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Summary:

“What did you just say?”

And then Yoongi had appeared out of nowhere, and Jimin had been snatched from between two foul bodies and swept behind his husband, his husband the king.

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Chapter Text

They cower behind Yoongi’s glare.

Jimin feels comforted, relieved almost. But he’s still confused because Yoongi hadn’t spared him so much as half a glance in the past two months. His servants—the ones he found out Yoongi had specifically handpicked from his land—twitch and squirm and Jimin too falls victim to Yoongi’s incensed pheromones permeating the hallways. 

He doesn’t even know how it came to be, how it escalated so quickly. 

One second he was heading towards the gardens, the next, the ministers were herding him against the wall, puffing their chests and throwing insults at him. He’d said something back though his bravado was faked, his confidence splintered. They’d sensed it and decided they liked him unprotected, faltering, like a lost little lamb, “Like a malfunctioning whore who can’t even produce an heir.” 

“What did you just say?”

Then Yoongi had appeared out of nowhere, and Jimin had been snatched from between two foul bodies and swept behind his husband, his husband the king.

“I asked you a question.”

“Your Majesty. The boy was—”

“The boy is my husband. You will address him appropriately.”

Jimin can hardly breathe. He wants to be appreciative, he wants to be glad that Yoongi is coming to his defence, but as he watches the shock register on the faces of the ministers, he realises all he truly feels is confusion. 

Part of him knows that the reason he’s been trampled on since the moment he got here, after that first night when he and Yoongi stayed in their own separate chambers and everyone in the palace was made aware of that fact—he knows that the reason his position means nothing is because Yoongi had treated him like nothing.

“His Highness,” the minister spits out, and Jimin flinches involuntarily. Yoongi’s arm twists behind his back to curl around Jimin’s waist, sturdy and protective. Jimin tries to sneak a glance at Yoongi, curious to see his face. He doesn’t even care about the ministers anymore.

“—is complacent in his duties as royal consort and seems unfit—”

“And I suppose you consider yourself an expert on whatever it is my husband does or should do.”

Yoongi says it so airily, so haughtily, like he’s reprimanding the seamstress about his too tight tunic. But his eyes are murderous, and his muscles are tense, alert, and Jimin unknowingly presses closer against Yoongi, some buried instinct to calm him down, to ease the tension. The bite in his neck is throbbing, crackling with boundless energy, suddenly awoken from its two month slumber.

The ministers stare at their king with wide eyes. 

“Let me remind you, that an assault much less a slight against the royal consort is in equal measure an insult against the crown and is punishable,” he mutters stiffly, “by death. Do I make myself clear?”

They stutter, their faces red with petulance. Jimin understands. It’s because they’ve been humiliated in front of him, he who they consider the lowest of the low for not being in favour of their beloved king. 

And because since the day of the ceremony, Jimin has not touched even a wisp of Yoongi’s hair. And because he hails from a miniscule village, their marriage but a sham, support for Yoongi and protection for Jimin’s father. 

“I will not repeat myself,” Yoongi warns.

“Yes, Your Majesty.” They say with their heads bowed, and Jimin pretends they bow to him as well. Yoongi shifts and for a second Jimin fears Yoongi will leave him here. Alone. Again. But Yoongi shifts and the arm wrapped around Jimin’s back retracts to Jimin’s hand. 

He swivels his head back to look at the ministers, but their eyes remain on the ground and they stand much further down in the hallway. He realises he’s walking with Yoongi, that Yoongi is holding his hand and walking with him in the same direction.

Several servants scattered along the corridor glance in their direction but Yoongi is still emitting his pheromones and they turn away just as quickly. But Jimin doesn’t miss their curious eyes, their quizzical brows, their interest in his hand clasped in the king’s. 

Yoongi makes his way to his chambers and Jimin has never been here. He lives on the opposite end, where he’s out of everyone’s way, and most importantly, out of Yoongi’s sight. It’s something that he’s come to realise after a few weeks, something he’s come to accept within the first month. 

There are two guards milling at his doors and they straighten to attention once they catch sight of Yoongi and bow to him as he enters, pulling Jimin along with him.

And then he brings Jimin towards his bed.

“Sit.”

Jimin sits.

He watches as Yoongi walks to his wardrobe and removes his coat, and then his belt. And then he goes to his study and pulls out the only chair, angling it towards the bed, towards Jimin, dropping down lightly.

Jimin is a little nervous, a little afraid maybe, somewhat cautious, mostly confused and very curious. Yoongi stares long and hard and Jimin’s bite mark still throbs and he realises he’s holding his breath.

“Park Jimin,” Yoongi says, softly, like a whisper though it echoes loudly in Jimin’s head. His back straightens and he bounces lightly on Yoongi’s very large mattress.

“Yes.” His voice is hoarse. He doesn’t know why, really.

“Park Jimin.” 

He feels strangely hypnotized. He breaks eye contact for a swift glance around the room. It’s quite bare. He thinks he has more possessions and he’s only been here for two months. Yoongi’s room is warmer though, his walls brighter, his presence stronger. Jimin had once entertained the thought of running away from the palace because he couldn’t sleep on his bed the first few weeks. He thinks he might have liked sharing Yoongi’s chambers. 

“Who are you, Park Jimin?”

“I’m sorry,” he says instead because he doesn’t know what else to say. And finally, he gets a reaction. But the momentary surprise is gone as fast as it appeared.

“Is that how everyone treats you?”

Jimin shrugs.

“How long?”

He shrugs again. Their disapproval is demeaning, the derogatory remarks a slap to his face but he’s not a cry baby. Neither is he a telltale. And somehow he feels that anything related to him will always be his fault. 

He can’t help but ask, “Do you hate me?”

Yoongi stares at him again, seconds, minutes pass. Jimin refuses to back down and holds his ground. And when Yoongi speaks, his question is reflected. “Do you hate me?”

Jimin frowns. It’s the feeling he gets—he used to get when he argued with his older brother, like he’s about to be cheated of something. “I asked first.”

Yoongi gives him his first genuine smile. 

“You did,” he relents. He glances out the window, the morbid looking grey clouds hanging on his words as much as Jimin is. 

When he turns back, the smile is gone, and Jimin wonders if he’d imagined it. In fact, he wonders if he’s dreaming this all but he doesn’t think he’s capable of creating a world in which Yoongi would talk to him, stand up for him. But Yoongi had and perhaps Yoongi does hate him now. 

He feels like he owes Yoongi an explanation, flimsy as it is. “I’m sorry my father—”

“No, I don’t hate you.”

Jimin’s heartbeat quickens and he knows Yoongi can tell with the way his head tilts curiously. 

“Thank you,” he says. For not hating him, for coming to his aid, for agreeing to the marriage at all.

It’s almost imperceptible, but Yoongi nods like he understood every unspoken word and Jimin feels so much lighter, like a huge weight has been lifted off his shoulders. Filling that space is sudden shyness and overbearing heat. He is after all wearing Yoongi’s mark, not to mention the bed he’s sitting on is drenched in Yoongi’s scent. He doesn’t know the protocol. What does one do when they’re alone with their husband in their husband’s chambers? He’s jittery and his lunch is sloshing in his stomach. 

He gets to his feet. “I think I should go now.”

Yoongi takes his time observing him and Jimin tries not to run out immediately. 

“Very well.” 

Jimin spurs into action. He turns his back on the king as he walks to the door, his nerves slightly on edge.

Just as he grasps the knob, “Would you join me for supper, Park Jimin?”

“Yes, my king.”

“Here, in my chambers.”

Jimin holds his breath, honing in on the silence that encompasses the room, waiting for more. And then he realises Yoongi too is waiting. He gathers himself. “Yes, of course.”

And he waits a moment longer in case of further instructions but Yoongi is done and Jimin slips out quietly. With his back against the door, he can’t help the shiver that runs down his spine at the first conversation he’s shared with his husband.

 

Chapter 2

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

“Why do you do this?”

He expects Yoongi to pretend he hasn’t heard him. To brush him off, to send him out.

What he doesn’t expect is for Yoongi to draw his eyes away from the parchments on his desk and arrest him with a stare that locks his joints and snuffs his sudden flame of courage. 

“Do what?”

Yoongi’s fingers tap rhythmically on the edge of his desk, and it’s in direct contrast to how Jimin doesn’t dare breathe lest he make a sound.

“Do what, Park Jimin?”

There are many things he wants to say, the numerous nitty gritty details that he could pick apart.

Why do you care what they say? Why do you trouble yourself? Why do you make me feel like you might care about me? Why do you make me want your attention, your approval?

But it’s the bigger picture he eventually addresses, “Why do you defend my honour?”

Yoongi’s fingers curve around the table, their little dance coming to an abrupt end. Jimin watches them because he can’t bear to look at the man himself.

Once he says it aloud, he realises how true it rings. He thought he would forever be alone in this marriage. He thought he had disappointed Yoongi, he thought he had ruined it by way of his father. The memory of him alone sickens Jimin. What kind of man would sell his own child to the crown in exchange for safer borders? 

At one time, maybe Jimin would have understood. That was his home, after all. He too would have gone to great lengths to protect it. But to be sold, like mere chattel. And then to be so horribly ignored by his own husband.  

“You are the royal consort. You are my husband. Your honour is mine, and will always be mine to protect.”

It’s the answer he so desperately wants. But it only sets off another wave of despair. 

“I’m sorry,” Jimin says, tears clogging his ducts, but he holds them back with a vengeance. If he doesn’t say it now, he can never muster the courage again. “Your child—I’m sorry I wasn’t ready, it will never happen again—”

“Stop.”

Jimin wavers.

Has he finally overstepped his boundaries? He wishes he could take it all back, he wishes they could redo their marriage. He’d thought they’d come to an impasse, that he could in no way make matters worse.

Maybe he was wrong.

“It is not as you think.”

Jimin swallows. “I’m just sorry. I’m always sorry.”  

He sees Yoongi’s fingers whiten as he grasps the table. The chair he sits on is shoved back and he draws himself to his full height.

Jimin’s eyes trail from Yoongi’s fingers to his elbow to his arm that swings the sword that protects their kingdom, to his shoulders that carry the arguments of the court, to the strain in his neck that unites the voices of their people, to his chest that peaks through the loose tunic of his night shirt.

He wants another chance.

He wants another chance because Yoongi had invited him to supper not just once but every day since he’d uncovered the gossip flitting through the palace walls about how the king had refused him.

He wants another chance because his servants pampered him as he soaked in his bath water, telling him how hard the king’s maids scrubbed his blood stained sheets, blood that Jimin now knows belonged to the veins beneath His Majesty’s palm, bandaged to match the colour of his skin.

He wants another chance because Yoongi had culled their hurtful words and Yoongi maybe cares, though he wouldn’t dare hope.

Still, he wants.

Yoongi takes his time as he strides towards Jimin. This close, and with the candle burning behind Yoongi’s back, Jimin can see his silhouette through his wispy thin night shirt. It’s not as crisp as his official garments, the linen billowy with his movements. Jimin has never seen Yoongi like this, finished with his daily duties and settled for the night. He’s never felt this overwhelmed, so guilty and grateful. So greedy.

Yoongi looms over his chair and Jimin waits. Anticipation boils his blood white hot. 

“Stand up, Jimin,” Yoongi murmurs.

His voice wraps around Jimin and beckons him to his feet. He rises, his limbs by either side. They’re standing so close to each other, the remaining space doing nothing to prevent Yoongi’s body heat from traversing onto Jimin’s skin, his flesh, the very air he breathes in.

He keeps his gaze on Yoongi’s chest, his presence sending pulses through Jimin’s body. The mark on his neck reacts in kind, recognising that its owner, its giver is within reach.

All the feelings and emotions he’s meticulously packed away come alive in an instant. He staggers from the force of it. He’d repressed them for so long. A chain reaction that traces all the way back to when his father first broke the news of his nuptials.

And then Yoongi’s arm shoots out to curl around his waist to steady him, and somehow the chest he was staring is now embellished with his hands and his eyes find Yoongi’s without him even knowing.

His cheeks blaze under attention, he feels their warmth overriding his senses. This is such new territory. He’s giddy and he’s scared, he wants more yet he wants to go. Yoongi’s cool fingertips brush his hair behind his ear, fleeting touches cross his cheek and then down to the mating mark that binds them both. The moan that is drawn out from him is unhindered and winded and carnal.

The fingers disappear and are replaced by Yoongi’s lips sucking, and his tongue, laving at his bite. Jimin almost collapses with how weightless he suddenly feels.

Yoongi’s tongue is cool and soft and slippery. The palm on Jimin’s back is warm and hard and firm. Jimin pushes himself closer, standing on his tip toes, melding himself into Yoongi’s body. He feels some incessant need to touch his mark on Yoongi’s neck as well, pressing his nails along the indents left by his teeth—and is rewarded with the most enticing moan in return.

“Yoongi,” he breathes out, grappling for an anchor, wrapping one leg around Yoongi’s bum, hitching his hips higher, searching, feeling, rubbing. “Yoongi. Yoongi.”

But Yoongi once again does the unexpected and pulls away. Jimin flounders confusedly, uncertainly. They’re still locked in embrace and Jimin feels almost embarrassed to stay this way, panting over Yoongi’s shoulder, the back of Yoongi’s head the only body part within his field of vision.

Yoongi’s voice is deep and gravelly, speaking directly into his ear. “Like I said, not at all as you think.”

Jimin jerks involuntarily. “Oh,” he says, feeling a little stupid, a little flustered.

He can feel the side of Yoongi’s cheek bunching slightly against his ear and his heart beats faster with each second longer he feels Yoongi against him.

“I think the royal consort should decide if he wishes to be debauched this very instant.”

“Oh,” Jimin says, a bead of sweat trailing steadily down his back.

 

Notes:

context : so yoongi travels to jimin’s village to meet this omega he’s agreed to mate. he’s not expecting much but tada jimin is fucken gorgeous and they do the whoopsie. jimin very quickly gets pregnant but unfortunately loses the baby due to stress. (it’s a lonnnnnng journey from jimin’s village back to the city centre i.e yoongi’s residence). in the city they officially get mated but there’s distance between them now because of what happened and yoongi stupidly thinks jimin needs the space. also jimin himself never approaches yoongi because he thinks yoongi is/should be mad at him.

so when the servants are bathing jimin and are talking about the blood stained sheet in yoongi’s room, jimin realises that yoongi cares about him. cos he’s trying to stop the rumours spreading around the palace that he’s not slept with jimin (when in fact they did, once)

whatever nonsense i said in the comments that doesn’t align with this, please ignore lol.

Chapter 3

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

With a pounding heart, Jimin paces quickly to his chambers. He hears the faint whispering of his ladies in waiting but he refuses to actually listen to them.

It’s the same thing. It’s always been the same awful thing. Sometimes he wishes for himself to not be an omega, to be courageous and fight, even if it’s a maiden’s fight with words.

When he reaches his doors, a guard opens it and Jimin immediately asks for a bath to be drawn.

“The hottest water, please.”

He wants his skin to burn, for his shame to melt away.

The girls bustle around him, bringing in a wooden tub, essential oils and a wet cloth. Another omega begins to undress him, pulling his sash open hurriedly, as if she can sense his turmoil. But that only ignites his panic. He feels his face begin to grow hot, a deep flush descending to the ends of his toes. He grabs the open lapels of his outer garment, holding them close.

“Stop.”

Everyone falls silent. The omega removing his garbs is looking at him with wide eyes, scared and confused. It’s exactly how he’s feeling.

“Please leave,” he whispers.

They run out as if he’s shouted at them.

He can’t help it. The moment he’s alone he doubles over in humiliation. Ugly sobs burst out of his chest, ones that he feels deep in his bones. His eyes hurt from clamping them too hard and his palms hurt from clenching his fist too tight.

Garments and all, he crawls into his tub, half filled with boiling water. All he can think of is Yoongi, of how he wishes he hates him but can’t and how he wishes he loves him but can’t.

He hugs his knees to his chest and thinks himself pitiful. His body aches in the steam and he yearns for more.

There’s a sudden knock on his door and Jimin jumps to his feet instantly, his sodden robes weighing him down. Before he can even refuse entry a furious looking Yoongi strides in.

Jimin hears himself gasp in shock. It’s entirely unbecoming. His wet clothes cling to him, gauzy and see through. His face is red and unappealing, mucous slathered from his nose to mouth. Hiccups barrage up his throat as he desperately holds back his tears.

But Yoongi is angry. And Jimin is scared.

"Why are you crying?”

Jimin shakes his head. There’s nothing going through his head, no explanation, no reason, just an echo of his drumming heart.

Yoongi approaches his bath tub, slow and purposeful.

Jimin.”

Jimin closes his eyes.

“Jimin, look at me.”

He shakes his head frantically. No to Yoongi and no to himself.

He feels a sting in his mating bite, like Yoongi is trying to reach him in more ways than one, through the palm he’s laid against Jimin’s cheek, their bond.

Yoongi confuses him. Yoongi who claims to want him but has bed him only once many months ago. Yoongi who swore that Jimin’s stillborn child was not his own fault. Yoongi who stood up to those who slandered him.

Sometimes he forgets that Yoongi is the king. And that he is the consort. He should know that it’s always duty, never feelings or love or the heart.

“Tell me.”

With his eyes closed everything feels clearer. The goosebumps on his skin against his chilled wet clothes, the finger pads of his left hand, subconsciously clutching Yoongi’s sleeves. And Yoongi’s mouth, his breath, fanning onto Jimin’s lips and into his lungs.

Yoongi confuses him.

“Yoongi,” Jimin says, Jimin whines.

He feels like he’s being squeezed so tight. His other hand comes to rest on his flat tummy as he opens his eyes. He can’t even relay how he feels let alone what happened.

Coming to the palace, he had only known to bear the king’s heirs. It’s what his father had told him, his mother, the ministers, what his village expects from him. He hadn’t known he would crave for Yoongi’s attention and affection, or bear the ill words of the court members, or suffer as he had suffered.

Yoongi’s eyes flare red and Jimin feels his insides twist, his nether regions tingling, always so attuned to his mate no matter his own circumstances.

Yoongi breathes deeply from Jimin’s neck, on the opposite side of his mating claim. The tendons in his neck are taut with tension and Jimin is entranced by them.

“Tell me,” Yoongi grits out. And this time, as Jimin locks eyes with him, he sees it. The power, the absolute authority. His husband, his alpha, his king.

“He knew about… about the baby—”

Just saying it causes a series of images to flash through his mind. Yoongi spilling his royal seed in him that first night. The journey back to the palace being terribly long and arduous. How they weren’t yet mated and Jimin was already with child. How not even seven weeks had passed and he had bled out a grotesque form. His baby, their baby.

And now he must live with this. And maybe this is Yoongi’s punishment for him, to never have a child ever again.

“He touched me here. Like this,” Jimin rubs his wrist against his neck, over and over, like he’s caught in a trance. His body and mind are so far apart.

Yoongi stops him, his entire hand encompassing Jimin’s fist.

“I’ll take care of it,” he says gently.

Gone is Yoongi’s ire, replaced with this lax disposition.

Yoongi confuses him so terribly. All Jimin  wants is to be a good omega. A good mate. He wonders what Yoongi wants of him.

The parts where Yoongi touches him are burning. The rest of his body is freezing. He wants to feel him everywhere, to feel this burning sensation everywhere. He feels his knees bend slowly, dipping back into his now lukewarm bath. Yoongi doesn’t let go of his cheek and crouches down with him outside his tub.

Jimin rests his chin the edge, his breath stuttering as he stares at Yoongi.

“Alpha,” he hears himself say.

“Yes, omega,” Yoongi replies.

Notes:

this story is finished. it was only ever meant to be a single chptered drabble but got out of hand and spilled into two more. thanks for sticking around though