Chapter Text
This was all the fault of that stubborn little jar of kimchi that refused to open one lazy Sunday afternoon.
“Okay, this jar is gaslighting me,” Hoseok hissed, banging it against the counter like it owed him ₱500 and a childhood apology.
“Let me try,” Jungkook said, grabbing a spoon like it was a lockpick. “I watched a guy do this on TikTok. You just wedge it in and—ow, no, okay, that’s my finger.”
Namjoon, seated nearby with a mug of green tea and the energy of a man one step away from a full TED Talk, pulled out his phone. “According to WikiHow, if we run the lid under hot water for exactly—”
“Hyung, if you start a ritual right now I swear to god,” Jimin cut in, looking genuinely concerned.
“It’s not a ritual. It’s science.”
“You’re literally chanting, ‘loosen, open, release’ under your breath like a curse.”
Taehyung gasped theatrically. “What if it’s cursed?! What if it’s like… a sealed demon jar?”
Jimin clutched his hoodie tighter. “You mean we’re fighting an ancient kimchi ghost?!”
“That’s not a real thing,” Namjoon said, but he sounded unsure.
Then Yoongi walked in.
Black oversized shirt. Sleep still crusting the corner of his eyes. Hair defying physics like he’d wrestled with his pillow and lost. He paused in the doorway, took in the scene—Jungkook rubbing his thumb, Hoseok with murder in his eyes, Jimin looking ready to cry, and Taehyung holding chopsticks like a pair of exorcist sticks—and sighed.
Without a word, he walked up, took the jar from Hoseok’s hands, grunted once—
Pop.
The lid gave up like it had been waiting for him.
The group froze like a herd of woodland creatures spotting a wolf in a cardigan.
Jimin whispered, reverently, “Did anyone else feel that or was it just my soul leaving my body?”
Taehyung’s eyes were wide. “I think I just ovulated.”
“That’s top-tier wrist strength,” Namjoon muttered, clearly recalculating the laws of biology. “No pun intended.”
Jungkook let out a soft, “Whoa,” like Yoongi had just bent steel.
Yoongi blinked at them, set the jar down with zero ceremony, then walked away—slowly, calmly, the god of silent entrances and exits. His job here was done.
“Did you see his veins?” Jimin whispered.
“Did you see his forearms?” Jungkook whispered louder.
“He didn't even try,” Hoseok said, clutching the counter for balance. “He just… looked at it and it obeyed.”
Taehyung let out a soft, broken laugh. “Kimchi Daddy.”
“No,” Namjoon said firmly, but his voice trembled.
From that moment forward, a myth was born.
And like all myths, it grew—mutated, flourished, became an unstoppable urban legend whispered across group chats and living rooms. They started calling him things like The Silence Daddy and Min Slayer Supreme when he wasn’t around (and sometimes even when he was).
It didn’t help that Jin—Yoongi’s long-suffering, questionably innocent, and deceptively angelic boyfriend—never corrected them.
If anything, he nurtured their delusions like a proud gardener tending to chaos tulips.
---
Like that one time Jimin walked into Jin’s apartment to borrow a pan and found him on a ladder in gym shorts and a loose shirt, struggling to change a flickering bulb.
“Careful, hyung,” Jimin said, eyes already wide, offering a screwdriver like it was a sacred relic. “Yoongi-hyung would kill us if you fell. He probably pins you to the fridge when he’s mad, huh?”
Jin didn’t even flinch. Just took the tool, balanced on the very top rung of the ladder like a deity on a throne, and calmly replied, “He does.”
He wiped a dramatic bead of sweat from his forehead and added with a faint smirk, “But not for the reasons you're thinking.”
Taehyung, who had just come in with a bag of frozen mandu, dropped his phone. It hit the tiles with a thud.
Hoseok, mid-chew, violently inhaled his grape and had to lean on the countertop, coughing like he’d been emotionally assaulted.
Namjoon, always the voice of accidental narration, stared blankly at Jin and muttered, “Yoongi’s energy is terrifying. If he tells Jin to sit, I bet Jin just sits.”
“That’s not even hypothetical,” Jin said with a serene, almost saintly smile. “I have knee bruises to prove it.”
That’s when the final brain cell short-circuited in the room. The collective silence was so loud, you could hear the sound of Jungkook’s dignity leaving his body.
“I'm gonna need to… I need to go cleanse or something,” Hoseok muttered, still wheezing.
“Hyung,” Taehyung whispered, wide-eyed, “You’re living a fanfic.”
“Am I?” Jin said airily, now descending the ladder with grace and just a hint of smug. “It’s just everyday life, really.”
Jimin stood in the middle of the room, fists clenched at his sides. “How does it feel to be god’s favorite, Kim Seokjin?”
Jin pretended to think. “Exhausting. But satisfying.”
Yoongi, meanwhile, never tried to stop them.
Why would he?
The man had perfected the ancient art of maximum mystery, minimum energy, and god-tier side-eye. His resting face screamed, “Don’t talk to me unless you're delivering snacks, confessions, or absolute silence.”
He’d walk into the shared courtyard where everyone usually hung out—sometimes holding a coffee, sometimes a mystery novel, once a baseball bat for no reason—and every time, without fail, the group would freeze like schoolkids caught vaping behind the gym.
“Don’t make eye contact,” Jungkook once whispered, crouched behind a potted plant.
“Too late, he already sensed weakness,” Namjoon replied, ducking down beside him.
Taehyung, wide-eyed, muttered, “We are ants in the presence of a lion.”
And Yoongi? He’d just blink at them. No words. No reaction. Just Yoongi-ing.
Then he’d wander over to Jin like a sleepy, emotionally unavailable cat and curl up beside him on the bench. Sometimes he’d put his head on Jin’s shoulder. Sometimes he’d steal Jin’s drink without asking. Sometimes he’d simply exist.
And that—that—was enough to fuel Jimin’s delusions for days.
“I swear he telepathically told Jin to pet his hair just now,” Jimin whispered, clutching his chest.
“I’m gonna say something crazy,” Taehyung murmured, squinting. “What if he like… bites during—”
“He does,” Jin cut in, calm as a spring breeze, stirring his tea without looking up.
The entire courtyard paused.
“...Excuse me?” Namjoon asked, blinking.
“But not where you think,” Jin added, daintily sipping his cup like he hadn’t just dropped a verbal grenade.
Chaos. Absolute and immediate chaos.
Hoseok’s sunglasses slid down his nose and his mouth opened in slowmo and formed an O. Jungkook had to physically walk in a circle three times to reboot. Jimin, as usual, fell out of his chair.
“You’re KILLING ME, HYUNG,” Jimin screeched from the concrete, kicking his legs. “I’m trying to be normal here!”
“No, you’re not,” Namjoon sighed, rubbing his temples.
“I have a vivid imagination and it’s a CURSE,” Jimin declared, pointing dramatically at Jin like he was on trial. “He says things like that and now I have scenes in my head!”
“What kind of scenes?” Taehyung asked, always ready to stir chaos soup.
“Very illegal ones,” Jimin whispered, eyes wide and haunted. “Like—like Yoongi in leather and Jin with a riding crop and—”
“STOP TALKING,” Jungkook yelled, covering his ears with his hoodie.
“PLEASE keep talking,” said Hoseok at the same time, fanning himself.
Jin just smirked into his tea like the conductor of a very poorly-managed orchestra.
Yoongi, still lounging like a domestic demon, yawned.
He wasn’t oblivious. He heard everything. But did he care? No.
Did he ever defend himself? Also no.
He just glanced at the group like they were mildly annoying pigeons, leaned against Jin’s shoulder, and closed his eyes.
Which, to everyone else, only confirmed that he had Jin trained.
He probably tells Jin when to eat. When to breathe. When to blink. That kind of power isn’t taught—it’s earned.
—Jimin’s 3AM voice memo to himself, titled "Yoongi-hyung is definitely a dom."
Then came The Box Incident. It was a Tuesday. Nothing good ever happens on a Tuesday.
Jungkook was halfway up the stairs, fighting for his life against a box the size of a small fridge. Whether it contained gym equipment, a suspiciously heavy air fryer, or Taehyung’s cursed spoon-duck sculpture, no one knew. What was certain: the box was winning.
“HYUNG!” Jungkook yelled, arms trembling. “ASSISTANCE! I NEED ASSISTANCE—”
Taehyung poked his head out from his door, munching on cereal straight from the box. “Push it harder. Scream if it helps.”
“I AM screaming!”
Namjoon appeared next, holding a book and zero sympathy. “Try shifting your center of gravity.”
“MY GRAVITY IS SCREAMING!”
Then, like a summoned spirit, Yoongi appeared.
Barefoot. Shirt hanging off one shoulder. Hair a disaster. Face completely unreadable.
He didn’t say a single word.
Just approached the box, grabbed it by the edge—one arm, mind you—and lifted it like it weighed nothing. Like it was a paper bag full of marshmallows. Then he turned, expression flat as always, and carried it up the remaining steps.
Not a grunt. Not a comment. No eye contact.
He vanished into Jin’s apartment like a cryptid who only appeared to mock gravity and mortal struggle after delivering the box.
Jungkook dropped to his knees in the staircase, clutching his chest. “...I think I just fell in love.”
“I think I’m pregnant,” Taehyung whispered reverently.
“Bro,” Hoseok muttered, grabbing Jungkook’s shoulders. “Did you feel the vibration? My pancreas twitched.”
“That’s not a pancreas,” Namjoon said, wide-eyed. “That’s submission.”
Then, as if summoned by the chaos, Jin popped his head out of the doorway—glowing, smug, and holding a cup of coffee like he was hosting a morning talk show about how hot his man was.
He glanced down the stairs at the stunned gathering and said with absolutely no shame:
“You should see him in leather.”
Everyone flatlined.
Taehyung and Jungkook made the sign of the cross. Hoseok screamed into his fist. Jimin physically ran away—a full sprint across the courtyard with both hands on his head, yelling, “I’M GONNA NEED A MINUTE—NO, AN ERA.”
“I didn’t even know I had that kink until just now,” Namjoon whispered.
“Leather?!” Jungkook gasped. “What kind of leather?!”
“Don’t ask that!” Taehyung shrieked. “Don’t make me imagine that!”
“You’re already imagining it, aren’t you?” Jin said sweetly before slowly closing the door like a Bond villain in fuzzy socks.
And that was that.
The thing was—they didn’t want to stop believing.
It was too good. Too powerful. The dynamic made sense.
Tiny but deadly Yoongi: the silent, stoic top with ancient demon energy.
Tall, ethereal Jin: the tragic, beautiful sub who secretly enjoyed being manhandled.
They were the power couple of dreams, of nightmares, of the collective group chat's AO3 tag search history.
And every new moment… every smug comment from Jin, every mysterious blink from Yoongi… it just added pages to the mental fanfic timeline.
Jimin even made a secret Google Doc.
Title: “YoonJin: The Forbidden Chronicles”