent reacted instantly—curling around them both, musky and grounded, tinged with sharp, possessive heat.

He pulled back slowly, looking at Jimin like he’d just survived drowning. “Shit,” Yoongi muttered. “You’re really gonna fucking kill me.”

Jimin panted softly. “Maybe you deserve it.”

“You definitely do,” Yoongi shot back—then his hands were on Jimin again, tugging the cloak tighter around him, fussing like some cranky forest mom.

“You shouldn’t have walked this far,” he growled, scowling. “What the fuck, Jimin? Are you trying to open your stitches? What if your leg gave out and you fell in the damn river?”

“I’m fine,” Jimin lied, because his ankle was throbbing, but that wasn’t the point. “Shut up.”

“No, you shut up—fuck, your face is still pale, your eyes have those fucking tired bruises under them—when was the last time you even slept? Or ate? Did they make you eat?”

“Yes, appa,” Jimin said dryly, which got him a death glare.

“Don’t fucking joke—” Yoongi’s hands were on his face now, cupping his cheeks like he was checking for fever. Then his lips pressed to Jimin’s forehead. Then his jaw. Then the corner of his mouth. His nose. The bridge between his brows. Everywhere. Everywhere.

Jimin blinked fast, throat thick. “Yoongi,” he whispered, voice breaking. “Stop treating me like I’ll disappear if you stop touching me.”

“I’m not going to stop,” Yoongi muttered. “You scared the shit out of me. You nearly died, Jimin.”

“And you called me sunshine,” he said softly, eyes locked on Yoongi’s.

Yoongi’s hands trembled against his skin.

Jimin slid his hands up to cup the back of Yoongi’s neck, tugged him close until their foreheads touched again. “Scent me.”

Yoongi froze. “Jimin—”

“Scent me,” he said again, more desperate now, voice cracking right down the middle. “Please. I want— I need it, Yoongi. I want to smell like you.”

Yoongi’s scent went sharp. Desperate. Starving. But it didn’t reach for Jimin—it recoiled.

“No,” Yoongi whispered, shaking his head. “I can’t. You’ll go back smelling like me, and Namjoon will lose his fucking mind. You think he’ll let you walk around the village reeking of a Lee alpha? They’ll think I marked you. They’ll think I claimed you.”

“Maybe I want them to,” Jimin whispered. “Maybe I don’t give a single fuck what anyone thinks.”

Yoongi looked like he was being ripped in half. “You should,” he snapped. “You should give all the fucks. You’re still healing. You’re already in trouble for seeing me again. You think your dads aren’t going to put you on fucking lockdown if you go home smelling like my rut?”

“I’m not scared of them,” Jimin said, even though, okay, yeah, Namjoon’s disappointed face made him want to cry and Seokjin’s guilt-tripping was a goddamn weapon of war. “I’m scared of losing you.”

Yoongi choked out a breath. “Fuck, sunshine,” he whispered, voice shattering. “Don’t say that.”

Jimin pressed forward, nose brushing Yoongi’s throat, inhaling him deep. God, he smelled so good. Like warm trees and river stone and something dark and bitter and safe.

His own scent pulsed out again—needy, sugar-sweet, all honeyed ache and raw hope.

Yoongi groaned, barely holding back.

“I want you to scent me,” Jimin begged again. “Just a little. Just something. Anything. I miss you. I miss how I smell when you’re around.”

“You’re going to fucking kill me,” Yoongi hissed, grabbing fistfuls of Jimin’s cloak like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

“Then die smelling like me,” Jimin whispered.

And that—that broke him.

Yoongi surged forward, nose dragging up Jimin’s throat, across his jaw, scent glands brushing and pressing and rubbing until Jimin moaned, head tipping back, hands clinging to Yoongi’s chest like he’d never let go. The alpha’s scent poured over him like smoke, sinking into his clothes, his hair, his skin.

Not a full mark. Not even close. But enough. Enough to burn. Enough to brand. And Jimin breathed it in like salvation.

“Mine,” Yoongi growled against his pulse point.

Jimin nodded, barely holding back the tears. “Yours,” he whispered back. “For as long as you want me.”

Yoongi’s scent was soaked into him now—threaded deep in his hair, clinging to the collar of his cloak, humming low and warm in every breath Jimin took like it had lived there forever.

Jimin could barely think. Not with the way his heart kept stuttering like a broken drum, not with the molten ache in his chest or the phantom feel of Yoongi’s lips still ghosting over his skin.

And yet—fuck—his side throbbed. His leg was killing him. The adrenaline was finally wearing off, dragging every tender muscle and half-healed bruise back into brutal focus. His ankle pulsed like it had a heartbeat of its own. Every shift in weight sent a spark of sharp, white pain through his hip. He didn’t even realize he was shaking until Yoongi’s hands caught his elbows.

“Okay—okay, shit,” Yoongi muttered, already lowering them both to the grass. “Sit. Just—fuck, sunshine, sit down before you pass out and I lose the last two brain cells I’m holding on to.”

Jimin gritted his teeth. “Don’t exaggerate. You’ve never had more than one brain cell at a time.”

Yoongi glared. “And it’s the only reason I haven’t hauled your stupid ass back to your pack and thrown you at Namjoon’s feet like a damn mail package.”

“Touch me and I bite.”

Yoongi rolled his eyes but softened as he helped guide Jimin to the ground. His hands were gentle. Scarily so. Like Jimin was something delicate and wild, like one wrong move and he might crack open again.

The moment Jimin’s ass hit the grass, he groaned. Loudly. Not even for drama this time. “Fuuuck me,” he hissed through his teeth, clutching his side. “I swear my ribs are plotting revenge. That healer back home didn’t even fix me, she just glued my organs back together with hope and shitty herbs.”

“You shouldn’t have walked here,” Yoongi muttered, kneeling beside him now. “You’re lucky you didn’t open a wound.”

“Shut up. I didn’t walk, I limped. With grace.”

Yoongi huffed out the ghost of a laugh.

Then Jimin, without thinking, curled in. Right into Yoongi’s lap. He didn’t ask. Didn’t need to. And Yoongi just accepted him—one arm steadying him, the other pulling the cloak tighter around them both as Jimin folded up like a damn flower in winter, burrowing his nose under Yoongi’s jaw and inhaling deep.

God, he smelled so fucking good. A scent that soaked into Jimin’s lungs and wrapped around his spine. A scent that had no business being this comforting.

“Yoongi?” he murmured, voice muffled in the collar of Yoongi’s shirt.