✔️ Tongue-Tied ➳ vmin

iv. you're worth it (you're perfect): 🥕9🥕

iv. you're worth it (you're perfect)

Drenched in sweat, Jimin rakes a hand through his damp hair, his breath coming out in harsh pants. Chest heaving, he can feel his head spinning, black spots dancing mockingly in front of his eyes. Pure willpower keeps him on his feet, the only thing stopping his aching feet from buckling beneath him. With perspiration sticking uncomfortably to his skin, he stares at his own reflection in the mirror. A wave of nausea and loathing rises in his chest, a distorted image of himself permanently imprinting itself in his mind the longer he looks.

Bile rises in his throat as he tears apart his own image in his head, mentally picking out all of his flaws.

His movements aren't controlled enough. Sloppy, even. This barely deserves to be called dancing. He looks like he's drowning on land with the way he flails about like some amateur.

Jimin feels sick. Disgusted by the mere sight of himself.

Gritting his teeth, he resumes his vigorous practice, pushing his exhausted body to the limit. He tries to immerse himself in the blaring music, perfecting each motion with as much detail as he can muster, steadfastly ignoring the empty void in his stomach.

He runs through the step sequence over and over again, like a helpless puppet to his own conscience. His footwork is shoddy. Movements lackadaisical. Gestures not sharp enough.

His legs feel like deadweight, his arms like they're made out of lead, but Jimin presses on relentlessly. Every new repetition is worse than the one before it, leaving him all the more unsatisfied. He forces his throbbing legs to propel him into the air and his body to move to the beat.

As he wheezes hard, an intense pain shoots up Jimin's legs like tongues of fire, making him hiss in pain. He staggers, body swaying like a rag doll, near the brink of collapse, his mind fogging over.

"Again," he commands himself. He's about to start another run through when the door flies open, momentarily distracting Jimin from his drills.

Laden with armfuls of bulging bags, Taehyung totters into the studio clumsily, wobbling precariously. Jimin stares, stumped by his sudden appearance at this hour.

"I don't know what you're craving right now," Taehyung offers casually, dumping everything at Jimin's feet with a flourish of his hands, raising his voice to be heard above the loud music. "So I bought them all."

Stupefied, Jimin stares at the pile of groceries incredulously, swallowing back the saliva that starts to pool in his mouth. Taehyung chases after a stray orange, bending down and grabbing the citrus fruit as it rolls across the floor. It takes Jimin a while to snap out of his haze and make himself shake his head.

"I'm not hungry-"

But then Jimin's stomach chooses this moment this very moment to growl loudly. Taehyung arches a perfect eyebrow at him.

"I'm not eating," Jimin manages feebly. His cheeks feel terribly hot, but he dismisses it as from his practice.

"Ah~" Taehyung complains loudly, waving the orange in his hand forlornly. "How can you let my effort go to waste?"

"Then I'll pay you back!" Jimin retorts, trying his best to ignore the enticing aroma of the heap of food.

Taehyung abruptly reaches out and pulls his fatigued body forcefully to the floor. Jimin squeaks in surprise as he plops down next to the redhead.

"Eat." Still gripping Jimin's hand, Taehyung points at the small mountain of food, expression stern as if he's chiding a child.

"Don't wanna." Jimin crosses his arms over his chest in defiance, pouting stubbornly. Again, his stomach makes a racket. Taehyung frowns.