Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first time Jungkook hears Jimin hum in their shared kitchen—barefoot, in an oversized knit sweater, sleeves swallowed past his wrists—he has to physically turn away.

Because it’s too much.

The sunlight streams through the half-open blinds, catching the gold strands in Jimin’s hair. The soft scent of rising dough mixes with the sharper zing of lemon zest he’s grating into a glass bowl, and the air is so warm, so full, Jungkook forgets to breathe.

Jimin doesn’t even notice him watching. His back is to him, hips swaying gently to the hum of some half-remembered tune, probably something from that old playlist he plays during baking. He’s got flour on his cheek and his lip tucked between his teeth in that way that means he’s focused—content. Nesting.

And Jungkook? Jungkook is losing his mind.

He backs out of the room like he’s just seen something he wasn’t meant to, like Jimin’s domestic bliss is some private miracle he’s intruding on just by existing in it. His palms are sweating. His throat’s dry. He wants to cry and bark and grab Jimin and press him against the counter and never let go—all at once.

He ends up in the hallway, forehead against the cool wall, trying to breathe.

What the fuck is wrong with him?

“Babe?” Jimin’s voice rings out, light, casual. “You want lemon or vanilla in the glaze?”

“Whichever you want,” Jungkook calls back, voice hoarse.

Always. Whatever you want, baby.

⸻

Their home smells like cardamom and vanilla and the shampoo Jimin uses—coconut and green tea and something Jungkook can never place. The walls are still a little bare, the furniture mostly secondhand, but Jimin’s touches are everywhere now: a crocheted throw over the couch, dried flowers in mason jars, a calendar with stickers for anniversaries and “special nights 💕”.

Jungkook doesn’t need a calendar to remember those. He’s counting them all in his bones.

He finds Jimin later curled on the couch, a thick cookbook in his lap, feet tucked under a blanket Jungkook swears wasn’t there yesterday.

“Planning next week’s meals?” Jungkook says, leaning over the back of the couch, pressing his nose to Jimin’s crown.

“Mmm. I was thinking mushroom risotto. Maybe a stew. Something cozy.” Jimin leans back into the touch, tilting his head so their cheeks brush. “You like cozy, right?”

“I like you.”

He feels Jimin smile, soft and secret. “I know."

⸻

Nights are harder.

Jimin sleeps curled into him, radiating warmth, smelling like lavender and almond lotion. Jungkook lies awake, hands itching to touch, scent glands sparking every time Jimin shifts. The bond sings under his skin—mine, mine, mine—but he bites it down.

Jimin needs space to rest. To breathe. To feel safe.

And Jungkook will be that space.

He’ll be anything Jimin needs.

Even if it means holding himself back while Jimin lies there, lips parted in sleep, belly warm against his side, fingers clutching Jungkook’s t-shirt like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it.

⸻

They argue, sometimes. About silly things. Jungkook forgets to buy oat milk. Jimin gets overwhelmed trying to fold the laundry while the dough is rising. But even their bickering is soft-edged.

Jungkook always apologizes first. Jimin always makes him tea after.

“Marriage isn’t supposed to be perfect,” Jimin says one night, stirring honey into Jungkook’s mug, sleepy in nothing but one of Jungkook’s shirts. “It’s just supposed to be… real.”

Jungkook, watching the way Jimin’s hands move—deft, calm, gentle—nods like he understands. But he doesn’t. Not really. Because to him, Jimin is perfect. And everything feels like a dream he’s trying not to wake from.

⸻

He catches Jimin in the nursery one afternoon.

There’s no baby yet. It’s barely even a room—just a soft yellow paint job, a plush rug, a rocking chair Jimin insisted on getting because it was on sale.

But Jimin sits there anyway, legs curled under him, holding a stuffed bunny in his lap.

“Do you think they’ll have your eyes?” he asks suddenly, eyes not meeting Jungkook’s.

Jungkook stares at him, dry-mouthed.

“You want—?”

“Not yet,” Jimin says quickly. “But… eventually. I’ve always wanted…” He trails off, voice small. “You’d be a good dad.”

Jungkook doesn’t know what to say. So he walks over, kneels down in front of Jimin, rests his head on Jimin’s thigh like a prayer.

“I don’t care about any of that,” he whispers. “I just want you.”

Jimin pets his hair, slow and thoughtful. “Well,” he says softly, “you have me.”

Something in Jungkook snaps.

He doesn’t cry. He never cries. But his throat closes up like he might. And maybe it’s because Jimin’s scent is stronger today—sugared warmth and the faint, telltale pull of pre-heat sweetness. Or maybe it’s because Jungkook has spent days holding himself back. From touching. From devouring. From claiming.

And now Jimin is looking at him with those soft, sleepy eyes like he knows. Like he wants.

Jungkook rises to his feet in one slow motion and cups Jimin’s jaw, thumb brushing over the apple of his cheek. “Say it again,” he whispers.

Jimin blinks up at him, lashes fluttering. “Say what?”

“That I have you.”

Jimin smiles then. Small. Beautiful. Dangerous.

“You have me, Jungkook.”

The kiss starts gentle. Reverent. A slow meeting of mouths that hums with meaning. But Jimin parts his lips, sighs softly into him, and that’s all it takes. Jungkook groans, low and deep, tilting Jimin’s head back so he can kiss him harder—open-mouthed, desperate, like he’s starving.

The bunny falls from Jimin’s lap. Jungkook lifts him effortlessly from the rocking chair, carrying him to the nearby floor cushions in the corner of the room—the makeshift nook Jimin had called “our little daydream space.”

Now it’s about to become something else entirely.

“You sure?” Jungkook whispers against his neck, mouth trailing to the sweet spot beneath Jimin’s ear.

Jimin whimpers, tugging at his shirt. “I’m glowing, aren’t I?”

“You’re fucking radiating,” Jungkook growls, stripping his own shirt off in one motion.

Jimin laughs, breathless, as Jungkook settles between his legs, kissing down his chest, mapping familiar skin like it’s the first time all over again.

The scent in the room shifts, grows thicker. Jimin’s slick is already starting to pool, heat teasing the edge of its full bloom. Jungkook presses his nose to Jimin’s stomach and inhales like he’s trying to imprint the scent on his soul.

He mouths lower, licks a stripe over Jimin’s inner thigh until Jimin gasps. “Koo—”

“I’ve got you,” Jungkook murmurs. “Always.”

He eats Jimin out like it’s sacred. Like he’s worshipping. Tongue slow, patient, curling just right. One hand on Jimin’s stomach, thumb brushing reverently over the faint swell there—just skin, just warmth, but Jungkook’s already imagining more.

Jimin’s hips twitch. His moans turn breathy and high, hips rocking up into Jungkook’s mouth.

When Jungkook finally lines up, pushing into him slowly—inch by shaking inch—Jimin’s hands claw at his back, pulling him impossibly closer.

“F-Fuck,” Jimin chokes out. “You always fill me up so good—”

That does it.

Jungkook moves with purpose now—slow, deep thrusts that hit every spot Jimin needs, but with control. He’s trying to make it last. Trying to remember the moment. The softness. The promise.

“You want my baby someday?” Jungkook whispers, lips brushing Jimin’s ear as he rocks into him.

Jimin shivers under him. “Yeah,” he breathes, eyes glassy. “Want it so bad, Koo.”

Jungkook’s hips stutter, knot threatening. He bites down on Jimin’s shoulder—not enough to mark, just to ground himself.

“Then I’ll give you one,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “Not yet. But when you’re ready. You ask… and I’ll give you everything.”

Jimin comes with a sob, clutching him like he’ll disappear. Jungkook follows seconds later, knot catching, anchoring them together in the quiet golden light of the nursery.

They lie there for a long time, tangled and breathless. The afternoon sun dips lower, painting shadows on the walls.

Jungkook presses kisses to Jimin’s hairline.

“You still want lemon glaze?” he asks softly.

Jimin giggles, barely able to lift his head. “You’re insane.”

“I’m yours.”

Chapter Text

It starts with the scent.

Jimin’s heat doesn’t arrive with fanfare—it drips in slow. The air gets sweeter. His cheeks flush easier. He starts wearing Jungkook’s shirts again, but not in the cute, casual way. No. In the clinging, stretching, dragging-it-down-over-his-thighs way.

Jungkook notices before Jimin says anything. He always does.

Jimin’s scent thickens around the house, clinging to the sheets, to Jungkook’s skin, to the inside of his lungs. It’s cloying. Addictive. Perfect. He starts hovering without realizing—his hands constantly on Jimin’s back, hip, shoulder. His nose in Jimin’s neck like he’s checking for something only he can read.

“Baby,” Jimin sighs one afternoon, fanning his flushed face. “It’s starting.”

Jungkook just pulls him in, kisses his temple, and whispers, “Then let me take care of you.”

⸻

It’s always like this, but never like this.

This heat is deeper. Raw. Jimin trembles under him, already slick and needy and commanding—his soft voice turned sharp with want.

“Don’t tease,” Jimin pants, legs spread wide on the bed, back arched. “Just—fuck me, Jungkook. Don’t be gentle. Knot me. Now.”

Jungkook groans like he’s been struck. His hands shake as he lines himself up.

“You’re so perfect when you’re bossy,” he mutters, voice ruined.

Jimin glares up at him through wet lashes. “Don’t you dare pull out.”

Jungkook growls.

“Don’t worry, angel,” he says, breath hot against Jimin’s jaw. “You want my baby? Take it.”

He pushes in with one long, slow thrust—and the world shatters.

⸻

Heat sex is different. Less rhythm, more instinct.

Jimin sobs under him, clawing at his back, rolling his hips like he’s trying to pull Jungkook deeper. And Jungkook gives him everything—every ounce of strength, every flicker of restraint gone. He’s babbling—words and noises and soft prayers into Jimin’s skin.

“You want to carry me, don’t you?”
“Want me to fuck it into you until you leak with it?”
“You were made to take me—so good, always so good for me.”
“Give me that pretty belly, baby.”

Jimin moans, so high it breaks, and drags Jungkook in by the hair. “Shut up and come in me.”

He does.

With a growl that shudders through the whole room, Jungkook presses in, knot swelling, locking them together with a raw, possessive noise that borders on animal.

Jimin’s eyes flutter as he feels it—the warmth, the pressure, the fullness. His fingers tremble as they trace down his own stomach, as if he’s already imagining what could grow there.

“I want it,” he whispers. “I want the baby.”

Jungkook leans down, lips trembling. “You’ll have them, baby. As many as you want.”

⸻

They lie tangled for hours.

The bond between them pulses with contentment, the edges hazy with lust and love and some deeper, unnamed devotion.

Jimin dozes, glowing, curled around Jungkook’s arm.

Jungkook can’t stop staring at him.

He smooths hair from Jimin’s damp forehead. Presses a kiss there. Breathes in deep.

And then whispers to no one but the stars above their bed:

“Please… let it take.”

⸻

The heat fades like a dream.

Jimin wakes days later feeling wrung out and weightless, the sheets damp with scent and sweat and slick. Jungkook is still curled around him like a shield—strong arms locked across his middle, breath warm against the back of his neck.

The bond hums low between them, like a lullaby.

But something’s changed.

Jimin lies there, eyes open, fingers brushing over the soft curve of his stomach. Nothing’s different—yet. But something inside him aches. Hope curls sharp and quiet in his chest.

He wants it to have worked.

⸻

Jungkook pretends everything is fine.

He still makes breakfast with extra honey, still kisses Jimin’s forehead when he walks by, still folds his laundry with reverence. But there’s a tension under his skin now—something twitchy and desperate.

He watches Jimin when he thinks Jimin isn’t looking.

Watches the way Jimin bites his nails. Stares too long at the calendar. Lingers in front of the mirror in their bathroom, lifting his shirt with a furrowed brow.

“Don’t obsess,” Jimin mumbles one morning, brushing his teeth. “You’re worse than me.”

“I’m not obsessing,” Jungkook lies.

(He is.)

⸻

They buy a test together.

Jimin insists on grabbing the most basic one. Jungkook silently grabs a digital one. And a backup. And a three-pack. Just in case.

At home, the box sits unopened on the bathroom counter for three days.

Neither of them touches it.

Instead, Jimin bakes more. Nests harder. Rearranges the throw pillows twice in one day. Jungkook gets weirdly intense about cleaning the baseboards.

It’s like they’re waiting for something without wanting to ask for it out loud.

⸻

One night, Jimin cries.

He doesn’t mean to. It’s late, and he’s tired, and he just wants. Wants to know. Wants his body to tell him something.

“I don’t feel pregnant,” he whispers into Jungkook’s chest, voice shaking. “What if it didn’t take?”

Jungkook holds him tighter, swallows the lump in his throat. “Then we try again.”

Jimin sniffles. “You say that so easily.”

Jungkook lifts his head, kisses Jimin’s wet cheeks. “No. I say it like someone who wants you. All of you. Baby or no baby. Forever.”

Jimin curls into him, small and aching and soft. “I do want them, though. So much.”

“I know,” Jungkook whispers. “I’m ready whenever you are.”

⸻

And so they wait.

Days stretch. Jimin swears he feels different. Then swears he doesn’t. He snaps at Jungkook over something stupid. Cries while watching a baby video on Instagram. Eats pickles at midnight. Then glares at Jungkook for looking hopeful about it.

“Stop it,” he warns. “It’s probably just hormone crash.”

“Okay,” Jungkook says, nodding.

(He’s already Googled “early omega pregnancy signs” six times.)

⸻

Finally, one morning, Jimin walks into the bedroom in silence.

Jungkook’s half-asleep, sprawled across the bed shirtless, hair a mess, blanket only covering his hips. He sits up fast when he sees Jimin’s face.

Jimin holds up the test. No words. Just the stick.

Jungkook stares at it. Stares at him.

And then—“Oh my god.”

He’s up in a second, grabbing Jimin’s waist, hugging him so tightly Jimin squeaks.

“Is it real?” he chokes out.

“It’s real,” Jimin breathes, voice barely there.

“I knew it,” Jungkook says, laughing and crying and kissing him all at once. “You’re really gonna have my baby.”

Jimin laughs through tears, burying his face in Jungkook’s neck.

“Our baby.”

Chapter Text

The morning sickness hits like betrayal.

Jimin wakes up in a sunlit cocoon of softness—pillows everywhere, the scent of Jungkook all around him—and still bolts for the bathroom the second he opens his eyes.

Jungkook’s there in less than ten seconds.

“Baby?” His voice is breathless with sleep and panic. “You okay?”

Jimin groans over the toilet bowl. “I hate this already.”

Jungkook drops to his knees behind him, pulling Jimin’s hair back with one hand and rubbing circles into his spine with the other. He’s shirtless and bleary-eyed, but entirely focused.

“I read it’s normal,” Jungkook says softly. “The forums said nausea usually peaks in week six.”

Jimin squints up at him. “You read forums?”

Jungkook flushes. “…I might’ve made a spreadsheet.”

Jimin stares.

Then laughs so hard he nearly gags again.

⸻

The first trimester is a blur.

Jimin naps constantly. He’s hot, then cold. He sobs at a clip of baby ducks and gets irrationally angry when the grocery store is out of cherry popsicles. His hips ache. His chest is sensitive. Everything smells too strong.

And through it all—Jungkook is there.

Carrying water bottles from room to room. Keeping snacks within arm’s reach. Doing laundry, scrubbing floors, learning how to cook vegan kimbap just because Jimin said it sounded good once at 2am.

He never complains.

He just gives.

And Jimin… starts to notice.

⸻

One evening, Jimin wakes up from a nap to the sound of hammering.

He follows the noise, blanket still wrapped around his shoulders, until he reaches the soon-to-be nursery.

Jungkook’s in there on his knees, shirtless again, hair pulled back, brows furrowed as he tries to fit two crooked pieces of wood together.

Jimin leans against the doorframe. “You could’ve bought one.”

Jungkook grunts. “I wanted to make it.”

The crib is… rough. The corners are uneven. One of the legs wobbles when Jungkook shifts.

But his hands are steady. Focused. Like he’s building a shrine.

“Why?” Jimin asks.

Jungkook shrugs. Doesn’t look up. “Because it’s for them. And they’re ours. I want them to have something I made.”

Jimin’s throat tightens.

He wants to say something—wants to pull Jungkook in and ask how long he’s been holding his breath. But instead, he says softly:

“You smell like pine wood and desperation.”

Jungkook snorts. “Shut up.”

⸻

The first checkup is worse and better than they expect.

The waiting room is too bright. The omega doctor is kind. Jungkook sits with his hand on Jimin’s thigh like it’s his tether to reality.

They see the flicker on the screen before they even register the sound.

Then the heartbeat hits. Soft. Rapid. Real.

Jimin bursts into tears.

Jungkook grips his hand so tightly the nurse has to gently ask him to ease up.

Later in the car, Jimin holds the grainy photo to his chest.

Jungkook drives with one hand and keeps glancing over like he needs to look.

Jimin watches him.

The shadows under his eyes. The tension in his shoulders. The way he says nothing about his own feelings, like he’s not even on the radar.

“Are you okay?” Jimin asks, touching his knee.

Jungkook glances over, startled. “Me?”

“You haven’t talked about you at all.”

Jungkook swallows. “This isn’t about me.”

And there it is again.

That crack. That ache.

Jimin lets it go—for now.

But it lingers.

⸻

That night, he crawls into Jungkook’s lap on the couch and whispers:

“I’m really happy.”

Jungkook melts immediately, arms winding around him. “Good. That’s all I want.”

Jimin nestles close.

He doesn’t say it yet—but part of him wonders: Is that really all you want, Jungkook? Or is it just what you think you’re allowed to want?

And the answer makes him ache.

Because being loved this much—it’s beautiful. It’s terrifying. It’s addictive.

And Jimin doesn’t know if he can stop craving it.

⸻

Jimin’s nesting instincts hit like a switch flipped in his brain.

One minute he’s lounging on the couch, snacking on dried mango and letting Jungkook rub his feet. The next, he’s up and moving furniture.

“I don’t like the bed there anymore,” he mutters, dragging the nightstand across the room.

Jungkook’s eyes widen. “You—you’re not supposed to lift things!”

“It’s a lamp, Jungkook.”

“It’s a symbol of instability in our child’s development if you sprain your back right now!”

Jimin just glares and keeps nesting.

⸻

The house transforms in three days.

There are soft pillows in every corner. Gentle light. Neutral colors. A faint cinnamon smell that Jimin says “feels right.” The nursery’s halfway done, and Jimin’s rearranged the onesies twice without Jungkook even noticing he’d bought them.

Jungkook watches in awe. And terror.

He doesn’t say no to anything. Doesn’t push back. Just lifts what he’s told, paints what he’s asked, fetches Jimin weird food combos like “pickled eggs and toast with jam” without a word.

But it’s building in him.

This pressure. This heat in his chest.

⸻

Jimin finally says, “Let’s go shopping. For real. I want to see stuff in person.”

Jungkook nods immediately. “I’ll drive.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I’m driving.”

⸻

The baby store is quiet and pastel and full of soft music and even softer onesies.

Jimin’s eyes light up like a kid in a candy shop. He moves through the aisles humming to himself, pressing fabrics to his cheek, cooing over tiny socks. He’s glowing—literally, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy with hormones and happiness.

Jungkook’s behind him, holding everything. The cart. The bags. Jimin’s water bottle. Jimin’s jacket. Jimin’s emotional stability.

He’s vibrating with tension.

Because people are looking.

Mostly omegas, a few betas, some curious alphas—but there’s one omega. Tall. Pretty. Pheromones light and warm and interested.

He walks by, glances at Jimin, and smiles.

“Pregnancy looks good on you.”

Jimin blinks. “Oh, um—thanks?”

Jungkook sees red.

He steps in instantly. Arm around Jimin’s waist. Close. Possessive. Growls out—quiet but dangerous—“Back off.”

The omega startles, mutters an apology, and disappears fast.

Jimin turns slowly. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” Jungkook mutters. “He was too close.”

“You growled at a stranger. In a baby store.”

“He looked at you like you weren’t mine.”

Jimin blinks. Then laughs—half scandalized, half delighted. “Are you serious right now?”

“You’re carrying my baby,” Jungkook says low, voice tight. “You’re mine. Why would I let anyone look at you like that?”

There’s heat in his words. A warning.

And something broken underneath.

⸻

Later, at home, Jimin corners him in the kitchen.

“You can’t scare people in public, Jungkook.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You were. You’re scared. You’re acting like the world’s gonna take me away if you blink too long.”

Jungkook’s hands clench at his sides. His throat works around words he doesn’t know how to say.

Jimin steps in close. Soft. Quiet. Sharp.

“Is this what you want, Jungkook?” he whispers. “The baby. The house. The nursery. Me?”

Jungkook’s voice breaks. “I want you.”

“And the rest?”

Jungkook swallows hard. “I want what you want.”

Jimin exhales slowly. “You never say what you want.”

There’s silence.

Then, barely audible: “I want to be enough.”

It shatters something in Jimin.

He cups Jungkook’s face, stares into his eyes. “You are.”

“I just—” Jungkook’s voice is raw now. “If I mess this up, if you ever leave, I wouldn’t survive it. I don’t know how to want anything outside of you.”

And there it is—the full truth, naked and trembling.

Jimin pulls him in. Kisses his forehead. Wraps his arms around him like a vow.

“You don’t have to earn this,” he says. “You already have me.”

Jungkook breaks in his arms, finally. Quietly.

And Jimin holds him through it, both of them shaking with something too big to name.

Chapter Text

Jimin’s cravings take over like they’ve got their own gravity.

It starts small: orange juice. Salted crackers. Pickles in bed at 11 p.m.

But by week ten, it’s chaos.

“Babe,” Jimin calls from the kitchen, hair tied up in a sleepy bun, cheeks puffed from biting into an apple. “Do we have any of that cinnamon peanut butter?”

Jungkook appears in the doorway in less than five seconds. “I ordered more. It’ll be here by four.”

“You’re insane,” Jimin says, grinning.

“You said you liked it.”

Jimin rolls his eyes, but he’s glowing. Jungkook can’t stop watching him—how his belly’s just starting to round, how his skin looks softer somehow, how the bond between them hums louder now, thicker with life.

He wants to touch him constantly. Press his mouth to Jimin’s skin, whisper into his collarbone, fold around him and never let go.

He does.

⸻

But that afternoon, Jungkook wakes up from a nap and the apartment is empty.

Jimin is gone.

The bond tugs at him—not sharp, not alarmed, just distant—but it spikes something feral in his chest. He checks every room. No note. No scent trail. No phone in sight.

Panic hits like a brick to the lungs.

He grabs his keys with trembling hands, shoes barely on, vision swimming. He’s outside before he can even think, calling Jimin’s name into the hallway like it might pull him home.

Then—
The front door creaks open.

Jimin steps in with a grocery bag in one hand and an iced coffee in the other.

“Oh,” he blinks. “You’re up.”

Jungkook just stares at him, chest heaving.

Jimin notices it a second too late. “…Hey. Are you okay?”

Jungkook’s voice comes out wrecked. “Where were you?”

Jimin frowns. “I ran to the corner store. You were sleeping, and I was craving the seaweed chips—”

“You left.”

“You’ve been running yourself ragged. I thought it’d be fine for me to—”

“You didn’t tell me.”

“I’m not a child, Jungkook—”

“You’re mine,” Jungkook snaps, voice cracking. “You’re mine and you’re pregnant and I woke up and I couldn’t smell you and I thought—fuck, I thought—”

He stops.

Because now he’s shaking. Not from anger. From fear.

Jimin drops the bag slowly. Crosses the room. Reaches for him.

“Hey,” he whispers. “I’m okay.”

Jungkook doesn’t move. Just stands there like a dog that’s been kicked—still loyal, still there, but clearly not okay.

“You really thought I’d just disappear?” Jimin asks.

Jungkook swallows hard. His voice is barely audible. “I don’t know what I’d do if you did.”

⸻

Later, after the chips are unpacked and the air has softened, they don’t talk about it.

Jungkook acts normal again. Smiles too wide. Cooks dinner. Massages Jimin’s calves until he purrs.

But Jimin can feel the crack in him now.

Like there’s something deep in Jungkook that doesn’t believe he’s allowed to want. Doesn’t believe Jimin’s love is unconditional. Like he’s living on borrowed time, waiting for the moment Jimin wakes up and sees through him.

And Jimin can’t stop thinking about it.

So he plans something soft.

⸻

That night, the shower is hot and sweet-smelling. Eucalyptus. Rose. Honey steam curling up into the air like a secret.

Jimin steps in while Jungkook’s already under the spray. Naked. Vulnerable. Muscles wet and gleaming, head tilted back like he’s trying to wash off the panic.

Jimin slides in behind him, presses his chest to Jungkook’s back, and wraps his arms around his waist.

Jungkook stiffens. Then melts.

“Hi,” Jimin murmurs.

Jungkook lets out a shaky breath. “Hi.”

The water pours down around them, hot and perfect. Jimin’s belly rests against the curve of Jungkook’s spine. He kisses the slope of his shoulder, gentle and grounding.

“Let me take care of you tonight,” Jimin whispers.

Jungkook shakes his head immediately. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

Jungkook makes a soft, choked sound. And finally—finally—he lets Jimin turn him around.

Lets Jimin press him into the tile. Soft kisses. Warm hands.

No sex. Just skin and safety and water and love.

Just Jimin touching him like he’s allowed to.

Just Jungkook finally letting himself be held.

⸻

The shower is steaming. The glass fogged up. The scent of rosewater clings to the air like a lullaby.

Jimin’s hands are warm on Jungkook’s skin—fingers gliding down his arms, slow and careful. His mouth brushes over wet collarbones, the side of his neck, the center of his chest. Each kiss is soft, but intentional. Possessive in a way that makes Jungkook tremble.

“You always give,” Jimin murmurs. “You never let yourself take.”

Jungkook swallows thickly, jaw clenched. “That’s not—”

“Shh,” Jimin breathes, leaning in to kiss the words off his mouth. “Let me.”

Jungkook’s never been good at letting go.

But Jimin touches him like he’s sacred. Like his body isn’t just muscle and bone—it’s earned. Every scar, every tremor, every sharp breath held in silence.

Jimin kneels in front of him, water cascading down the curve of his spine, and kisses just above Jungkook’s hip. His belly. His thighs.

“You break yourself in half for me,” he whispers, lips brushing sensitive skin. “And I love you for it. But I want you whole.”

Jungkook makes a wrecked noise in his throat. His hands hover midair, like he doesn’t know where to hold, like touching Jimin would undo him.

“You can have anything,” Jungkook says, breathless. “Anything you want—”

“I want you,” Jimin says, voice sharp and soft all at once. “Not just the part that begs to serve me. Not the part that worries I’ll leave if you breathe wrong. I want all of you. Even the parts that are scared.”

Jungkook’s knees go weak.

And Jimin kisses the inside of his thigh, murmurs, “Let me love you like you love me.”

⸻

Later, they’re pressed together under the still-running water, Jimin straddling Jungkook’s lap where he’s sunk to the shower floor. Their skin slick and hot. Jungkook’s face tucked into the crook of Jimin’s neck, arms wrapped around him like a lifeline.

And when Jimin rocks against him, slow and teasing, Jungkook lets out the kind of sound that could bring a god to its knees.

He doesn’t take him fast. Doesn’t use him rough. It’s a slow claiming—like Jimin is carving his name into Jungkook’s ribs with every drag of hips, every kiss to his ear.

“Feel good?” Jimin breathes, kissing down his jaw.

Jungkook nods frantically. “I—fuck, yes—”

“Tell me.”

Jungkook whines, hands digging into Jimin’s thighs. “Feels so good. I—please, I—”

“You always take care of me,” Jimin whispers. “Let me take care of you, alpha.”

That word breaks him.

Because it doesn’t sound like dominance. It sounds like belonging.

And when Jimin brings him to the edge with slow rolls and sweet nothings and quiet confessions against his lips—you’re mine, I’ve got you, I’m not going anywhere—Jungkook lets go.

He sobs when he comes.

Not because it hurts.

But because for the first time since Jimin got pregnant, for the first time in his whole life, maybe—he feels like he’s allowed to need something, too.

⸻

After, they lie curled together in the big bed, damp and naked and sticky with affection.

Jimin’s fingers run lazy patterns over his stomach. Jungkook breathes in the scent of him—warm, sweet, safe.

And then Jimin whispers, half-asleep:

“Even if you had nothing to give, I’d still want you.”

Jungkook doesn’t answer.

His throat’s too tight.

But the arms he wraps around Jimin say everything he can’t.

Chapter Text

The first time Jimin wakes up crying, it’s 3:14 a.m.

His back is aching. His body is hot. He feels stretched and sore and full in a way that isn’t exactly painful—but it’s not comfortable either. His belly has gotten heavier in the past week, pulling on his spine, throwing off his balance.

He shifts in bed and winces.

The tears come before he even knows why. Silent. Salty. Rolling down his cheeks and into the pillow.

He’s not sad. He’s not angry. He’s just… tired.

He presses a hand over the round swell of his stomach, the baby nestled deep inside. Feels a flutter. A tiny kick.

“I love you,” he whispers into the dark. “But god, I miss having a spine.”

⸻

Jungkook is up before the sun, like always.

He makes breakfast. He washes Jimin’s prenatal tea mug by hand even though there’s a dishwasher. He tiptoes around the house like a ghost. Staring at his phone. Responding to texts from work. Sending emails.

He kisses Jimin’s temple before heading out, gentle but distracted. “I stocked the fridge. Call me if you need anything.”

“You said you’d stay home today.”

“I know—I will—I just have to check in at the office for a few hours.”

Jimin frowns, lips parting. “But—”

“I’ll be back for lunch,” Jungkook says quickly, already halfway out the door. “Promise.”

He isn’t.

⸻

Jimin tries to distract himself.

He folds baby clothes. Rearranges their bookshelves. Cleans the bathroom mirror even though it was spotless.

Then sits in the nursery.

And stares.

It’s beautiful. Light gray walls. Soft yellow trim. The crib they built together. A baby mobile shaped like moons and stars. A handmade quilt from Jimin’s aunt.

It looks like a dream.

So why does it feel so lonely?

⸻

Jungkook comes home at seven.

He’s flushed with guilt, arms full of takeout and hydrangeas and a candle Jimin mentioned once three months ago. He talks too fast. Smiles too big. Kisses Jimin’s cheek too quickly to register.

“I’m sorry, baby—I got stuck. One of the client launches crashed and I couldn’t—”

Jimin just looks at him.

Quiet. Flat.

“Eat with me?” Jungkook offers, hopeful. “I brought your favorite noodles.”

“I already ate,” Jimin says softly. “Hours ago.”

“Oh.”

Silence.

Then Jungkook blurts, “Did you take your iron supplements? And the DHA? And did you stretch today? You haven’t been cramping, right?”

Jimin stares at him. “You know what you didn’t ask?”

Jungkook pauses. “What?”

“You didn’t ask how I felt.”

⸻

The fight doesn’t start with screaming.

It starts with silence. A long, suffocating pause. The air thick with things unsaid.

And then—

“I’m carrying your baby and I still feel like I’m doing this alone,” Jimin says. Voice trembling. Not shouting. Just breaking.

Jungkook looks like he’s been punched.

“I’m doing everything I can,” he says. “I’m killing myself trying to hold all of this together.”

“And I didn’t ask you to do that,” Jimin snaps. “I asked you to be here. Not drown in logistics and meal plans and overcompensating—just be my husband.”

“I am your husband!”

“Then act like it.”

⸻

Jungkook’s voice goes low. Strained. “I’m scared.”

Jimin falters.

Jungkook runs a hand through his hair. His eyes are red, but he doesn’t let the tears fall.

“I keep thinking… what if I’m not enough? What if you wake up one day and realize I was never supposed to be the one to give you this life?”

“Jungkook—”

“No, I know what this means to you. The baby. The house. The forever thing. I’m trying to be the dream you wanted. But I’m scared I’ll screw it up. And you’ll leave. And I’ll lose everything I ever wanted.”

Jimin steps forward. Quiet. Slow.

He cups Jungkook’s face with both hands, thumbs brushing under his eyes. “Do you think I’d give this to someone I didn’t believe in?”

Jungkook breathes like he’s about to cry.

Jimin doesn’t let him. He kisses him instead.

Soft. Deep. Like forgiveness.

Like home.

⸻

They don’t talk for a while.

Jungkook sits on the edge of the bed, head in his hands. Jimin stands by the dresser, watching the way his alpha curls in on himself like he’s trying not to take up space.

But something in Jimin softens.

Because underneath the fear and over-functioning and silence, there’s something achingly human in Jungkook. Something that wants so badly to be enough—for Jimin, for the baby, for the version of himself he’s still trying to believe in.

“Come here,” Jimin says.

Jungkook doesn’t move at first.

So Jimin crosses the room instead. Takes his hand. Pulls him gently into the bed like he’s leading a ghost back into its body.

⸻

The sheets are cool, but Jimin is warm.

They lie on their sides, facing each other. No barriers. No distractions. Just skin against skin—Jimin’s thigh tucked over Jungkook’s hip, his belly between them like the universe they’re building together.

Jimin cups Jungkook’s jaw and holds him there.

“Do you want to be enough for me?” he asks softly.

Jungkook nods, eyes shining. “More than anything.”

“Then be here. Not perfect. Not superhuman. Just… with me.”

Jungkook breathes like the words physically undo him.

“I don’t need you to anticipate every need,” Jimin continues. “I just need you to feel with me. Let me know what’s going on in that big, overwhelmed brain of yours. You don’t have to carry it alone.”

Jungkook’s mouth trembles. “I’m scared that if I stop… I won’t be good enough.”

Jimin presses their foreheads together. “You’re already good enough. Even when you’re scared. Even when you don’t know what you’re doing. You’re mine. That’s all I need.”

⸻

Their kiss starts slow.

It’s not desperate. It’s not frantic.

It’s a rebuild.

Mouths meeting gently. Fingers threading through damp hair. Jungkook’s hand flattening over Jimin’s belly like he’s grounding himself in what’s real.

The baby kicks, right under his palm.

They both freeze.

Jimin gasps. Jungkook’s eyes go wide. Then again—a tiny, perfect nudge. Like the baby is saying I’m here too.

Jungkook’s breath catches. “Did she—?”

Jimin smiles, tears already welling up. “Yeah. She felt you.”

And Jungkook breaks.

Not with panic this time. Not with self-loathing.

But with awe.

He presses a kiss to Jimin’s belly, his voice shaking. “Hi, baby. It’s Appa. I’m right here.”

Jimin watches him—his alpha, his whole heart—melt into something soft and sacred.

“You’re already enough,” Jimin whispers. “You’ve always been enough.”

⸻

Later, they fall asleep wrapped in each other.

No grand declarations. No vows.

Just Jimin breathing even and safe. Jungkook’s hand still resting on the curve of his belly. And the quiet hum of three heartbeats in sync.

A family, healing.

Together.

Chapter Text

It starts with a drawer.

One drawer.

The one next to the bed, where Jungkook keeps his spare phone chargers, lip balm, and a box of mint gum that expired three months ago. Jimin stares at it for a full five minutes before yanking it open and starting to reorganize it with military precision.

Thirty minutes later, he’s standing in the nursery in Jungkook’s oversized hoodie, surrounded by stacks of tiny clothes and seven freshly washed baby blankets.

“Everything smells wrong,” Jimin mutters, sniffing the air. “The laundry detergent isn’t omega-safe. I told you we were supposed to switch to the lavender oat one!”

From the kitchen, Jungkook stares into his coffee like it personally betrayed him.

“Yes, baby,” he calls back gently. “I’ll go buy it again.”

Jimin stomps out of the nursery, pink-faced and vibrating. “And you mixed the onesies by color, not size! Do you want our baby to wear a three-month outfit on day one? Do you want them to drown, Jungkook?!”

“I really, really don’t,” Jungkook says solemnly, already grabbing his keys. “Our baby will be appropriately clothed. I swear on my mating mark.”

Jimin huffs. “Good. Bring snacks.”

⸻

By the time Jungkook gets back, the entire living room has been “re-zoned.” Blankets on every surface. His sweaters lined up by softness. There’s a small stuffed bear sitting on top of the coffee table like it’s the new household deity.

Jimin is nesting like it’s his religion.

When Jungkook walks in, carrying lavender oat detergent, protein snacks, and another bouquet of pastel flowers, Jimin blinks at him like he’s been gone a lifetime.

“You were gone forever,” Jimin mumbles, tugging him close.

“I was gone thirty-eight minutes.”

Jimin sniffs his neck. “Smell like the sun. And motor oil.”

“Which one’s the problem?”

“Neither. Just. Sit down. Let me rub my scent on you so you don’t smell like anything else.”

And Jungkook—completely whipped, deeply in love, and already halfway hard just from the way Jimin’s nose is twitching—sits.

“Whatever you want, baby.”

⸻

The doorbell rings the next day.

Jimin is fluffing Jungkook’s laundry into little bundles for the “scent wall” (yes, it’s real, no, Jungkook doesn’t understand either). So when Jungkook opens the door and is met with their friends in full chaos mode, he’s understandably startled.

“Tae?” Jungkook blinks. “Why are you holding a piñata shaped like a bottle?”

“Festive baby violence,” Taehyung says cheerfully.

Yoongi’s behind him, holding a tray of fancy tea cakes and a half-empty can of Red Bull. “We’re here to party. Jin-hyung made me wear socks.”

Jin appears with glitter on his cheekbone and a clipboard in his hand. “Surprise baby shower, bitches! Everyone shut up and get inside.”

Namjoon is carrying an entire diaper-changing station in a box and trying not to trip over a baby swing. “I researched ten different brands and picked the most ergonomic one—”

“HE’S GONNA CRY,” Jin shouts, catching Jimin mid-waddle into the hallway.

And he does. Immediately. Because they all cheer. And they’ve brought gifts. And he’s still wearing Jungkook’s hoodie, and someone made a baby-themed fruit salad, and Hobi’s already putting on music.

And suddenly, the house isn’t just a nest anymore.

It’s a home full of people who love them.

⸻

The house smells insane.

Like sugar cookies, fruit punch, warm alpha musk, and Jin’s luxury omega-grade linen spray all blended into one heady cocktail of Too Much. But Jimin doesn’t mind.

He’s perched on a nest of cushions and blankets, the stretch of his belly soft and prominent under a flowy knit shirt that Hobi definitely bought him six sizes too big on purpose.

Jin is hovering.

“Are you hydrated? Do you need more crackers? That sparkle in your eye—is it joy or blood sugar?”

Jimin giggles. “It’s mostly joy.”

Namjoon is by the window, folding onesies like it’s a high-stakes puzzle. “The brand you picked is great,” he murmurs, nodding approvingly. “Soft seams, omega-threaded cotton. Excellent airflow.”

“You’re folding baby clothes,” Jin says, poking him in the ribs. “Not diffusing a bomb, Joonie.”

“Same thing if the bomb poops,” Yoongi mutters from the couch, where Taehyung is draped over his back like an affectionate jungle cat.

⸻

Taehyung’s wearing a deep V-neck and diamond earrings, and Yoongi’s wearing his most don’t talk to me face—but Taehyung’s scent is all soft jasmine, and Yoongi is absolutely letting it happen.

“Tae,” Yoongi mumbles, “why are you breathing on my neck?”

“I like how you smell when you pretend to hate things.”

Yoongi flicks an ear. “I do hate things.”

“Not me.”

Pause. Then: “…No. Not you.”

Jungkook watches from the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, fondness tugging his mouth upward like it physically hurts to keep it in.

He brings Jimin a warm glass of omega-safe cider, kneels beside him like he always does, and presses a kiss to the top of his bump.

⸻

Later, after the balloons have started drooping and the fruit salad is a melted memory, Jimin curls into Jungkook in the corner of their bedroom while the others buzz around cleaning and laughing in the distance.

The baby gives a tiny kick.

Jungkook kisses the spot, murmurs, “There you are, little one.”

Jimin’s hand slides into his hair. “She's been quiet all day. I think she like your voice.”

“She's gonna know I’m the one who loves you most.”

“You sure about that?” Jimin teases. “What if I love you more?”

Jungkook grins. “Not possible.”

Then he kisses Jimin’s belly again. Slower. More lingering.

And something happens.

The scent in the room thickens—warm honey, crisp ozone, that snap of alpha-omega electricity blooming like spring heat through their bond.

Jimin shivers.

Jungkook freezes. “Oh…”

“You feel it too?”

Jimin’s skin prickles with something raw and ancient. Bonding instinct. Pure. Unfiltered. The kind of heat that has nothing to do with hormones, and everything to do with love.

He nods, breath caught.

Jungkook kisses him again—lower. Softer. Reverent.

“Mine,” he whispers. “You’re mine.”

And just like that, their bond pulses between them. Glowing. Alive. Hungry. Safe.

⸻

They fall asleep later with their foreheads pressed together, both of them completely wrecked by how intense it felt to just exist like this—close, connected, grounded in each other.

But in the middle of the night…

Jimin gasps awake.

His lower back hurts. And not in the way it has been.

Something warm trickles between his legs.

He peels the blanket back, and his heart stutters.

“Jungkook,” he breathes, shaking his shoulder. “Jungkook.”

Jungkook bolts upright, scent already flaring.

“What—?”

“My water just broke.”

And then—

Everything. Changes.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

The house is quiet now.

No more pacing footsteps, no more moaning contractions, no more urgent calls for towels or water or ice chips. Just the soft hush of wind outside the windows, and the quieter, deeper hush of new life settling into its first night on Earth.

Areum is asleep, tucked against Jimin’s chest in the nest.

Her little body rises and falls with every breath. A perfect puff of a sigh escapes her lips, and Jimin—still shirtless, exhausted, glowing—presses another kiss to her forehead like he can’t stop.

And maybe he can’t.

Jungkook watches from across the room. He hasn’t blinked in five full minutes.

“You gonna keep staring at us all night?” Jimin asks gently, smiling without looking up.

“Probably.”

“You look like you’re about to cry again.”

“I might.”

“You already cried.”

“I’ll cry more.”

Jimin giggles, tired and fond. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I just watched you give birth to our daughter, hyung,” Jungkook says, voice barely a whisper. “You could kill me with a look and I’d still say thank you.”

Jimin’s smile wobbles. He holds Areum a little closer.

“Come here,” he says.

⸻

Jungkook climbs into the nest.

Carefully, reverently, like stepping into something holy. He curls around them both, one arm around Jimin’s waist, the other cradling the baby from behind.

Their scents blend instantly—alpha, omega, newborn.

It smells like home.

Areum shifts a little, making the tiniest sound. Jimin stills, heart in his throat.

“Is she—?”

“She’s okay,” Jungkook says, nose against her crown. “Just dreaming.”

“About what, you think?”

“You,” Jungkook murmurs. “The sound of your voice. The rhythm of your heartbeat. How it felt to be safe inside you.”

Jimin closes his eyes. Tears slip free.

“She already loves you,” he whispers.

“She’s going to love us,” Jungkook says. “Because we’re going to love her enough to fill the whole damn world.”

⸻

Later that day, their friends comes in.

They tiptoe. Speak in hushed voices. Jin cries before he even sees her. Namjoon brings a hand-knitted blanket. Tae brings flower crowns (for reasons). Yoongi lingers at the edge, then ends up holding her for forty-five minutes straight.

Areum sleeps through it all, her tiny hands curled like blossoms.

And in the center of the chaos—Jimin, glowing. Jungkook, overflowing. A baby, loved beyond measure.

⸻

That night, after everyone’s gone, Jimin rests with Areum asleep beside him.

Jungkook lies facing him, eyes soft, voice hoarse with emotion.

“You gave me everything I ever wanted.”

Jimin brushes a hand over his cheek. “No, baby. We did.”

⸻

The moonlight spills across the nest. Their bond hums quietly in the dark. And somewhere between exhaustion and wonder, Jimin whispers:

“Let’s do it again someday.”

Jungkook chokes on a laugh. “Hyung. Let me survive this first.”

But he’s already pulling Jimin closer.

Already dreaming about their future.

And little Areum sighs in her sleep—warm, full, content—already wrapped in the kind of love most people only dream about.