BTS One Shots & Imagines

(Yoonmin) PTSD

It’s roughly 4:30 AM when Jimin suddenly finds himself awake, window blinds hardly drawn, half-moon still making its leisurely way across the sky. He trails his sleep-numb fingers across the unfamiliar set of bed sheets, his entire body engulfed in a fuzzy haze of Tom Ford body spray and remaining warmth.
H

e smiles absently, hardly conscious (although, at 4:30 AM, who could be?) yet still quite satisfied. Last night had been wonderful, as evidenced by their small marathon of Grey’s Anatomy and (now) lack of popcorn in the apartment. Yoongi and him, they don’t live in the same apartment (yet) but Jimin can’t help but feel at home, here, in the other’s mid-city loft. It’s small, cheap, noisy, and not always the warmest (especially in the frigid autumn temperatures), but it’s home. Yoongi is home.

They’ve only been dating for about two months now, but Jimin truly doesn’t feel like they’re taking things too fast. They’re unreasonably attached to each other already, inextricably so, because—Without rhyme or reason—they compliment each other in just about every way. Their tastes, their interests, their schedules—Jimin couldn’t ask for a more perfect match, if he were being honest.

Yet, while it’s something to be proud of, the little beginnings of love they’ve managed to find amongst the bustling streets of Seoul, it’s also a limitation. They’re still new to each other, if you will; just deep enough to know how the other likes their eggs cooked in the morning, but shallow enough to not have hit one other below the belt just yet.
H

e blinks wearily, eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness.
Coincidentally, that’s also when he sees it.

Across the distance of the king-sized bed, which suddenly seems astronomically far in the moment, his eyes meet the freckled plains of Yoongi’s broad, bare shoulder blades. He flushes at the sight of the other’s skin.

Last night had been the farthest they’d dared to go. Jimin remembers finally finishing season 4 of the drama together before crushing their soda cans and calling it a night. They’d brushed their teeth in the same mirror, laughing between gargles of mouthwash and lazily intertwining fingers as they walked the distance to the bed. As per usual, Jimin took the right side as Yoongi made himself comfortable on the left. They’d neglected shutting the blinds, too mesmerized by the twinkling city lights and the different shades of shadows dancing between each skyscraper to care.
F

acing each other, huddled under the comforter to try and escape the brittle October air, they’d held hands, smiling stupidly into the overbearing darkness, drunk off of this insatiable teenage infatuation they’d stumbled upon. As always, Yoongi had leaned forward, pecking him on the lips with a slurred “g’night,” to which Jimin couldn’t help but repeat back. However, one kiss led to a second, which led to a third, which inevitably brooked a fourth, and suddenly, their tongues were tied messily, breath overwhelmingly hot, legs tangled beneath the sheets.

Somewhere along the line, Yoongi’s shirt had been thrown to the floor, the strings on Jimin’s sweatpants having been toyed with. However, mussed up hair and swollen lips aside, they’d eventually separated. Jimin’s certainly not complaining though; he’s completely fine with what they’ve been doing—ecstatic with it, even. Since the beginning, Jimin had been pretty aware of Yoongi’s PTSD—that, and his depression. Intimacy was something he struggled heavily with, not because he was extremely adverse to it, but because he had trouble suddenly thrusting himself into such emotionally demanding situations.

Jimin, while he encouraged it, wasn’t going to push him into anything he didn’t want to do. Although, as they’d gotten to know each other, Jimin’d had come to realize just how fond Yoongi was of hugs, cuddles, and hand-holding. Each time Jimin had managed to snag a moment or two alone with him, he’d always crack that same, gummy smile Jimin was quickly coming to know as his greatest weakness.