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Jungkook isn’t afraid. Excited, definitely. Antsy, for sure. Nervous? Yeah, okay nervous. But not afraid. Never afraid.
But that doesn’t mean it’s not an adjustment.
The windy, hot and sticky outdoor patrols giving way to the cool, pleasant echoes of the palace hallways and archways is welcome.
The hours and hours of standing at attention, staring off into the middle distance trying to stay awake—let alone stay alert—are less welcome.
Jungkook has never met a challenge he couldn’t overcome—that’s how he got promoted to the castle guard in the first place. And after two months of being stationed outside the dining hall, the stables, the library, and the gardens Jungkook thinks he’s finally gotten past being starstruck and surprised at palace life. He’s from a small town, but you would never know.
Until one morning he rouses like normal, splashes water on his face like normal, ties up his long hair like normal, dons his armor like normal, tucks his scent blockers under his breastplate...only to be led away from his post to a meeting with the captain of the guard. Decidedly not normal.
Jungkook doesn’t tremble, doesn’t flinch at the giant receiving chamber doors and the way they scrape as they open, and doesn’t avert his eyes from the assembled glittering knights—the kingsguard.
The elite. The most trusted intimate attendants of the king himself. All alphas, all handpicked to be the protectors of the realm.
And then there’s Jungkook.
He sinks into a bow, kneeling before the scrutinizing stares in a silent maneuver he’s been practicing from the moment he decided he wanted to be a knight some thirteen years ago. Back when he was eight and newly presented and his armor was pitted sheet metal discarded from the town blacksmith.
It’s important, as a palace knight, to not jingle or grate the plate metal of your armor against itself when you bow lest you disturb the serenity of the palace.
Jungkook’s study has not been in vain as the silence is so absolute one could hear a pin drop, and the kingsguard look impressed.
“Rise.” The captain says, tone elegant. “I see your recommendations once again are shrewd, Master of Household.”
The man who led him here inclines his head and backs out of the room, off to do whatever the Master of the Household does every day.
Which, if Jungkook is here for the reason he thinks he’s here, he should probably learn more about.
“Welcome to the kingsguard, Ser.” The captain says, and Jungkook allows himself a small smile of victory.
“The honor is completely mine.” Jungkook says, “May I fulfill my duties to the glory of our sovereign ruler and my superior officers.”
The captain chuckles, “Very pretty.” He indicates the knight to his left, a tall, broad-shouldered knight whose glittering kingsguard armor does nothing to disguise his beautiful face or imposing stature. “Seokjin shall be your shift partner. He will teach you how to guard the royal apartments and will inform me as to your suitability.”
The knight gives a short bow and steps forward to greet Jungkook. The rest of the kingsguard drifts off like they were merely assembled for Jungkook’s welcome, and then it’s back to work.
“Hello.” Seokjin’s voice is smooth and pleasant. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you, Ser.” Jungkook won’t let the shyness win. Today is his victory and no one but he will know how much he’s feeling inside.
“Come. There’s much to learn; moreover, we cannot be late to relieve the night guards.” And Seokjin turns on his heel, striding from the room and all Jungkook can do is follow.
Their first stop is the armory where the blacksmith’s soot-stained hands work quickly to take Jungkook’s measurements for new armor while Seokjin fishes out a breastplate and helm that—sort of—fit from a closet.
“Until your armor is made, so you may stand guard and not offend our lord’s eyes by the mismatch.” Seokjin explains as Jungkook stacks his scent-blocking sachets on the table and wriggles out of his dull, ordinary armor.
The breastplate straps dig into his shoulder with a little too much pressure and the helm isn’t properly fitted to his head but he can make do. He will. A little thing like armor discomfort isn’t going to get in the way of his first day as kingsguard.
“We stand outside the royal bedchamber.” Seokjin explains. “We are the last line of defense besides the king’s own bodymen who sleep and stay inside.”
Jungkook shivers at the honor and responsibility of it all. “I understand.”
“Good. Whenever the king is in residence we must be vigilant at all times. You have been picked for this reason.”
Jungkook is a little confused, “Surely there are better fighters than me? Surely there are higher ranking knights that could pair with you—I apologize I just find myself confused at the leap in my station.”
“Ah but here’s the other part.” Seokjin slings an armored arm over his shoulder conspiratorially, “You are pleasing to the eye.”
Jungkook flushes, “What?”
“Yes, very pretty. The king only likes attractive alphas in his kingsguard. It’s an optics thing; for visiting dignitaries to believe the average appearance of warriors in our kingdom is that of beauty. You will see when we reach the kings chambers—he only likes to be surrounded by beautiful things. That includes you. And me.”
“Ah,” Jungkook feels a little dazed. “Wow.”
They are turning up the long hallway that leads to the king’s apartments—a whole entire wing of the palace Jungkook has never seen nor set foot inside. As they approach Seokjin’s voice drops to barely a whisper so it will not echo off the walls, “We are also responsible for protecting the king’s household…and his harem.”
Jungkook swallows hard. The stories the other knights tell of the king’s harem of thirty—no--forty omegas are well remembered from nights on patrol and days of trying to stay awake at their posts.
Said to be a collection unmatched by any king in the known world. Said to be paradise on earth, the beautiful palace and the even more beautiful flowers who adorn its halls.
As a lowly castle guard Jungkook was happy to just have the stories but his abrupt promotion, and the stationing in the king’s own bed chambers…
…what on earth is waiting on the other side of those doors?
The guards at the ornate doors nod crisply to Seokjin and swing the doors wide for them, buttery morning sun piercing the hallway as the king’s private gardens are revealed.
Jungkook is practiced at looking stoic, but even he can’t help the jaw drop at the king’s apartments.
He follows Seokjin around an elegantly carved and painted and filigreed breezeway; ringing a lavish, floral garden. There are benches and pools and tumbling streams in this oasis, and people walk among them, draped in gauzy fabrics and jingling body jewelry. Jungkook averts his eyes from all the skin. He can’t avert his nose from all the scents. It’s hard to tell if he’s smelling the garden or the omegas but it’s a heady, rich invasion of his senses. His knees feel like jelly but he just quickens his pace to stay next to Seokjin, eyes darting everywhere but at the garden’s inhabitants. The curving breezeway is studded with doors. Some propped open into candlelit rooms with beautiful hangings and drapery. Some are closed tight, muffled sounds of pleasure drifting through the heavy wood and Jungkook is glad of the borrowed helm, sure his ears and neck are fire-red. He clues back in to Seokjin’s informative patter, “The main gardens, the harem apartments, over here the study and private library,” Seokjin indicates a path that gives way to priceless blue tiles, “The bathing pools and private hot springs,” He waves vaguely at an offshoot, “The private dining and entertainment chamber, for when the king tires of his court and wishes to eat with his household and harem.”
Another path diverges off to where the kings family sleeps, sisters and brothers and children. The king has two heirs by his queen omega, and they pass her chambers as the last hallway before the final, golden door behind which the king sleeps.
Jungkook is a little dazed. There’s so much life back here, from the sheer number of people to the brightly painted scenes chasing each other across the marble and brick of the breezeways. Everything is hued golden and bronze and catches the light. The tiles shimmer and shine and promise opulence down each hallway.
Seokjin nods to the guards on either side of the king’s door and he and Jungkook take their places.
From here Jungkook has a clear view across the gardens and of all the hallways entrances where people could come in and out of. Even though it’s rich and luxurious, it’s also practical, designed to help the guards see what they need in order to protect the king.
Jungkook just has to get over the view.
Which is no small feat, because no sooner will he tear his eyes away from a stunning cluster of snow-white roses, than an intricate tile mosaic on the wall will capture his attention. And no sooner will he get over gawking at that than an omega clad only in transparent silks will walk by arm in arm with a musician, smelling of freesia and lavender.
It’s…a lot.
“How do you get used to it?” Jungkook whispers and Seokjin chuckles.
“You spend all your wages at the brothel in town and try really hard to think of other things while on guard.” He says simply. Which doesn’t sound like an answer at all to Jungkook.
His nose twitches at yet another lovely scent.
Young, unmated alphas as per royal decree. Charged with protecting the most beautiful omegas in the kingdom, if not the world. What could possibly go wrong with that?
Jungkook is glad of his scent blockers if only because he’s sure he’s spiking, neglected libido suddenly remembering it exists after the months of duty and honor and training.
He groans, just to himself, and Seokjin’s shoulders shake with suppressed laughter.
“Good luck, kid.” Seokjin mutters.
And Jungkook accepts it because he knows he’s going to need it.
Here’s where his training comes in handy, though, because he is perfectly capable of standing rigidly at attention while wave after wave of distractions dance in front of his face.
Sometimes literally, as a musician has set up on a bench in the garden and two omegas have gathered to clap their hands and dance, twirling each other and giggling delightedly.
Jungkook’s resists the urge to rub at the bridge of his nose.
“The king will be rising soon.” Seokjin says, still mindful of his role as trainer, “His attendants will knock on the door once and we will open immediately. So we must always be listening.”
True to his words it’s only a handful of minutes before there’s a quiet thump on the door and Jungkook and Seokjin grasp the handles in unison and haul the door open, backing out of the way.
The king sweeps by, lavish robe thrown over his shoulders and he doesn’t even spare them a glance before he beelines for the family apartments—Jungkook remembers this from whispers around the palace; the king is enamored of his children and will spend time with them every day before dealing with the matters of the kingdom. His two heirs, of course, but also the dozen children he has gotten from his harem; he dotes upon them as well.
Jungkook catches a smile right before it spreads across his face at the king joining a quick game of tag between two children who look to be six or seven in age. Not presented yet, gaily running around the gardens.
What must it be like, he wonders idly, to grow up surrounded by the golden, glowing world of the king’s apartments and harem, merely because the king liked your omega parent’s face?
The king ruffles one of the kid’s hair fondly before disappearing down the family chambers hallway flanked by his bodymen—his personal bodyguards.
And even though Jungkook is grateful of the borrowed breastplate and helm as an attempt to blend in, he feels like he sticks out from the plainness of his greaves and leggings—especially next to Seokjin and now the king’s body men; all of whom are impeccably clad in their kingsguard armor.
He and Seokjin swing the door closed after the attendants file out of the bedchamber in their signature burgundy robes.
The attendants are all unpresented adults, Seokjin explained earlier, people who for whatever reason are scentless and feel no reproductive drive. The king is a jealous alpha and will not allow any presented alphas or betas near his harem or his household. So these burgundy-robed, silent attendants do all the housekeeping and bathing and personal waiting on the king’s household. Two attendants disappear down the bath hallway and two more go to fetch fresh linens. He and Seokjin swing the large door open for them and close them inside so they may tidy up.
Jungkook finds himself sort of idly fascinated by the attendants. Not much of them can be seen; they keep their cowls drawn and they appear to all have long hair that blocks anything the hood doesn’t cover. And they never, ever, speak.
Other inhabitants of the garden don’t even seem to notice them, like they’re part of the scenery as much as the roses and pools.
He asks Seokjin about the talking— if they can’t or they just don’t, and the bleakness in Seokjin’s voice when he answers, “Can’t,” sends a chill up Jungkook’s spine. What did the king do to them, that they cannot speak?
He tries to match that thought with the doting, fatherly alpha he’d just seen playing tag with his children and feels faintly nauseous.
Or maybe that’s just from all the overwhelming scents of the garden, who knows.
As the hours tick away so does Jungkook’s wonderment drain away. He’s still slightly aroused and dazed but that’s tempered by the realities of a guard shift. Whether in front of the stables or the king’s own bedchamber it’s a lot of standing very still, despite the demands of the body to do otherwise. Eyes pass casually over him, never sharpening, and he thinks wryly he might as well be clad in burgundy, as much a fixture of the palace as any serving attendant.
The king disappears from the gardens to attend to his court as the hour reaches noon and Jungkook finds himself sweating and itchy under his ill-fitted borrowed armor. He won’t fidget, he’s too disciplined for that, but he’s not exactly thrilled by the undertaking. From time to time he’ll glance over to Seokjin, receiving back a knowing stare that says, “Yeah I know. This is the honored life of the kingsguard.”
Which…is. Well, it is.
There’s an uncomfortable little realization happening in his brain that he can go no higher. The kingsguard was the goal and he has achieved it…and now his future is clearly written in interminable hours of standing vigilant outside a door.
It’s maybe two hours past noon, judging by the sun, when Jungkook is unmade.
He is untethered.
He is ruined.
It happens when a door just on the other side of the queen’s chambers opens, two attendants holding the door and Jungkook finds himself intrigued. The place of honor, closest to the queen, the attendants—every other omega Jungkook has seen emerge has held their own doors and kept their own company.
He doesn’t expect a delicate, slim beta with blonde hair in disarray, blinking away the sunlight and cradling an easel and a huge satchel of paint pots.
“Fucking sun. Been squinting at that lantern for too long.”
Jungkook can hear the new arrival grumble from here, and he finds himself confused. He glances over to Seokjin, who answers with a minute shake of his head.
Another attendant steps out, and then…
…then Jungkook is sure he’s experiencing a mirage. Or a curse.
A glowing, perfect leg spiraled in sparkling gold paint—intricate swirls and leaves and flowers and waves creating a dizzying effect, steps out of the dim room.
Next comes the chiming of jewelry, chains upon chains of gleaming gold ringing against each other to produce music heralding the rest of this extraordinary apparition.
An omega steps into the sunlight, and Jungkook gasps out loud.
Seokjin turns his head towards him sharply, reprimand on his tongue, but Jungkook is already mindful of his lapse and has frozen in mortification. It won’t happen a second time.
But that doesn’t mean he’s okay, or that he can tear his eyes away.
The golden artwork covers and frames and whirls all across its chosen canvas: an omega like no one Jungkook has ever seen.
The smell of jasmine, erotic and heavy, drifts over to Jungkook; surrounds him, crawls inside of him, and reshapes him from the inside out. If not for his scent blockers he would be choking anyone around him out—scent so potent he’s not entirely sure his rut hasn’t been triggered.
He drinks up every detail of this omega like good wine.
Sharp, searching gaze. Full, utterly indecent lips. Smooth perfect curves to the face, accentuated by still more of the painted designs. A mop of dark hair swept carefully off his forehead. Long, graceful neck leading to a body to rival any sculpture, any idealized fantasy of the human form.
Jungkook might pass out; he’s definitely sweating.
The omega laughs—bells to accompany the chorus of his jewelry, and steps out onto silk laid down by the attendant so he won’t hurt his feet on the hot marble.
He is barefoot—the first Jungkook has seen.
He wear no garments apart from his golden paint and chains of jewelry—Jungkook is near death, he is sure.
The angel speaks, confirming Jungkook’s fears of his own mortality,
“Yoongi—don’t be cross! I have never looked more beautiful.” The omega’s attention is on the retreating painter, and Jungkook puts the pieces together.
“Who?” He whispers hoarsely, knowing Seokjin won’t be happy, but needing to know who this golden, bewitching creature is. “Please, who?”
“That’s Jimin,” Seokjin mutters, “The king’s favorite.”
“Jimin,” Jungkook whispers to himself, tasting the syllables on his tongue.
“Don’t even think about it, kid.” Seokjin’s voice is tense. “Don’t even go there.”
But Jungkook is already there. Jungkook is there in the sway of Jimin’s hips, in the movement of his jewelry, in the tilt of his head as he walks into the garden, creating a little bubble of space wherever he steps. Partially because the tableau of attendants laying silk before his feet takes up a large amount of space, partially because anyone else in the garden quickly gets out of his way. Every angle reveals more of the painter’s work—virtuosic in the strokes and the detail on his human canvas.
What could possibly be the reason, Jungkook wonders to himself, of drawing more attention to an already unmissable presence by bathing it in gold?
“The king is taken with his consort,” Seokjin answers the question Jungkook is pretty sure he didn’t speak out loud. “He is certain all who meet Jimin would attempt to steal him away. He is possessive of the omega.”
The king is right to be worried; Jungkook doesn’t have to stretch to imagine what stealing an omega such as Jimin would make him feel. He’d planned to snatch him four different ways since the door had opened and he had emerged.
Jungkook tries to blink the insanity away; yet Jimin remains in his eye line and it only grows.
“The royal painter does his work on Jimin so that the king is assured of the exclusivity of his affections.” Seokjin whispers, “No one may touch his consort but the king himself.”
“Touch? You mean…” Jungkook trails off, sure he’s blushing again as he imagines the pleasures of the flesh and packs that intent into his half-finished sentence. He could never say it out loud. Luckily Seokjin knows well what he means.
“Yes but also…any kind of touch.” Seokjin says. “A hand on his shoulder. A hug. Holding his hand. The king will permit none of it.”
Jungkook looks back at the golden omega, recontextualized, and feels a pang of something beyond his drunken desire, “Must be lonely.”
Jimin laughs again, sweet peals that fill up the whole garden despite the distance carefully kept between him and everyone else.
“Yes.” Seokjin says quietly, “Very.”
Jimin spends an hour or so just moving around the garden, hovering fingertips over beautiful flowers, cooing at birds swooping through the open space, and pointing out bees to his attendants. Jungkook knows this because he never once looks away from the omega.
He is very lucky the king isn’t currently here to guard because he is doing a terrible job as a newly minted member of the kingsguard.
And just as spectacular as he came, Jimin leaves. Jingling on silk-covered pathways back to his room, disappearing behind the closed door. Never has Jungkook wished for magic to be real than in this moment to let him see through that door.
The hours pass, sun rotating across the garden. The garden fills back in as Jimin leaves, omegas and children and opulently dressed family members occupying the place to create a stark contrast to the solitary way Jimin had spent his time in the garden.
The only other excitement is the attendants emerging front he king’s chambers with the soiled linen and any used tableware and chamber pots. The linens are liberally smeared with gold paint, more than confirming Jimin’s presence in the king’s bed.
Jungkook’s boredom has a subject now, though, so he is no longer bothered by the physical irritations of his armor or his frozen position; he only daydreams of golden patterns and graceful gestures.
So much so that when the king returns to the garden at dusk it takes Seokjin an extra beat with his hand on the door handle to jar Jungkook back into himself so he can swing his side wide in concert. Almost an extremely costly mistake. The king and his retinue return to his chambers and the king turns to one of the burgundy attendants as he passes through the threshold, “Fetch Jimin to me.” The attendant bows and scurries over to Jimin’s room even as Jungkook and Seokjin close the door after the king.
The gardens are lazier at dusk. There’s only a handful of inhabitants flitting around; outnumbered by the attendants lighting lanterns and weaving in and out of the rooms and hallways.
Jimin’s door opens again, the gold-painted silhouette coming directly towards him, now, silk laid out before him, and Jungkook is sweating.
Jimin’s paint remains undisturbed, made warm and shimmery in the light from the lanterns. He comes to rest directly in front of Jungkook and Seokjin, facing the door.
His scent is so strong and striking; Jungkook might collapse.
Seokjin raps on the door once, to communicate Jimin’s arrival, and they wait in silence for the answering knock that will inform them the king is ready.
In the delay, Jungkook lets his eyes wander down Jimin’s arms and focus on the detailed art curving down to his very fingertips. His gaze tracks back up to Jimin’s face and jolts as he finds that enticing gaze directed at him.
“You’re new.” His voice is some strange alchemic combination of crackly rasp and smoothest velvet. Jimin gestures to Jungkook’s legs, “The worn leggings always give it away.” Jimin turns toward Seokjin, “They finally found an alpha pretty enough to stand near you, Jin, how do you feel?”
Jungkook can feel himself panic on Seokjin’s behalf. Being rude to the king’s consort is probably punishable by death, but as guards they’re surely not supposed to converse—
—but then Seokjin says very warmly, “Well it’s a brave alpha indeed who would even attempt to stand near a face as pretty as mine. Or brave enough to look upon you, consort.”
Jungkook’s eyebrows must hit his hairline.
Seokjin talked. To the angel.
Jimin quirks an eyebrow, “Flatterer.” He inclines his head towards Jungkook, eyes flicking up and down the length of his body, “Well the view continues to improve, I see.” And he smiles. This warm, inviting bedroom smile and shoots it right at Jungkook. Bam. Direct hit.
Jungkook’s heart is racing.
The knock sounds from behind the door. Jungkook gropes for the door handle with sweat-slick palms. They swing the doors wide and Jimin disappears into the king’s chambers. The attendants bundle up the silk and quietly slip away.
Despite the fact that he can hear nothing through the doors of the king and Jimin’s activities, Jungkook still remains heightened, ears craning, until the night shift kingsguard appears and takes he and Seokjin’s place.
Jungkook is loathe to leave, already addicted to the idea of fantasizing, of trawling over the memory of Jimin in his mind. But he follows Seokjin back out of the gardens and away from paradise to the parts of the palace that still exist after his otherworldly adventure. They pass a burgundy cowled attendant as they make their way back down to the armory and Jungkook has a moment where he wonders if they were always there and he, like everyone else, had had no cause to notice them.
He sheds his borrowed armor, suddenly aware of the material discomfort of having spent hours unmoving in it. The twinges in his shoulders are like the first guests at the party; you know more are coming.
“How was it?” Seokjin asks, amused as he removes his helm and starts unlacing his greaves.
“Sore.” Jungkook grunts, rubbing at the spot on his shoulder.
“Blue balls can be kinda painful, huh alpha.” Seokjin teases and Jungkook doesn’t have a helm to hide his blush.
“I don’t—“
“Ahhh, someone has seen the king’s favorite.” Another solider chimes in from behind them both. “How did the sunny day find the consort, Seokjin?”
“Lovely as ever.” Seokjin remarks, “Spent hours out in the gardens. I was sure this young Ser was going to swallow his tongue.”
There’s lighthearted chuckling from the room and the one who asked claps Jungkook on the shoulder, “What I wouldn’t give to be there for one day.”
“Be born prettier.” Seokjin quips, and jerks his head to indicate Jungkook should follow him out amid the peals of laughter. Jungkook knows he should probably go to his quarters and sleep, but Seokjin bundles into his coat and steps into his boots and he finds himself following suit.
“Where are we going?”
“Town.” Seokjin says shortly.
He doesn’t elaborate until they’re outside of the palace walls.
“There’s a tavern where we can squander our wages and the cache of being kingsguard—parlaying that into beer and…gentle company.” He looks meaningfully at Jungkook, “A good idea for being able to focus while on the job.”
And so Jungkook finds himself, installed in a discreet back room with a tankard of good beer and a very pretty omega in his lap. They make a mess together, and Jungkook certainly feels less pent up…if not technically better. He cleans himself up and puts himself back together, and goes in search of Seokjin.
He finds him on the other side of a door, similarly occupied, and he says his apologies and wanders back to the barracks on his own. He can’t shake this focus; he can’t honestly think about much except when he’ll get to see Jimin again.
Which is, of course, the next day.
Back in his borrowed armor and mentally counting down the days until he can wear something that fits, Jungkook trails after Seokjin to their post again.
They replace the other guards, Jungkook feeling much less overwhelmed by the bustle of the garden today. The king emerges and disappears to see his children, and then makes his way out to the productive parts of the palace.
Aside from there being two different omegas dancing to a different musician’s efforts today; it’s all the same. Eagerly, Jungkook realizes that also includes…
…Jimin’s door swinging open, spitting out the royal painter and the attendants who lay out silk for Jimin to walk on.
If Jungkook was hoping to be less affected, seeing as how he knows what’s coming this time around, he is sorely mistaken. Jimin’s dizzying gold patterns are different today—a different masterpiece overlaid onto his skin. A different chain here. A different jewel there. But his sweet jasmine scent still spikes Jungkook’s hormones into the stratosphere and he counts every second of Jimin’s tour around the gardens. It’s much the same as before; maybe he lingers in slightly different places, maybe he smells different flowers.
But no one comes into his orbit.
No one speaks to him.
And then he disappears back into his room.
Jungkook’s fantasies do not pause, however, now that he knows the omega’s voice he can picture it sultry and imploring. Everything about the omega screams “bed” to Jungkook’s senses, and those less than chivalrous thoughts plague him as the day drags on. It’s only made worse when the attendants emerge with the gold-spattered sheets—it’s too easy to give in to the madness and picture Jimin stretched out in them, being worshipped the way he was meant to be.
It passes this way.
The king returns and summons Jimin again, who gives Jungkook another one of these heart-stopping smiles.
Alphas have died for less, Jungkook imagines.
Jimin disappears into the royal bedchamber and doesn’t appear again before Seokjin and Jungkook get relieved.
He goes that night with Seokjin to the tavern; scratches that itch. It cannot be scratched. His tunnel vision is extreme.
And so goes the duty and torment of a kingsguard. Jungkook is a good and loyal soldier. He’s a perfectionist. But the specter of Jimin’s gold-streaked skin will not leave him, making him wish so hard to see more that the days and nights are inundated with his tension. Jungkook’s armor is finally completed and he truly looks the part—Jimin points it out that evening and Jungkook is so buoyed by those simple words that sleep eludes him later that night.
Thirty days of different scenes picked out on Jimin’s canvas. Thirty days of pounding heart and flushed face. Thirty days of Seokjin’s sympathetic glances and the teasing of the other guards.
And then.
One evening Jimin pads into the king’s chambers on tracts of silk, shooting Jungkook a lingering smile on the way through, and they swing the door shut after him.
And then their relief…doesn’t come.
They can’t go while no one comes to take their place—especially with the king in residence—so they stay. Swaying on tired and sore feet, they stay.
Attendants pass by and disappear in and out of the corridors, but no sign of the next shift of kingsguard.
“Don’t worry.” Seokjin says, while looking a little worried, “They are most likely just late. We stay.”
Which means for the first time, Jungkook gets to see what happens when Jimin leaves.
A soft knock comes from the bedchamber and they open the door to reveal a very different, if no less beautiful, Jimin.
The careful painting is smeared and smudged beyond recognition, actual handprints visible in the golden remains. His inky dark hair is ruffled up in disarray, lips kissed pinker and darker. Jungkook feels the visual hit his libido at a whole new angle. Jimin blinks in surprise to see them still there; hesitating on the threshold to let the attendants get ahead of him with the silk.
Once they swing the door closed, Jimin lingers.
“You are still here.” He says, looking at Jungkook. But it is Seokjin who answers, “Yes consort, how does the night find you?”
Jimin chuckles wryly at that, “In need of a bath, I should say.”
Jungkook is stuck. Part of the paint has been rubbed away so thoroughly on his thigh that there’s an expanse of bare skin—just Jimin’s skin. The omega under all the finery.
He growls; the only sound he’s ever made around Jimin, and an appalling one at that. Seokjin’s eyes get wide and horrified.
“O-oh.” Jimin stutters. And Jungkook gets to see a rush of color tinge Jimin’s cheeks below the paint.
“I’m sorry.” Jungkook murmurs, “I…sorry.”
Jimin nods, but kind of privately to himself, and sets off on unsteady legs on his silk path. The attendants are far ahead of him now, path stretching down the tiled hallway that leads to the private baths.
Jungkook watches him go but he’s snapped out of it by Seokjin’s hiss, “Do you want to fucking DIE?”
He startles, attention on his livid partner, “N-no of course not.”
“Then you need to chill the fuck out. The king has executed people for looking too long at Jimin before—and you just GROWLED at him.”
Jungkook averts his gaze to the polished floor, “It won’t happen again.”
Seokjin is not fooled, “Control yourself, kid.”
Their relief shows up, hours late, but they show up. It was just as Seokjin thought, a simple case of being delayed in other duties and arriving late. As Jungkook and Seokjin leave the gardens Jimin emerges completely scrubbed clean of paint, looking soft and gorgeous in one perfect second before Jungkook has to tear his eyes away.
In that moment Jungkook is well and truly a goner.
“He gets repainted every day?” He asks Seokjin later.
“Yeah,” Seokjin chews on his lip, “I’d never seen the aftermath before—he must go bathe and get escorted to his rooms for Yoongi to start painting. It’s crazy.”
All Jungkook is hearing is that there’s a quantifiable time period where, if he wanted to touch, he wouldn’t be given away by the paint. When Jimin is in the bath.
He gets an idea.
He has lots of time to plot, in the interminable hours of the job. He watches Jimin move around the gardens, a living work of art, and he plans. He studies who comes and goes from where, and what they carry, and who can go to this door versus this other door.
For a week, he plans.
And then, as though the universe itself is on his side, Jungkook gets another break.
An attendant comes out of the king’s chambers with a bundle of laundry and stumbles out of the gardens. When they’re gone, Seokjin heaves a sigh and points at the ground in front of Jungkook.
In front of him, crumpled on the floor, is a burgundy cloak that must’ve fallen from their armload. It has a wine stain near the hem, revealing why it was included in the laundry. Jungkook scoops it up off the tiles, “What do I do?”
Seokjin gestures to the exit, “Go try and catch up to them.”
Jungkook takes off jogging, burgundy silk clutched in his hand. He makes it out of the gardens and down the hall—no sign of the attendant he seeks. He skids to a stop down a short alcove, breathing hard and staring at the burgundy cloak. In a moment of madness in a day of madness in what might actually be a lifetime of madness, Jungkook shoves the cloak inside his armor and returns to Seokjin and tells him he caught up to the attendant.
He spends the rest of the day equal parts scared and keyed up about the silk under his breastplate…and the lunatic plan forming because of it.
This evening when Jimin smiles at him he smiles back, big enough to see through the helm and gets to enjoy a spot of color bloom through the web of gold on Jimin’s face again. They close the door behind him and their relief arrives right on time tonight.
Jungkook can feel the blood rush in his ears and begs off the tavern trip, telling Seokjin he’s just tired and plans to go straight to bed. He lingers in the armory until everyone departs and he’s left to fish out the burgundy cloak and stare at it. He gives himself a moment to think about all the ways this could go drastically, terribly wrong.
And then he shimmies out of his armor and greaves, unties his hair so it hangs down around his face, and dons the cloak anyway.
It’s a tiny bit too short for him, not brushing the ground like he’s seen it do to most of the other attendants, and there is the problem of the egg-sized wine stain near the hem. But when he draws the cowl up and tugs at his hair to make it hang like he’s seen them do…he could be one of the mute attendants. Easily.
A thrill shoots up his spine as he carefully arranges his scent blockers in the folds. If he gets caught he is most certainly going to be killed—even more so if Jimin comes to realize an alpha is intruding on his carefully crafted world of safety. After all, a smile and a blush can mean many things. Jungkook knows he’s not immune to reading things wrong.
But all the same. He needs to be closer. He’s sick with it, this blind desire to be near to the golden omega. It’s blotting out rational thought and self preservation. And he sets off down the hallway, putting his disguise to the test.
It’s a dream.
No one even looks at him.
He makes it unmolested to the royal apartments; the guards swing open the door for him without a second glance and he’s in the gardens. Sweaty palms and racing heart and all. He walks lightly across the open space, weaving between sweet-smelling omegas and other attendants, under the indifferent eyes of the bedchamber guards.
It’s like he’s invisible.
He turns down the tiled hall that leads to the bath. The blue tiles cast an otherworldly glow on the walls as he picks his way down. He’s trying not too look too much like he doesn’t know his way or like this is his first time seeing all the priceless architecture; both of which are true. The hallway curves, revealing a big public pool ringed by alcoves. In one of them there’s a door leading to a private pool. He stands in front of it silently until it opens for his burgundy cloak, the one guard outside clearly drowsy in the shadows of evening.
He slips inside and nearly gives himself away at the view. The pool is gorgeous, lit by candlelight and a deep jewel green, bubbling softly from the natural hot springs. There’s no other attendants in here—he’s alone.
He makes his way over to the shelves built into the smooth rock wall of the natural grotto. They’re packed with creams and oils and scrubs—the tools that strip away that layer of paint from the royal consort. He starts gathering supplies, figuring he’s going to have to play the part here if he wants to keep getting away with the ruse.
Another cloaked person cracks the door after a time. They come in and see Jungkook already collecting bathing supplies. There’s a tense moment where they both freeze, across from each other. Before Jungkook can come up with a plan, or a reason for his presence, the other attendant bows quickly to him, hands expressing thanks for…something. Maybe a break? It must be no small feat getting all that paint off. The other attendant leaves as quick as they came, probably, like most inhabitants of the palace, glad of a break when it falls in their lap.
And he’s alone again.
He lines up his supplies around the edge of the grotto. Each second that passes might be the one that brings the rest of the kingsguard down on him in fatal wrath. Each drip of water into the pool might be the last before that attendant realizes something was strange about him and alerts everyone to the interloper in the bath.
But no one comes.
Well…someone comes. The someone.
The door bangs open to reveal a furl of silk and…and…
…Jimin.
He’s smeared and smudged and a little glazed over, cheeks red and hair an absolute mess. The attendants bow him into the bathing area and back out, closing the door and leaving the two of them alone.
Jungkook is alone. With the royal consort.
He drops to his knees, bowing out of instinct. He looks back up when he hears the somewhat frantic pace of Jimin’s breathing.
“Fuck, hang on,” Jimin groans, raking his nails back through his hair. He leans back heavily against the door. He’s physically aroused, smell thick—wanton, even—and Jungkook can almost FEEL the frustration roiling off him in waves.
Jungkook gulps and drops his attention back down to the bath supplies. He wasn’t prepared for this; what the hell was he thinking? He’s going to pass out. Or give himself away.
When he chances a glance back over he chokes on his own spit.
Jimin has himself in hand, face buried into his arm, jacking himself off, huffing into his elbow. “Ah—fuck—“
Jungkook’s scent spikes so high all the scent blockers in the world couldn’t have saved him.
Jimin licks his lips, shuddering as he works himself over…until…
“Smells good,” Jimin groans, eyes hazy and glassy, “Smells like—fuck—“ he pauses, squeezing his cock tight and whimpering. “I—I like it…”
Jungkook’s dick has never been harder or his body more afraid. His brain is sluggish but he eventually realizes Jimin is reacting to his alpha scent—more than obvious in the enclosed space.
But the consort seems to think it’s incense, or some treatment of the bath. So much the better for his secrecy, but Jungkook is going to erode into the rock at the sight of Jimin pleasuring himself with his alpha scent as a component.
At last Jimin finds his end, making even more of a mess of his gold-stained hand and slumping against the wall on the comedown with the most obscene moan Jungkook has ever heard. Jungkook stares at his knees while he listens to Jimin’s breathing even out.
“Sorry about that.” Jimin’s voice, husky with satisfaction, drifts over to him. “We can start now.”
Jungkook gropes for the cleansing oil and a soft cloth, daring to look at Jimin again.
The omega wades into the pool, dropping all his jewelry carelessly on the edge. He dives below the water to wet his hair and resurfaces with a splash, giggling and flicking his hair back, rivulets running into and mixing with the paint, causing long wet streaks of gold to cascade down his back. He swims over to the ledge where Jungkook is perched, heart in his throat.
Jungkook wants to growl so BAD.
Wants to grab, and claim, and scent so Jimin can get as drunk as he wants on his alpha incense.
He doesn’t do any of that.
Instead he pours some of the sweet-smelling cleansing oil onto the cloth, and, hands shaking, drags the material across the arm Jimin offers to him. The gold comes off under his gentle attentions, revealing his pretty—natural—skin. Jungkook sighs rapturously at the sight, before thinking better of it.
Jimin’s focus snaps to his face.
Not that he can see much of it through the cowl and Jungkook’s face.
“I didn’t know you could do that.” Jimin says quietly. “You must be new; or different.”
Those piercing eyes on him almost has Jungkook confessing, but instead he wets the cloth to rinse it and starts on Jimin’s other arm.
Jimin is still studying him.
“Whatever you burned in here for it to smell like this is…nice. You may do it again in the future.” Jimin murmurs. Jungkook leans closer, drawn by the gravity. His hands falter on Jimin’s shoulders, unnerved by Jimin spinning under his hands so the cloth slips across his collarbones, erasing the gold splotches that were flowers just mere hours earlier.
“Hey it’s okay.” Jimin’s hand covers his and Jungkook startles and drops the cloth, “You don’t have to be nervous.”
Jungkook is shaping the words “I’m sorry” with his mouth before he remembers—just in time—that he can’t talk.
It’s quiet as he retrieves the cloth and applies more oil.
“I promise you’re okay.” Jimin says, still sensing his tension and thinking it has to do with introducing new smells to the bath, or maybe shaking while washing him. “In here is where I keep all my secrets. The king doesn’t need to know.”
Jimin tips his head back and Jungkook washes his hair, carefully lathering and rinsing to keep the soap away from his eyes. “Would you like to hear a secret?” Jimin says after a while.
Jungkook can’t answer in words, so he settles for nodding and Jimin cracks an eye to see his reaction, smiling when he sees the nod.
“I do not think of the king when I do…that.” Jimin indicates where he’d jerked himself off by the door.
Jungkook boils in his skin. Jimin shakes his head to dislodge water from his ear.
“Maybe someday I’ll tell you who I think about.”
Jungkook must disassociate while he washes Jimin’s torso; his firmly muscled chest. He remembers none of it. Jimin plucks the cloth from his fingers and splashes up onto the ledge to wash his own legs, and the intimate place between his legs—strong jasmine scent threatening to send Jungkook tumbling headfirst into the pool. Jungkook shifts the folds of his cloak to hide the evidence of his decidedly…not unpresented bulge.
At last Jimin is scrubbed clean, skin smooth and glowing in a different way without all the adornment.
Jungkook approaches in awe, fluffy towel held out to dry the royal consort. Jimin stretches like a cat under his careful drying, and Jungkook wants to engrave this moment on the back of his eyelids. At long last Jimin chuckles and fluffs his hair with the towel.
“Good night.”
Jungkook scurries to gather up the pile of jewelry and knock once on the door. It swings open and the guard averts his eyes as Jimin pads by, silk prepared by another attendant who Jungkook bows to and presses the jewelry into their hands.
And it’s over. They’re gone.
Jungkook cleans up and puts everything back where he found it in a dreamy trance. He soon finds himself in front of the door. He traces the smooth rock. Jimin touched here right when he…Jungkook’s ears burn as he knocks to be let out.
The guard yawns as he scuttles by, and Jungkook makes a beeline for the gardens. He tries not to rush too much, but he’s ready to be out of danger. He sweeps out of the royal apartments, down the hallway, and just outside of the barracks where he wiggles out of the cloak and jams it down the front of his shirt. He leans against the building, adrenaline flooding his system as he tries to let it pass.
When he’s sufficiently calmed down he sneaks into the barracks and crawls into bed where he has no prayer of sleep. He stares at the wall and listens to the symphony of sleeping alphas in their bunks around him. He bites his lip at the memory of Jimin’s bare expanse of skin and can’t help but to reach down and palm himself when he gets to the noises Jimin had made when…
At any rate, Jungkook has a new nighttime pastime.
Seokjin learns to stop asking if he’s coming out to the tavern. Jungkook perfects his timing.
He stands watch during the day, and breaks the law about a hundred different ways each night.
His life-threatening physical attraction isn’t lessened at all by proximity. In fact, if anything it keeps getting worse because everything he finds out about Jimin in private is…good.
He’s funny. He’s charming and empathetic. He’s kind.
Jungkook is living in a hell of his own creation—knowing his alpha will accept no other omega but the one he absolutely cannot court or have.
But it’s not like it’s a hardship to carefully slot the cloth between Jimin’s fingers to remove the gold, or get that spot behind his ear that always collects a smudge. Jungkook’s spicy scent swirls around them both, leaving Jimin pink in the cheeks. Sometimes he comes down worked up and needing release, other times more placid and sleepy, but Jungkook’s scent can always dredge up a spot of color.
“Can I tell you another secret?” Jimin says one night, as Jungkook scrubs at his belly with the focus of a surgeon.
Jungkook nods.
Jimin’s eyes slip closed, “I look forward to coming here every day, because your touch is so gentle.” Jungkook has to consciously keep himself from making noise. “I don’t have many friends…everyone is scared to get near me.” There’s a wry twist to his mouth, “And the king and I don’t often talk.”
His hand comes up, then, trapping Jungkook in place on his stomach, burning and counting the heartbeats where Jimin’s fingers touch his own.
“Sometimes I imagine your voice…what you would sound like and what you would say to me. I imagine we’re friends. I’m sorry to burden you like that…I know it’s not like that for you. But, for me…” he catches his lip between his teeth and looks away, “Anyway, thank you.”
Jungkook loses every bit of his head and leans down to Jimin’s hand on top of his. His lips find the back of the consort’s hand and he presses the softest, shortest kiss against it before pulling back and scrubbing again like nothing happened.
Jimin, however, looks like something monumental has happened. His eyes are blown wide as he holds up his hand and stares at the place where Jungkook’s lips touched him. Fear spikes through Jungkook, then, sure he’s finally done it and given himself away—
“T-thank you.” Jimin whispers, voice hoarse. When Jungkook is brave enough to peek at his face again he can see a tear sliding down Jimin’s face. He thumbs it away and pretends he doesn’t hear Jimin’s quiet gasp.
They pass the rest of the bath in silence, but there’s yet another shift in the air.
The next day finds a lethargic Jungkook posted up in his position by the door with Seokjin. Jimin comes into the gardens and lingers for a long time at a cluster of pale pink flowers. Jungkook is horrified to realize the omega is crying, but subtly. He doesn’t reach up to brush away the tears for fear of smudging the paint, so they roll off his jaw in silence. Later tonight the king might even be able to see the subtle streaks from where they travelled. What will Jimin tell him when he asks why he was crying? Even after many nights Jungkook still isn’t sure about the nature of their relationship. How affectionate is the king with his favorite? How caring is he of ailments in the mind? In the soul? There’s no way to know.
That night the king’s bodymen come to inform them that the king is in rut—to fetch Jimin to him prepared to stay for the next three days. It’s a somber crew that accompanies Jimin this time. The omega, too, looks unnaturally serious.
Ruts are demanding on any couple—on the alpha of course but also on the omega who has to physically keep up with their alpha’s demands. This time Jungkook doesn’t have to wonder where Jimin’s drawn expression comes from; he’s gathered enough palace gossip lately to know.
The king usually spends his ruts with the queen. If he’s asking for Jimin that means he wants a child off him. And that the queen, who rarely comes out of her chambers, who also knows best how to handle her husband in his ruts, cannot assist Jimin with this.
Jungkook can feel that emotion that he spends every night pushing down so he doesn’t reveal himself rising up in his throat as Jimin stands before the door, pale under his gold paint at what awaits him inside.
So he says what he can never say when they’re alone,
“It’ll be okay, it will.” Jungkook murmurs.
Jimin freezes, lips parting in surprise.
Seokjin, too, is looking at him a little bug eyed. Even as time has passed, Jungkook has never really trusted himself to say much to Jimin on these rare occasions of contact where he doesn’t have to pretend to be mute.
“You’ll be okay.” He repeats.
The knock comes.
They swing open the doors.
Jungkook could swear he hears a faint, “Thank you…” as the doors close.
He doesn’t bother with his charade that night—Jimin won’t be leaving that room for several days. Instead he tosses and turns in his chambers, tortured by being away from Jimin.
Standing guard for the next couple days becomes an exercise in patience and self control in ways he wasn’t ever prepared for. Because Jimin doesn’t come out to the gardens; there’s no schedule to set his day by.
It’s endless, endless hours of a new form of torture.
The king’s door is thick, but it’s not so thick that he can’t hear when something as intense as a rut is occurring.
And it’s all day, as relentless as the biological drive that throws them into their cycles of heat and rut in the first place. Jungkook burns inside his own skin as he hears a muffled whine or a moan drift through the wood hour after hour.
Seokjin, too, seems to be less than comfortable as the day wears on. And when they are relieved, they both slump as the effort to remain upright takes its toll. He drags himself back to the barracks and collapses in an exhausted heap on his bunk.
The next day passes the same way, until on the third day Jungkook is certain his nerves can’t take any more of this and that he’s near a complete breakdown.
They are relieved, and Jungkook’s eye is twitching. But he’s going back to the bath tonight—he wants to be there to take care of Jimin after a marathon like that.
He dons the cloak and styles his hair over his face. It’s an easy trip to the bath, obstacles opening and eyes passing right over him until he’s safe in the pool he thinks of as theirs. Waiting is more torture, but Jungkook is an expert in it now. He can be patient as long as it takes.
Maybe a little later than normal, the knock comes at the door.
It swings open and Jungkook is appalled.
Jimin is a mess of gold and sweat and other easily identifiable substances, legs weak as he clings to the attendant leading the way. Jimin reaches out for Jungkook, collapses in his arms, smearing gold down the length of his burgundy sleeves,
“Oh fuck,” Jimin slurs, “Oh fuck I’m so sorry.”
“It’s fine,” the guard assures him while looking the other way, “They have spare cloaks in the pool.”
Which is news to Jungkook. He thought he’d searched all the nooks and crannies of the pool. If he’d known that he wouldn’t have kept wearing this wine stained cloak, strategically hiding the stain whenever he had to walk anywhere.
But his hands are full, literally, with bigger problems at the moment. He waits for the door to close before scooping Jimin up in a wedding carry, a bit of a suspicious show of strength he wanted to wait until they were alone for.
“Wow,” Jimin hums, curling into his chest, “You’re strong.”
Jungkook seriously doubts Jimin is aware enough to be left unattended in the water so he throws caution to the wind and just wades into the pool with the royal consort, water soaking him up to the ribcage.
“Gosh it smells so good in here.” Jimin hums, eyelids fluttering, “Always smells so good.”
Jungkook washes him carefully, supporting his weight across his legs as he drags the cloth across Jimin’s soiled skin.
They’re too close.
Jungkook can feel the shape of him, essentially in his lap in the water. He can feel his breathing, even and slow, laden with how tired he is.
“So tired,” Jimin hums, “Will we be done soon?”
“Very soon, I’m moving as fast as I can.” Jungkook assures him, petting his arm. He continues scrubbing the smudges off Jimin’s elbow until it hits him like a truck what he just did. He spoke.
Jimin’s eyes are wide open, no longer heavy with sleep.
“W-what?” He croaks.
He twists in Jungkook’s lap and they hiss together as Jimin comes in contact with his extremely evident hard-on.
“What the—“ Jimin’s hands fly up to place palms on Jungkook’s chest, “Fuck—who are you—“ he starts squirming trying to get away, “Hel—“ Jungkook claps a hand over his mouth in panic.
“Please,” He whispers, even as he knows the ruse is up, “Please don’t give me away.” Jimin’s flailing slows, before it stops—he really is at his limit, physically. “I don’t mean you any harm, I promise. Just let me get you cleaned up. You need to sleep.”
To emphasize this he uses his other hand to press Jimin forward from the small of his back, wiping off the gold that remains from there.
Jimin absorbs this, eyes never leaving the parts of Jungkook’s face that can be seen through the cowl. After a moment he tentatively taps at the hand over his mouth and pulls it down gently.
“Your voice…who…” curious fingers reach for his cowl and Jungkook doesn’t stop him fast enough. Jimin flicks the cowl back and Jungkook flinches. From their proximity, and his secret revealed.
“It’s you.” Comprehension floods Jimin’s face. “It’s…has it been you the whole time?”
Jungkook bites his lip, looking away out of habit before Jimin’s fingers grab for his chin, forcing his gaze up towards him.
“Has it?”
“Yes,” Jungkook says reluctantly. “For a while now.”
Jimin’s eyes narrow, “You’re an alpha. And you snuck down here and past all the guards to be alone with me. To touch me.”
“Yes,” Jungkook says, mentally already walking towards his execution in cuffs.
Jimin’s eyebrow quirks up with what looks like the last effort in his body, “You did all that…just to wash me? To comfort me?”
His tone is heated. The eye contact between them is even more so.
“I…just wanted to be close to you.” Jungkook whispers, faces now no more than a few centimeters apart.
Jimin sucks in a big breath, “I—“ and then he leans forward and kisses Jungkook.
Jungkook growls, his arms twine around the omega, crushing his body to his. Jimin whines, but doesn’t break the kiss. It deepens, Jimin licks into his mouth, and Jungkook groans from somewhere down in the deepest, most primal part of his psyche. He’s touched Jimin’s skin in innumerable ways, but it’s never been quite like this, quite this many points of contact where his fingertips press into flesh to indent, to hang on.
“It IS you,” Jimin breaks apart to him, fingers tracing Jungkook’s face, “Ser Jungkook.”
Jungkook blinks at him, “You know my name. You said…you said my name.”
Jimin nods shyly.
Jungkook moans and dives back into those lips. He doesn’t know how Jimin learned his name, nor does he care. These lips need to be kissed harder; needs to hear Jimin in his ear, needs to have him, all of him…
He nips at Jimin’s jaw, and the omega freezes, suddenly stiff with tension in his lap, “No—no marks, please…I—“
It brings Jungkook back to earth. “Shh,” he kisses away Jimin’s frown, “I won’t, I won’t I’m sorry. I’ll control myself.”
One hickey the king doesn’t remember putting on him, and Jimin is in incalculable danger…as well as the fool who dared to put it on him.
As that fool, Jungkook knows this is no time to lose his head.
“Off.” Jimin tugs at the waterlogged cloak, “Off, let me see you.”
Oh, they are so fucked.
Jungkook lifts Jimin gently and sets him on the edge of the pool, mindful of the fact that he’s still tired and strung out after the king’s rut. He struggles out of the cloak, and out of his sopping undershirt and leggings, letting them fall with a sick plop on the side of the pool. Jimin watches him disrobe with wide eyes.
When he’s naked, Jimin draws him between his legs and kisses him, rivulets of gold still running down his thighs and arms.
“My alpha is so beautiful.” Jimin murmurs.
Jungkook drops his head down to Jimin’s shoulder, overcome, “Y-yours?”
“Who else but my alpha would do all you have done to be near me?”
Jungkook braces himself on Jimin’s legs, the muscle smooth and yielding under his hands.
“I want to be yours. I want to be yours so badly.”
Jimin gets a fist of his wet hair and pulls him up to his lips, “Then take me, please make me feel good.”
And Jungkook is happy to oblige.
He pulls Jimin into the water with him, legs around his waist. They submerge in the water and come up gasping, Jimin giggling.
“Not exactly what I meant,” he teases, gold drops running down his face.
“First you have to be mine—the way you are for me.” At Jimin’s silence he elaborates, “Free of him.”
Jimin’s face is an “o” of understanding as Jungkook drags the cloth into the water and resumes scrubbing at the mess Jimin is covered in.
The omega lolls back into his arms, “That feels so good.”
Section by section Jungkook works his way methodically across Jimin’s skin, leaving him pink and scrubbed. Jimin’s smile is lazy, fingers trailing in the water or across Jungkook’s chest.
“This must be a dream.” Jimin murmurs after a time, “I must already be in the land of fantasy.”
Jungkook kisses up his neck, slotting himself behind Jimin against the edge of the pool.
“Well if this was a dream you could do whatever you wanted to do.” He reminds Jimin, “What would you want to do?”
Jimin twists, pulls the shell of Jungkook’s ear between his teeth, “Fuck me, please.”
And that’s really all the encouragement Jungkook needs, after months of perma-boners and tormented dreams of his own.
He growls again, right in Jimin’s ear, and can feel the way he melts, sinking onto his arms on the edge of the pool. Jungkook’s fingers tease down between his legs and find him relaxed and stretched, though certainly irritated. “Are you sure?” He whispers, “I might hurt you.”
Jimin arches back into him, “Please, please I don’t care if it hurts. I want to feel you.”
Jungkook kisses down his neck and grips himself, other hand on Jimin’s hip as a comforting weight. They moan together as Jungkook pushes inside—the feeling so beyond anything Jungkook can qualify in words that he settles for kissing it into Jimin’s skin.
They move together gently, slowly, for despite Jimin’s insistence he yelps at the stretch and sting of Jungkook’s cock. For how long he’s been thinking about it, Jungkook is more than content to do it like this, able to kiss Jimin’s temple, his neck, even his lips at times and feel himself pulse deep inside where they’re connected.
“Can I tell you a secret?” Jimin whispers, as Jungkook presses his hips against him in smooth, unhurried rolls.
“Please,” Jungkook murmurs into his hair, hands tracing shapes up and down his sides like he could paint his own version of art on Jimin’s skin with just his hands.
“I told you I don’t think about the king, when I come down here.” Jimin gasps as Jungkook hits a particularly good spot.
“You did.”
“And I told you maybe someday I would tell you who.” Jimin adds, fingers interlacing with Jungkook’s over his hip as they move a little faster.
“You did,” Jungkook hums, pleasure fizzling out the lights of his consciousness one by one.
“It was you.” Jimin admits, the end of the sentence curving up into a breathless whine, “It was—ah—you.”
And Jungkook is lost, knot filling and catching on Jimin’s rim, sending him over the edge as Jungkook pushes impossibly deeper, knot stretching that much more.
Jungkook has to turn his head and bite into his own arm, lest he leave an incriminating mark on Jimin. Jimin gasps, broken on the exhale as he, too, finds his release, dripping down the side of the pool.
They’re locked together now, naked and sweaty and so obvious that were anyone to open the door Jungkook would likely be killed where he stands. He can’t bring himself to care. He kisses along an overwhelmed Jimin’s shoulder, kisses his fingers, his hands, all the places he’s wanted to put his lips ever since he first saw him.
It’s different than his fantasies, those perhaps a touch cruder and rougher than what they’ve done here. Which is better; it’s so much better like this.
Jimin dozes off as they wait for his knot to go down. Jungkook knows they’ve taken too long for a simple bath, but no one has disturbed them yet, perhaps sensing after the king’s rut that such an endeavor might take longer.
When he is able, he slips out of Jimin carefully and even more carefully moves him out of the pool. He dries him off and kisses him back awake. Jimin twines his arms around his neck.
“Can you walk, Jimin?”
Jimin’s eyes flutter closed, “Say it again.”
Jungkook smiles, nuzzling Jimin’s wrist where it lays on his neck, “Jimin, my Jimin. Can you walk?”
Jimin groans and struggles upright. “For you, I can.”
Jungkook goes rummaging in the crevices and finally comes up with a new cloak. He can’t put on his soaked clothing or scent blockers so he bundles them up under one arm as he gathers Jimin up with the other. His jewelry was already off, perhaps discarded in the hours and hours of the king’s rut.
Jimin presses a kiss to his cheek, “My wonderful, dirty little secret.”
Jungkook chuckles and steers Jimin to the door. They kiss one more time, not wanting to pull away and have it end.
Jungkook pulls his cowl back up to hide his wet hair, and steps back to resume his performance.
“Good night.” He whispers.
Jimin smiles, a small, personal smile, “Good night.”
They knock once on the door.
It swings open after a moment and an attendant gathers Jimin into his arms. He’s led away. The door swings closed.
Jungkook exhales, palms flattening against the door. His forehead dips forward to rest on the cool stone. “If this is a dream, may I never wake.” He mutters.
He moves around the cave, cleaning up after their mess. And by the time he leaves the private pool it already seems impossible. It already seems like he must’ve imagined it. Maybe he was caught weeks ago and is already dead. That seems more likely than having Jimin in his arms.
He creeps back to the barracks and falls into his bed.
Jimin’s dirty little secret.
Yeah, he can be that.
For once he has no trouble falling asleep.