Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 // Part 4 // Part 5 // Part 6
Part 7 is here after centuries~
Summary: You finally went on a date with Jimin. Everything was good and the chemistry between the two of you hasn’t changed… If anything the date started to remind you why you fell for him in the first place, but as soon as the two of you were about to kiss… You suddenly started to remember why the two of you broke up in the first place. You immediately texted Yoongi and asked for his opinion.. But after thinking things over you knew just what you had to do.
⸝⸝ note: hope u enjoyedd! i had writers block... :(
nsfw, 18+, minors dni
-
''i missed this...'' you say softly , looking down at your legs. jimin smiles at you , placing both of his hands on the sides of your face as he lifts it. he places a soft kiss on your lips and giggles.
jimin then steps forward and stands in between your legs. he places his hands on your sides , running them up the torso part of your body until he reaches your back. he holds onto you and looks down at you. you lock eyes with him for a few seconds before looking off to the side as you get flustered. you felt hesitant about making the next move.
he notices and smirks complacently. you lay flat on your back and stare up at the ceiling. jimin climbs on top of you slowly and hovers over you , his necklace dangling above you. he looks down at you. you nervously swallow , the air feeling tense and hot.
“are you nervous?” jimin asks in a low tone. you avoid smiling , feeling embarrassed that he actually noticed. “only a little.” you admit. he leans down and kisses your jawline. “we can wait.” he whispers. “no no no.” you say shaking your head. “we’ve been apart for so long and i miss you. this isn’t our first time , i’m just being extra self cautious for no reason.”
“i missed you too , but if this is too much , we can wait.” jimin rests his body on top of yours. “it’s fine really. i want you.” you wrap your arms around his shoulders and kiss his cheek. “i missed this.” jimin says. “missed what?” you ask. “you. this. your body. i miss admiring your body.” jimin squeezes your sides. “i said i want you.” you bite your lip as the nervous feelings get replaced with excitement and arousal.
jimin smiles and sits up , slowly rubbing your body and breasts. “perfect.” he says. you giggle and hold onto the sides of your shorts. jimin gets off the bed and holds onto them , your fingers touching. he drags down your shorts , revealing your panties. you suddenly felt embarrassed again , suddenly feeling overly exposed. you cover yourself with your hands and arms. jimin grabs onto them and moves them , bending down and getting on his knees.
he hooks his arms around your thighs and pulls you towards him. you stare up at the ceiling as you feel jimin slowly slide off your panties. he sucks in a cold breath as he begins to kiss your legs. his ticklish kisses against your warm skin made you feel giddy. you giggle , his plump lips brushing against your skin. jimin giggles too , slowly making his way to your inner thighs with each kiss.
his kisses become sloppier and wetter. he kissed both thighs , taking turns on each one. he squeezed them , wanting more than just your thighs. he slightly stands and leaves trails of kisses as he then reaches back up to your neck. he kisses your neck harshly , pulling at its thin skin as he nibbles on it. he stares at you for a moment before speaking. “do you want it?” he asks. you nod , growing impatient with every growing second.
he smirks and stands up straight. he begins unbuckling his belt and tosses it to the side of the room. you sit up , helping him take his pants off. you pull out his cock and bend your head down to suck him off but he stops you. “let me pleasure you.” he whispers. you smile up at him and lay back down.
he gets back down on his knees and pulls your legs apart. he stuffs his face in between your legs , hungrily eating at your vagina. you arch slightly , your body reacting to the rush of pleasure. you put a hand over your mouth , not wanting to show him you were enjoying it just yet. he licks in between your walls , flicking his tongue in circles over your clit.
he grips onto your thighs , picking up the pace. he harshly eats you out , stopping every once and again to leave wet kisses on your inner thighs before resuming again. you put a hand on his head , tugging at his hair as he eats you out. you can’t help but allow soft moans to escape. you hold his head still and grind against it , the feeling of grinding against his tongue made you want to cum already so fast.
when you let go , he reaches and grabs your hand , intertwining your fingers with his. he reaches his other hand and does the same. you keep your legs lifted over his shoulders. again , jimin swivels his tongue in circles over your clit , picking up the pace.
you cry out in pleasure as your legs begin to shake uncontrollably. jimin giggles against your flesh and goes faster until you’re in full orgasm. you jolt and arch your back , staring up at the ceiling. when you finish , jimin stands. you plop your legs down breathlessly as jimin hovers over you and kisses your cheek. your body already felt tired from the feeling of cumming but you wanted more.
jimin begins to take off his shirt , now fully naked. you stare at his body , trying to figure out how someone like him actually existed. jimin sits you up and lifts your arms. he slides your shirt off and wraps his arms around you and unclogs your bra. you take it off and let it fall to the floor. he looks down at your breasts and swallows as his mouth waters with arousal.
“do you want to know how much i really missed you?” he asks you in a seductive tone. you nod submissively , keeping your legs closed tightly. he takes a finger and lifts your chin , placing a gentle kiss on your lips. he puts a hand on the back of your neck as he reaches down and uses the other to pry your legs back open. it doesn’t take long for you to give up as you lean back , keeping yourself propped up with your hands. you lift your legs back up , spreading them. jimin stands in between them and again locks his arms around your legs.
he adjusts you closer to him and spits onto his fingers. he gets his cock wet and strokes it for a few seconds. you look down and watch , getting excited. you whine as you didn’t want to wait any longer. jimin chuckles and grabs onto his cock. he lines up with your vagina and slowly pushes in.
your clit still felt sensitive from cumming only a few moments earlier. you shift uncomfortably as jimin pushes up against you. he holds your thighs. you look up at him and kiss him back as he bends forward and passionately kisses you.
he takes it slow , the wetness from his cock and him eating you out making it easier to fuck you. you shut your eyes , cursing under your breath. “fuck me.” you tell him.
jimin smiles down at you. “beg me.” he teases. you don’t open your eyes yet. “please fuck me.” you beg. jimin slams into you , stroking in and out of you in a fast pace. your eyes flutter open as you let out a shocked moan. you throw your head back as jimin follows your request. the bed shakes erratically , making it hard for you to balance yourself.
jimin grabs onto you and picks you up and holds you in his arms. you wrap your legs around him and hold onto him with your arms around his neck. he bounces you up and down as he continues to fuck you. you stuff your face into his warm neck.
jimin stops and puts you back down on the bed. he pants tiredly , pushing you towards the center of the bed. in a missionary position , he slips his cock back into you. you look off to the side , biting your lip. jimin holds himself up over you as he looks down at you , listening to the sounds of you enjoying his cock.
he grunts and pulls out , grabbing you and standing up on the bed. you instantly get to your knees. jimin strokes himself before cumming onto your cheek. his cum drips down it before falling onto the bed. he rubs it in with his tip before aggressively grabbing at your face and forcing you to look up at him. he runs a finger over your lips and smiles at you.
the moon hung high in the sky, casting a silver glow over the quiet forest. the air was cool and crisp, filled with the scent of pine and earth. you had come here to escape the chaos of the city, seeking solace in the tranquility of nature. little did you know, you weren’t alone.
as you wandered deeper into the woods, you heard a rustling nearby. curiosity piqued, you turned to find him—tall and lean, with relaxed blonde hair that glinted in the moonlight. He stepped closer, his eyes sparkling with mischief and desire.
“ironic meeting you here,” jimin said, a playful grin spreading across his face. you rolled your eyes, not surprised he had followed you here after a big argument. you had always felt drawn to him, even when you were mad at him. now, with the forest as your backdrop, that attraction ignited into something more.
without thinking, you closed the distance, your lips crashing against his. the kiss was passionate, a fierce clash of wanting and need. his hands found your waist, pulling you closer as he deepened the kiss, his tongue teasing against yours.
the soft sounds of the forest faded away as you lost yourself in each other. you stumbled back against a tree, the rough bark pressing against your back as he crowded you. the world around you disappeared, leaving just the two of you and the heat building between your bodies.
“here?” you whispered breathlessly, glancing around to ensure you were truly alone. the thrill of being out in the open only heightened your desire. jimin smirked, his eyes dark with lust. “why not?”
with that, he took your hand, guiding you to a small clearing where the moonlight illuminated the ground. the soft grass beneath you felt inviting as he pressed you down, his body hovering over yours, blocking out the world. he kissed you again, slower this time, savoring every moment.
his hands explored your body, tracing the curves of your waist, the softness of your skin. you gasped as he found the hem of your shirt, lifting it just enough to expose your midriff. his warm touch sent shivers down your spine, igniting a fire within you.
''god, you're so beautiful,'' he murmured against your skin, his breath hot and teasing.
you responded by arching your back, craving more of his touch. he obliged, his lips trailing from your neck down to your collarbone, leaving a path of heat in their wake. you tangled your fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, urging him on.
the forest was alive with the sounds of night, but all you could hear was the heartbeat of desire thrumming between you. you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer as he pressed against you, the friction sending waves of pleasure coursing through both of you.
“please,” you breathed, the need in your voice evident.
he looked into your eyes, his expression a mix of mischief and passion. in one swift motion, he positioned himself, and you gasped at the sensation of him filling you completely. the world around you faded even more, leaving just the two of you lost in each other. everu thrust was met with a soft moan, the sound echoing in the quiet night, mingling with the rustle of leaves and the distant call of an owl.
the connection between you deepened with each movement, your bodies moving in perfect harmony. time seemed to stand still as you surrendered to the pleasure, the forest becoming your sanctuary, a hidden world where nothing else mattered.
as you reached your peak, the world exploded in a flurry of sensations, and you clung to him, your cries mingling with the night. he followed soon after, the two of you shattering into ecstasy beneath the moonlight.
breathless and spent, you lay together in the clearing, wrapped in each other's arms, the forest enveloping you in its serene embrace. the night was magical, and you knew this secret would forever be etched in your memory.
''i'm still mad at you.'' you say, staring up at the bright stars that sprinkled above in the sky, hiding a small grin. ''yeah right.'' jimin says, snuggling his face into your neck as you both lay on the grass.
Pairing: Single father Jimin X Neighbor, Fem Reader
Theme: Strangers to friends to lovers au, neighbors to lovers au, slice of life, No angst only fluff.
Summary:
Park Hyun is the nightmare of complex B. He has been a pain in ass since the day his family moved in. But for some mysterious reason, none of your neighbors have issued a complain yet. Being unable to bear anymore, you take the matter in your own hands and ring his doorbell expecting yourself to unleash whatever you have been suffering from because of the kid.
However, what you don't expect is Park Hyun to be raised by a single father. And that said single father to be an angel wearing a doctor's coat.
Warnings: Mentions of masturbating.
A/N: This is a Patreon exclusive series updating every Thursday. This is a free chapter, the rest of the series will be updated on Patreon only.
P.S: iOS users have to pay $4.50 while my original sub is $3. You can avoid paying extra by using Patreon web version, instead of the application.
Read the next chapter
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 |
You are almost there.
With your right hand, you grip the bed sheets harder, while the left one helps you push harder. A little more, your brain whispers, a little more and you will be there. Your eyes crack open resembling a thin thread. And you see colors, rainbow spread across the white boring ceiling of your apartment.
You are almost there, a little more and you will taste the euphoria. Just a little more - the doorbell rings. Your eyes open, fully, in horror. All the colors are gone and the edge you were looming around, ready to jump - is gone. It’s fucking gone!
You sit up - chest heaving with short, impatient breath. Turning your head you look at the digital clock placed in your night stand. It’s 11:24 in the night. Who the fuck is at your door now?
The doorbell goes off again.
“AAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!” the scream rips off your throat in an absolute burst of frustration and annoyance. Kicking off the duvet you find your discarded pajama pants and panties right on the foot of the bed. Slipping into them, you hurry towards the door as the bell rings again.
Trying to find the culprit as fast as you can, you don’t check the camera at all. And when you swing the door open to rebuke the intruder - there’s no sign of any human being.
“What the hell?” you mutter to yourself.
You were this close to your orgasm, that too, after six months of not getting any action, and you get interrupted by what? A prank?
What kind of bad luck is that?!
Being on the verge of ugly crying, you storm inside your apartment and run towards your bedroom to retrieve your phone. Your doorbell camera has motion-activated recording. So it definitely has records of the person who played this dirty prank on you. Huffing to yourself, you swipe the app open and select the last interaction.
The scene starts playing and you see a kid, barely ten years old or so, pressing the bell and then running away. The same thing repeats for a second and a third time before you see yourself opening the door.
Screwing your eyes shut, you try to calm yourself down.
“It’s a kid. It’s okay. Don’t get angry. It’s alright.” you chant. Yeah.. kids will play and they will learn what’s wrong and what’s right through their games only.
It is a one-time thing. Yup. you can forgive this kid and move on. You definitely can.
—
Except you can not forgive and forget, because the notorious kid does not fucking learn a thing! The doorbell torture continues for a week and each time you try to catch him, he runs like a pro athlete. He even showed you his tongue once!
That brat! The day you catch him, he will face the consequences.
But before you can catch him, he elevates his pranks a level higher. You find him chasing the stray cat you feed through the garden of your block and when you run down to scold him, he has already vanished somewhere!
You swear to the god above - this little devil would be disciplined beyond imagination the day you get to catch him.
—
“... he was continuously ringing my doorbell! My younger son woke up, you know? It was a struggle to put him to sleep in the first place!” the woman whines. While you don’t usually fancy eavesdropping on your neighbors’ daily dose of gossip, you can’t help but stop yourself on your way to the parking space this one time. As you stoop down and pretend to tie your shoelaces, you hear more of it.
“You know what he did the other day? He poured a whole glass of milk from his balcony right onto mine! All my washed clothes got ruined!” another woman complains.
Now you have no doubt about the fact that they are talking about the notorious kid. During times like these you wish you were friendly with these ajummas, only that way you could hoard more information on the kid. But you have had a very strained relationship with them.
They are clearly jealous of your freedom, while you are jealous of the lazy afternoons they seem to have after sending their kids to school.
Anyway, back to the main plot.
“Oh he lives above you? On the seventh floor?”
“Yes. They just moved into the apartment the Kims vacated last month. I heard the kid is a Park.”
“What does the mother do? Not disciplining her kid?”
“I don’t know. I think we should go and talk to her.”
“Yeah, you are right. By the way, did you hear…” the voice fades in the background as the women start walking inside the complex.
So, the kid and his family live on the seventh floor and their last name is Park? Good information indeed. Because the next time he bothers you, you will make sure to bother the hell out of his parents as well!
—
The occasion comes not so long after.
You are in an important meeting with the company’s executives when your phone starts vibrating from the security application.
“An intruder at your door.” The notification says. These kinds of notifications are not normal, they only trigger when someone tries to mess with the door lock, as in incorporating the wrong combination.
While this could be a burglary, an attempted break in - you are fairly sure it’s that notorious kid trying to play just another prank.
Sighing to yourself, you ignore the notification. But it does not stop, not for the next fifteen minutes.
The first thing you do is to check the doorbell cam after walking out of the meeting room and surely enough, it’s the kid.
Great! Great!!! So tonight is the night you get to unleash the frustration you have been nurturing for almost a month now.
Tonight you will show them what it is like to be bothered. Tonight you will give them the taste of their own medicine!
—
Seventh floor, the Parks - nothing tough to find.
The nameplate gleaming under the white lights of the corridor catches your eyes right away. You stomp towards the door and press the doorbell thrice in one go, then twice and then thrice again as if creating music with the tune.
Just when you are about to press on the doorbell again, the door swings open.
It is the moment. It’s the moment that you feel sun shining right on your skin, trumpets playing in your ears, heart galloping inside your chest like a wild mare.
It is the moment you see him, the man at the door, that you find it hard to breathe. Your eyes enlarging, pupil dilating because he is the most beautiful man you have ever seen on this mother earth.
“Oofff…” the sound leaves your lips as your eyes take the man in. his long blonde hair, his plump lips and his ethereal face. God… is he even real or have you died and standing at the gate of heaven now encountering an angel.
“Sorry? But can I know why you have been ringing the doorbell?” he asks, voice smooth and sweet like honey dripping from a honeycomb and there is not even a single hint of cruelty in his tone even after the stunt you pulled.
“I- uh- I…” you gulp, “I am sorry. I might have gotten the wrong door-”
“Appa! Is the pizza here yet?” you hear a kid’s voice coming from the inside and then a pair of footsteps and then you see the devil. The notorious kid.
“Appa?” you utter slowly, looking down at the boy and then up at the beautiful man. Tilting your head, you try to make sense of what’s happening.
So the most beautiful man you have ever seen, the man who looks like an angel, sounds like an angel, is the father of this evil kid? And wait… is he wearing a white lab coat with Konkuk university logo in it? He is a doctor too?
-Request: Can I do a reaction were the reader and the bts members (individual ofc) have sex for the first time (both first time) and while they are doing it, it hurts for the reader but she doesn’t say anything because she wants it to be special then after they finished she goes in the bathroom and cries? I hope this isn’t confusing!-
Thanks for the request!
JIN.
Jin was slightly confused as to why you had immediately got up from the bed to go straight to the bathroom, but he tried not to think anything of it. He noticed how it had been quite a while that you had been gone, so he decided to check on you. As he approached the bathroom door, he heard you softly crying, and Jin’s eyes widened.
“(Y/n)! Are you okay? Did I do something wrong? You can tell me anything, you know that.”
“No! You didn’t do anything wrong, it’s just..”
You trailing off only made Jin worry more, but he was patient and gave you your time to think before you finished your sentence.
“When we had sex it seemed to really hurt me a lot, and I didn’t want to tell you to stop because I didn’t want to ruin the moment. And now I feel like an idiot.”
Jin felt extremely bad for going too rough on you, hating the fact he couldn’t tell by himself that you were in discomfort.
“You should have told me to stop. I’m so sorry, Jagi. Can you come out from the bathroom? I want to hold you.”
SUGA.
Yoongi heard you on the other side of the bathroom door, sobbing ever so quietly. He knocked on the door softly, not wanting to startle you.
“Baby, what’s going on?” He asked, feeling concerned. He felt himself tense up as a thought crossed his mind, but he had to ask about it. “You didn’t want to have your first time with me, did you?”
You was quick to respond to him. “No, it’s not that at all. Of course I wanted to have my first time with you.”
Yoongi felt relief wash over him and he released a breath he didn’t know he had been holding. “Why have you locked yourself in the bathroom? You need to tell me what’s going on.”
You sighed. “I..” You didn’t know how to say it, so you decided to put it bluntly. “It hurt.”
Yoongi already knew what you were talking about straight away, and he frowned. “Baby, open up the door. You know I’d never want to hurt you. You need to tell me next time if it hurts, okay? I won’t be offended. I want you to enjoy yourself.”
RAP MONSTER.
Namjoon was very cautious when you both shared your intimate moment together, asking you if you was okay and if he was going too fast, so he didn’t quite understand why you he heard you crying in the bathroom after.
“Baby,” Namjoon softly cooed, his forehead pressing against the bathroom door. “Why are you crying?”
You wished you could have told him during sex that you had felt pain because you wouldn’t have been in this state otherwise, but of course you didn’t want to tell him to slow down because you wanted him to feel good.
“Please answer me - I need to know.”
You took a shaky breath before answering. “I feel like I’ve ruined everything. You asked me countless times if you should slow down but each time I said no,even though I did feel pain.. I just feel silly. I should have said something.”
Namjoon sighed. “You really should have said something. Your pleasure comes before mine, and it always will.”
J HOPE.
Hoseok was extremely heart broken to hear you, from the other side of the door, in what seemed like, floods of tears. He knew he was the cause of your sadness, but he tried remaining as calm as possible, knocking gently on the door.
“Jagi.. Don’t hide yourself away - talk to me.” Hoseok’s voice was soft, which had made you feel slightly more at ease. You opened the bathroom door, and Hoseok immediately wrapped his arms around you. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”
You nodded. You explained to him that he was being a little too rough, and that it caused you great discomfort during sex.
“I’m so sorry. I’ll be more gentle, and please, don’t hesitate to tell me to stop.”
V.
Taehyung never had wanted to hurt you. All he cared about was you feeling good, and because you hadn’t told him to stop, he got too carried away, lost in how good you felt around him. Once Taehyung asked what was wrong as he heard your faint crying, you told him it was because he was being too rough, and that you felt ashamed with yourself that you didn’t even have enough courage to tell him to stop.
Taehyung dragged you back into bed, peppering kisses on your forehead, and repeatedly telling you he was sorry.
“I should have stopped.. I’m really sorry, (Y/n). You’ve got to tell me when it hurts, okay?”
JIMIN.
Jimin went into complete panic mode when he heard you crying. He didn’t like knowing you were upset, and it made him very nervous that you sprinted away into the bathroom straight after sex. Jimin wanted to give you your own time in the bathroom but he felt himself growing impatient, and his worry for you was suffocating him.
“Hey, why are you so upset? Is it because of me? Did I do or say something wrong?”
It scared him even further that it had taken you a long time to reply. Your thoughts were scattered all over the place, and finding the right words to tell him was a struggle. You didn’t want to hurt his feelings.
“Jimin, you didn’t do anything wrong. It’s my fault.”
“What do you mean?”
You told him how you felt uncomfortable during sex, and he had caused you pain which made you unable to really enjoy your first time.
“Open the door, please.. I’ll make it up to you. I should have known to be careful. God, I’m an idiot.”
JUNGKOOK.
“What did I do? I hurt you, didn’t I? I know I did. I can’t believe I wasn’t gentle with you.”
Jungkook was frantic, telling you numerous things through the bathroom door. He kept blaming himself, feeling extremely shameful he hurt you during the most special time you both would ever experience.
“Jungkook, it’s not your fault..”
“It is! I didn’t make it special enough for the both of us. I can’t apologize enough.”
There was a small gap of silence between the both of you, until Jungkook finally spoke up again. “Can you open up this door and let me make it up to you? And this time I’ll be gentle, I swear.”
Don't Look at Me Like That - Park Jimin (BTS) x You - Part 1
🩰 Pairing: Idol!Jimin (Park Jimin) x Dancer-Choreographer!Reader
Seven years ago, Park Jimin was the most distracting man at a dance intensive in Paris—charming, shameless, impossible to ignore, and responsible for one night neither of you has managed to forget. Now he is building a dance company in Seoul and insists you are the only choreographer capable of helping him do it properly. Seven desperate emails, three unreasonable conditions, one BTS comeback, and several arguments that look suspiciously like foreplay later, you are both forced to admit that the rivalry was never the whole truth.
🩰 Genres: Rivals to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers but They’re Lying About the Enemy Part, Second-Chance Romance, Mutual Pining for Seven Extremely Embarrassing Years, Smut, Banter as a Love Language, Workplace Romance, Secret Hookups Everyone Immediately Notices, Dance as Foreplay, Forced Proximity, Jealous Jimin, Jimin Being Shameless, Reader Being Even Worse, Love Triangle Featuring One Genuinely Lovely Man, Hoseok Fanboying Over Reader While Jimin Suffers, BTS Found Family, Fame and Industry Logistics, Emotionally Avoidant Adults Making Terrible Professional Decisions, Nobody Believes They Hate Each Other
🩰 “They have spent seven years pretending it was rivalry. The problem is that their bodies have never believed them.”
You have always known when someone is performing.
Onstage, at least, people have the decency to admit it.
A dancer can smile through a bad landing, cheat half an inch out of a turn, hold an extension three seconds past the point where the muscle starts begging for mercy. It does not matter. The body keeps records. Give it eight counts and it will tell on you.
People do the same thing. Dancers just use better lighting.
The wings smell like rosin and hot gel and the particular dust that only exists in theaters built before anyone thought to ask what stage floors should be made of.
Sweat, cold cream, the metallic tang of the fly system somewhere above your head.
You come down off the stage still half-inside the performance, the house lights bleeding gold through the gap in the legs behind you, applause collapsing into the low roar of an audience getting up out of their seats, coats, bags, someone's perfume already overpowering the greenroom air before you've even reached it.
Your body is still counting.
It always is, for a while after. Eight counts, eight counts, eight counts, the tempo living somewhere under your sternum long after the orchestra's gone quiet.
You saw it happen from the wings, twenty minutes ago, mid-number — Marisol's landing off the pirouette sequence, the fraction of a second where her weight found the floor wrong. Nobody else would have caught it. The audience didn't. Even half the company didn't, because it was small, and she recovered fast, and recovery is the entire job. But you catch things like that the way other people catch a wrong note in a song they've heard a thousand times. You don't decide to notice. You just do. It's the same instinct that's kept you employed since you were four years old, and the same one that makes you insufferable at dinner parties, according to your mother.
So you don't head for your own dressing room first. You go straight for hers, weaving backstage through the tangle of moving set pieces and stagehands calling clear behind you, letting the muscle memory of this specific building — which door sticks, which hallway is narrower than it looks — carry you there faster than thinking would.
The dressing room is thick with hairspray, sweat, cold cream, and the particular overheated air of an old Broadway theater in December. Around you, the company is dismantling the evening version of themselves. Wigs come off. Makeup disappears beneath cleansing balm. Someone has connected a phone to the speakers and turned the music up loud enough to compete with three separate conversations about where everyone is going after the show.
Marisol is halfway through removing her eyelashes when you find her, one still attached, the other pinched between two fingers, leaving her face in a state of interrupted symmetry. She doesn't look up. She knows exactly why you're standing in her doorway, and she is, visibly, hoping you'll let it go anyway.
You don't.
"Your ankle."
Marisol stops halfway through removing her eyelashes. One is still attached, the other pinched between two fingers, leaving her face in a state of interrupted symmetry.
"What about my ankle?"
"It's swelling."
"It is not."
You look at her. Just look, the flat, unhurried kind of look that has ended more arguments in this dressing room than actual words ever could.
She looks down. Her left ankle has already started pushing against the satin ribbon of her shoe.
"Okay," she says. "It is doing something."
"It's swelling."
"You make everything sound so judgmental."
"Your ligaments don't care about my tone."
You crouch in front of Marisol before she can object, press two fingers carefully along the outside of her ankle, and watch her face.
She flinches. The wince is small and involuntary, gone almost as fast as it arrives, but you clocked it before she could smooth it over.
"You're icing it."
"I'm going dancing." Marisol says it lightly, like the matter's already settled, already reaching for her other eyelash as if the conversation is over.
"You have just spent two and a half hours dancing."
"That was employment. This is different." She says it with her particular cheer, because she knows she's losing and has decided charm is her best remaining strategy.
"You're icing it."
Marisol studies you for a moment, head tilted, weighing the likelihood that she can win this conversation. She has known you for seven weeks. She knows better. Something in her shoulders drops half an inch — the tell-tale give of someone conceding before they've said so out loud.
"You're very controlling for someone who claims not to care about people." It comes out fond despite itself, an accusation with no real heat behind it.
"I have never claimed that." Flat. Immovable. You don't even look up from where you're already reaching for the ice pack.
"You imply it with your face."
"That sounds like a personal interpretation." One eyebrow lifts, just slightly. The closest thing you offer to amusement when you're busy winning an argument.
You rise and take an instant ice pack from the emergency drawer beneath the makeup counter. You crack it against your palm and hand it to her. She accepts it with a sigh dramatic enough for the mezzanine, head tipping back against the mirror like she's been asked to give up a limb rather than twenty minutes of her evening.
"Twenty minutes," you say. "Then compression. If it hurts tomorrow, you tell stage management before warm-up."
"Yes, Mom."
"Your mother would let you go dancing?"
"My mother likes me."
You turn away before she catches the smile pulling at the corner of your mouth. You are not in the business of confirming that you have a sense of humor. It ruins the effect.
Behind you, someone calls your name.
A girl is hovering near the dressing-room door with a program held against her chest like a shield. She cannot be older than sixteen, although the severe bun and the posture say she has been attending ballet classes long enough to have been told that standing normally is a moral failure.
"Sorry," she says immediately. "I know you're probably busy."
You are. You are also still wearing half your stage makeup and one false eyelash. There is a bruise forming beneath your right knee, your toes are numb, and you have approximately eleven minutes before the stage door becomes crowded enough to make leaving unpleasant.
You put the ice pack more firmly against Marisol's ankle anyway.
"What's your name?"
The girl blinks, startled that you asked. "Sophie."
"Hi, Sophie."
She exhales like you have granted her something enormous.
"We studied A Study in Blue at my summer program," she says. "The Vienna recording. I've watched your solo. I don't know, probably fifty times."
"It was better by closing night."
Her face falls, just slightly, the specific crumple of someone who came here hoping for a moment and is worried she's already ruined it.
You soften the statement before she can mistake accuracy for rejection.
"The company filmed the second week. We were still finding it." You gesture toward the program, your tone gentler now than it was with Marisol, something in Sophie's careful posture makes you want to be careful back. "Do you dance?"
"Ballet. Mostly." She says it almost apologetically, like she's bracing for the answer to matter more than it should. "But I want to do contemporary."
"Then do contemporary." You say it simply while you sign her program, like it's the most obvious thing in the world, because to you it is.
"My teacher says I should wait until my classical technique is stronger." Her eyes drop to the program now in her hands when she says it, the specific shame of a kid repeating a rule she doesn't actually believe in.
"Your teacher is afraid you'll enjoy yourself."
Marisol snorts behind you, ice pack still pressed to her ankle, entirely too delighted by the way you just detonated a stranger's ballet teacher in four words.
Sophie's mouth twitches, caught somewhere between a laugh and asking permission for one, her eyes flicking to you like she's checking whether it's safe to find you funny.
"Keep the ballet," you tell her. "It gives you somewhere solid to push from. But don't wait for someone else to decide you're ready to move differently."
You hand it back. Sophie thanks you three times before disappearing into the corridor, clutching the program the way people clutch things they intend to keep for a very long time.
Marisol watches you over the top of the ice pack.
"What?"
"Nothing." Marisol's mouth is doing something it clearly doesn't want to do, pressed flat to keep from spreading into a full grin, and failing.
"You're looking at me." You say it without turning fully around, aware of her eyes on you anyway. You always are.
"I'm looking at the cold, terrifying woman who just changed a teenager's life while wearing one eyelash." The grin wins. It spreads slow and unguarded, the kind she'd deny giving you if you called her on it, one hand still pressed to the ice pack like she's forgotten it's there.
"Her life will survive the interaction." You keep your face carefully unmoved, but there's something at the corner of your mouth that gives you away completely — the two of you speaking a whole conversation neither of you is willing to say out loud.
"Come out with us."
"No." No hesitation. No glance up.
"You didn't even pretend to consider it."
"I considered it yesterday when you asked." Dry, already reaching for your bag.
"That was for yesterday."
"The answer has maintained structural integrity."
Marisol drops her head back against the mirror, a hand over her heart like you've wounded her, though the grin underneath says otherwise — the picture of someone who's accepted defeat but wants credit for the effort. "You are twenty-nine years old."
"I'm aware."
"You're finishing a perfect show eight times a week, men are frightened of you, women want to be you, and you go home every night before midnight."
"Some of us enjoy sleep."
"Some of us are wasting excellent cheekbones." She says it to the ceiling now, mournful, like she's mourning the cheekbones personally.
You start peeling tape from around your toes, not looking up. "I use them at work."
"That sentence is why you're going to die alone." But she's laughing when she says it, already halfway to letting you win.
Your phone vibrates inside your bag. You ignore it.
Marisol's eyes flick toward the sound, sharp with sudden interest, ice pack forgotten. "Secret lover?"
"No."
"You answered quickly."
"Because the answer was easy."
The phone buzzes again. Marisol points at your bag with the ice pack, delighted with herself, eyebrows halfway up her hairline. "That is how every story about a secret lover begins."
"It's probably Lulu."
"Your Manager calls when she wants to destroy your peace. She doesn't email." A beat, considering. "Suspicious."
The phone goes still.
You finish removing the tape, inspect the reddened skin beneath it, and begin packing your things. By the time you've changed into wool trousers and a black sweater, Marisol has negotiated herself into one drink, ankle propped on a second chair, looking entirely too pleased with the compromise.
You make her promise to send a picture of the swelling before bed.
She calls you emotionally repressed, cheerfully, like it's a compliment.
You tell her to use compression.
At the stage door, Sophie is still standing with her mother beneath the yellow spill of the theater lights, staring at the signature on her program like it might fade if she looks away too long.
You pretend not to see. You are good at that when necessary.
December in New York insists on being cold, in the specific, theatrical way certain people insist on being difficult. The walk home starts to feel less like six blocks and more like an episode of survivor.
A wind that finds the gap at your collar no matter how you angle yourself against it, breath fogging under streetlights strung with wreaths the size of tires.
But you still insist on walking.
Storefronts glow gold and red down the avenue. Somewhere behind a lit window, a family is doing the things families apparently do this time of year — a tree half-trimmed, someone's kid pressed to the glass, the noise of people who like each other enough to be loud about it. You walk past three different apartments with their curtains open just enough to see it happening.
Your own family's version of a holiday gathering tends to involve a conference room, a shared calendar, and at least one attorney present to make sure nobody's version of "jolly" contradicts anyone's trust agreement.
Your mother is in Gstaad. Your father is wherever your father currently is. You stopped expecting a tree by the time you were nine and stopped minding somewhere shortly after that, or told yourself you had, which by now amounts to roughly the same thing.
The apartment is on the eleventh floor of a prewar building on the Upper East Side that your grandmother has owned outright since before your mother was born — high ceilings, crown molding nobody makes anymore, a view of a sliver of the park if you stand at exactly the right angle in the kitchen.
You have never had to think about rent in your life and you don't pretend otherwise; it would be its own kind of performance, and you don't do those. It's simply a fact of the architecture of your life, the way perfect pitch is a fact for some people. You didn't earn it. You also didn't apologize for it. Both things are just true.
Lulu is sitting at the kitchen island when you get home, surrounded by open folders, colored tabs, and the remains of what appears to have been a violent encounter with a container of pad thai.
She does not look up when you enter.
"You're late." Lulu doesn't look up, but her voice does the thing it always does when she's already three moves ahead of you, half-distracted, half a challenge.
"It's twelve fourteen."
"You usually reject human connection faster." A small, satisfied smile, still aimed at her folders.
"Marisol's ankle was swollen."
"Of course it was." Lulu says it the way you'd acknowledge weather — inevitable, mildly interesting, not worth further comment.
You hang your coat and glance at the folders spread across the island like evidence at a crime scene, organized with a precision that only Lulu is capable of imposing on chaos. Three are familiar. One is new.
"No."
Lulu finally looks up, chopsticks paused mid-air, eyebrows lifting with delight because you know she's been waiting all night for exactly this opening. "You don't even know which one I was going to show you."
"The red tab is the film."
"It's Toronto." She says it like the city alone should settle the argument, like you're supposed to be dazzled into agreement.
"No."
"The director won an award." A little more insistent now, leaning forward on her elbows.
"For directing. Not choreography."
"They're offering executive credit."
"They want my name on promotional material while someone else tells actors to move vaguely in rhythm."
Lulu closes the folder without protest, entirely unbothered, already three steps ahead in her own head — she never fights for a pitch longer than it takes to gauge whether it's dead. "The green one?"
"Two years."
"In Europe." Said hopefully, like geography might tip the scales.
"Still two years."
"The revival?" Her voice softens slightly here, testing, because she already half-knows the answer to this one too.
"I danced that role when I was twenty-three."
"You would be choreographing it." A small, careful point. She's not conceding yet.
"I would be rearranging furniture in a house I already know."
Something in Lulu's face shifts at that — not defeat exactly, more like she's just caught something she wasn't fishing for. She doesn't push. She just watches you for a second too long, the way she does when she's decided something is worth being gentle about instead of winning.
She watches you put your bag on the counter, something assessing in her expression now, the look of a woman doing math she isn't ready to say out loud yet.
"You're bored."
"I'm tired."
"You're bored and tired. They're different diseases."
"I'm not bored."
"You corrected the spacing in the finale last Thursday."
"The spacing was wrong."
"You were performing in it."
"I had time."
"That," Lulu says, pointing a chopstick at you like a gavel, "is not the defense you think it is."
You open the refrigerator. She has stocked it, because she knows the contents of your refrigerator are reduced to sparkling water, mustard, and half a lemon by the end of every performance week.
There is a labeled container on the top shelf.
EAT THIS BEFORE YOU DECIDE COFFEE IS DINNER.
You take it out without commenting.
Lulu smiles down at the folders, pleased with herself in the specific way she gets pleased when she's already won something and is simply waiting for you to notice.
"You're welcome."
"I didn't say anything."
"You took the container. We've been friends eight years. That was practically a sonnet."
You place it in the microwave.
Luisa Reyes has managed your career for four years and your life for considerably longer, although she disputes this description whenever contracts are due and embraces it whenever you are making a bad decision. She danced until her right knee made the choice for her, rebuilt herself with a speed that frightened everyone who loved her, and now runs your calendar with the efficiency of an air-traffic controller operating under active threat.
She is also the only person alive permitted to call you an idiot more than once in the same conversation.
Your phone vibrates again.
Lulu's attention moves to it, quick and unmistakable, like a bird catching motion in its periphery.
You watch your own phone buzz on the counter and know, with the specific certainty of someone who has spent seven years refusing to forget a name, exactly whose it is.
You do not want Lulu anywhere near this information. Not because it's a thing. It is, categorically, not a thing.
It's an email, unread by choice, from a man you last spoke to seven years ago, and the fact that you could still describe the exact weight of his voice if someone asked is simply a detail of memory, not evidence of anything. But Lulu has a talent for taking a non-thing and turning it, through sheer force of interest, into an event with its own timeline. You have seen her do it to smaller material than this.
So you turn the phone face-down, too fast, and know immediately it was the wrong move.
"What?"
"Nothing." You say it too quickly for it to land as nothing.
"You have been home forty seconds and have already hidden your phone." Lulu's eyes track the motion like she's clocking evidence, chopsticks abandoned entirely now.
"I turned it over."
"Like a woman with nothing to hide." One eyebrow climbs, slow and merciless.
"I have nothing to hide."
"Wonderful." She holds out her hand, palm up, utterly serene, she knows she's already won and is simply enjoying the formality of asking. "Give it to me."
"No."
"Then we have identified a hidden thing." She says it gently, almost kindly, which is somehow worse than if she'd gloated.
The microwave beeps. You use it as cover — turning away, retrieving the container, buying yourself four seconds you don't actually need.
Lulu keeps her hand extended anyway, patient, entirely willing to wait you out. She has waited you out before, over bigger things than this. She will, apparently, wait you out over this too, and you already know — with the same certainty you know a turn is late before the dancer's even landed it — that you are not going to win this one.
"You have contracts to review," you say.
"I reviewed them. You rejected them through color-coded osmosis." Lulu says this with the weary patience of a woman explaining gravity to someone who keeps falling up.
"I'm eating."
"You are stalling." She points her chopsticks at you like an accusation.
"I am chewing."
"You haven't taken a bite."
You look down at the fork in your hand, hovering exactly where it's been for the last thirty seconds. She's right, which is somehow more irritating than if she'd simply been wrong. You stab a piece of chicken with more force than the chicken has earned.
Lulu leans back in her chair, arms crossed, the particular satisfaction of someone who has just watched her opponent walk directly into the trap she set. "You're unbearable."
"I'm excellent. This is why you pay me."
"My family office pays you." You say family office the way other people say the government — with a small eye roll built in.
"Right. Thank your grandfather for me."
"He's dead."
"And yet, still contributing." You keep your face perfectly straight when she says it, which is what finally breaks her — a startled laugh she tries and fails to swallow, hand flying up to cover her mouth like she can stuff it back in.
You take a bite so you do not laugh either. It doesn't entirely work.
Your phone buzzes again against the stone countertop, loud in the small silence left behind by her laugh.
Lulu's eyes cut toward it immediately, sharp and delighted, then back at you, then back at the phone — the exact rhythm of someone watching a rehearsal room where she can already tell something's about to go wrong before anyone else has clocked it, and is thoroughly enjoying the anticipation.
"Is someone dying?"
"No."
"Are they threatening litigation?"
"No."
"Did you accidentally join a cult?" She asks this one completely seriously, like it's a real and recurring risk in your life.
"Not recently."
"Then who has sent you" — she leans across the island, craning for the screen, entirely without shame about it — "seven emails?"
You pick up the phone, fast.
Too late. She's already seen enough.
Her eyes narrow, the gleeful kind of narrow, a bloodhound catching a scent. "HYBE? As in the K-pop company, HYBE?"
"It's work."
"HYBE does not usually email you seven times in 40 minutes unless you've kidnapped an entire boyband." She says it like a woman citing case law.
"It's not HYBE."
The answer comes out before you can stop it — too fast, too specific, and you watch the exact moment it lands, Lulu's whole face going still and delighted at once, like a cat that has just heard a can opener from two rooms away.
That is the problem with spending eight years beside someone who used to make her living reading bodies for a stage. Lulu does not need a confession. She just needs one badly chosen verb, and you have just handed her one, gift-wrapped, with a bow.
"Who is it?"
"No one."
"A specific no one or a general no one?" She's grinning now, fully, chin propped on her hand, in absolutely no hurry to let this go.
You unlock the phone because refusing to look at it has become more conspicuous than looking.
Seven messages sit beneath the same thread.
The first arrived eleven days ago from an official HYBE address. Formal subject line. Formal introduction. Formal description of a privately funded dance center and resident company in Seoul. They wanted someone to help develop the artistic program, build the choreography department, train the inaugural ensemble, and consult on portions of an upcoming tour.
You had read it twice. Then archived it.
The second arrived today.
This time, the signature at the bottom was personal.
Park Jimin.
Of BTS
As if there were another one.
As if your body hadn't already recognized the name a full second before your brain caught up and supplied the rest of it — the group, the stage, the quality of a man who has spent a decade being watched by more people than most countries have citizens, standing in a rehearsal room in Paris seven years ago telling you your turn was late when it was not late, it was simply not the turn he would have done.
You had archived that one too.
This did not stop him.
"What kind of work?" Lulu asks.
You open the first message and slide the phone across the island.
She reads quickly, eyes flicking down the screen with the speed of someone who's skimmed a thousand contracts and knows exactly where the important numbers live. Her eyes pause at the salary.
Actually pause — stop scrolling, go back up, read it again like she thinks she misplaced a decimal.
"That is offensive."
"Yes."
"I mean offensively high." She sets the phone down flat on the counter, very carefully, like it might be worth something and she doesn't want to be the one who drops it.
"I know."
"He is offering you more money than God." She says it with real reverence, the tone usually reserved for describing someone's engagement ring.
"God has never had to negotiate with HYBE's legal team."
"No," Lulu agrees, delighted, "God's never had to do a lot of things. Must be nice." She sets the phone down flat on the counter, still shaking her head at the number.
"That continues to be irrelevant." You say it flatly, but Lulu's already laughing under her breath, shaking her head at you, the specific laugh she saves for the very small percentage of your sentences that are, technically, indefensible.
Lulu scrolls to the bottom. Then back up. Then down again, mouth pressing into a shape that means she is doing arithmetic she isn't ready to announce.
"Park Jimin."
You concentrate on the food.
"Personally led by Park Jimin," she reads aloud. "Park Jimin will oversee the creative direction. Park Jimin has personally requested—"
"I can read."
"Apparently you can also ignore one of the most famous men on earth with an efficiency I find deeply inspiring."
"He's not asking as one of the most famous men on earth."
Lulu's thumb stops over the screen.
There it is again. The badly chosen verb.
Her eyes lift very slowly, sharp now, delighted in the specific way she gets delighted right before she ruins your evening.
"How is he asking?"
You take the phone back.
The second email is shorter than the first.
I wanted to contact you myself. This is not an endorsement arrangement, and I am not looking for someone who will lend their name to the center and leave. I want someone who can help me build it properly.
The third includes a link to an interview you gave six months ago about choreographer ownership and dancer longevity.
You remember the interview. The publication had a small circulation outside the dance world. Your mother had not read it.
Jimin had.
I agree with what you said about companies treating dancers as temporary equipment. I don't want to build another place that does that.
You had stared at that line longer than the others. You are not going to tell Lulu that. You are barely willing to tell yourself that.
The fourth email arrived after you opened the third and failed to respond.
I know you saw the first three.
Lulu reads it over your shoulder, eyebrows arching.
"Oh, I like him."
"You don't know him."
"No, but I support his commitment to the bit."
"He is not funny."
"That sounded personal."
"It was factual."
The fifth email is the longest. You have read it four times.
I have met with other choreographers. They are talented. They also agree with everything I say before I finish saying it.
I cannot build this with someone who agrees with me because of my name. I need someone who will tell me when an idea is bad, even if I've already spent money on it. Especially then.
You are the only person I know who would enjoy doing that.
You reach for the phone before Lulu gets to the next line.
She catches your wrist, quick, delighted, entirely without mercy.
"Absolutely not."
"Lulu."
She reads aloud.
I also think you are the only person who can help me make this what it should be.
Something small and traitorous shifts beneath your ribs.
It did the first time too. In a rehearsal room in Paris, seven years ago, when he looked at you like you were the only correction in the room worth listening to and then spent three weeks pretending he hadn't meant it that way.
Not because he called you talented. People have been calling you talented since you were too young to understand that talent is usually the least interesting thing about an artist.
Because he said only.
Because Park Jimin, who once spent three weeks contradicting every correction you gave him on principle, has spent seven years becoming one of the most exacting performers in the world and has still decided there is something he cannot do without you.
Lulu looks at your face, reading it the way she reads everything — instantly, without asking permission.
You remove your wrist from her hand.
"It's manipulative."
"It's effective."
"That doesn't make it less manipulative."
"It usually does in marketing."
"It's not marketing."
Lulu's smile arrives slowly, the particular smile that means she has just decided something about your evening that you have not yet agreed to.
"No," she says. "I don't think it is."
You open the sixth email.
It arrived 20 minutes ago.
For the avoidance of doubt, Paris does not need to be discussed. It has nothing to do with the offer.
Lulu stops breathing.
You lock the phone.
She blinks at you, delighted, predatory, already halfway out of her chair.
"No."
"Luisa."
"I am going to ignore you just called me my full government name. Unlock it."
"I'm going to bed."
"Unlock the phone."
"You have the important information."
"I have the word Paris and your face doing something I have not seen since—"
"You haven't seen my face do anything."
"Your face has filed for political asylum."
You stand, carrying the container toward the sink.
Lulu follows you around the island, quick on her feet even in socks, the particular energy of a woman who smells a story and has never once in her life let one go unfinished.
"Is he Paris?"
"That is not a complete question."
"Is Park Jimin the man from Paris?"
"There was no man from Paris."
"You went to a private dance retreat in France seven years ago, came home furious, refused to discuss one particular dancer, and watched every performance he posted for the next six months."
You turn.
"I did not."
"You used my laptop."
"Once."
"You were still logged into your account."
"That proves nothing."
"It proved his name, but I was respecting your privacy." She says this with the particular gravity of a woman who has clearly been sitting on it for years. "I thought maybe you were becoming an ARMY. I thought, okay, she likes their music, that's normal, half the world likes the music. And then I did the math — the dates, the way you got quiet for a week after you came back from France, the fact that you never once mentioned his name out loud but somehow knew his tour schedule — and I decided some things are not my business until you make them my business."
"There is no math."
"There is extensive math. I minored in it."
"You minored in dance."
"I contain multitudes."
You turn back to the sink so she cannot watch your face do whatever it is currently doing.
He wasn't — you correct yourself, silently, because there is no version of this you are willing to say aloud, even to Lulu, even at midnight, even after eight years of her knowing you better than most people who share your blood.
He is Park Jimin.
Was, seven years ago, a twenty-three-year-old with something to prove and a body that argued with every correction you gave him on principle, in a rehearsal room in Paris that smelled like rosin and cold spray, where you disliked him within eleven minutes of meeting him and disliked him more with every week that followed, right up until the week you stopped disliking him in any way that was useful to either of you.
You have never discussed what happened after that. Not with him — you have not spoken one real word to him in seven years, not once, not at an awards show you both happened to attend, not through any mutual acquaintance foolish enough to try to bridge the gap. And not really with Lulu either, though she has clearly built her own theory of the case out of six months of suspicious internet activity and a laptop you forgot to log out of.
You have watched his career since. Out of spite. That is the version you have always told yourself, and you intend to keep telling yourself that version for as long as it remains structurally sound, which — you are aware — has been considerably longer than spite usually lasts.
The uncomfortable truth, the one you are not saying out loud in your own kitchen at midnight, is that a man does not send seven emails to someone he successfully forgot. And you have a reasonably confident suspicion, based on nothing you could defend in a court of law, that he has been keeping an equally detailed, equally denied account of you for exactly as long.
The email chain currently sitting on your phone is not really a job offer.
It's a confirmation.
The phone vibrates in your hand.
Both of you look down.
The last email has arrived.
There is no formal subject line this time. No company language. No careful explanation of the center, the company, the contract, or the reason he has decided to break seven years of mutually enforced silence.
Just one word.
Please.
Lulu reads it beside you.
For once, she does not immediately say anything.
The apartment hums around the silence — the refrigerator motor, the pipes knocking somewhere inside the old walls, a taxi leaning on its horn eleven floors below. Your food is getting cold in the sink. Your body still carries the show in small places: adhesive at the base of your neck, rosin between your toes, the ache beneath your right knee.
You look at the word again.
Jimin does not ask twice.
At least, the version of him you knew did not. The twenty-three-year-old who would repeat the same turn until his feet bled but would rather lose a limb than admit he needed help. The man who could charm an entire room and still bristle whenever you looked at him for half a second too long, as though you had found a door he did not remember leaving open.
Seven years, and apparently he has learned how to ask.
Or he has become desperate enough to try.
Lulu nudges your shoulder, gentler now, some of the delight softening into something more serious.
"He said please."
"I can read."
"In writing."
"Yes."
"Save that for the divorce attorney."
You turn your head.
"As If."
"You know what I mean."
Unfortunately, you do.
You should archive it.
The job would mean moving to Seoul with almost no preparation. It would mean leaving Broadway before you have properly decided what comes next. It would mean placing yourself in a studio with a man you have spent seven years insisting, mostly to yourself, that you no longer think about.
It would also mean building something from the floor up. A real company. A real program. The kind of work none of the folders on the island had managed to offer.
Something difficult enough that you might fail at it.
Something he believes only you can do.
Lulu watches you open the reply window, arms crossed, and for once says nothing — just watches, the way she watches you before a show, when there's nothing left to fix and the only thing left to do is see what you do with it.
"I am not accepting," you say.
"Of course not."
"I'm requesting the full proposal."
"Naturally."
"This is a professional decision."
"Everything about your face agrees."
You begin typing.
Send me the complete artistic plan, operating structure, rehearsal schedule, and the actual authority attached to the role. Not the version written by your legal team.
You pause.
Then add:
And if you mention Paris again, the answer is no.
Lulu reads over your shoulder.
"You know that mentioning Paris in the sentence forbidding him from mentioning Paris still counts as mentioning Paris."
You press send.
"Go home, Lulu."
"I live here when your life gets interesting."
"It isn't interesting."
Your phone registers the email as delivered.
Three dots appear almost immediately beneath it.
Lulu sees them.
You see them.
Neither of you comments.
You have always known when someone is performing.
The problem with Park Jimin has never been that you cannot tell.
The problem is that he has always known when you are too.
It is considerably harder to pretend you are indifferent to a man when his face is forty feet tall.
You discover this before you have technically entered Seoul.
The airport has been warning you for several hundred meters. Seven faces rotate across illuminated screens above baggage claim, disappear behind advertisements for cosmetics and credit cards, then return in coordinated black tailoring beneath the announcement of BTS’s first full-group comeback in four years. Their music follows you through customs at a volume low enough to qualify as ambiance and high enough to make escape impossible. By the time you step outside, Park Jimin has attempted to sell you a phone, a duty-free fragrance, and something involving a bank account you are not eligible to open.
You lower your sunglasses despite the fact that it is February and the sky has the exhausted grey of a city that has not seen direct sunlight in days.
Beside you, Lulu wheels two suitcases through the automatic doors and stops.
“Oh,” she says.
You keep walking.
“Y/N—”
“Don’t.”
“I haven’t said anything.”
“You inhaled with intent.”
“I just think you should prepare yourself.”
“For what?”
Lulu points.
A bus moves through the airport traffic lane, wrapped from end to end in a comeback advertisement. Jungkook occupies the back third. Taehyung and Jin are somewhere in the middle. Jimin’s face covers the section directly beside you, enlarged to the point that one eye is nearly the size of your head.
He is looking over his shoulder at the camera with his mouth parted and his hair falling across his forehead in a way that probably required twelve people and a wind machine to appear accidental.
The bus pauses at the light.
His enormous face pauses with it.
Lulu looks from the bus to you.
You look straight ahead.
"Oh, this is going to be so much worse than I thought." Lulu says it slowly, drawing it out, watching your face like she's reading a scoreboard.
"I don't know what you mean." You keep your eyes fixed pointedly on the crosswalk light, which has not changed, and will apparently take its time about it.
"Your face."
"My face is fine." It is not fine. You are aware it is not fine. This does not help.
"Your face just saw a ghost with excellent bone structure and beautiful lips." She's grinning now, delighted, tilting her head to get a better angle on whatever your expression is currently doing.
"He looks ridiculous." You say it too fast, too flat, the specific overcorrection defending a position you know is already lost.
"He looks expensive." Lulu tips her chin toward the bus, entirely unbothered, like she's appraising a painting rather than a forty-foot photograph of a man you have spent seven years insisting you don't think about.
"He is advertising public transportation."
"He is advertising an album. The public transportation is carrying his face." She says this with the patient authority of someone explaining a very simple concept to a child.
The light changes. The bus pulls away, taking Jimin's left eye with it, and you feel your shoulders drop half an inch you didn't know you were holding.
You release the handle of your suitcase only long enough to adjust the cuff of your coat — a small, precise motion, entirely unnecessary, the kind of thing your hands do when they need something to be busy with.
Lulu watches this. Watches all of it, actually, waiting for exactly this reaction since the plane landed.
"You're nervous."
"I have been on a plane for fourteen hours." You say it like it settles the matter.
"You flew first class." She raises an eyebrow, entirely unconvinced.
"Time still passed."
"You slept for nine of those hours." A small, satisfied smile now, building toward something.
"I rested my eyes."
"You drooled on a pillow that probably cost more than my first car." She's fully grinning now, arms crossed, clearly enjoying herself far too much.
"I did not drool."
"I took a picture." She says it with the calm confidence of someone holding evidence and in absolutely no rush to produce it.
You turn to her.
She smiles brightly and begins walking toward the line of waiting cars.
The cold reaches through your coat as soon as you step beyond the shelter of the terminal. Seoul smells like jet fuel, winter air, and coffee from the kiosk near the taxi stand. Drivers hold signs in gloved hands. People move around you with luggage and phones and the contained urgency of arrivals. You have been here before for work, but never for long enough to learn the city beyond studios, hotels, and the interiors of company vans.
Never when Park Jimin was waiting somewhere inside it.
Not waiting for you personally, you remind yourself.
He has a project. You have a contract. The fact that he sent seven emails to secure that contract does not change its professional nature.
The driver waiting beneath your name bows and reaches for your luggage. Lulu hands hers over before you can stop her, then climbs into the back of the black van and slides across the seat.
You settle beside her.
The car has barely left the airport when she begins counting.
“One.”
You look out the window.
A BTS advertisement covers the side of a building near the expressway.
“Two.”
A digital billboard changes from a skincare campaign to all seven members walking toward the camera.
“Don’t.”
“I’m collecting data.”
“You’re being annoying.”
“These are not mutually exclusive activities.”
The city gathers around the windows as the van carries you farther from the airport. Bridges, apartment towers, traffic pressed into narrow lanes. Comeback posters appear at bus stops and convenience stores. Their faces cover the glass outside a department store. A coffee shop has placed cardboard cutouts near the entrance. Someone has decorated a street-facing window with purple lights and seven names spelled in silver lettering.
“This is objectively insane,” Lulu says.
“They are famous.”
“I understood that concept academically.”
“You manage performers.”
“I manage dancers. Nobody has ever wrapped your face around a city bus.”
“I would sue.”
“You would approve the final image and then sue.”
You pretend not to hear her.
Another bus passes in the opposite direction. This one carries the full group, although Jimin is closest to the window again, smiling as though he knows you are trapped in traffic beside his face.
You hate the photograph.
You have seen it before.
It appeared online three weeks ago. You had been awake after a show, stretching your hip on the living-room floor, when the first promotional images were released. You had looked at the group photographs because the costume construction was interesting. Then at the individual photographs because understanding the visual direction required context.
Then at Jimin’s photograph three times because the lighting was strange.
You had not saved it.
You had, apparently, committed it to memory.
Lulu turns in her seat.
“How much did you actually know?”
“About what?”
She gestures at the city outside. “This.”
“I know who BTS are.”
“That was not the question.”
“They’re one of the largest music acts in the world.”
“Still not the question.”
You look at her.
Lulu folds her hands in her lap. “When you met him, was he already this?”
Your attention returns to the window.
The honest answer is yes.
The more honest answer is that you had refused to care.
Paris had been too hot that summer.
Not pleasantly warm — hot enough that the old studio windows stayed open all day and accomplished nothing beyond letting traffic noise interfere with the music. Twenty-four dancers, twelve companies, six weeks of contemporary training that cost enough to require justification.
Park Jimin arrived forty minutes late on the second morning, baseball cap on, two apologetic staff members trailing behind, the attention of the entire room following him without being asked to.
You knew the type. Trained young, praised often, accustomed to rooms rearranging themselves around him. You did not expect to like him. You were, initially, entirely correct.
"You don't like me," he said, day nine, standing beside you at the barre like the observation cost him nothing.
"I don't know you."
"Is that different?"
It should have stayed that simple. It did not.
He stayed after rehearsal every night, taping his own ankle, repeating combinations until his shirt darkened, working like being second-best in any room was a private emergency. You started answering his questions. He started listening to your corrections instead of just charming his way past them. Weeks in, you caught yourself doing the thing you'd promised yourself you wouldn't — thinking of him not as an idol who danced, but as a dancer who happened to be famous.
That distinction turned out to be the whole problem.
There was a duet neither of you could finish. A studio at eleven at night, everyone else gone, rain against the high windows. There was a moment neither of you anticipated the other, for once, instead of fighting for the lead.
You are not thinking about what happened after that. You have not thought about it for seven years.
What you will allow yourself to remember is the morning after — a rehearsal, an audience of twenty-two dancers who did not need to hear what they heard, and a sentence Jimin said that turned something private into entertainment for an entire company. You said something back. Something aimed precisely enough to land exactly where you wanted it to.
Neither of you apologized. The truce was gone before lunch.
He went back to Seoul. You went back to New York. You told yourself you hated him. It was simpler than admitting how much you'd respected him before he ruined it — and infinitely simpler than admitting that hatred, it turned out, was not incompatible with knowing exactly how someone took their coffee, or how they liked to be touched.
"Your eye is twitching."
You blink and find Lulu watching you from the other side of the van, chin propped on her fist, studying your face with the unhurried focus of someone who has already decided this is going to be the highlight of her week.
"It is not."
"It absolutely is." She says it with real satisfaction, like a doctor confirming a diagnosis she's been hoping for.
The city moves beyond her shoulder. Another billboard. Another comeback announcement. All seven members in profile this time, Jimin standing near the center, jaw doing something unreasonable in fifty-foot lighting.
Lulu follows your gaze before you can redirect it. Her whole face changes — eyebrows up, mouth already curving into the specific shape it takes right before she says something you'll regret her saying out loud.
"Did you sleep with him?"
You turn so fast the seatbelt catches against your coat, half-choking you on your own scarf.
The driver's eyes remain professionally, diplomatically fixed on the road, a man who has clearly transported worse conversations than this one and intends to survive this one the same way.
"Could you lower your voice?"
"He doesn't speak English."
"You don't know that."
Lulu leans toward the front seat, entirely undeterred, already treating this like due diligence. "Sir, do you speak English?"
The driver meets her eyes in the rearview mirror, utterly unbothered.
"A little."
"Wonderful," you say, dragging a hand down your face. "Excellent work, everyone."
Lulu smiles at him, apologetic and completely insincere, and settles back into her seat like she's just gathered useful intel. "So?"
"This is not a conversation for the car."
"That is a yes." She says it triumphantly, pointing at you like she's just solved a case.
"It is not anything."
"You have spent seven years referring to Paris like it was a natural disaster." She ticks it off on her fingers, delighted with her own memory. "Hurricane. Earthquake. 'The incident.' I have heard you call it the incident, Y/N."
"It was an intensive."
"Did the intensive have abs?"
You look out the window again, jaw tight, refusing to dignify that with anything.
Lulu presses both hands over her mouth, eyes going wide over the top of them, the exact expression of someone watching a plot twist unfold in real time. "Oh my God."
"Please stop."
"You slept with Park Jimin." Muffled, through her fingers, entirely too gleeful for someone supposedly scandalized.
"Lower your voice."
"You slept with the man on the bus."
"You have officially gone insane."
"That does not make the information less significant." She drops her hands, fully invested now, twisted sideways in her seat to face you properly.
"It happened once."
"Once?" Her eyebrows climb higher, delighted by the specificity, like you've handed her a gift she wasn't expecting to unwrap this early in the ride.
You say nothing. You look, very deliberately, at absolutely nothing out the window.
Lulu's hands slowly lower, and something in her expression shifts — the teasing easing back just slightly, replaced by the sharper, more attentive look she gets when she's actually paying attention instead of performing outrage for sport.
"Y/N."
"It was seven years ago."
"That was not the question."
"It was a long night."
Her eyes close briefly, like she's receiving spiritual guidance from somewhere above the van's ceiling. When she opens them again, something has clicked into place.
"And then he hurt your feelings."
"He did not hurt my feelings."
"You refused to hear his name for almost a decade." She's counting on her fingers again, methodical now, building a case.
"I have heard his name."
"You changed the radio station in a dentist's office."
"I didn't like the song."
"You don't speak Korean."
"I can still dislike production choices." You say it with total conviction, chin lifted, daring her to argue.
Lulu studies you for several seconds, and for once, doesn't. She just watches — really watches, the amusement settling into something quieter — and then she reaches across the seat and squeezes your knee.
The gesture is so unexpectedly gentle that you stop mid-breath, halfway through preparing your next defense, and just let her hold on for a second.
"I'm going to destroy him," she says. Calm. Certain. Like she's confirming dinner reservations.
You stare at her.
"With professionalism," she adds, entirely serious, releasing your knee to sit back with her arms crossed. "I represent you now. I have standards."
"You are not destroying my employer."
"He's not your employer. Technically the company is."
"The center is privately funded by him."
"Then I will destroy him while respecting the corporate structure." She says it like this is obviously the reasonable compromise, nodding once like the matter's settled.
You pull your sunglasses down over your eyes, done negotiating.
Lulu pats your knee once more, entirely too pleased with herself.
"Don't worry. I'll be subtle."
"That is the least reassuring sentence you've ever said."
The suite has two bedrooms, a living room larger than your first New York apartment, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the river, the city smeared gold and glass below. It is, in the specific way of hotel rooms designed for people who never see the bill, entirely too much.
There are flowers on the dining table.
White lilies.
Not orchids. Not roses. Not the safe, anonymous arrangement any competent assistant would order for a business trip. White lilies, exactly the way you've ordered them for yourself since you were nineteen years old and finally had your own apartment to fill with them, a fact you cannot remember ever telling him, a fact you're fairly certain you never told him, which means he noticed. Once. Seven years ago. And filed it away.
There's a card tucked between the stems.
You tell yourself you're not going to read it. You read it.
I remembered. I hope that's still true.
Something in your chest does something you don't have a polite word for. You stand very still with the card between two fingers, willing it to mean nothing, willing yourself to believe it's coincidence — a devastating coincidence, the worst kind, the kind that requires him to have thought about you specifically enough to remember a detail you'd have sworn you never gave him.
Lulu watches you read it twice. She doesn't say anything, which is somehow worse than if she had.
You shower. Wash fourteen hours of airplane air off your skin, stand under water hot enough to loosen the knot between your shoulders, and by the time you're back in the bedroom in a robe, Lulu has opened three suitcases and laid your clothes across the bed like she's staging a trial.
"Our car's at seven-thirty," you say. "This is a contract meeting."
"Mhm." Lulu isn't listening. She's holding up the black dress — the one with almost no back — against her own body, studying it in the mirror with the focus of a general reviewing artillery.
"Absolutely not."
"It says you take contracts very seriously."
"It says I have no internal organs."
"It says your organs are private." She drops it onto the bed, already victorious.
You reach for the navy suit folded beside it. She slaps your hand away without even looking.
"He spent seven years knowing he hurt you and still put his face on public transportation."
"I don't think the bus placement has anything to do with me."
"Don't defend him." She holds the dress out, arms extended, patient as a woman with all the time in the world and none of your objections. "You flew across the planet after he begged you in writing seven times. He thinks he won."
"It's a job."
"He thinks he won."
You look at the dress. Black silk, clean lines, a back that exists mostly as a technicality. You know, with the flat certainty of someone who has worn it before, exactly what it does to a room.
You take it anyway.
Lulu's smile turns unbearable. "This doesn't mean anything," you tell her.
"Of course not."
Twenty minutes later you step out of the bathroom. The dress fits the way it always has — maybe better, your body having spent seven years quietly getting even more furious on your behalf. Lulu turns from the mirror, lipstick still raised halfway to her mouth, and just — stops.
"Oh," she says. "He's going to hate you."
"That's the goal."
"Mhm."
You catch your own reflection over her shoulder and don't entirely recognize the effect — hair pinned back, bare shoulders, the kind of breathtaking that isn't trying to be anything, which is exactly what makes it work. Nothing about it says seven years. Everything about it says you should have thought about this before you sent the seventh email.
Lulu grabs her coat, tosses yours at you, and heads for the door with the specific energy of a woman preparing for battle she has no personal stake in and every intention of enjoying.
"Alright, that is a revenge dress." she announces, one hand on the doorframe, chin lifted like she's about to lead a cavalry charge. "Let's go, Lady Diana. Let's go slay some dragons."
You stare at her.
"That sentence means nothing. Lady Diana didn't slay dragons. Lady Diana was a princess."
"She had presence, Y/N. Work with me."
You're still laughing — helpless, undignified, entirely unplanned — when the elevator doors open downstairs.
This is a professional dinner.
The dress is a coincidence.
You are, demonstrably, lying to yourself about at least one of those things.
And Park Jimin, somewhere across Seoul, is about to learn that seven years have done absolutely nothing to improve your patience.
The restaurant occupies the top floor of a building in Cheongdam, behind an entrance discreet enough to suggest that anyone who needs directions cannot afford to eat there.
The car deposits you beneath a black awning at exactly seven twenty-eight. Lulu steps out first, surveys the entrance, then turns back toward you with the solemn expression of someone preparing to send a close friend into active combat.
“Last chance to fake food poisoning.”
She reaches for your coat before the driver can and holds it while you step onto the pavement. Cold air moves beneath the hem of your dress, sharp against your bare legs. Through the restaurant windows, Seoul glitters in fragments—headlights, glass towers, the reflected glow of advertisements that have followed you across the city all afternoon.
At least none of them are visible from here.
“You look terrifying,” Lulu says, settling the coat over your shoulders.
“Thank you.”
“I meant it lovingly.”
“You usually do.”
“And your ass looks divine.”
“Please develop another interest before we go inside.”
“No.”
The host recognizes your reservation immediately and leads you through a corridor lined with dark wood and low lighting. The restaurant smells faintly of charcoal, citrus, and something expensive being reduced in a copper pan. Private dining rooms sit behind sliding doors, each one far enough apart to keep conversations from travelling.
You almost appreciate the discretion until the host stops outside the last door.
Lulu leans closer.
“Do you need a safe word?”
“For dinner?”
“For him.”
You look at her.
She smiles. “Just checking.”
The private room sits behind a door that slides rather than swings, opening onto floor-to-ceiling windows that hold the whole glittering sprawl of Seoul at night — the kind of view that costs more than most people's rent, offered here like it's incidental.
Park Jimin is standing in front of the table.
One hand is in his pocket. The other checks his watch, an absent, restless motion, like a man who has been ready for twenty minutes and has run out of ways to occupy himself.
He is still blond.
A shade lighter now, pushed back off his forehead instead of falling loose the way it did in Paris, and you find yourself absurdly, uselessly thrown by the difference anyway — the particular golden edge of it catching the window light, softer than you remember, like even his hair has learned some kind of restraint in seven years.
His hair looks like it simply grew this way, like the color was doing him a favor the whole time and nobody told you. It suits him in a way that feels almost unfair. Almost natural. You hate that you notice the difference in under three seconds.
The suit is black, tailored close enough to make the fitting itself sound like a small act of violence — no tie, shirt open at the throat, the kind of quiet, expensive restraint that doesn't announce itself and doesn't need to.
For several seconds, the room becomes inconveniently quiet.
His eyes find you first — not the dress, not the room, you — and something moves across his face before he has time to arrange it into anything more polished. His jaw shifts, almost imperceptibly, the smallest fracture in composure. His lips part around whatever he was about to say to his manager and the words simply don't arrive.
Then his eyes move.
Not far. Not obviously. Far enough that you clock it — the exact half-second his attention drops to the neckline of the dress, follows the line of black silk down, and catches somewhere it has no professional business catching before returning, with visible effort, to your face.
Personal victory arrives warm and immediate beneath your ribs.
You keep your expression perfectly neutral. You have had considerably more practice at that than he apparently has.
Beside him, someone clears their throat — a manager, hovering a respectful two feet back — and Jimin blinks like he's been startled out of somewhere private.
Then he smiles.
There it is. The exact smile that once convinced twenty-two dancers in Paris that language was optional, that a man could get away with anything as long as he delivered it with enough sincerity behind the eyes. Older now. More controlled. Sharpened by seven years of knowing precisely what it does to a room, and precisely when to spend it.
"I'm so glad you're here, Y/N."
Your name doesn't just leave his mouth. It rolls off his tongue slow and deliberate, landing somewhere between a secret and a confession, like he's been waiting seven years for a reason to say it out loud again and has decided, apparently, to make the most of it.
Shameless. Utterly unrepentant.
Seven years, and he has not changed even slightly.
His English is almost fluent.
You resent this immediately.
"Jimin."
His gaze drops again, shameless now that he knows you noticed the first time — no attempt to disguise it, no flicker of embarrassment, just an open, unhurried look that lands somewhere south of your collarbone and stays there a beat too long.
"You look—"
"Employed?"
Lulu makes a strangled sound beside you, quickly disguised as a cough.
Jimin's smile widens, slow and unbothered, like your interruption is exactly the response he was hoping to provoke. "I was going to say beautiful."
"That would have been inappropriate for a contract meeting."
"Then I'm glad you interrupted me."
"You usually are."
His manager steps forward before either of you can improve upon the situation, the practiced motion of a man who has clearly done this exact maneuver before — inserting himself at the precise moment a room threatens to combust. He introduces himself in English, polite and careful, bows, welcomes you to Seoul, asks about the flight, says they appreciate you accepting the project on such short notice.
Lulu shakes his hand, entirely pleasant, entirely unarmed-looking, which is how you know she's about to cause a problem.
"We haven't accepted the full project yet."
The manager's smile holds, though something behind his eyes recalibrates. "The contract was signed."
"The preliminary contract was signed."
"It includes the full term."
"Subject to final approval of the artistic structure."
Jimin looks between them, one eyebrow lifting with open interest, like he's watching a match he has no stake in and every intention of enjoying. You look between them too, arms folding loosely, letting Lulu do exactly what you brought her here to do.
His manager turns slightly toward Jimin, positioning himself with such subtle protectiveness that another person might miss it. Lulu moves half a step closer to you with considerably less subtlety, chin lifting, shoulders squaring like she's decided this is a formation now.
Jimin notices. Of course he does. His gaze settles on Lulu, curious, assessing, faintly delighted. "You must be Lulu."
She tilts her head, not blinking. "You must be Paris."
His manager closes his eyes. Only for a moment, recalculating his entire evening.
Jimin looks at you.
You study the arrangement of glassware on the table with great interest.
"Interesting," he says.
"Is it?" Lulu asks, all innocence.
"You've told her about me."
"She has told me almost nothing about you. I formed my opinion from the silence."
"Lulu."
"What? I'm being charming."
"You're threatening the employer."
"I haven't threatened anyone."
Jimin slides one hand into his trouser pocket, mouth curving further, entirely too entertained for a man supposedly under attack. "I feel a little threatened."
"You should."
His manager says something quietly in Korean, low and urgent. Jimin answers without taking his eyes off Lulu, easy and unbothered, and whatever he says makes his manager's mouth tighten as though suppressing either a sigh or a deeply inappropriate laugh.
"What did you say?" Lulu asks.
"That I like you."
"No, you don't."
"I could."
"You hurt my client and best friend's feelings."
The room changes.
Not dramatically. No one stops breathing. No glass breaks. But Jimin's smile loses a fraction of its ease, something flickering behind his eyes that wasn't there a second ago — surprise, maybe, or the beginning of it.
His manager looks at you, quick and searching. Lulu looks at Jimin, entirely unrepentant. You consider, briefly and seriously, walking directly back to New York and changing your emergency contact information.
"I did not say that," you tell her.
"You did not need to."
Jimin's eyes return to yours. The humor is still there, but something else has moved beneath it — something more careful, more exposed than he probably intended to let show in front of three witnesses and a maître d'.
"I didn't know she was hurt."
"You didn't ask," Lulu says.
His manager steps in fast, smooth, practiced. "I think perhaps there has been a misunderstanding about the purpose of tonight."
"Yes," Lulu says. "You think this is dinner. I think this is discovery."
"Lulu."
She raises both hands, the picture of surrender, entirely unconvincing.
Jimin laughs.
It is quiet, unguarded, and far too familiar, a sound that arrives before he seems to have decided to let it, head tipping back slightly, the performance dropping away for one unscripted second.
You look at him.
He is already looking at you, laughter still settling in the corners of his mouth.
"Still bringing someone else to fight for you?" he asks.
Lulu turns toward you slowly, delighted, silent, waiting.
His manager's expression becomes alert, watching you the way you'd watch a match about to be lit.
You fold your arms beneath your coat. "Still confusing basic loyalty with weakness?"
"No." Jimin's gaze flicks toward Lulu, considering, almost fond. "I think she could kill me."
"She has considered it," you say.
"I have a list," Lulu confirms, entirely serious.
His manager straightens, visibly alarmed. "A list?"
"For legal reasons, it is figurative."
Lulu smiles at him, sweet and unbothered.
You are not entirely certain it is figurative.
Jimin steps closer. Not enough to be improper. Enough that the faint scent of his cologne reaches you — something warm beneath the clean edge of citrus, familiar only in the dangerous way certain memories live inside the body before the mind gives them permission. Your pulse does something inconvenient. You do not let it show.
His attention travels over your face, slow, deliberate, cataloguing.
"You cut your hair."
Your hair is longer than it was in Paris. You don't correct him. You let him be wrong, mostly to watch what he does with it.
"You got better at English."
"I practiced."
"Clearly."
"I had motivation."
"Threatening foreign choreographers?"
"Understanding when they insult me."
"You managed without vocabulary."
His mouth curves, something warmer sliding into it. "You noticed."
"I notice distractions."
"And yet. You came."
"You sent seven emails."
"You answered the last one."
"You begged in the last one."
His manager looks at him, alarmed anew. Lulu lights up like she's just been handed the winning lottery numbers, leaning forward with both elbows on the table.
Jimin's expression does not change, carefully composed, chin level — but the tips of his ears begin turning pink beneath his blond hair, a small, involuntary betrayal that no amount of composure can override.
You feel a satisfaction so pure it should probably embarrass you.
It does not.
"In writing," you add.
His manager says his name in Korean with the weary tone of a man discovering new information about his employer in front of hostile witnesses, rubbing at his temple like this evening has aged him considerably.
Jimin finally looks away from you, jaw tightening slightly. "The first six emails were professional."
"The sixth mentioned Paris."
"The sixth clarified that Paris would not be mentioned."
"By mentioning it."
"I was establishing a boundary."
"You don't establish my boundaries."
"I was respecting one."
"You created it."
"You were already going to create it."
"Then you should have waited."
"For what? Email eight?"
Lulu covers her mouth with both hands, shoulders shaking. His manager stares fixedly at the table, a man who has fully checked out and is simply waiting for the meal to end.
You take one step toward Jimin.
He does not move back. If anything, something in his stance settles, like he's been waiting for you to close that particular distance all night.
"You said you would stop after the third."
"You ignored it."
"That was an answer."
"No, that was avoidance."
"You're an expert now?"
"I had seven years to study."
The words leave him easily. Too easily — no performance behind them, none of the practiced ease from thirty seconds ago. For the first time since the door opened, neither of you has a response ready.
Jimin's gaze stays on yours, steady, unguarded in a way that catches you off balance. The room around him softens at the edges — the table, the city lights beyond the windows, your respective guardians standing nearby and silently reconsidering every decision that led to this evening.
Seven years to study.
The line should sound like another joke. It does not, and you both seem to notice it at the same time, a small, mutual falter neither of you acknowledges out loud.
Then his eyes lower to your dress again, and the softness disappears beneath something openly, unapologetically appreciative.
"You wore black."
You glance down as though the color has surprised you. "A remarkable observation. Your English really has improved."
"I remember you wearing black."
"I own several colors."
"Not when you want to win."
Lulu turns away, shoulders shaking harder now, no longer bothering to disguise it as anything else.
You narrow your eyes. "Win what?"
Jimin steps aside, gesturing toward the dining table, unbothered, entirely too pleased with himself.
"You tell me."
The gesture opens his jacket slightly. The shirt beneath it fits close enough that you can see the movement of his breathing. His hair falls across one eye, and he pushes it back with a ringed hand without breaking eye contact, unhurried, like he has all the time in the world to be looked at.
He is flirting with you.
Not the careless, generous flirtation he once distributed across studios and hotel bars, spread thin enough for anyone to catch a piece of it. This is deliberate. Focused. Aimed at you specifically, and far more shameless than it was in Paris because he now possesses both the language and the confidence to make certain you understand every part of it.
You should find it irritating.
You do.
You also become acutely conscious that the back of your dress is almost entirely open.
Jimin's gaze passes over your shoulder, locating the missing fabric. His eyebrows lift, just barely, just enough. The reaction lasts less than a second.
It is enough.
Lulu catches your eye. Her expression says everything.
Divine.
You refuse to give her the satisfaction of agreeing out loud.
His manager moves toward the table and pulls out one of the chairs, apparently deciding the evening has a better chance of surviving if everyone is seated and provided with food.
"We have prepared an agenda," he says.
"Excellent," Lulu answers, already reaching into her bag. "We have revisions."
"Of course you do," Jimin says, resigned and amused in equal measure.
She smiles at him. "You're learning."
He looks at you again, something quieter settling behind his eyes.
"Yes," he says. "But I already knew."
There is something unbearable about the certainty in his voice. As if seven years have not changed anything essential. As if he still knows how you enter a room, how you choose a dress when you intend to make a point, how silence is not the same thing as surrender.
As if you have not spent those same seven years learning him from photographs, performances, interviews, and every piece of work you watched while telling yourself professional curiosity was a sufficient explanation.
His manager gestures toward the table. Lulu does not move. Neither do you.
Jimin glances between the three of you, then exhales through a smile, hands spread slightly, the picture of a man conceding a point he never actually planned to fight.
"Should we take our seats?"
"You first," you say.
"Still don't trust me behind you?"
"I don't trust you anywhere."
"That wasn't true in— before."
His manager makes a small choking sound. Lulu's head snaps toward you, eyebrows somewhere near her hairline.
Jimin's face becomes luminous with satisfaction, the specific look of a man who has just been handed exactly the reaction he wanted.
You smile.
It is not a kind smile.
"This dinner hasn't started," you tell him, "and you're already violating one of my conditions."
"You haven't given me the conditions yet."
"You knew I would have them."
"I wanted you to have them."
You should leave.
Jimin's eyes drop to the open back of the dress. This time, he does not bother pretending otherwise — his gaze lingers, open and unhurried, something unguarded crossing his face before he can smooth it back into something more careful.
The expression on his face is worth the flight.
Worth the billboards.
Almost worth the bus.
You hand the coat to the host and walk past him toward the table, spine straight, chin level, refusing to give him the courtesy of watching you do it.
Behind you, Lulu whispers, "Personal victory," with enough pride to suggest she selected the dress for precisely this outcome.
You take the chair opposite Jimin. He sits across from you, his manager on one side and Lulu on the other, dividing the table into two protective camps that have already declared war without bothering to establish terms.
Jimin reaches for the water, unhurried, watching you over the rim of the glass. "So," he says. "How badly are you planning to make me suffer?"
You unfold your napkin over your lap, not looking up.
"I have three conditions."
His smile returns, slow, delighted, entirely too confident for a man about to hear them.
"Only three?"
"For now."
He leans back in his chair, blond hair brushing the collar of his suit, and looks at you the way nobody else in the room would dare to — not the careful, filtered attention people give a stranger, and not the reverent, distant kind people give a stage. Direct. Unhidden. The look of someone who has decided, somewhere in the last ten minutes, that pretending not to look is no longer worth the effort.
It is going to be a very long night.
You have always known when someone is performing. The body tells the truth eventually — a missed count, a held breath, a pair of dark eyes lingering half a second longer than they should.
Across the table, Park Jimin smiles as though he has nothing to hide.
You know better.
The problem is that, judging by the way he is looking at you, so does he.
And somewhere underneath the conditions you're about to lay out, underneath the seven years and the seven emails and the dress you'll never admit you wore for him, is the quiet, inconvenient fact that you have not finished deciding which one of you is actually winning tonight.
You place your water glass down.
“For the first month, you personally attend every rehearsal connected to the resident company’s inaugural program.”
Jimin’s smile remains.
Author's Note
OMG OMG OMG!! here we have it friends 🖤 the first part of DLAMLT — Jimin's story, in this wonderfully chaotic universe of The B-Side Series. if you're new here, hi!! hello!! come sit, grab a cookie from the back, let me tell you a story
so this is part of a whole collection i'm writing for all seven members, and this is the FOURTH one to be published. we've got What Happens When You Fall, which is Namjoon's (slow burn, medical setting, will absolutely ruin you in the best way), and The Real Thing, which is Yoongi's (a fake dating premise that stopped being fake approximately five minutes in) — both of those are complete!! and i'm currently posting The Space Between Us, which is Jin's (marriage, distance, learning how to come back to someone — that one's going to take its time and it's going to be worth it)
and now: Jimin's
yes, you can absolutely read each story as a total standalone. but they are all interconnected, bc i am apparently a madwoman standing in front of a corkboard with red string connecting seven different men's love lives into one universe and i regret nothing
WITH THAT BEING SAID — if you're not new here, come here, let me kiss your forehead, thank you thank you thank you for following me down every single one of my unhinged rabbit holes. i mean it
confession time: i have discovered that i enjoy writing jimin an EMBARRASSING amount. i am already bias wrecked. send help. actually don't send it, i am having way too much fun over here and i refuse to be saved
also i need to formally go on record that writing dance scenes might be the single hardest thing i have ever done as a writer. and i say this as someone who wrote an entire fic with real orthopedic surgical accuracy in it. bones? fine. tibias? no problem. but describing MOVEMENT, making choreography feel alive on a page instead of just "and then she did a spin" — dear god. have mercy on me. it's humbling in a way very few things are humbling
this was supposed to be a small teaser and i ended up writing the entire first chapter instead, so. that happened. the next part is coming soon, but there's a full schedule you can check HERE for what's dropping when
and if you want to be added to my permanent taglist — you are so welcome here, just send me a DM or drop a comment and i'll add you 🖤
okay i love you all go read about these two idiots who hate each other so much they wrote each other seven emails about it
Tag list: @whoisbts @sexytholland @btsevxn @kacythecarat @granataepfelchen @goawaysha @unknownbeknowst @joonmonjagi @cherryblossom1234567890 @blamgyuuuu @swagtimemachinecherryblossom @leftmensh @mikrokookiex @busanbby-jjk @jungkook97l @singularitypromise @angelarin @cherrycheolie @proudnoona @leeknowsbigtoe @pleasantheartsworld @lobbera @pinklasagna04 @idk-what-myurl-shouldbe @genu7 @jkwritez
Tags: fluff, explicit sexual content, very personal.
SFW:
His humor is a gift, carefully unwrapped for u. He’ll immediately notice when u have a bad day, then appears in the doorway wearing ur frilly apron as a cape, striking a dramatic superhero pose. He’ll send u a perfectly timed, ridiculously exaggerated slow-mo video of himself tripping over nothing in the living room, just to hear ur surprised laugh through the phone. He studies what makes u giggle – a specific silly face, a terrible pun, an impromptu dance to elevator music – and he hones it. Your joy is his happiness.
His hugs are legendary for a reason. He does not just grab u, he envelopes u. He opens his arms and u step into his space; he closes them around u like he’s sealing in warmth. One hand cups the back of ur head, fingers threading gently through ur hair. The other always on ur waist, or spreads wide on the small of ur back, pressing u firmly, securely, against his chest. He often lets out a deep, contented sigh, his chin resting over ur head or shoulder. In that hold, u feel both utterly protected and like u are his shelter. He’ll sway slightly, a barely-there rock, and whisper, “Mm. So perfect.”
Watch him when he thinks no one is looking. The way his soft, elegant fingers carefully straighten a crooked picture frame. How he examines a fallen leaf on a walk, turning it over to see the intricate veins, his expression one of quiet wonder. He touches the world softly, thoughtfully. That same delicacy is reserved for u – the way he brushes a stray hair from ur face, his thumb tracing the arch of ur eyebrow, his hands cradling ur face as if you’re made of the most fragile glass.
When you're overwhelmed, he doesn't ask for a list of what u need. He observes, assesses, and acts. “Okay,” he’ll say, voice low and steady. “Give me your phone. Go take a bath. I’ll order food, handle the texts, and you are not to think about any of it for the next two hours.” It’s not controlling; it’s relieving. He creates a space where u can truly shut down because he’s got the wheel, and u trust his hands completely.
He cannot sit still if you're working. You try to cook, he's immediately behind you, washing the vegetables you just set down, his hip subtly bumping yours. “What do i do next,” he murmurs, observing ur moves and waiting for ur next request. He finds purpose in partnership, in sharing the mundane load. Folding laundry becomes a quiet, intimate ritual, his fingers brushing yours as he passes you a sock.
grocery shopping with him is an adventure. he’ll put things in the cart u didn’t ask for—a weird fruit he wants u to try, a fancy chocolate bar “for later,” a silly-shaped gummy candy “because it looked lonely.” the bill is always higher (will never let u pay), but the experience is worth it.
he sends u pictures of things that makes him think of u. a cup of coffee perfectly placed on a windowsill. a puppy he saw on his walk. a sunset. captioned simply: “thought of u.” his world is constantly filtered through the lens of ur presence in his life.
he loves teaching u small things about his world. how to do a dance step, the meaning behind a lyric he wrote, how to cook a simple dish his mom taught him. he gets so focused and gentle in his explanations, his eyes shining. sharing his knowledge is sharing a piece of his soul.
he has a “comfort voice.” when u’re sick or sad or just tired, his normal playful tone drops into something lower, smoother, like warm milk. he uses it when comforting u or reading to u. it’s a vocal blanket.
he’s ur personal temperature regulator. if u shiver, his jacket is already around u. if u sweat, he’s fanning u with a pamphlet or his hand, gently wiping ur face. he’s constantly attuned to ur physical comfort, adjusting the environment around u like he’s ur own living thermostat.
he celebrates ur tiny victories like they’re national holidays. u finished a work task? “let’s get ice cream!” u finally fixed that wobbly shelf? “my genius baby! i’m so proud!” his enthusiasm makes ur ordinary achievements feel extraordinary.
he’s the first to notice ur new things. a new earring, a new pen, a new shade of lip balm. he’ll point it out immediately. “that’s new. it’s pretty baby. suits u.” his attention to the tiny details of ur existence makes u feel seen in a way no one else does.
he has a specific scent that is just ‘jimin’. it’s not just his cologne; it’s his skin, his clothes, his natural smell mixed with clean laundry and warmth. when u bury ur face in his chest, that scent is instant calm. he knows this, so he leaves his hoodies at ur place strategically.
His phone always in his hands, except lots of messages, especially if ure working separately:
“Babe you there? Miss you already T.T”
“Saw a blue bird today. Thought of you ☺️”
“Is that cafe good? Should I order lunch? What are you eating?”
“Finished my schedule! Be home in 40 mins exactly. Don’t start the movie without meeeeeeee!”
“Love you. <3 <3 <3” (sent roughly every 20 minutes).
he keeps a "comfort kit" in his bag/car for u: painkillers, a hair tie, pads/tampons, mints, a portable charger, a spare pair of socks. u only find out when u need something n he produces it like magic.
he will literally drop anything if u say his name in a certain tone. from across the room, if u just say “jiminie...” softly, he's at ur side in seconds. “yes? what do you need?”
if u cough once, he appears with water n honey. if u sniffle, he's checking the thermostat. his caretaking is immediate n instinctual.
he’s a magnet for animals and kids, and u love watching it. a cat will wander over to him on the street. a kid in a park will offer him their toy. he interacts with them with the same gentle, focused respect he gives u. seeing that purity reflected back at him from the world confirms everything u know about his heart. ㅤ♡ྀི
NSFW:
Sex with him is a study in overwhelming sensation and relentless closeness. He does not simply take you from behind; he molds his body to yours, his chest a solid wall against your back, one arm banded like iron across your ribs, the other hand tangled in your hair, pulling just enough to arch your neck for his teeth. He whispers filth into the shell of your ear, each word a puff of hot air. “This cunt was made for me. It sucks me in like it's starving. You are starving for me, aren't you?” His thrusts are deep, punishing, designed to erase all thought, all space between you.
he’s obsessed with making u cum first. multiple times. it’s his mission. he’ll eat u out until ur thighs r shaking, then kiss his way up ur body, whispering “just one more, baby, i know u can give me one more,” before sliding in. coming before u isn’t an option for him. ur pleasure is his prerequisite.
he loves when u beg. but not pathetic begging—frustrated, needy begging. when u grind against his thigh whining “jimin, please,” he’ll smirk, palming ur ass. “please what? use ur big girl words. tell me exactly what ur cunt is asking for.” he makes u articulate ur filth, and it makes u hotter.
Hes a big bully in bed. Not always but sometimes he laughs at u, especially when he fingering u, ur pathetic words and moans turns him on sm he can’t help it but bully u for it. “Aw jiminie fuck me pls, i need ur cock in me pls. Do u listen to yourself ,baby? You sound so pathetic. So cute. Im gonna ruin you.”
his strength snatches ur breath away. he can lift u and carry u to the bed while still inside u, not breaking stride. he’ll hold u up against the shower wall, water sluicing over his flexed biceps as he pounds into u, ur moans echoing on the tiles.
spanking is a whole ritual. he doesn’t just spank. he warms u up with firm rubs, then delivers sharp, crisp smacks that sting so good. he’ll make u count them. if u lose count, he starts over. “we’re doing this properly, sweetheart. focus.” the mix of pain and his controlled focus is intoxicating.
after rough sessions, his aftercare is mother-hen level. he’ll apply aloe to any red marks from his grip, kissing each one. he brings u chocolate and water. he cradles u, rocking slightly. “my brave girl. u took me so well. so perfect.” the whiplash from beast to caregiver makes u fall for him all over again.
he’s a vocal fucking mess in bed. low grunts, guttural “fucks,” sharp inhales. when he’s close, his moans get high, breathy, so pretty—a crazy contrast to the rough way he’s fucking u. hearing that break in his control is everything.
The audio tapes. Oh, the audio tapes. They're his secret weapon. He'll send them when he's traveling. Just a voice memo, sometimes 30 minutes long. At first, it's just his soft voice telling you about his day, missing you. Then his breathing will hitch. You'll hear the faint, slick sound of lube, then the slow, rhythmic stroke of his cock. His voice goes thick, dreamy. “Thinking about your mouth... god, the way you look up at me...” The sounds get wetter, faster. You can hear his pre-cum, the slow twist of his wrist on the tip. He moans your name like a prayer, then a curse, then a sob. The climax is raw, shuddering, and often ends with a shaky breath and a soft, tearful “I love you so much it hurts.”
sometimes he wants to be used. not in a sub way, but in a ‘i am ur playground’ way. he’ll lay back and guide ur hand to his cock. “do whatever u want. tease me. ruin me. i’m just here for ur entertainment.” seeing him bite his lip, eyes closed, giving u complete control over his pleasure is a power trip.
he finds sex in the kitchen irresistible. the risk of someone maybe calling, the mundane setting. he’ll bend u over the counter while ur hands r still wet from washing dishes, pushing ur shorts down just enough. “couldn’t wait. u looked too good standing here.” it’s quick, dirty, and leaves u flustered for hours.
he’s fascinated by ur reactions. he’ll try different things just to catalog the responses: a gasp for this, a full-body shudder for that. he’s a student of ur body. “oh, u like that? good to know.” he files everything away for future use.
he gets off on praise. tell him “u feel so good inside me” and his thrusts stutter, a broken moan leaving his lips. “say it again. fuck, tell me how u feel.” he craves the verbal confirmation that he’s pleasing u.
he loves using toys on u, bigger than him, just to watch u stretch and take it, whispering “look at u, taking so much. my greedy girl.” He finds sickening joy in stretching ur pussy.
he loves when u wear his clothes to bed—just one of his big t-shirts. he finds it insanely hot. knowing ur naked under it, smelling like him. he’ll push the fabric up slowly, kissing ur stomach, murmuring “my favorite look on u.”
Always touching u under the blanket. He always gets this idea and desire, especially if there’s ppl around u. He’s either pulling u on his lap, slowly grinding his hips up ur pussy, feeling his cock already hard asf, or rubbing his fingers on ur clit inside ur panties. It’s a big challenge for u since u need to be quiet, but jimin loves the risk. All that while talking to the person standing next to u both. Pretending like ure not even there.
He’s obsessed with ur boobs. His eyes always on them first b4 looking at ur face, especially if u wear tiny crop tops. Or if u wearing a baggy shirt, he will hook his fingers in ur collar, picking inside curiously. Just to check on them.
His hand always kneading them, while u watching a movie on the couch, his hand always inside ur shirt. While u standing doing ur makeup or in the kitchen cooking smth, he’s always behind u touching ur tits.
And during sex ugh. U always end up with ur tits bruised, lovely bruises. His mouth literally making hearts on ur chest, leaving love bites everywhere. Sucking, biting, slapping, squeezing, and always end up sleeping on them, while his lips wrapped around ur nipple.
Therefore why he’s a complete mess when u ride him. Fucking hell just tie him up and let him see them bounce, or on his face. Or even better, stroke his cock with ur tits. God hes a goner. He LOVES tits fucking.
Jimin always loses his mind when u give him head. It’s the best fucking feeling to him. He never lasts more than 5 mins. Ur head game is crazy, u just know how to use ur tongue on his already leaking tip. Especially if u use ur hand and mouth combo. Hes gone. Moaning so loud and giggling bcuz it always blows his mind how u make him reach his peak so fast.
Another obsession of his is ur waist. He loves sitting down while u standing between his thighs just rubbing his face on ur stomach, his hands gently stroking ur sides while he kiss every inch of ur body. Or holding ur waist as he fucks u deep, his hands always leaves lovely bruises on ur hips, kissing them later as an excuse cuz hes a gentleman and he has to worship u.
Sleep is merely another arena for his possession. He prefers you on your side, his front plastered to your back, his arm a heavy weight across your waist, his hand splayed possessively over your lower belly. Even in unconsciousness, his hips occasionally press a lazy, seeking rhythm against your ass. Or on top of u, His face is buried in ur chest , breathing you in. You are held, surrounded, consumed, And happy ㅤ♡ྀི
A/N: the difference between how i write jk hcs and jm hcs is fcking killing mednjdjdjdjjddj why im like this
And I didn’t necessarily went with the ‘clingy bf’ ones bcuz I’ve more to say abt him than how clingy he is okay
Now ik I ghosted yall for a bit now but im back with a better mood and promise will go through all ur requests very soon 💕
established relationship park jimin x fem reader ₊˚⊹♡
a/n: park jimin was the first one i noticed in bangtan and he still makes my heart swell so bad ⟢
ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊
♡ Jimin is a long-term relationship kind of person, he's very adamant about working through all of your problems, changing and improving himself to make sure he is your absolute dream person and perfect partner. In his eyes, there is nothing that you can’t work through together.
♡ Lots of hugs from behind!!! He loves wrapping his arms around you, and sometimes when he's extra clingy, he'll backpack onto you, resting his whole head and body on your back, just smiling into your shirt because he loves holding you like a teddy bear so much
♡ Jimin is a reformed crashout, but 100% he still does in secrecy. Taehyung or Jungkook will do something really irritating in public, and you’ll SEE him fight to hold it together and remain calm and let the night continue smoothly, but the moment you two get home, it’s all “Aiiiish, he’s actually so annoying. Aishh, I just thought about it again; he’s actually such a brat.” It’s cute seeing him get all riled up, and he loves that you’ll always listen to him rant about it. It amuses you to see him get all hot and bothered.
♡ On a similar note, your arguments can get kind of intense sometimes, but not because he ever yells at you, but just because he is fiery and passionate (read: stubborn), and he is also the most forgiving person you’ve ever met. Every argument has always ended rather quickly and been forgotten about.
♡ “Jagiyaaaa, my glasses? Have you seen my glasses?” yelled from down the hall. Like almost every single day.
♡ He is such a gentleman, your own little prince. it’s so important to him that you and he remain on a romantic level. You are each other's best friend, but he always wants you to feel like his woman. If you ever get a little too casual with him or tease him as if he were just your friend, he gets easily irritated.
♡ whatever he gets, he gets two of: one for you. Freebies at work? “Can I take one for Y/N?” Stopped by a cafe? There’s now a croissant in his bag for you too. He’s always considering you.
♡ spas together very often!!!
♡ he really loves taking pictures of you. “Look how nice these flower bushes are, will you please stand there so I can take a photo :)”
♡ If you let go of his hand jokingly, he stops dead in his tracks and blinks at you in pure comedic shock. “Babe, what do you think you’re doing? Get back here.”
♡ He’s a ritual lover!!!! Every night you two sheet-mask together; every morning you two brush your teeth together. If you skip it or either of you is too busy, his day is slightly ruined, you’re his lucky charm
♡ Did I say huge fan of hand holding
♡ His laugh is everything!!!! He thinks you’re the funniest person in the room, and he collapses to his knees at your jokes
♡ “Shoot. I can’t find my phone.” “Jimin, it’s in your pocket.”
♡ He's gifted with the art of noticing. He notices and tells you whenever you make the slightest change to your look, or you buy a new top. He always talks about how lovely the sky looks when the sunset is extra pretty. The world seemed to have gotten so much prettier since you started dating him; he's always got something positive to admire.
♡ Late-night snacks on the floor at the coffee table after a long day, while he talks about the calories don’t count because he’s eating them with you
♡ He fucking loves bringing you places in public to be photographed together. In every single photo of you two walking together, Jimin is smiling as wide as ever because you make him so happy, and he loves that the world gets to know about you.
♡ He likes makeup shopping with you!!!!!! You two go around and swatch lip products and fancy skincare together, and he always ends up getting another lip balm because he lost his old one.
♡ He's just big into shopping sprees together in general. Loves trying clothes and accessories on with you, and, of course, he doesn't even question whether you need them. If you like it, it's yours.
♡ Your parents and friends adore him. He's so kind and thoughtful, and so polite. He's a little quieter and shyer around your family, but he loves to be invited to see them anyway.
♡ Your shared apartment is really tidy. Jimin's good at keeping things clean, and one of his love languages is cleaning up after you in small ways. Your mug gets taken back to the kitchen when you're done with your drink. You'll wake up the morning after a night out to your dress already hung up.
♡ He's a gift giver 100%. Loves buying you gifts. You'll often come home to flowers; whatever you've been looking at recently will be sitting on the dining table, wrapped neatly in a bow.
♡ Jimin's laughter is often a part of your foreplay. Lots of giggling in between kisses, he likes to tickle you as he kisses your neck, his smile is enough to melt everything inside of you as he coaxes you out of your clothing.
♡ Unfortunately for him, it turns you on to get him mad. Not furious, but just bothered enough for his smile to fade and his Busan accent to come front and centre. And that's when his gentleness subsides. Suddenly, you're having your head pushed down further onto his length as you blow him, you're being handled and positioned however he wants you. His eyes narrowed, his jaw clenched, "Stop being such a brat, baby."
♡ Jimin needs you to sit on his face. He practically won't eat you out any other way. If it starts with you lying on your back, he'll eventually get you straddled over his face. He'll lie down, pat his chest a little and stick his tongue out, open-mouthed. "Come here, don't make me wait.”
♡ He's a hair puller through and through. Manhandling you, holding you in place, it's his favourite. Bending you over the counter with his fingers tangled in your hair, holding you steady and forcing you to look back at him. He loves gripping you by the ponytail as he finishes inside of you.
♡ He's SO vocal when he has an orgasm. Eyes squeezed shut, mouth open, he can't even form words; it's just endless moans, hisses, whines, and panting. He practically sings when he finishes. (Do you remember that Run BTS episode when Hobi threw a bowl of water in his face and Jimin's reaction????? yeah)
♡ Jimin is into public sex, and he's not terribly cautious. At this point, friends of yours know that when you two are missing in action, you're probably on top of a counter somewhere or against a wall, and Jimin is fucking you missionary against something.
Summary: Your brother has always been flighty. The type of person who would pick up your call from the depths of a cave in Kentucky on a random Tuesday, only to be halfway across the country by Wednesday on the lookout for the next big Bigfoot sighting. So no one really bat an eye when he disappeared into the woods of New Mexico with a flashlight and a dream of hunting down the ‘Deadwood Wardens’, yet another mythological legend you didn’t believe in that he felt was his 'destiny' to prove.
But then he stopped calling. And it turns out the woods were a lot scarier in person than in the photos.
With the help of a local who knows the woods like the back of his hand, you should be out of here with your stupid brother in no time! Not that you were worried or anything — after all, it wasn’t like those campfire stories of men in wide-brimmed hats coming to steal the souls of unsuspecting trespassers were true. It was only a coincidence that Jimin, your friendly woodsman, wore a hat just like the ones taped on your brother's wall....right?
Genre: 18+ Folk horror, paranormal themes, mystery/thriller, romance, slow burn, eventual smut (? we will see where the wind takes me)
Chapter Warnings: Language. discussions of death. Paranormal themes. Animal (?) Death. Jungkook is a little shit. Jimin hates authority and we love him for that.
A/N: I hope you're ready for your first unofficial day on the job - do NOT ask me about bathroom breaks istg. You have to pee? HA. Noob behavior. Sweat it out through your mustache like a real cowboy. (jkjk please go use the bathroom LMAO) Okay, enough silly talk. I can't wait for the next couple chapters; I'm literally holding a hand over my mouth with big chipmunk cheeks so I don't just start yapping about their characters or the lore 24/7. The hats I'm about to make the Jin in this story wear....
Anyways. See you on the otherside~ Delyn
Hiding your internal existential crisis behind one last breakfast taco, you barely tuned in for any of their discussion, keeping your ears trained for any mention of your brother or this mystery ‘man’ Jimin had mentioned the previous night. You weren’t ready to call him a spirit yet. (You may be more open-minded than you were three days ago, but you weren’t that open-minded yet).
Tethering yourself to the very normal task of eavesdropping would be crucial to making it through this mess without cracking, but they made that task difficult when their conversation consisted of 'pass the plate' or quiet grunts.
Correction: Hoseok made that difficult when his presence on its own had the two yappers across from you holed up and docile.
With him around, they didn’t stick around long enough to give you that much to go off of, for Yoongi cut their discussion short with a quick glance at his watch. He was twitching to get out of his seat since Hoseok sat down. “Looks like I’m headed out. We meeting for lunch again today or what?”
“Rather not.” Hoseok’s words were muffled by his hands which he propped his forehead on. Looks like Big Shot had a headache or something.
You shrugged. Deserved.
Yoongi didn’t seem disappointed in that answer, his pace never slowing a beat as he sauntered through the door frame back where you had come from.
Choking on your last bite, your brows disappeared into your hairline with unabashed shock. Within the half-second it took Yoongi to make it from one side of the threshold to the other, his hair shriveled back into that spiked crop, his clothes pulled into a more recognizable gray MCR tee and dark jeans, and his pointed shoes blunted into dusty Converse.
His journey left a trail of electronic casualties in its wake. From across the table the radio speakers crackled with interference, and the single light bulb stuck to the overhead beam flickered. The sconces in the hallway even dimmed as he passed, shying away from his reach.
Jungkook jerked his chin to the retreating figure. “He always likes to show off. Don’t give him the satisfaction of looking impressed.”
“I w-wasn’t.” You replied smoothly, hiding the remnants of your surprise behind a sip of the cooled mug of coffee Jimin had provided you with. It was insanely bitter, borderline burnt, reminding you more of sun-scorched soil than coffee. You hoped your face didn’t give away how awful it was.
Maybe there was a reason he had a preference for gas station coffee…
“Take her out on the field today.” Hoseok was looking down his nose at Jimin, not bothering to address him by name. It wasn’t a question, nor was it a request — but it wasn’t an order either. It sat somewhere in between, like he was leaving room for them to challenge him, just so he could put them back into place. A test perhaps. Like the power play would be fun for him.
Jimin made a noise of assent in the back of his throat, tapping his fingers around the rim of his mug. Guess he didn’t feel like fighting today.
Hoseok then jutted his chin towards the younger, completely oblivious man across the table. “You too.”
“Me?!” Jungkook made a surprised gargling sound, shooting up in his seat. “Thought I had the day off?”
“You do. From hunting.” Hoseok grunted. “Today you’re on babysitting duty. And dishes.” Throwing down his unfinished meal, he scooped up his plate and tossed it in the sink with a clang. He didn’t need to use the neat doorframe trick to change — just one second he was in simple blue cotton and suspenders, and the next he was in light colored jeans, a modern yellow button-up. The package tied off with his signature blindingly light hat and little ascot combo. Your little nickname must’ve gotten to him, though, because it wasn’t orange anymore.
Goodbye Orange Creamsicle; hello Pina Colada.
Hoseok paced lazily behind you and Jimin on his way to the hall, lingering near to place a hand on the latter’s shoulders and squeeze. Goosebumps wound up your arms, and your chest tightened with the oppressive chill his proximity brought with it.
“You got three days. I ain’t waiting longer than that.” He took his hand off with more force than necessary, shoving Jimin’s shoulder just to prove his point. The smile he tossed you was anything but kind. “Have fun breakin’ those boots in, hm?”
He left with less flair than Yoongi, but he took with him the heavy chill and suffocating atmosphere that hogged at least half the oxygen in every room he made himself comfortable in.
Taking one for the team, you broke the silence the moment you heard the front door click shut. “Is he always that way?”
“As long as I’ve known him.” Jungkook shrugged, scowling at the massive array of dishes he had been left to clean on short notice.
“And how long has that been?”
Casting his eyes skyward and pursing his lips, he paused his task of stacking plates. “Fifty...sixty...Seve-Seventy-two? Seventy-three years? Give or take.”
You tracked him with your eyes all the way to the sink, watching the way his youthful complexion shone in the sunlight from the window, and the skin was taut and smooth over muscles. He didn’t look a day over twenty-five. But apparently you were terrible at guessing ages these days.
But Jungkook seemed nice enough to not bite your face off if you asked. He may be an annoying shit, but he wasn’t outright nasty like Hoseok or that Namjoon guy. Actually, the more you thought about it, the more you realized he kind of reminded you of your brother.
You didn’t dwell on how that made you feel.
“How old are you?”
“Ninety-three.” Jungkook’s chest puffed out a bit with pride.
But you saw right through that. Like you said — too much like your brother. Squinting, you asked again. “Sure. But how old are you? Physically?”
Shoulders slumped and gaze averted, he became really focused on making sure all the coffee grounds were wiped from the edge of Yoongi’s mug. Too focused to apparently comment on your inquiry.
Jimin coughed in his fist to your left. “Twenty.”
You gave him a ‘really?’ look, mouthing out to him so Jungkook wouldn’t hear. ‘He’s twenty?’
He answered with a small smile he hid behind another sip of his coffee.
“Shut it, barf bag. No one likes a snitch.” Jungkook muttered bitterly from the sink, cheeks flushed red.
You shared a laugh with Jimin, stifling it with the side of your hand. Even though Jimin tried to keep his quiet, it still sounded like music to your ears, a breathy soft sound that made your stomach seize.
Lord have mercy on your self-restraint.
This was the temptation they spoke of in the bible — sitting across from you in a simple gray tee and luring you down the path of unrighteousness with a pretty smile and mysterious charm. You needed to change the subject quick before you found yourself sprinting down that path with little care for redemption.
“So, what’s in three days?” They thought you wouldn’t catch Hoseok’s comment? Wrong. Catching truths hidden in quick-muttered sentences was your specialty.
Your question had the room stilling, a silent exchange of urgent conversation between Jungkook’s glance over his shoulder and Jimin’s relaxed stare. An agreement was made, it seemed, for Jungkook spun back to face the sink with a huff and Jimin busied himself with Yoongi’s forgotten newspaper.
“What’s on the docket today, Tanker?” Jungkook inquired as though you hadn’t said anything, eyeing a spot of soapy water that had splashed onto his sleeves in an effort to look casual.
Jimin’s smile slipped away with a sigh, stretching back in his seat so his t-shirt snuck up his navel. You barely had it in you to look away.
“Parole. Inventory.” He looked at you briefly from the corner of his eye, catching your stare. Heat rushed your cheeks and your neck snapped so suddenly towards the window you felt the tendons ache. Very demure. Very subtle. He bit his lip to keep in another heart-attack inducing laugh. “Mentoring.”
“Cowboy school~” Jungkook echoed playfully, oblivious to the exchange, slapping a wet plate with an old dish rag like a whip. He then added on a rather comically loud, “Yeehaw!”
_________________________________________
Thankfully your first lesson didn’t involve riding a horse. Yet.
Jimin offered to show you the ropes after breakfast, but one look at the tall animal had memories of being thrown around on horseback from the night before resurfacing, and the large breakfast you had sloshed in warning. This ‘mark’ on your shoulder may have increased your appetite overnight, but your digestive system hadn’t gotten the same memo. It felt like someone was using your intestines as a cement cast for some wild art experiment.
It didn’t help that your earlier question had still gone unanswered, the two of them avoiding it like the plague. They were trying to be nonchalant, but all it did was increase your suspicions tenfold.
That’s fine. You’d find a way to squeeze it out of them sooner or later. You were no stranger to the long game.
Right now you could play the role of apprentice if it meant getting more answers from them about how to get your brother back from that guy. Or spirit. Or whatever he was.
The windows were down to ease your rolling stomach as Jimin coasted down the mountainside at a relaxed pace, letting the breeze ease your nausea while you were on the lookout. You had no idea what you were looking for, but he certainly did, eyes peeled and constantly scanning the white lines along the edge of the road or sifting through brush.
Jungkook was sprawled across the back seat, cheek smushed to the window while he mourned the loss of his ‘day off’,
“So what is it we are even looking for?” You sighed, situating your chin on your forearm so the wind wasn’t blowing in your mouth.
Jimin drummed his thumb on the wheel in time with the song on the radio. “You’ll know.”
You snorted. “Yeah, right….” Trailing off, you let your eyes get lost in the blur of the thin roads, tracking the mile markers that inched you closer to town. He must’ve thought quite highly of your skills, which flattered you, but he severely underestimated your ability to rationalize even the wildest of experiences. You wouldn’t know a spirit if they grabbed you by the hand and possessed you to do some sort of local polka — you’d just brush it off and start rambling about the power of hysteria.
Deep in your thoughts of whether or not a ghost really could possess someone to dance, you hadn’t noticed the familiar switch in scenery. And before you knew it, the truck was bouncing into Earl’s gas station lot and coming to a smooth stop.
“Be back in a minute. Keep an eye on Kook. He’s not allowed back in yet.” Wagging a warning finger at Jungkook, he added, “No funny business. I’ll have my gloves around your neck before you can even jump the seat.”
With that, Jimin hopped out the truck and shut the door before you could follow, pushing open the glass door with a friendly wave to the man behind the counter.
You gave Jungkook a dubious look. “Not allowed in, huh? What’d you do to my man Earl?”
Jungkook beamed with mischief, and wiggled his fingers. “Let’s just say I’m a big fan of the five finger discount.”
“Of course you are…” Turning your attention back to the shop front, you furrowed your brows, confused. Through the glass, you tracked his figure make its way to the self-service corner, mixing up something for himself in a styrofoam cup while he conversed with Earl. Jimin had already had a cup of coffee less than two hours ago, and against all things natural and holy, he had managed to finish it even if it was the worst thing you had tasted. Now he was tossing dollars over the counter for another, albeit better, cup of coffee.
If you were to have another with your current digestive disaster, there would be a terrible catastrophe at hand for both your pride and Jimin’s leather seats.
“How can you guys drink so much coffee without shitting your brains out?”
“Like I said, you get used to it.” Jungkook piped up from the back instantly. “He always comes here anyhow, even if he doesn’t drink it. Think it makes him feel better or something.”
“About what?”
There was a beat of silence. “Well...you know...it’s complicated. Nothing you should worry about.”
Scrunching your face at the blatant move to evade yet another question, you twisted back to look at him. “Not buying that one bit. Spill.”
His dark eyes widened exponentially, darting to the front glass and back while narrowing to slits. “I’ve got nothin’ to spill.”
Expression falling flat, you glared. “You’re a terrible liar.”
“Am not!” Red splotches bloomed on his cheeks and neck.
Shaking your head to yourself with a huff, you cursed under your breath. “How it took me three days to figure you all out is beyond me.”
“You only figured it out ‘cause you’re a nosy church bell that doesn’t know what’s good for her.”
“ ‘Church bell’? What is this, a spaghetti western? Come up with a better insult if your goal is to offend someone in this century.”
A deep crease formed between Jungkook’s brows to match the hard set of his jaw. “You want a better insult I got plenty-”
Before he could plow through his vocabulary, Jimin was already approaching the driver’s side, coffee in hand and polite smile shining towards a passerby. His seatbelt was barely buckled when your mouth opened.
“This job better get interesting before I pull his hair out and let the birds use it as nesting material.”
Jimin paused, caught off guard by the immediate heat in your tone, then slowly turned to address Jungkook. “What’d you do?”
“Didn’t do jack.” The younger one huffed, turning his scowl out towards the window.
Sighing sharply, Jimin dropped his cup into the holder and started the engine. He was good at keeping the peace, it seemed.
...Except his peace lasted about five seconds before the backseat commentator ruined it.
“Really though, she’s got a point. Why aren’t we doing anything interesting? Surely there’s gotta be somethin’ slimy crawling around your neck of the woods we can shoot.” Jungkook whined, throwing an arm over the back of Jimin’s seat.
Dodging his prodding eyes, Jimin kept his gaze straight ahead. “I do evening shifts now. You know that.”
“Right. The moonlight mile.” Jungkook taunted. “Borinngggg. Why don’t we do it my way since I’m stuck here?”
“We’ve got company.”
Jungkook rolled his eyes. “So?”
It was your turn to butt in. “Don’t hold yourselves back just ‘cause I’m here. I have to get used it one way or another.”
“See?” Jungkook clapped a hand on your shoulder, his strength breathtakingly unexpected. One miscalculated pat on the back could knock your back teeth loose if you weren’t paying attention. There would for sure be a new tender spot where his hand landed to add to your collection from last night. “Newbie’s got the right idea.”
The muscles in Jimin’s jaw twitched, his grip tightening on the wheel. “Out of the question.”
“Damn shame. Wouldn’t it be better if it happened on accident anyhow?”
Jimin’s eyes flashed, narrowed into golden slits in the rear view mirror. “Watch it.”
“What does that mean-” Jimin silenced your hundredth (but not your last) question with a flash of glowing violet eyes, his pupils gone. A chill ran down your spine, your tongue stuck like a wriggling fish clenched in its captor's fist.
Jungkook didn’t feel like backing down, though. A habit of his you were becoming well aware of. “Don’t be such a wet rag, I’m sure a little field trip wouldn’t hurt. Joon’s still out there for a few more hours anyway, so we won’t be alone if push comes to shove. What, you think three against one wouldn’t be a fair fight?”
Blue faded back to golden browns as Jimin weighed his options, staring over the hood and into the winding roads like they owed him money. Jungkook noticed his cracking resolve and dove in for the kill.
“Why not let the lady decide? She’s tough enough to make her own decisions.”
Jimin looked to you again, normal this time, if only a bit pleading. “It’s a risk, you bein’ out there.”
“Nothing I can’t handle.” You stuck your chin up. In reality you had no idea what you could handle, but he didn’t have to know that. Jungkook had pissed you off, and if he was going to be an eternal coworker, you would not let him get away with thinking you were a coward.
Jungkook cheered in the back seat as Jimin reluctantly turned the vehicle off the main road to wind back into the trees. Hands from the backseat shook your shoulders vigorously, pressing sharply into the tender scar beneath them.
“Let’s see if you’re all show and no go, huh Newbie?”
_________________________________________
You were not all show and no go.
This you kept repeating to yourself with each laborious step up the muddy mountain. Joints creaked and muscles ached, your body still battered from the previous day's work. But neither of them let up their pace in the slightest, coasting up the rocky hills and navigating shallow roots like second nature.
You kind of liked that. Liked that they weren’t slowing down or giving you baby treatment. They just expected you to figure out how to keep up and didn't hold your hand through the hard parts.
Sometimes they were a little too into the 'learn as you go' mindset, as proven by the nearly four times you almost twisted an ankle before Jimin showed you how to correctly identify which tree roots could actually be used as stairs, and which ones just like to pretend they could.
Their pattern of movement was easy enough to follow as the morning ticked on.
Every dozen or so feet the two of them would pause, heads tilted in any which direction while they just listened. Sensed. Then they’d shift directions to close in on whatever it was you were following, slinking deeper into the trees and higher in elevation.
Just when your eyes were starting to cross from boredom, a slope emerged from the brush, and your group came to a halt at its crest.
A long, tapering stripe of tan rock jutting from the center like a tongue from an open mouth and pooling at the bottom. Its teeth slate boulders; its eyes lopsided craters where tree roots used to live. From its base onward was stone and clay, the border of soft green to warm rough hues slithering out from both sides like a snake.
This was probably one of the Cracks Jimin had talked about.
“Now this is what I’m talkin’ about.” Jungkook nodded in approval, appraising the clash of colors with delight.
Curious as to what made this spot so special, you looked over the ridges and traced the blades of grass, not finding anything out of the ordinary except for the abrupt biome shift.
Jungkook hopped down from the rock he was using to scope out the area, breaching your personal space to throw an arm over your shoulders and point at the border. “See that?”
You blinked a few times, unimpressed. “Can’t say I do.”
With a twitch of his brow he angled your head downwards, lining it up with the point of his finger to a particularly patchy area of grass. “How ‘bout now?”
Hesitating just long enough to let him get excited, you crushed that hope with a satisfyingly plain, “Nope.”
Jimin came up on your other side, close enough to feel his chest brush your shoulder with each inhale, peering down to where the younger one was gesturing. “Look for the movement. It’ll look like she’s breathing.”
Giving it an earnest go for the sake of it (and totally not just to distract yourself from how close he was), you tried for a third time to see what was so mystifying about this spot. At first you didn’t see much of anything. Just a sway of grass or a shimmer of heat bouncing off the rock. Then you looked closer.
She was breathing. Deadwood, that is.
Labored, deep, and feverish. The earth acted as her diaphragm, expanding and deflating ever so slightly with each passing second. That first glance was a domino effect — a trail of breadcrumbs guiding your eyes along the Crack to other spots that undulated and heaved with pained sighs.
“Something’s trying to hop the fence,” Jungkook explained. “I’d bet a dime if you’d step closer, they’d burst sun side before you could say 'help!'.”
Jimin tensed, subtly moving to stand between you and Jungkook. “We leave it be if they aren’t breaching. Mark it as a hot spot for later and keep moving.”
“Don’t got any markers,” Jungkook shot back with a shit-eating grin.
Shoving a hand in one of his pockets, Jimin shucked out a small leather pouch and sent it sailing for Jungkook to catch. “Now you do.”
Grumbling to himself, Jungkook yanked open the pouch and scrunched his nose in distaste, pinching a thick wad of dried plant matter and ground stones and rubbing it between his fingers. He then used the toe of his boot to make a shallow hole in the ground to drop it in, before stepping through the brush for a new spot to repeat the ministration.
“Keep your distance. I’ll be right back.” Jimin slid down the ravine so he could mimic Jungkook’s actions on the rocky side, leaving you to stand idly at the top, just watching them duck down and dig in a rough rectangular shape. Almost like they were making a border of sorts.
“What’s that for?” You called down to Jimin.
With his knuckles, he dug a two inch hole and dropped some of the mixture in. “Strong scent of it helps us find it later. But it also traps ‘em in its perimeter.”
“Yeah, so when we come back later they have nowhere to run.” Jungkook mimicked pulling out a gun and firing at Jimin, who remained unphased by his antics. “I hope it’s a Squatch or a Bolter. That’d be a bitchin’ way to kick off your first rodeo.”
“A squatch?” Now it was really hard not to laugh. “What — like a Sasquatch?”
“The ones that like the snow aren’t too much work, but the ones that like the woods can get mean. ‘Specially if they got wings. Think they own the place just ‘cause they can piss all over it.” Jungkook looked like he was revisiting a run-in with a childhood enemy while he turned back to his job at hand, kicking up another pile of dirt to shove some leaves into. “You don’t have to take my word for it, you’ll see one soon enough.”
Your mouth was caught somewhere between an open-mouthed grin and a grimace, your brain working to dust off the ten thousand lectures your brother had given you over the years. Somewhere deep in those dark crevices you had put it all to forget about, you pulled what little you knew about a Sasquatch — or as you knew him best — Bigfoot. Nowhere in that head of yours could you place him in New Mexico.
Pointing out the flaw in their logic made you feel good, if only for a second. “I thought Bigfoot was from the Northwest somewhere?”
It was Jimin who finally offered some his input this time. “Technically, that's what they prefer. But most of 'em are born here before migrating North.”
Crossing your arms above your chest, you pushed further. “Migration, huh? If there’s enough to have ecological patterns of behavior, shouldn’t there be actual proof they exist? Doesn't make sense that there isn't scientific evidence or reputable photos.”
Jimin paused to glance up at you from beneath his hat, almost like he thought the answer was obvious. Looking you in the face, even. When it fully didn’t click, he humored you with a short laugh.
“If more people start seein’ Bigfoot, it means we aren’t doing our job. Only the ones that escape make it anywhere.”
Oh.
When he was telling you all about the things that come from Deadwood and it being the doorway between realms, he meant it was the doorway. The birthplace for all things cryptids. They weren’t just protecting Deadwood and the neighboring cities; they were protecting everyone.
No wonder your brother was so drawn to this place. All his life’s passions, interests, and dreams wrapped up in a neat bow. How poetic that his mission to uncover the truths might be what kills him in the end.
All the humor in your expression soured at the thought of your brother kicking the bucket first, and the conversation died there, flushed away by your mental spiral of how bananas this all sounded. Though the proof was in the pudding — if the pudding ingredient list called for large scars and a life-altering run-in with Scalers in the woods, that is.
It was hard to deny that everything they said held weight once reality didn’t feel so real anymore. Denial was ingrained into your system, your heels digging into the forest floor with excuse after excuse. It had you glaring holes into the sides of their faces while trying to figure out a subtle way to ask them to shapeshift right in front of you or let something burst from the cracks just so you wouldn’t have to fight the truth.
But they gave you nothing, the two of them lost in the finishing touches of marking the area.
That was boring to say the least.
You were hot, sweaty, and achy, and the last thing you wanted to be doing was standing in the middle of the woods just watching men work and thinking up the logistical migration patterns of North America's cryptids. Scoping out the surrounding area, you bounced on the balls of your feet to keep the muscles of your legs from screaming at you for being too still, debating to yourself whether the relief of sitting on the rock Jungkook had used as a personal perch would be worth the hassle of climbing it.
It was then that something small and white darted out from behind it, slotting its small body between the dry green brush and the trunk of a tree.
Curiosity got the better of you, pulling you closer to inspect what you suspected to be a small rabbit or a fluffy squirrel. Through the spindly branches, you could catch glimpses of its beady black eyes, quivering and small like the thought of your approach frightened it.
Its colors were stunning from what little you could see. Sparkling snow fur and onyx gems for eyes, holding a level of intelligence you wouldn’t typically see from an animal of its size. Hypnotized by the human-like emotion it was able to convey, you found yourself stepping even closer, bending at the waist to push aside the grasses blocking it from your view.
The animal didn’t run. It stood its ground, sizing you up with an owlish tilt of its unusually long neck and a pitiful whine. With a better look at the creature, it did seem to resemble more of an owl, but those were nocturnal last you had checked.
At this point, you didn’t care what it was, just that it was hurt, a trail of red streaking down its knobby chicken feet. A part of you yearned to catch it. To pick it up and cradle it close. You weren’t a motherly person by any means, but this woeful little creature was really tugging at your heartstrings.
Glancing over your shoulder to the down-turned slope, you beckoned for Jimin’s approaching shadow. “Hey, I think this thing needs-”
A shot rang out, and the creature collapsed in a heap. The strange moment between shattered with one last shriek from its slender throat.
“Aww man! I wanted to do it…” Jungkook complained, glaring at Jimin, who was shaking off his small handgun to let the muzzle cool.
Jimin hovered close, ignoring the younger’s disappointment and staring down at the stain that was beginning to spread out from its slowly melting body. “Congratulations, you’ve just spotted your first Damsel.”
Now with the creature gone, you could think straight. Trying to regain your bearings, you pressed for more. “A Damsel?”
With a grunt, Jimin scooped the carcass up by the leg and held it up to your eye level, keeping it at arm's length so it wouldn’t drip onto his clothes. “Owl head. Chicken feet. Rabbit body.” Using his index finger, he pointed to each as he named it. “Does the dirty work of luring people into the woods for somethin’ bigger and uglier to eat.”
“Like what?” You ventured to ask. A residual fog clouded your mind, like your system was still trying to rid itself of the spirit’s influence. Even your hands were freezing despite the heat of the summer air, fingertips now completely numb. You didn’t like how easily your body had been affected by the encounter. Unease flooded through your veins, the kind that had your stubbornness starting to dissolve more than it had. You hoped they wouldn’t notice how off-kilter you were as you rubbed your hands together to conjure up some warmth.
Jimin clearly did, but to save your pride, he didn’t comment. Instead, he just let his cat-like stare zero in on the sound of the friction between your palms with a slight raise of his brow. “Goatmen. Teratorns. Howlers. Visitors. Any of the other big monsters that find themselves here before moving elsewhere. Big guy eats the body; damsels eat the waste.”
Huh. Symbiotic relationships amongst demons. So there was some logic to be discovered here. (At this point, you were clinging onto anything even remotely explainable). You screamed at yourself to say something else — anything to pretend that what had just happened, didn't mean anything.
It was just some fucked up looking bunny. Owl.
...Thing.
You glared at it with unadulterated hatred for making you so confused. “Do any of them work for the guy who has my brother?”
Jimin grimaced with a shrug. “We’re trying to figure that out.”
The weight of the body was too much for the single leg to bear, its tendons beginning to unwind like spiderwebs dotted with drops of bloody dew. Before it could fall to the ground and burst like a demonic water balloon, he tossed it into the woods to melt back into the soil where it belonged — and the earth drank every last drop as though she were starved for it.
_________________________________________
Your journey through the woods was cut short after that. Jimin didn’t seem eager to let you stand out in the open too long, and you didn’t want to admit how shaken such a small interaction had left you. Win-win situation, if you were asked.
The decision ended up working out in your favor in more ways than one, because the second there wasn’t cement sloshing around your middle, you were ravenous again. Jungkook better be right about getting used to it.
Jimin picked out your next meal: a small truck stop diner right off the main highway just by the county border, where you ate two almost two full-sized burgers, decked out with all the toppings you could handle.
The waitress only really ever looked at you, never directly at either of your companions. Which was something you were beginning to notice about the inhabitants of this town — they kept their heads down and their mouths shut. The waitress only dared to utter a quiet ‘thank you’ to Jimin when he returned the check with a fat tip.
Even the clerk at the small department store kept their eyes glued to the checkout counter while scanning your new clothes, almost too shaken up to look at you when you tried to ask how their day was. Looking back at when you’d confronted them back at the roadhouse, it had been strange that not a single staff member had stepped in to stop your confrontation, or that the tables were mostly empty. This was simply another odd fact of this town you filed away to use while you tried to piece together the mystery that was Deadwood when you couldn't sleep.
And thankfully the boys gave you time to do just that.
By late afternoon you were back at Jimin’s place, sitting on the porch while him and Jungkook did ‘inventory’ — which was just a fancy way of saying they were making sure their guns were clean and their ammunition plentiful. Whenever one was empty, they would let you hold it. Get a feel for its weight and grip. Ask how you liked it. Pass you a box of specialty bullets made of salt, silver, and compressed herbs so you could learn how to slot them in, but never without the safety on.
After a half hour of their silence, you blew in with a slurry of more questions about the strange behavior you had noted earlier that day.
“Do they know?” You blurted out. Jimin glanced up at your question with a raised brow, so you rushed to clarify. “The people in town, I mean. The locals. Do they know you’re real?”
“Maybe.”
You frowned at his vague answer. “Maybe?”
Jungkook looked between you and Jimin, then back down at the shotgun he was working on, freeing Jimin from having to come up with an answer. “If they do, they do a good thing keepin’ it to themselves.”
“What, no one’s ever called you out before? I find that hard to believe.” A snort broke out of your mouth. “You guys aren’t exactly subtle.”
Jimin remained stoic, going through the motions of his chore like a well oiled machine. But you knew him just enough to know that meant he was thinking. Or avoiding speaking. Basically the same thing when it came to him, though.
Jungkook didn’t seem so hesitant to answer to his companions dismay. “I didn’t say that. Just said it’s better they don’t.”
“Kook.” Jimin said his name in a low warning.
“What? Just being honest.”
“About what?” You demanded. “This is the second time you’ve been cryptic, and it’s giving me the creeps.”
Jungkook placed his gun to the side haughtily. “That’s because Tanker here is the sensitive type and wants your transition to be ‘comfortable’. Thinks you’re too delicate for the real answers.”
You blanched. “Delicate!”
“I did not say she was delicate. Don’t put fuckin’ words in my mouth.” Jimin then tossed you a nervous side eye, his tone softer. “I didn’t say you were delicate.”
“You didn’t need to say it. It was heavily implied.” Jungkook sneered. The next thing you knew, Jungkook was packing up his stuff back in its rightful place and slinging the shoulder straps over his arm. “Whatever. I’m done hanging in Dullsville with you two.” He paused to jab Jimin’s shoulder with his index finger. “Get your head on straight before Hoseok gets back, ‘cause I’m not sticking my neck out tonight to keep a damned soul from hell. If you aren’t gonna do it, one of us will. There's old rules that I’m not gonna be the one to break.”
With that, he stormed off down the dirt path towards Hoseok’s house, back to his own, which was a much farther walk north. There was no way he was going to dampen his pride by asking Jimin to drive him back up the mountain when he looked that peeved.
There was a beat of silence as you watched him grow into nothing but a wobbling, doll-sized figure on the horizon. Steam was starting to billow out of your ears, but yelling wouldn’t do you any good; you were old enough to know that this wasn’t the time and place for that. It was time to use those dreaded conflict resolution skills you always stuffed on your resume to make it look pretty. Angling yourself towards Jimin, you bit your cheek to stay calm.
“What exactly are you not telling me? I'm tired of asking questions.”
A loud sigh seeped from his nose, and reluctantly chucked his freshly cleaned weapon to the side. His fingers tied themselves in knots, twiddling around one another while he leaned his elbows into his knees to ground himself. Running his tongue over his bottom lip, he finally spoke.
“The reason the folks in town keep their mouths shut is because if they say the wrong thing, we’d have to kill them. That’s part of the rules.”
Your eyes widened, and your breath caught in your throat. That was not what you were expecting.
“If too many people start talking, it’s a risk to our job and we have to...deal with it accordingly. However, we each get one living person we can tell. Once they die, we can tell another.” Jimin continued on, turning to squint at you through the blinding sun. “I was going to use mine on you, but it turned out not to matter anyhow.”
Opening and closing your mouth a few times, you tried to find the right words. “Have you ever…”
“No,” Jimin cut you off swiftly. “Haven’t needed to. The people around here do a pretty good job of mindin’ their own business and keeping the wrong kind of tourists busy. We know that some of them know, but as long as they don’t make it a problem, we don’t have to do anything about it.”
“And what does this have to do with me being delicate? I went into this whole thing thinking you were murderers, this isn’t exactly news you have to save me from.” Shaking your head in bewilderment, you met his lingering gaze.
“Because,” He swallowed thickly. “I can’t use my one rule break on you like I planned. You have a mark, which means right now you aren’t considered a normal living person. You are on the brink of being in between.”
Blinking a few times, you egged him on. “And that makes me delicate because?” You were really stuck on that word. You would have rather been called ugly and worthless than delicate.
“I never said you were delicate!” Jimin groaned, running a hand down his face in exasperation. “Just said I didn’t want them snapping your neck in the middle of the desert without warning!”
His outburst caught you off guard, and you found yourself inching away from him. “W-what?”
“Look, Hoseok has been here for a long time. His way of going about new recruits is old-fashioned. Cruel. In his eyes, asking for time and patience is the same as asking for princess treatment.” He looked warily at the growing space between you two, and lowered his voice again. “He doesn’t see the point in beatin’ around the bush and waiting for you to fuck off back where you came from to live out the rest of your life doing hell knows what. The second he gets the chance, he will kill you. And your brother. The only thing standing between a bullet through your brain or a run-in with the wrong mountain lion is me. Because I’m the one that technically found you, and it’s my ‘turn’ to do the job. But I’m not interested in doing it.”
Your head began to spin.
So you had been right. Those men were out to kill you — just not for the reason you had thought. You didn’t know what was better: Jimin not talking, or him not shutting up. Both options left you reeling into uncharted territory.
“So those three days…”
“All he’s gonna give me before he does it himself. And if I know him as well as I do, he’s not what I’d call a man of his word. Wouldn’t be surprised if he lunged the second I wasn’t looking.”
This didn’t make any sense. Why would Jimin be so hell-bent on keeping you alive? Wouldn’t that cause more trouble for him in the long run? Did he expect you to just stay here with him until you were drinking prune juice and sleeping in diapers? You had been facing the risk of violence and death since the moment you started digging into the mystery here, but now you could taste it. Taste the iron of the blood still pumping through your veins and the salt of fresh sweat.
You didn’t want to die yet.
Sure, life wasn’t perfect. You weren’t rich by any means, nor did you have any special plans or magical dreams ahead of you. But it was yours. It was run by free will and a drive to see another day just to say you made it. And the idea of someone taking away your choice stung deep.
Nodding to Jimin, you narrowed your eyes. “What’s in it for you, keeping me alive?”
He shrugged, breaking the eye contact to stare unfocused at the barn across the way, tracing the wood grain to distract himself. Jimin took an index finger and mindlessly ran it up the side of his forearm from wrist to elbow. Trailing out from his touch was a thin, faded scar — one you wouldn’t have even noticed if he hadn’t drawn it out in front of you.
“Hoseok fucked me over pretty bad. And I’ll be damned if I just sit and watch him do it again.” More sprawled out across his knuckles and his fingertips, jagged criss-crossing shapes, and shiny lines. You had to tear your eyes away from them to not lose yourself in the what or the who could have etched them in. Retracting his touch from his skin as though he had realized what he was doing, he cleared his throat, then dared to look at you again. “Plan was to help you find your brother, and then get the two of you across county lines before those three days were up. Can’t promise nothing won’t follow you out, but your chances are a hell of a lot better out there than in here.”
Taking a deep breath and heaving out one weary sigh, you mentally threw in the towel, the last of your hesitation towards Jimin tossed away in the wake of his honesty. And really, what the hell other choice did you have other than to trust him? This plan was the most realistic and grounded option you’d gotten from anyone yet.
And at the end of the day, this was for your brother. You needed Jimin in order to find him.
You held a hand out with your lips pressed into a thin line, waiting for him to shake on it. “Sounds like a plan. Where do we start?”
His lips twitched upwards, his hand sliding over yours to return the gesture. His grip felt nice and strong, the rough run of his skin over your palm sending sparks shooting down your spine. It was physically painful not to let yourself be disappointed when he pulled away.
This is for my brother this is for my brother this is-
“We start by staying close to each other. Don’t go out alone, and from here on out don’t let one of them lure you away from me — not a single one of those bastards. Even the ones you think you can trust. They’ve all known Hoseok longer than I have, and while they may give him shit, at the end of the day if he tells them to jump, they’ll ask how high.” Jimin began to busy himself again with his gun, ripping oven the flimsy tape someone had slapped onto a torn ammunition box with his teeth and pouring a few out into his hand. “Hoseok went out to follow the trail I picked up on your brother. Will probably’ve already come up with some sort of plan to find him by the time he gets back for the evening shift. If that demon has your brother, Hoseok’ll find out.”
Actually, take back what you said about not being sure which Jimin you liked more: you really liked the talkative one. Especially when he handed you a loaded shotgun and gestured out towards the field behind the barn.
“C’mon. Let’s make sure that if one of those sons of bitches tries to jump you when I’m not looking, you’ll be able to knock their teeth out.”
The heavy glass doors of the boutique hissed shut behind you, but the clinical chill of the air conditioning did nothing to cool the fire simmering under your skin. This wasn't just a shopping trip; it was a declaration of war. After the explosive argument you’d had with Jimin this morning, you had set out with one goal: to see how many zeros you could drain from his bank account before he noticed.
Jimin was the type of man who would happily drape you in diamonds if you asked, but he loathed being manipulated. He hated this game,the way you used his own wealth as a weapon against his patience.
"How would y-you like to pay, ma'am?" the sales assistant stammered, her gaze darting nervously between your cold expression and the wall of stone-faced guards looming behind you.
"Card," you replied curtly, sliding Jimin’s signature black card across the marble counter.
You waited, tapping your manicured nails against the surface, already imagining the look on his face when the transaction alerts began flooding his phone. But as the seconds ticked by, the assistant’s face paled.
"Um, excuse me, ma'am... it seems your card has been... declined. It’s blocked."
Your heart skipped a beat, but not out of embarrassment. Out of pure, unadulterated fury. "What? No way. Try it again."
"I did, ma'am. It’s not going through."
You scoffed, reaching into your Chanel clutch and pulling out a secondary card. "Use this one."
Another minute of agonizing silence followed. The assistant looked like she wanted to disappear into the floorboards as she handed it back with trembling fingers. "This one isn't working either, ma'am."
You felt your jaw tighten until it ached. Jimin. That calculated, arrogant traitor. He hadn't just anticipated your move; he had dismantled it before you even reached the mall.
You settled the balance through a private transfer from your personal account, a bitter pill to swallow and swept out of the store. Every step toward the waiting car was fueled by a fresh wave of adrenaline.
As the door of the SUV clicked shut, you sank into the leather seat, staring out the tinted window. You had underestimated him. You often forgot that beneath the doting husband was a man whose wit was as sharp as his ego. Jimin wasn't the type to just sit back and let you bleed him dry out of spite. He was always one step ahead, playing a game of chess while you were still throwing pieces.
The war wasn't over, but round one clearly belonged to Park Jimin.
The car hadn't even come to a full stop before you were out, the gravel crunching beneath your designer heels as you stormed toward the massive front doors. You didn't just enter the mansion; you invaded it.
The living room was quiet, save for the low murmur of business talk. Jimin was perched on the sofa, looking effortlessly composed as he scrolled through a tablet. His assistant stood nearby, and Taehyung, Jimin’s closest associate was lounging in the armchair opposite him.
"Park Jimin!" Your voice roared through the high ceilings, sharp enough to cut the air.
The assistant visibly flinched, shifting on his feet. Taehyung’s eyes darted from you to Jimin, a silent 'here we go' written all over his face. Jimin, however, didn't even flinch. A slow, infuriating smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as his fingers continued to dance across the screen.
"I am talking to you!" you snapped, your chest heaving with indignation.
Finally, he looked up. His gaze was cool, hooded, and entirely too calm for your liking. "Yes, love?"
With a dismissive wave of his hand, he signaled for the others to leave. Taehyung let out a weary sigh, pushing himself up and shoving his hands into his pockets. He spared Jimin a pointed look. "Fix your shit, man," he muttered under his breath before heading toward the exit.
The moment the doors clicked shut, Jimin returned his attention to the tablet. The blatant disregard was the final straw. You lunged forward and snatched the device right out of his hand.
"Y/N," he said, his voice dropping an octave. There was a dangerous edge to his tone, a warning you were far too angry to heed.
"What?! You fucking blocked my cards! Do you have any idea how humiliating that was?" you screamed, the embarrassment of the boutique rushing back to haunt you.
Jimin stood up slowly, his tall frame looming over yours until you were forced to tilt your head back. The proximity was stifling, charged with a tension that felt like static electricity.
"Was it? Then perhaps you shouldn't have behaved like such a brat the other night," he said, his voice terrifyingly steady.
"I was behaving like a brat? You didn't come to the event, Jimin!" You jabbed a finger into his chest, punctuating every word. "I had to stand there and make excuses for you all night while everyone whispered!"
He didn't move. He simply looked down at your finger against his shirt, then back into your eyes. "Careful, baby. I don't like that tone."
"Shove what you like up your ass," you hissed. You reached into your handbag, gripped the two useless pieces of plastic, and flung them directly at his face. "And shove these while you're at it!"
You didn't wait for a reaction. You turned on your heel and stormed toward the grand staircase, the echoes of your footsteps matching the frantic beating of your heart.
It had all spiraled from yesterday. Your charity gala—the event you had spent months planning—had been a solo performance because Jimin claimed he had important work. The humiliation of answering a hundred variations of "Where is your husband?" had boiled over into a screaming match last night, ending with you locking him out of the master suite.
You had wanted to hurt his pride. He had responded by cutting off your lifeline.
As you reached the bedroom door, you knew one thing for certain, in the high-stakes game of the Park marriage, the honeymoon phase had officially been replaced by scorched earth.
°
The bedroom was bathed in the amber glow of the setting sun, the silence heavy and suffocating. Jimin stepped inside, the rhythmic click of his shoes on the hardwood floor the only sound. He loosened his tie, the tension of the day still knotted in his shoulders.
"Y/n?" he called out, tossing his blazer onto the chaise lounge. No response. He checked the ensuite bathroom, then the walk-in closet—nothing but the lingering scent of your perfume.
He sighed, a low, frustrated sound. He knew you; you weren't just hiding. You were making a point. Cursing under his breath, he pulled out his phone and dialed your number, only to be met with the cold finality of your voicemail. He immediately diverted the call to your lead security detail.
"Where is she?" he demanded, pacing the length of the room like a caged predator.
"At her parents' estate, sir."
"I told you to inform me the second she goes somewhere!" he hissed, his voice dropping to a dangerous level. He didn't wait for an excuse. He grabbed his blazer and headed for the garage, the engine of his car roaring to life seconds later.
The atmosphere at your parents' house was a stark contrast to the cold war at the mansion. When Jimin walked in, he found you nestled on the sofa between your father and Liam—a "family friend" whose very existence had always been a thorn in Jimin’s side.
"Jimin! What a surprise," your mother exclaimed, balancing a tray of fresh cookies.
Jimin offered your parents a practiced, polite greeting, but his eyes were locked on you. You didn't even look up, instead choosing to lean slightly closer to Liam as you scoffed. Jimin’s jaw tightened. He hated the way Liam looked at you, and he hated even more that you were using him as a shield.
"Come, Jimin, sit down," your father gestured toward an armchair.
"No, thank you. I’m just here for Y/n," Jimin replied, his voice clipped.
You finally looked at him, crossing your legs and arms in a defensive posture that screamed defiance. "I’m not coming back."
The air in the room grew thick with sudden tension. Your mother glanced between the two of you, her eyebrows shooting up in a silent interrogation. What have you done now?
"Y/n," Jimin repeated, his patience fraying at the edges. "We’re leaving."
"Y/n, sweetheart, what is this?" your mother interjected, trying to play peacemaker. "Did you two have a fight?"
"Maybe they did," Liam chimed in, his tone casually provocative. He leaned back, a smug look on his face. "Let her be, Jimin. It looks like you're the one in the wrong here."
That was it. The small thread of Jimin’s restraint snapped. He ignored Liam entirely, treating him like a buzzing insect, and marched straight toward you. Before you could even register the movement, he leaned down, hooked his arm firmly around your waist, and hoisted you over his shoulder in one fluid, powerful motion.
"Jimin! Put me down!" you squealed, your face flushing as you began to hammer your fists against his broad back.
"Mom! Dad! Do something!"
But your parents merely exchanged a knowing look and shared a small, amused smile. They knew Jimin, and they knew you; this was just another Tuesday in the volatile world of the Parks.
"Goodnight, everyone," Jimin called out over your protests, his grip like iron as he carried his prize out toward the car.
The drive back was a symphony of silence, punctuated only by the aggressive click of your tongue and the hum of the engine. The moment the car rolled to a stop, you bolted, slamming the door with a bone-rattling force that echoed through the driveway.
Jimin was right on your heels, his stride effortless but determined. "Y/n, stop."
You reached the bedroom and tried to shove the heavy oak door shut, but his foot was already there, acting as a solid wedge. He pushed his way inside with a calm strength that only infuriated you further. You whirled around, eyes flashing with lightning.
"What is this, Y/n? Are you a child?" he asked, his voice low and level.
"Fuck off!"
"Y/n." He stepped into your personal space, reaching out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear, but you swatted his hand away violently.
"Get away! Go!" You began a frantic assault of palms against his chest, your hands drumming a rhythm of frustration against his firm muscles. He let you vent for a heartbeat before his hand shot out, capturing both of your wrists in a single, unbreakable grip. He let out a long, weary sigh.
"I am sorry," he murmured, his eyes searching yours. "I should have been at the event I was wrong, and I’m sorry."
You glared up at him, your chest heaving. "An apology doesn't fix it! You didn't call me all day! And then you had the audacity to block my cards!"
A ghost of a smirk played on Jimin’s lips. "I unlocked them this morning, love."
Your anger faltered for a fraction of a second. "You did?"
"Yes." He released your wrists, his thumb grazing your pulse point before he stepped back.
You quickly recovered, crossing your arms and pouting. "I’m not melting. Not a chance. Go away."
You sank onto the edge of the bed, staring at the wall. Jimin followed, but instead of sitting beside you, he dropped to his knees on the floor. His hand found your thigh, his thumb tracing slow, hypnotic circles against the fabric of your skirt.
"I'm sorry, baby. Truly," he pleaded.
He looked up at you, his sharp, intimidating features softening into an expression of pure, unadulterated devotion. It was the puppy eyes—the one weapon in his arsenal you hadn't built a defense for. No one in the outside world would believe that the ruthless Park Jimin was currently on his knees, begging for his wife’s forgiveness.
You felt your throat go dry. "Fuck off," you whispered, though the bite was gone from your voice.
Jimin’s eyes darkened, the "uppy facade vanishing to reveal the predator beneath. "You want the exact opposite of that, don't you?"
He leaned forward, his lips pressing a lingering, searing kiss to the sensitive skin of your knee. You gasped softly as he began to pepper your thighs with slow, deliberate kisses, his gaze never leaving yours. Slowly, almost traitorously, your knees began to part for him.
He urged your thighs further apart, his hands sliding up to bunch the fabric of your skirt. Jimin’s breath hitched as he took in the sight of your lace panties, the silk already darkened and clinging to your skin.
"When did you get this wet for me, huh?" he whispered against your skin, his voice a gravelly caress that made you ache.
The friction of his lips against your inner thighs sent a jolt of electricity straight to your core. Your breath hitched, your chest heaving as the last remnants of your anger dissolved into pure, primal need.
"Fuck!" You groaned, your fingers tangling in his soft hair. You didn't just pull him closer; you guided his face directly into the heat radiating from between your legs.
Jimin let out a low, vibrating hum of approval, his mouth pressing firmly against the silk of your panties. He didn't wait. He nipped at the fabric, his tongue swirling over your folds until the damp lace offered no more resistance.
"Ah!" Your head fell back against the pillows, a desperate sound escaping your throat.
"So good," he whispered, his voice a dark rasp against your skin as he finally hooked his thumbs into the waistband and slid the lace down your legs. He didn't waste a second, burying his face in your softness and dragging his tongue over your clit in long, punishing strokes.
The room filled with the sound of your dangerous noises—the kind of wrecked, breathless moans that only he could draw out of you. Jimin gripped your hips, his fingers digging into your skin to hold you steady as he transitioned from teasing licks to deep, rhythmic laps. He pushed his tongue inside you, mimicking the motion of a thrust, while his thumb found your peak and circled it with dizzying speed.
"Jimin... more! Please!" you cried out, your knuckles whitening as you tugged at his hair.
He hummed against you, a vibration that rattled your very bones, and suddenly two fingers were sliding inside, hot and insistent. He began to massage your internal walls, his rhythm relentless.
"Fuck, baby, you’re so tight. Clench for me," he growled.
You obeyed, your muscles spasming around his intrusion. The combination was too much—the suction of his mouth on your clit and the friction of his fingers deep inside you. You were a beautiful mess of squirming limbs and broken pleas until the first wave of your climax hit, sending a shudder through your entire frame. You came hard, your release coating his hand, and you could only gasp as he slowly licked every drop of you from his fingers, his eyes never leaving yours.
"Fuck yeah... lick me clean, baby," you panted, your voice thick with honey.
Jimin’s smirk returned, dark and possessive. He delivered a sharp, playful slap against your sensitive skin, making you jump and moan all over again. Before you could catch your breath, he was back at it, his fingers working even faster.
"I can't... it's too much..." you whimpered, trying to pull your thighs together to escape the overwhelming sensation.
"No," he murmured, prying your legs back open and pinning them wide. "Squirt for me, baby. I want to see you lose it."
He intensified the assault, his fingers curling against your G-spot while his thumb hammered against your clit. The tension built until it felt like a physical weight in your chest. You whined, your body arching off the bed as the edge loomed closer.
"Ahh, fuck... J-Jimin!"
"Do it. Give it all to me."
A loud, broken cry tore from your lungs as a gush of liquid erupted from you. Jimin didn't flinch; he watched with hooded, hungry eyes as you clenched and pulsed, his tongue catching the liquid as it fell. You were shaking now, your legs trembling uncontrollably from the sheer force of it.
Finally, he pulled back. He took the two fingers that had been deep inside you and slid them into his own mouth, sucking them clean with a slow, deliberate sensuality that made your heart race for an entirely different reason.
"I am sorry," he said again, his voice dropping to that soft, melodic tone that always won you over.
You couldn't help the small, triumphant smile that tugged at your lips. Reaching out, you grabbed him by the collar and hauled him upward. He hovered over you, his weight a welcome pressure, and as his lips met yours.
→ summary: it doesn’t take much for jimin to become jealous and possessive when he notices a man being too friendly with you at a casual get together. let’s just say he shows you who you truly belong to.
→ pairing: bts!jimin x fem!reader
→ tags: smut, sub reader, jimin x reader, dom jimin, posessive bf, bf jimin, sex, posessive sex, ownership, kissing, semi toxic, jealousy, fingering, finger fucking, slapping (light)
→ word count: 4.8k
→ a/n: kinktober day 15! how would you guys feel if i incorporated the other members into some of the fics? my page will always be park jimin centered (jimin x reader), but the members popping into some fics sounds not too bad? btw, i've been writing a series about an high-end club in gangam for elite celebs in korea surrounded by dark secrets and mystery, with MAYBE a bit of a murder plot, and yes there's smut. i plan to post each chapter after kinktober. hehe.
kinktober masterlist
you noticed it too late.
the night had been harmless enough at first, a handful of mutual friends crammed into a dimly lit apartment, music buzzing low beneath the sound of conversation. you didn’t plan to talk much. you never did. you sat in the corner of the couch like decoration, fingers clasped around a cup you barely sipped from.
jimin had dragged you here. he said it would be good for you. he said he’d be nearby. he was. he always was. until he wasn’t.
you didn’t realize when he slipped out of your immediate vicinity, too busy trying not to shrink under the sudden attention of the man who’d sat beside you. he was loud, friendly, and confident in the kind of way that filled every inch of space. he leaned close when he spoke, laughed too easily at your quiet replies, rested his arm behind you on the couch like it already belonged there.
you told yourself you were imagining it. that he was just being friendly. that it didn’t mean anything. but jimin saw.
he saw everything.
you didn’t see him at first, but you felt him. a slow freeze prickling along your skin. your shoulders tensed before you even turned your head. and when you did, you found him across the room, standing still in the kitchen doorway.
he wasn’t leaning. he wasn’t pretending to relax. he was watching. expression blank, eyes unreadable, his jaw tight in a way that felt like a clock counting down. you swallowed. the man beside you kept talking, oblivious, smiling too wide as he leaned even closer. his fingers brushed yours. jimin moved.
he didn’t storm over. that would’ve been too easy to process. instead, he walked. unhurried and silent, like something inevitable making its way to you. the closer he got, the heavier the air became. your heartbeat was a drum against your ribs by the time he stopped behind the couch. the man next to you finally noticed him.
“oh, hey,” he said, friendly but uncertain.
jimin didn’t look at him.
“move,” he said.
it wasn’t clear who he was talking to. you stared up at him. “jimin..”
his gaze cut down to you sharply. it shut you up instantly.
“get. up.” that wasn’t a request. that wasn’t even irritation. that was restraint barely holding together. you rose to your feet before you could think better of it. the other guy blinked, confused, sitting up slightly straighter.
“hey, man, we were just...”
jimin didn’t even spare him a glance. his hand landed on your wrist, not gentle but firm, cold even.
“we’re leaving now,” he said flatly.
no goodbye, no excuse, no acknowledgment of anyone else in the room.
just possession.
he didn’t look back to see if you followed, he already knew you would.
-
the hallway outside the apartment was too quiet.
jimin didn’t wait for you. he just walked. long strides, steady, unbothered. like he wasn’t dragging you out of a room full of people without a word. like he didn’t care who saw.
you followed because what else could you do?
he didn’t look back. not once. his grip on your wrist stayed tight, not enough to hurt, just enough to make it clear you weren’t going anywhere unless he let you. the walk to the car felt longer than it was. every sound was too loud. the buzz of the elevator, the echo of footsteps in the parking garage, and the faint hum of traffic outside. jimin didn’t say a single word the entire time.
you opened your mouth twice to speak. both times, nothing came out. by the time you reached his car, your chest was tight. jimin let go of your wrist only to open the passenger door. not gently. not violently. just… efficiently.
you stood still.
“jimin.”
he paused, his hand still on the door. you couldn’t see his expression.
“i didn’t...” you started, voice shaking. “i wasn’t...”
“get in.”
two words. softer than before, but somehow worse.
you hesitated.
his fingers flexed against the car door, knuckles pale. that was enough. you slid in without another sound. he shut the door. hard. not quite a slam, but close.
he walked around to the driver’s side, got in, started the engine. the radio stayed off. the air felt heavier than the silence deserved. you kept your hands in your lap, staring out the window. you could see his reflection in the glass, his jaw clenched, eyes forward, with one hand tight around the steering wheel.
you swallowed. tried again.
“are you… mad at me?”
nothing.
“…i didn’t do anything.”
still nothing.
your throat burned. emotion pressed tight against your ribs. “can you please say something?” jimin exhaled through his nose. slow. controlled.
finally, he spoke. “you really don’t get it.” he didn’t raise his voice. didn’t look at you. but his words were sharp enough to cut through the quiet.
your breath hitched. “…get what?”
his grip on the wheel tightened. “doesn’t matter,” he muttered.
“jimin..”
his gaze cut toward you then. brief, but lethal. it shut you up instantly. you faced forward again. your pulse was trembling against your skin. the rest of the drive was silent, but there was nothing calm about it.
-
he didn’t wait for you to step out of the car.
the moment he parked outside his place, he killed the engine and got out without a word. you fumbled with your seatbelt, scrambling to catch up before the silence swallowed you whole. the front door was already open by the time you reached him. he didn’t bother holding it for you, just walked in, but you followed quickly enough that it didn’t close on you.
as soon as you stepped inside, the door shut behind you with a heavy thud. jimin stood a few paces ahead, back to you, shoulders tense beneath his jacket.
you didn’t know if you should move closer or stay exactly where you were. “jimin?” your voice was barely above a whisper. “please just...”
“do you even think?”
you froze. he still didn’t turn around.
his voice was low, calm. too calm. like he was holding something back so tightly it hurt to hear. “were you really that fucking clueless,” he said, steady and cold, “or were you just enjoying it?”
your stomach dropped. “enjoying...? i wasn’t-”
“don’t lie.” his tone didn’t spike. it didn’t get louder. it got sharper. “you let him touch you,” he said. “you let him lean into you, laugh with you, act like you were his.” he scoffed, humorless. “and you just sat there. letting it happen.”
“i didn’t...”
“you never do anything,” he snapped, that control finally cracking. “you just sit there. waiting. letting people decide things for you. letting them take what they want. acting like you don’t know any better.”
“that’s not...”
his eyes were dark. not angry, past angry. something deeper. something possessive enough to scare you and make you tremble for an entirely different reason. “standing there,” he continued, voice razor-thin, “watching someone else touch what’s mine.”
your heart stuttered painfully in your chest. “i’m not-” you tried weakly, “i’m not a thing.”
“no,” he agreed quietly, stepping toward you. “you’re not.” another step. “that’s why i don’t let people treat you like one.” he was in front of you now. close enough that you had to tilt your chin up to look at him. his gaze pinned you in place. “but you?” he murmured, voice dropping lower. “you don’t even notice when they do.”
you didn’t realize you were shaking until his hand came up, but not to comfort you, to grip your chin, firm. unyielding and angling your face to his. “so listen carefully,” he whispered, every word deliberate. “because i’m only going to say this once.” his thumb pressed just enough to make your pulse jump.
“you. are. mine.”
the words weren’t tender, they were a claim.
-
you didn’t get a chance to breathe. the words had barely left his mouth before his hand shifted, sliding from your chin to the back of your neck, pulling you forward in one decisive motion.
his mouth crashed against yours. not gentle, or hesitant.
commanding.
you gasped against him, unprepared for the force of it. his other hand found your waist, gripping hard, dragging you against him like he couldn’t stand a single inch of space left between you. you stumbled, caught off guard, hands hovering uselessly at your sides until instinct made you clutch his jacket.
he made a low sound. approval, frustration, probably both, as if that tiny response from you had finally given him permission to lose restraint. you didn’t realize he was moving you until your back hit the wall. the impact knocked the breath from you, but he didn’t pause. his lips moved hard against yours, stealing what little air you had left. your knees weakened. you would’ve crumpled if his grip wasn’t holding you upright, like he expected you to fall apart.
your head was spinning, heart hammering so loud you were certain he could feel it. when he finally tore his mouth away, you inhaled sharply, dazed. his forehead stayed pressed to yours, breath rough and uneven.
“don’t make me repeat myself,” he murmured, voice gravelled from restraint he was barely holding onto. “i’m not asking.”
you opened your mouth to reply, you weren’t even sure what you planned to say, but he didn’t give you the chance. his hand tightened behind your neck, keeping you pinned as his lips brushed your ear instead.
“you’re mine,” he whispered again, lower now. “so i’m going to make sure you don’t forget it.” you shivered.
you didn’t know whether it was fear or relief, maybe both.
his fingers slid from your neck, trailing down your spine with deliberate slowness. his touch lingered at your lower back before flattening, pressing you harder into the wall.
“say it,” he ordered quietly. your breath caught and you hesitated. his grip tightened.
“jimin-”
“no running,” he warned softly. “not from this.” your pulse throbbed in your ears. your throat felt tight. you swallowed.
“i’m yours.”
he inhaled sharply through his nose. something in his posture shifted. tension unraveling, replaced by something darker. more dangerous.
“good.”
and then he moved again, not kissing you this time. claiming you with his hands.
-
jimin didn’t give warning.
his hand left your waist just long enough to catch behind your knee. lifting without hesitation, forcing your balance to tip forward into him. you gasped, grabbing at his shoulders on instinct.
wrong move. his hand snapped to your wrist, tearing your grip free.
“no.”
one word. absolute.
before you could recover, his arm hooked under your legs. you were lifted cleanly off the ground. not gently, not carefully, just taken. your breath stuttered, hands frozen midair, unsure where to go. you didn’t dare cling to him again.
you didn’t need to, his hold was unwavering.
he carried you through the room without so much as a grunt, steps measured, grip secure. you didn’t ask where. you didn’t speak. there was no space to. he reached the back of the couch and stopped. you barely had time to register the change in footing before he dropped you. just placed you there with enough force to remind you whose hands you were in.
your back met cushions. the world tilted slightly as he positioned you exactly how he wanted: accessible and waiting.
you didn’t move, you didn’t know how.
jimin stood over you, looking down with an unreadable expression. his breathing was steady and composed, like he wasn’t affected at all.
you, on the other hand, could barely get air in your lungs. you tried to sit up. his hand landed on your sternum, flat and firm.
pinned.
“stay.”
your pulse thundered beneath his palm. you kept still. he watched you for a long moment, eyes dark and calculating, like he was assessing whether you would obey without resistance. apparently, you passed. his hand slid from your chest to catch your wrist, guiding it to rest at your side.
“there.”
you swallowed and nodded once, hardly moving. he didn’t praise you. he didn’t need to. his silence was approval.
and then, without another word, he leaned down over you.
not soft, not hesitant. looming.
blocking out everything but him. he didn’t touch you, not yet.
he stayed braced over you, one hand planted beside your head on the couch, the other resting near your hip without making contact. close enough to feel his heat, far enough to deny it.
you stared up at him, breath uneven. he was so close you could see the slow rise and fall of his chest, the faint twitch of muscle in his jaw, the dark focus in his eyes that didn’t waver once.
you tried not to move.
every instinct screamed to close the distance. to reach up, to pull him down, to earn what he was withholding. you didn’t dare. his gaze tracked every flicker of hesitation across your face. calculating. knowing. he could see the conflict, the restraint, the want you were trying and failing to hide.
finally, he spoke.
“uncomfortable?”
you swallowed. “no.”
his brow lifted. slight, but skeptical. you forced yourself not to shrink. “good,” he murmured. his hand lifted from the couch, slow enough to make your pulse jump, and hovered above your sternum, just short of contact. your back arched the tiniest bit before you could stop it. his hand stopped midair.
you stopped breathing.
seconds passed and you didn’t know how many. your body trembled with effort, trying to stay still when every part of you strained toward him. finally, when your restraint began to crack; his hand pressed down.
you let out a shaky exhale, his expression didn’t change. “don’t reach for me unless i tell you to.” the command sank in deep. you nodded immediately. he didn’t accept that.
“say it.”
your throat tightened.
“i won’t reach for you unless you tell me to.”
his hand pressed a little harder, another approval without words.
“good.”
he withdrew his hand. the loss of contact burned more than the touch. you didn’t realize how much you’d leaned into it until it was gone. your breathing turned shallow. your fingers curled into the cushions in quiet desperation.
jimin saw.
he let you sit in that ache for one more long, excruciating pause;
and then he moved.
-
he moved, deliberately, in a way that made you impatient. he knew the power he had over you and he wanted this to be a reminder.
jimin looks over you, his body hovering over you in a dominant manner. you felt inferior and a shell of a human under him. he pushed open your legs with his own, forcing his way in between you. the palm of his hands lay flat against both sides of your head. you felt nervous, like you weren’t sure if you were allowed to move or not.
jimin didn’t break eye contact, his hungry eyes digging daggers into your skull. “take it off.” he says, an order.
you swallow hard and tug at the ends of your shirt, slowly pulling it off of your body and over your head. your lacey bra stared back at him, it lifting your tits perfectly. you toss the shirt over your head, it landing somewhere in the living room. you stared up at jimin, waiting for your next order, or his next move.
he placed his weight on his right hand as he lifted his left and cupped his hand around your breast. he squeezed it firmly, not massaging, but feeling. a low groan escaped his lips. not seductive, or direct. but rather a noise of contentment.
he looked down at the rest of your body, the way your jeans wrapped around your waist perfectly almost taunting him. he slid his hand down your torso and towards your lower stomach, landing at the small metal button of your jeans. instead of an order, he sat up straight and began to undo your pants quietly. like as though this hand been done many times before, you lifted your butt off of the couch slightly as he pulled off your jeans.
a matching set.
you could see the slight twitch in the corner of his mouth, his dominant mask slipping, but only for a second. it was like as though the set was deliberate, like you somehow knew you’d be in this position and came prepared. he stared down at your panties, running his finger along the rim of the fabric. he took a deep breath before looking up at you again. “undress me.”
he stood up off of the couch, waiting for you to undress him like he demanded. you sat up, still sitting on the couch as he positioned himself in front of you. you began to lift up his shirt, unraveling his hard earned abs and ‘nevermind’ tattoo. he lifted the his shirt the rest of the way and tossed it, staring back down at you as he watched you begin to undo his belt. the metal clinked together as you undid it from its hooks, sliding it off his waist and letting it fall to the floor. finally, you began undoing his jeans, like he had just done for you. a mutual exchange.
you slid them downwards and he wiggled free from his jeans, stepping out of them. he was just in his boxers now, his bulge protruding like it was begging for release. he rubbed his hand over it, sucking in a small breath of air. you laid back down onto the couch, without him needing to order you. he looked at you with approval, before getting back on top of you. he lowered his head and began sucking on your neck, his tongue swirling around your collarbones, nibbling on them and making it sting a little, but you knew better than to react.
he lowered himself as he kissed you, down, down, down. he stopped at your lower stomach his plump lips brushing against your cold skin. suddenly, he grips your panties from both sides, roughly pulling them down. your body jolts from the sudden aggressive movement. jimin slides your panties off and throws it, like it was useless fabric in the way of what he wanted.
he pushes your legs farther apart, making room for his fingers. “hmm.” he says quietly, almost inspecting you. he runs a finger along your folds, making you shiver. he positions himself and lays flat on his stomach. he peppers light kisses along your inner thigh, the sensitivity of his touch making you twitch slightly. soon, his tongue finds your clit and he begins to suck on it, making you arch your back instinctively.
you knew not to moan, or reach for his hair. you wrapped your arms around yourself, staring up at the ceiling as jimin ate you out. he licked, spit, and rubbed. everything he knew you liked. he was trying to torture you with pleasure.
he slid in a finger, finger fucking you as he still ate you out. your legs trembled and you began to squirm, unable to hold back the urge to react. jimin didn’t mind though, he kept going. then he added another finger, using both of them to slid in and out of your pussy. his fingers were slick with your lube, only making it easier for him.
you grabbed at his wrist, and he swatted you away. not allowed. you tried to squeeze your thigh together and he forced them open with his free hand. also not allowed. the sounds of your wetness got louder and louder, the feeling of liquid wanting to escape consumed you. you bit your lip, trying not to squirt all over his face.
he could tell, so he stopped. he sat up, his face wet and shiny as it reflected off of the warm lighting of his apartment. he wiped it off, reaching forward and placing the two fingers he used to finger you into your mouth. you sucked on them, needy and dependent.
“what should i do to you?” he asks, but you knew not to answer, because he wasn’t actually asking. rhetorical. jimin paused for a moment, as though he was thinking to himself. you could tell this was more than a punishment to him, it was an ego trip. he wanted to do something that would bring him pleasure, but show you, you only belonged to him.
after a few more seconds of ‘thinking’, he grabbed you by the neck and lifted you, making you sit up. he cupped your chin with a rough hand, staring at you long and hard. “i know.” he said, his hand still wrapped around your neck. “stay here.”
in one swift motion, jimin got off of the couch and went into the bedroom. you heard him shuffling around inside, probably the nightstand. you didn’t dare move or question what he went to get. you knew better. jimin waks out with a pair of handcuffs. not the fluffy plastic molded ones you get out of a cheap sex shop for valentine’s day. real handcuffs. metal, and real. he twisted the small key in one hand, placing it on the glass coffee table beside you. he pushed your chest, making you fall onto your back, flat on the couch again.
“give me your wrists.” he orders. you lift up your arms, your wrists pressed together. he undoes one cuff and tightly secures it around your wrist. then does the same to the other. he reaches over and grabs the key, twisting the cuffs and locking them into place. “i should take away your write to talk.” he says, tilting his head. then he shakes his head, pushing that thought away. “no duck tape this time. i want to hear your moans tonight.”
you watch him, as he runs his hands down to his boxers. he was hard, very hard. like as though the buildup was over and he was ready to fuck you already. everything was prepared and ready now. you knew it. you swallowed hard and waited for his next move.
jimin gets comfortable in between your legs, taking the couch cushions that provided back support and tossed them over the couch, getting them out of the way and making more space. he grabbed both thighs with both hands and spread your legs open wider. “jerk me.” he says. you reach down, his dick basically jumping out of his boxers. you used your fingers to latch onto the rim of his boxers and pull them down. his dick sprung free, and you grabbed hold of it. his breath hitched under your touch. hard and begging.
you began to stroke him with both of your hands, making sure to touch all the places you knew got him going. he thrusted into the o shape your hands had formed, slowly fucking your hands. you stared up at him silently, confirming that you were doing the right thing based off of his facial expressions. he quickly stops you, swatting your hands off. he spits, rubbing it into his dick and making himself wet enough for you.
you lifted your arms and rested them above your head, your body on full display now. jimin aligns himself and then slides into you, gripping onto your thighs for guidance. “fuck.” he grunts, sliding into you little by little until he’s fully inside. you arch slightly, the pressure of him inside of you taking over.
he reached forward at your bra and pushed it down, exposing your tits. he twisted your nipple as he slowly fucked you. his hips thrusting against you.
you kept your legs open wide enough for jimin not to have to correct you, watching his face contort with pleasure as he picks up the pace. he hovers over you now, staring down at you. you can see the anger from earlier flood back into his eyes as he stares at you. he grips your face, squeezing it. “you never listen.” he says, cold and annoyed. “how many times do i have to fuck you until you get it?”
you stayed silent, you basically had no choice. your face begins to sting suddenly as jimin swipes your hand against your cheek, slapping you. it wasn’t common that jimin would slap you, an indication that he was really bothered this time. he gasped out of shock, a small gasp. he looked down at you with an unbothered expression, the thrusting pace still consistent.
your walls wrapped around him, and him only. no one else. no one else got to feel you in this way. or slap you, or put you in handcuffs. only him.
he slid out of you, grabbing the chain of the handcuffs to lift you up roughly. he stood off of the couch and grabbed the small cuff key, then grabbed at your hair, pulling you off of the couch. he walked you over to the bedroom, making you keep up with his pace as you crawled over on your knees and restricted hands.
with your hair in a ball in his fist, he releases your hair as he pulls you onto the bed. he uses the key to loosen and undo the cuffs. finally free. your wrists felt sore from the metal cuffs digging into your skin. however, you knew this wasn’t over. not yet.
“turn over.” he says, adjusting the cuffs. you get on all fours, your ass up in the air. inviting. he grabbed your arms and put them behind your back, you held yourself up with your face pushed against his sheets. he recuffed you, this time with your hands behind your back.
he adjusted quickly and slid back into you, holding onto your hips as you bounced against his every thrust. you could feel his balls slapping against you, only making you more aroused and wet. you moaned into the sheets, muffed and crying out. jimin gripped your hips tighter, slamming against you. he slapped your butt multiple times, the stinging feeling lingering. he slid down your arch and grabbed the chain of the cuffs, using it to hold your arms back as far as possible.
you felt defenseless but desperate. you knew jimin was close when he picked up the pace. you began erratically fucking yourself against him, making him grunt and groan until he eventually pulled out and released himself all over your ass. “damn.” he mumbled, holding onto your hip. this wasn’t apart of his plan.
you stayed in position, as jimin took a few breaths. he continued like nothing happened, sliding right back into you. he was harder this time, like he didn’t have to be too careful now about withholding his release. he fucked you until you were squirming and whining into his bed.
he didn’t stop when your body began to shake and tremble as you came onto his dick, he only used it as lube to go even faster than before.
and this time, before he came again, he reached forward and grabbed you by the hair again, like telling you to sit up yourself wasn’t an option. he pulled you onto your knees, and began to jerk himself off in front of your face. “stick out your tongue.” he says through gasps of air. you do as he says, looking up at him with your tongue out. he still had a hold of your hair, slapping his dick against your tongue. before his hips quickly tightened and he came into your mouth. the white ropes of cum freed itself into your mouth, and you knew better than to spit it out.
he looked down at you, watching as you swallowed it whole. he gave you a look of approval before letting go of your hair. he walked over to a dresser and pulled out a small hand towel.
“stand up and around.” he says. so you do, of course. he begins to wipe the cum off of your butt from earlier. he grabs the key once more and undoes the cuffs, grabbing them and tossing them onto the bed. your back to him, still under his control.
he didn’t have to use his words to tell you that you were his, not right now. that point had already been made and proven. you could only think about the man from earlier. the one who didn’t know personal space and boundaries with strangers, the one who felt too comfortable, too fast.
you wondered what he was doing right now, not out of genuine curiosity, but because he was probably still back at that apartment, invading another woman’s privacy. while here you are, being punished under the control of park jimin and his possessive nature. you almost wanted to go back and thank him.
→ summary:
→ pairing: dom!jimin x femsub!reader
→ tags: smut, sneaky, risky, secret lovers, eating out, SEXXXXX
→ word count: 5k
→ a/n: just a reminder: the students are 18+ and the academy is more of a college/behavioral college for troubled adults!
masterlist
-
the heavy oak door of the library closed behind me with a soft click, the sound swallowed by the comforting silence of the room. the air inside was thick with the scent of old paper, leather bindings, and the faint, lemony polish used on the long, polished tables. it was my sanctuary, the only place at blackwood academy for men and women where the suffocating rules seemed to hold less sway. here, you could lose yourself in the stacks, the towering shelves creating a labyrinth where a person could be invisible, if they were quiet enough.
my eyes scanned the main reading room, a vast space with high, arched windows that let in the last of the afternoon sun, casting long, geometric shadows across the floor. students in their crisp uniforms patrolled the aisles, their expressions stern, their gazes sharp enough to cut through the pretense of studying. i knew their routes by heart, had mapped their schedules in my mind. it was a necessary survival skill in a place where a demerit for "improper socialization" could mean a weekend locked in your dorm.
and then i saw him.
he wasn't supposed to be here. the library was a co-ed space, but interaction was strictly limited to academic necessity. a shared glance, a quiet word about an assignment, was the extent of permitted contact. anything more was a cardinal sin. but there he was, pretending to peruse a shelf of ancient history texts, his dark head bowed, the sharp line of his jaw illuminated by the low hanging lamp above him.
he was a vision of controlled rebellion. his uniform, like mine, was a study in conformity; a crisp white shirt, a navy blazer with the school's crest embroidered in gold, a perfectly knotted tie. but jimin wore it differently. there was a slight looseness to his tie, a casual unbuttoning of his collar that spoke of a silent defiance. his hair, dyed a shade of blonde that was technically against regulations but often overlooked due to his academic excellence, fell over his forehead as he tilted his head, feigning interest in a book about the roman empire.
my heart gave its familiar lurch, a painful, exhilarating pang. we had been dancing around each other for months, a slow, dangerous waltz in the shadows of blackwood's oppressive halls. it started with stolen glances in the dining hall, progressed to notes tucked inside library books, and had recently escalated to fleeting touches in the crowded corridors, fingers brushing against each other, a hand lingering for a second too long on the small of my back.
the risk was intoxicating. the rules were designed to crush individuality, to mold us into perfect, obedient soldiers for the elite futures after spending our youth breaking every rule imaginable. but with jimin, i felt alive, seen. he was the one spark of color in a world of monochrome.
i slipped past the main desk, my own footsteps silent on the worn carpet. i didn't head for him directly. that would be foolish. instead, i made my way to the reference section, a secluded corner of the library known for its dusty tomes and lack of foot traffic. i pulled out a heavy book on botany and opened it on a small carrel, my eyes fixed on the aisle where jimin stood.
a minute passed. then two. i saw him replace the roman history book, his movements fluid and graceful. he turned, and for a breathtaking moment, our eyes met across the expanse of oak and silence. his gaze was dark, intense, a silent message passing between us. he gave an almost imperceptible nod towards the back of the library, towards the "restricted" section.
the restricted section. it was a place of legend among students, a small, climate-controlled room behind a locked gate where the school's most valuable and fragile books were kept. only faculty and senior prefects with a signed note were allowed entry. it was, for all intents and purposes, the perfect place for a secret meeting. the lock was old, a simple key-and-tumbler mechanism that jimin, with his surprisingly nimble fingers and a paperclip he'd fashioned into a lockpick, had shown me he could open in under thirty seconds.
my pulse hammered in my throat. this was it. this was the escalation we had both been teetering on the edge of. every stolen touch, every whispered word, had been leading to this moment.
i closed my book with a soft thud and rose, my movements deliberately unhurried. i walked towards the restricted section, my heart a frantic drum against my ribs. i didn't look back at jimin, but i could feel his eyes on me, a physical caress that sent shivers down my spine.
the gate was a formidable looking thing of black iron, but as jimin had shown me, the lock was pathetic. i glanced around, ensuring the coast was clear. the nearest student was engrossed in a conversation with a younger student about a misplaced book. now.
i pulled the small, bent paperclip from my pocket, my fingers trembling slightly. i inserted it into the keyhole, my mind replaying the lesson jimin had given me one late afternoon in the empty music room. feel for the pins, one by one. apply gentle pressure. don't force it.
there was a soft click, then another. a final, satisfying tumb and the lock gave way. i pushed the heavy gate open just enough to slip through, the hinges groaning in protest. i quickly closed it behind me, plunging myself into the dim, cool air of the restricted room.
the space was small, lined with glass fronted cabinets filled with leather bound books. a single, bare bulb hung from the ceiling, casting a warm, intimate glow. the air smelled of vanilla and decaying paper. it was perfect. it was ours.
i didn't have to wait long. the gate opened again, this time with more confidence, and jimin slipped inside, locking it behind him. the click of the lock echoed in the silence, a sound of finality, of a line being crossed.
he turned to me, and the air crackled with unspoken electricity. the playful facade from the main library was gone, replaced by a raw, hungry intensity that made my breath catch.
"hi," he breathed, his voice a low murmur that was far louder in the silence than a shout would have been.
"hi," i managed to whisper back.
he closed the distance between us in two long strides, his hands coming up to cup my face. his touch was electric, his thumbs stroking my cheekbones. i leaned into his touch, my eyes fluttering shut. this was what i craved. this connection, this warmth in the cold, sterile world of the academy.
"i've been thinking about this all day," he said, his lips brushing against my ear, sending a jolt straight through me. "about you."
"me too," i admitted, my voice shaky. "jimin, this is crazy."
"the craziest," he agreed, his nose nuzzling into my hair, inhaling deeply. "but i don't care. i can't do this anymore. the pretending. the pretending i don't want to tear that uniform off you every time i see you."
a choked sound escaped my throat, a mix of a laugh and a gasp. his words were so blunt, so perfectly mirroring my own forbidden thoughts.
"then don't," i challenged, my hands finding their way to his chest, feeling the steady, rapid beat of his heart beneath the fabric of his blazer. "don't pretend."
he pulled back just enough to look at me, his dark eyes searching mine. the single light bulb caught in his gaze, making them glitter. he saw the answer there, the same desperate need that was coursing through him. he didn't ask for permission again. he didn't need to.
his lips crashed down on mine.
it wasn't a gentle, exploratory kiss. it was a kiss born of weeks of frustration, of stolen glances and unspoken desires. it was hungry and demanding. his lips were soft but firm, moving against mine with an urgency that stole the air from my lungs. i responded in kind, my fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer and deepening the kiss. he tasted of mint, something clean and intoxicating.
his hands left my face, trailing down my side. they settled on my hips, pulling me against him. i could feel the hard line of his arousal pressing against my stomach, and a fresh wave of desire washed over me, so strong it made my knees weak. this was real and it was happening.
"god, you feel so good," he groaned against my mouth, his hands roaming over my back, pressing me impossibly closer. "i've wanted this for so long."
"me too," i gasped as his lips left mine to trail a hot, open-mouthed kiss down my jaw to the sensitive skin of my neck. he nipped at the pulse point there, and i bit my lip to keep from crying out. the sound would carry, and we couldn't risk it. we were in a bubble, but the bubble was fragile.
his fingers fumbled with the buttons of my blazer, his haste making him clumsy. i reached down to help him, my own hands trembling. we worked together, the silent rustle of fabric loud in the quiet room. my blazer joined the floor, followed quickly by his. the cool air hit my arms, raising goosebumps.
his hands were back on me instantly, this time slipping under the hem of my white school shirt. his fingers were warm against my skin, tracing the contours of my waist before moving up to cup my breasts through the thin lace of my bra. i arched into his touch,
his fingers were warm against my skin, tracing the contours of my waist before moving up to cup my breasts through the thin lace of my bra. i arched into his touch, a silent plea for more. he answered by expertly flicking open the front clasp, freeing me. the cool air on my bare skin made me shiver, but it was nothing compared to the heat of his gaze as he looked down at me.
"perfect," he breathed, before lowering his head to take one peaked nipple into his mouth. the wet, heat of his tongue was a shock, a bolt of pure pleasure that shot straight to my core. i stifled a moan, burying my face in the crook of his neck, my fingers tightening in his hair as he lavished attention on first one, then the other, his teeth scraping gently, his tongue swirling in patterns that made my head spin.
my own hands were not idle. i tugged at his tie, pulling it loose and tossing it aside. my fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, my impatience making them clumsy. he chuckled softly, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through his chest and into mine. he helped me, his hands covering mine as we worked together to reveal the smooth, toned skin of his chest and abdomen. i ran my hands over him, tracing the defined lines of his muscles, feeling him shudder under my touch.
the need for more was becoming unbearable, a desperate, clawing ache deep inside me. the risk of being caught, the ticking clock of the evening study period approaching, only heightened the intensity. every sound from the main library; the squeak of a cart, the distant cough of a student had sent a jolt of adrenaline through me, a thrilling mixture of fear and excitement.
"jimin," i whispered, my voice ragged. "please."
he understood. his hands moved to the waistband of my pleated skirt, his fingers hooking into the material. he paused, his eyes locking with mine, seeking final confirmation. i nodded, my breath held in my chest. with a swift, practiced motion, he slid the skirt down my hips, letting it pool around my ankles. i stepped out of it, standing before him in nothing but my knee high socks and my damp panties.
he sank to his knees before me, his eyes never leaving mine. the sight was breathtaking; jimin, the once careless boy to perfect student, the golden boy of blackwood, on his knees for me in the forbidden sanctum of the library. he hooked his fingers into the sides of my panties, slowly, torturously, pulling them down. the fabric dragged against my sensitive skin, and i felt a fresh wave of wetness coat my thighs.
he tossed the scrap of lace aside and just looked at me for a moment. "you're so beautiful," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. then he leaned forward and pressed a soft, open mouthed kiss to my core.
i cried out, the sound escaping before i could stop it. his hands flew to my hips, holding me steady as his tongue delved between my folds. he explored me with a slow, thorough deliberation that was both agonizing and exquisite. he found my clit, circling it with the tip of his tongue before sucking it gently into his mouth. my knees buckled, and i would have fallen if not for his firm grip on me.
my hands braced against the cold glass of a book cabinet, my head thrown back, my eyes squeezed shut. the world narrowed to the sensation of his mouth on me, the rhythmic stroking of his tongue, the occasional gentle scrape of his teeth. he knew exactly what he was doing, his movements confident and sure. he built the pleasure slowly, expertly. i could feel the tension coiling in my stomach, tightening, winding up until i was sure i would snap.
"jimin," i gasped, his name a prayer on my lips. "i'm… i'm going to…"
he didn't stop. if anything, he increased his pace, his tongue flicking faster, his suction harder. the pressure became too much, and i shattered. a wave of pleasure, so intense it was almost painful, crashed over me. my body convulsed, my inner walls clenching around nothing as i came with a silent scream, my fingers digging into the wood of the bookshelf.
he stayed with me through it, his tongue gentling, lapping at me as i trembled through the aftershocks. when i was finally still, he stood up, pulling me into his arms. i could taste myself on his lips as he kissed me, a deep, possessive kiss that spoke of his own desperate need.
my hands went to the button of his trousers, my fingers fumbling with the zipper. he was hard, straining against the fabric of his boxers. i palmed him through the material, and he groaned into my mouth, his hips bucking forward.
"i need you," he growled, his voice strained. "now. here."
he turned me around, pressing my front against the cool, smooth wood of a heavy reading table. i spread my legs, bracing my hands on the table's edge, my body humming with anticipation. i heard the rustle of his trousers falling and the small rustle of plastic. the thought that he came prepared sent another thrill through me. this wasn't a spontaneous act; it was a planned, deliberate rebellion, just for me.
he positioned himself behind me, his hands gripping my hips. i felt the blunt head of his cock press against my entrance, and i pushed back, silently begging him to fill me. he entered me slowly, inch by agonizing inch, giving me time to adjust to his size. the stretch was exquisite, a feeling of fullness that i had never known.
when he was fully inside me, he paused, his forehead resting against my back. i could feel his ragged breaths, the tremor in his limbs. "are you okay?" he whispered, his voice tight with control.
"more than okay," i breathed, pushing back against him again. "move, jimin. please."
he needed no further encouragement. he began to move, his strokes slow and deep at first, a steady, punishing rhythm that had me seeing stars. the sound of our bodies slapping together, slick and urgent, was obscene in the quiet room, mingling with our ragged breaths and the frantic pounding of my heart. every thrust pushed me closer to the table, the hard edge digging into my thighs, a delicious counterpoint to the pleasure building inside me.
his hands roamed over my back, my sides, my hips, his grip possessive, almost bruising. he leaned forward, his chest pressing against my back, his lips finding the sensitive spot behind my ear.
"you feel so good," he panted, his voice a harsh whisper. "so tight. so perfect."
he angled his hips, and with the next thrust, he hit a spot deep inside me that made me cry out. he found it again, and again, his movements becoming faster, more erratic. the pleasure was overwhelming, a tidal wave building, threatening to pull me under. i could feel his control slipping, his rhythm becoming more desperate, more primal.
"look at me," he commanded, his voice rough.
i turned my head, my cheek pressed against the cool wood of the table. our eyes met in the dim light, his dark with a feral intensity that took my breath away. the connection was electric, a raw, unfiltered exchange of lust and affection. he was watching me as he fucked me, his expression a mixture of awe and pure need. it was the most intimate thing i had ever experienced.
the sight of him, undone by pleasure, was my undoing. the coil in my stomach snapped, and i came again, harder this time. my vision blurred, my body convulsing around him as wave after wave of pleasure washed over me. i bit down on my lip, tasting blood, the coppery tang a stark reminder of the reality of our situation.
my orgasm triggered his own. with a final, powerful thrust, he buried himself deep inside me, his body going rigid as he came with a hoarse cry that he muffled against my shoulder. i could feel the hot pulse of his release, the rhythmic clenching of his cock as he emptied himself into the condom.
we stayed like that for a long moment, our bodies tangled, our breaths mingling in the cool air. the silence of the library returned, but it was different now, filled with the aftermath of our passion, with the scent of our sex.
slowly, carefully, he pulled out. i felt a sense of loss, of emptiness, but it was quickly replaced by a warm, sated glow. he disposed of the condom, and we began the slow, silent process of putting ourselves back together. we redressed in the dim light, our movements unhurried, our hands occasionally brushing against each other, a silent acknowledgment of what we had just shared.
when we were fully dressed, he pulled me into his arms, holding me close. i rested my head on his chest, listening to the steady, calming beat of his heart.
"what now?" i whispered, the question hanging in the air between us.
he was quiet for a moment, his hand stroking my hair. "now," he said, his voice soft but firm, "we go back. and tomorrow, we do it again. and the day after that. and every day after that, until we graduate and get rewarded for being ''reformed students'' or whatever bullshit our parents put us through. i'm not letting this go. i'm not letting you go."
i pulled back to look at him, my heart swelling with a
feeling so overwhelming it was almost painful. it was more than lust, more than the thrill of the forbidden. it was a profound, terrifying, and exhilarating connection.
"okay," i whispered, a single word that held the weight of a thousand promises.
he smiled, a genuine, radiant smile that transformed his face, erasing all the shadows and leaving only light. he leaned in and kissed me, a soft, gentle kiss that was a stark contrast to the frantic passion of moments before. this kiss was a seal, a pact. it tasted of the future.
"we should go," he said reluctantly, his thumb stroking my cheek. "next period starts in ten minutes. we'll be missed."
i nodded, the reality of our situation crashing back in. the bubble was about to burst. we had to go back to being just students, two ships passing in the night, bound by the rigid rules of blackwood academy.
he unlocked the gate and peered out, his movements sharp and alert. "coast is clear," he murmured. "go first. i'll wait a few minutes, then follow."
i gave him one last, lingering look, committing the sight of him; disheveled, satisfied and beautiful in the dim light to memory. then i slipped through the gate, my heart pounding with a new kind of adrenaline. the walk back to my dorm was a blur. every shadow seemed to hold a prefect, every distant sound a potential discovery. i kept my head down, my expression carefully neutral, the picture of a diligent student returning from a period of quiet study.
but inside, i was burning. the memory of his hands on my skin, the taste of his lips, the feeling of him inside me, was a constant, throbbing presence. i could still feel the pressure of him against my back, the ghost of his breath on my neck. i felt changed. the girl who had walked into the library an hour ago was gone, replaced by someone who knew the taste of rebellion and found it sweeter than any sanctioned pleasure.
the next few days were a special kind of torture. we were back to the stolen glances, the fleeting touches. but now, every look held the memory of what we had done. every brush of fingers in the crowded hallway was a promise, a reminder of the secret we shared. the risk was still there, but it was different now. it was no longer a vague, thrilling possibility; it was a sharp, defined edge we walked, a line we had already crossed and knew we would cross again.
our rendezvous in the restricted section became a ritual. we found other places, too. the dusty, forgotten attic above the science labs, where the only light came from a grimy skylight. the boiler room in the basement, a hot, loud, and dangerous place where the roar of the machinery covered our sounds. each new location was a fresh thrill, a new way to defy the suffocating control of the academy.
but it was the library that remained our true sanctuary. we returned there a week later, the anticipation a palpable thing between us. this time, there was less haste, less desperation. we knew we had each other, and that knowledge gave us a new kind of confidence.
we didn't even bother with the pretense of studying. we met by the geography section, and without a word, he took my hand and led me to our hidden room. the gate clicked shut behind us, and the world fell away.
this time, he took his time. he undressed me slowly, his fingers tracing every line, every curve, as if memorizing me. he laid me down on his discarded blazer on the floor, the rough wool a contrast to the softness of his touch. he explored my body with his hands and his mouth, bringing me to the brink of pleasure again and again, only to pull back, drawing out the anticipation until i was begging him, my voice hoarse with need.
when he finally entered me, it was with a slow, deep thrust that stole my breath. we moved together in a slow, deliberate rhythm, our eyes locked, our bodies speaking a language that needed no words. there was no frantic rush this time, no fear of getting caught. there was only us, the two of us, lost in our own world, our own rhythm. the pleasure built slowly, a steady, creeping tide that rose higher and higher, until it washed over us both, pulling us under into a sea of bliss.
afterwards, we lay tangled together on the floor, the dust motes dancing in the single beam of light from the bulb above. my head was on his chest, his fingers stroking my hair.
"have you ever thought about what happens after?" i asked, my voice quiet.
"after what?"
"after here. after blackwood."
he was silent for a long moment, and i held my breath, afraid of his answer. "sometimes," he said finally. "i think about getting out of here. going somewhere no one knows us. somewhere we can just… be."
"where would we go?"
he laughed softly. "i don't know. somewhere warm. somewhere with a beach. maybe i'll learn to surf. you can write books under an umbrella."
the image was so vivid, so perfect, it made my heart ache. "i'd like that," i said, my voice thick with emotion.
"good," he said, his arms tightening around me. "because i'm not letting you go, ever."
we lay there for a while longer, wrapped in the warmth of our shared dream. then, too soon, the reality of our situation intruded. we had to go back.
as we were dressing, a sudden, sharp sound from the main library made us both freeze. it was the unmistakable sound of the main gate being unlocked, followed by the heavy tread of footsteps on the floor.
"shit," jimin whispered, his eyes wide with panic. "it's mr. jun. the head librarian."
my blood ran cold. mr. jun was the most feared teacher at blackwood, a man with eyes like a hawk and a zero tolerance policy for any infraction. if he found us here, we wouldn't just get demerits. we'd be expelled.
"quick," jimin said, his mind working fast. "in the cabinet."
he pointed to a large, antique mahogany cabinet in the corner, the kind used for storing old maps. it was tall and deep, with a pair of ornate doors. there was no time to argue. i scrambled inside, squeezing into the narrow space, followed quickly by jimin. he pulled the doors shut, plunging us into near total darkness.
we were pressed together, chest to chest, in the cramped, dusty space. i could hear my own frantic heartbeat, could feel jimin's racing against mine. through the keyhole, i could see a sliver of the room, and the approaching figure of mr. jun.
he walked slowly, his footsteps echoing in the silence. he ran a hand along the shelves, his expression stern. he was doing his nightly rounds, checking to make sure everything was in its place before locking up for the night.
he stopped in front of our cabinet. my heart stopped with it. i could see his face, just inches from the keyhole, his eyes scanning the surface of the wood. he seemed to notice something. the latch. jimin, in his haste, hadn't closed it properly.
mr. jun frowned. he reached out a hand, his fingers wrapping around the brass handle.
i squeezed my eyes shut, bracing myself for the inevitable. the doors would swing open, revealing us in our disheveled state, our secret exposed. our time at blackwood would be over. our dream of a future together would be shattered.
but then, a miracle. a loud crash from the main library, followed by a string of curses. mr. jun paused, his hand still on the latch. he sighed, the sound of long suffering frustration. he let go of the handle and turned, his footsteps receding as he went to investigate the disturbance.
i let out a breath i didn't realize i'd been holding, my body sagging against jimin's in relief. he held me tight, his face buried in my hair, his body trembling.
"that was too close," he whispered, his voice shaky.
i could only nod, my throat too tight to speak.
we waited in the suffocating darkness for what felt like an eternity, until we heard the sound of the main gate being locked and the distant click of the library lights being turned off. only then did jimin risk opening the cabinet door.
we stumbled out into the dimly lit room, gasping for air. the near-miss had left us both shaken, but it had also solidified something between us. we had faced the ultimate consequence and survived. we were invincible.
we didn't say another word. we just held each other for a long moment, a silent acknowledgment of the bond that had been forged in the crucible of fear and desire. then, hand in hand, we made our escape through a small, windowless service corridor that jimin knew about, a passage that led to the grounds behind the gym.
the cool night air was a welcome relief after the stuffy confines of the cabinet. we stood in the shadows of the ancient oak trees that dotted the lawn, the moonlight filtering through the leaves, casting a dappled pattern on the ground.
"are you scared?" jimin asked, his voice quiet.
i thought about it. i was scared of getting caught, of the consequences. but i wasn't scared of us. i wasn't scared of what we had. "no," i said, and i was surprised to find that it was the truth. "not with you."
he smiled that same radiant, heart-stopping smile that i was quickly becoming
addicted to. he squeezed my hand, his touch warm and steady in the cool night air. "good. because i meant what i said. this isn't just some game to me. this is real."
i knew he was right. it was real. it was the most real thing i had ever felt. the rules of blackwood, the expectations of our families, the carefully planned-out futures they had for us after dealing with our shit for years, they all seemed like a distant irrelevant dream compared to the solid, undeniable reality of jimin's hand in mine.
we stood there for a while longer, just two figures in the shadows, sharing a silence that was more comforting than any words. the moon was high in the sky, a silver coin in the inky blackness, and the grounds of the academy were quiet and still. it was a peaceful moment, a stolen slice of normalcy in our abnormal world.
"come on," he said softly, breaking the silence. "i'll walk you to your dorm."
for months, your relationship survived through hidden schedules, secrecy, and closed doors; until an unknown number begins sending texts that know far too much. private moments stop feeling private, paranoia turns into fear and when the messages become something darker, one terrifying truth becomes impossible to ignore: someone is watching.
→ pairing: bts!jimin x fem!reader
→ word count: 6.7k
→ tags: jimin x reader, park jimin fic, bts fanfic, psychological thriller, stalker au, dark fic, suspense fic, mystery fic, anonymous texts, secret relationship au, idol au, protective jimin, thriller romance, paranoia, stalking tw, tw harassment, tw threats, murder mystery, suspense, obsessive stalker, creepy vibes, hidden relationship, celebrity relationship au, unknown number, detective au, dark themes, angst, tension, chapter two, seen chapter two, seen fic, park jimin x reader, bts x reader, psychological suspense, thriller au, protective boyfriend jimin, tw stalking, tw death, tw murder, slow burn thriller, riding, missionary, cumming, orgasm, quickie, love making, smut, bf jimin
→ a/n: I got a comment that the front was too small so I made it regular this time! I wanted to keep this story shorter and moire of a quick read so I hope you enjoyed :D and yes I added smut because yall are freaks hehe
you scrolled through the endless comments of speculation, denial, anger and confusion.
your throat tightened because they didn’t know; none of them knew. they don't know about the fear, stalking, kim or the games.
your phone buzzed again, this time with a message from jimin.
jimin:
what did you do?
before you could answer; another text.
jimin:
i’m outside.
your stomach dropped. you stood and hurried to the door. when you opened it jimin stood in a hoodie, his hat low and out of breath like he'd run over here. his phone was in hand, his expression somewhere between panic and disbelief.
for a second neither of you spoke, then he held up his phone. your post still open. “…you posted this?” he wasn't angry, just quiet and shocked.
your chest tightened. “i didn’t know what else to do.” he blinked slowly, confused and processing. “you could’ve talked to me first.” the guilt hit you immediately.
“I know.” your voice cracked slightly. “but namjoon...”
his expression shifted instantly, because of course; namjoon, Kim, everything. you were getting rid of any leverage this freak had over you.
“i’m tired of people getting hurt,” you admitted quietly, your eyes burning again. “if the only thing they have over us is our relationship then i thought…” your voice trailed off. “…if everyone already knows, maybe they will stop.” silence, a very heavy silence.
jimin looked down at the phone, then back at you, still processing because this changed his life too, his career even. he sighed, stepping inside fully and closing the door behind him. “you really scared me.”
you looked away, not wanting to look him in the eyes. “…are you mad?”
he hesitated for way too long. “i don’t know. i wish you told me first.”
your chest sank. “but…” he looked back at the screen; your post. the comments climbing and the internet imploding. “…part of me gets why you did it.”
buzz.
both phones at the same time.
unknown number:
wow.
unknown number:
that was stupid.
unknown number:
i liked having secrets :(
for the first time the stalker didn’t seem in control and somehow instead of feeling relieved, it only scared you more. your fingers hovered over the keyboard. jimin noticed immediately. “…what are you doing?”
you didn’t answer because honestly you weren’t fully sure yourself.
you:
stop hiding.
you:
if this was really about protecting him, nobody would be hurt. stop pretending to be a worried fan when you've made his life hell.
jimin looked over sharply. “don’t.”
it was too late. you waited and waited. the typing started, then stopped, then paused, then started again, before stopping. nothing. they had nothing to say. no rebuttals, no threats, nothing.
“…that’s strange.” jimin still looked uneasy.
“i don’t like it.”
neither did you, because this person always responded. always, even if it was cruel or mocking... something. but now, nothing. the silence stretched until jimin’s phone rang. both of you jumped.
unknown caller. he frowned immediately. “…hybe.” his posture straightened and he answered instantly. “hello?”
his expression changed. “…right now?”
he paused as the person on the other line talked. “no, i understand.”
another pause, his eyes flicking briefly toward you. “…okay.” he hung up slowly. “what?”
his jaw flexed with annoyance. “the ceo.”
“what did they say?” you asked, concern building inside of you.
“they want me at the building for some PR emergency meeting.”
your stomach dropped because of course. the post, the internet, the headlines already exploding.
“what kind of meeting?”
he laughed once, humorlessly. “regarding the situation.’”
your phone buzzed and both of you looked instantly.
unknown number:
don’t let them make decisions for you.
your stomach dropped because how the hell did they know? jimin saw it too and went completely still. “…they know about the meeting.”
the call had happened thirty seconds ago. thirty. seconds. ago.
jimin grabbed his keys immediately, his expression unreadable now. “you’re coming with me.”
“what?”
“no chance i’m leaving you alone.”
hybe at night felt different. too quiet and too tense. security was tighter than usual. the second jimin walked through the doors everyone knew. your post had spread too fast. phones lowered awkwardly as glances lingered; some judgement, some curiosity, and some scared of what may happen next.
the elevator ride felt endless. it was silent as you went up to the ceo's office on the top floor. jimin stood beside you staring straight ahead, his hands shoved into his pockets, thinking too hard.
then quietly he says, “if they ask me to deny it…”
your chest tightened. he didn’t finish but didn’t need to because suddenly you realized this meeting might change everything. the assistant outside the executive office stood with a clipboard and her phone in hand, your post most likely loaded up.
“they’re waiting.” she says calmly. the office doors opened and it wasn’t just the ceo. it was the legal team, pr and security. everyone looked serious.
the ceo folded his hands slowly. he looked exhausted already, then his eyes moved toward you and lingered. “…close the door.”
the ceo slid a printed photo across the table. your blood ran cold. it was a picture of you and jimin outside the hospital, taken tonight and timestamped.
underneath the picture was a handwritten note.
you weren’t supposed to choose her over us.
us?
the ceo leaned back slowly. “we received this twenty minutes ago.”
your pulse spiked. “how?”
“it was delivered.” the ceo replied. “one of the front desk assistants found it in an envelope addressed to me.”
security spoke next with a tight voice. “we reviewed cameras.”
your stomach twisted. “and?”
he hesitated before replying. “we lost them.”
“what do you mean lost them?”
“they entered through a staff entrance.”
cold flooded your chest. a staff entrance. how?
security continued, “they had a hoodie, but they had staff credentials to get in. most likely fake.”
the ceo sighed quietly rubbing at his forehead. “we have a larger issue. his eyes landed on jimin, then your post printed beside legal documents. “the relationship.”
jimin straightened slightly, almost protective. “what about it?”
“we’re being asked for statements.” pr slid a tablet across the table. the headlines were already spreading.
''JIMIN SECRET GIRLFRIEND EXPOSED''
''MYSTERY WOMAN CONFIRMED''
''HYBE SILENT AMID VIRAL POST''
“we can confirm,” legal said carefully, “or deny.”
jimin spoke immediately. “I’m not denying it.”
the room paused and the ceo looked at him carefully. “you understand what this means.”
“yes.” he replied firm and calm. “if people are getting hurt because someone’s using our relationship against us, i’m not pretending anymore.” your chest tightened unexpectedly.
your phone buzzed.
too loud in the silence. everybody couldn't help but notice.
unknown number:
meeting going well?
you turned the screen slowly and the room changed instantly. security moved closer and the ceo stood. “how do they know?” he seemed on edge now, because nobody outside this room should know.
unknown number:
i liked the old secret better.
unknown number:
you’re making this messy.
jimin’s jaw flexed hard. detective han, who you somehow hadn’t noticed standing near the back wall stepped forward. “when did these start?”
you blinked. “…han?”
he nodded once, his expression unreadable. “I was called in fifteen minutes ago.” he looked at the phone, then the note and then the photo.
“as I've said before, this isn’t random escalation.”
everyone looked at him. han pointed once at the note.
you weren’t supposed to choose her over us.
“whoever this is…they’re emotionally attached.” he looked at jimin. “obsessively attached.” han reached for the note again and studied the handwriting.
“…interesting.”
your stomach dropped immediately. “what?”
han looked up slowly and for the first time he seemed genuinely unsettled. “i think i’ve seen this before.”
before anyone could ask what he meant the air suddenly felt too thick and too warm. your stomach twisted and the walls felt closer somehow; voices blurred together, security talking and pr whispering.
jimin was asking something but you couldn’t focus because suddenly you felt dizzy, really dizzy, like all the oxygen had disappeared. you stood too fast. “I just...” your voice came out quieter than intended. everyone looked over. “…i need air.”
jimin stood immediately. “I'll come.”
“no.” you said too quickly. you softened immediately. “just for a second.”
he looked unconvinced, worried already. “i’ll text you.”
reluctantly he nodded. “five minutes.”
when the rooftop doors opened cold air hit immediately. sharp and welcome. the city stretched endlessly below, seoul glowing beneath the dark sky. the traffic distant and tiny. the height made everything feel quieter.
for the first time all day you breathed, your hands resting against the railing and cold metal grounding you. your mind spiraled anyway.
kim.
namjoon.
the note.
you weren’t supposed to choose her over us.
us.
what did that even mean? one person? multiple? obsessive fans? staff? you rubbed at your face. you were tired.
behind you, the rooftop hummed softly. industrial vents rattling quietly in the wind, metal clinking every now and then. normal sounds. probably. you stayed there a few more minutes trying to calm down and trying not to think. then, clink.
your body stiffened immediately. the sound was small and metallic behind you near the vents. you turned slowly, but nothing, just shadows, ventilation systems, pipes and dark corners. it was empty.
your chest loosened slightly. it was the wind probably.
you looked away again, but another sound came. scrape.
quieter this time, but much closer. your stomach tightened and you turned again. nothing.
“hello?” silence, just wind and city noise. you hated how paranoid you’d become.
buzz.
your phone.
unknown number:
you always run when things get hard.
you looked around again. nothing.
unknown number:
roof suits you.
your breath caught. they knew where you were, of course they did.
clink.
louder, near the vents again. you turned too fast your heart pounding now. still nothing, but something felt off like someone had just moved.
hidden and watching.
unknown number:
you should stop looking in the wrong places.
unknown number:
i’m closer than that.
your pulse spiked painfully. you stepped backward instinctively toward the rooftop entrance, toward safety.
another sound: footsteps.
slow and deliberate, somewhere behind the vents. way too heavy to be wind, too steady. your throat tightened.
“who’s there?” nothing.
then, a faint metallic rattling. something lightly knocking against metal piping. closer. you turned and hurried toward the door, hand reaching immediately for the handle. you pulled but nothing.
you pulled again harder. the door was locked. “no!”
again, nothing. completely locked.
buzz. your phone lit up.
unknown number:
don’t leave yet.
unknown number:
we finally have privacy.
the rooftop suddenly felt enormous; too open, too empty and too exposed. you looked around again. nothing. and somehow that felt worse because someone was here, you knew they were.
another metallic sound. clink.
closer.
followed by slow footsteps.
“who’s there?” your voice came out thinner than intended.
silence.
then, a soft laugh. quiet and female, barely audible over the wind. your blood ran cold instantly. it came from near the vents, definitely near the vents. it was not your imagination. it was real. you backed up toward the locked door again, phone already in hand.
calling jimin.
ringing.
ringing.
nothing.
straight to voicemail. he was probably still in the meeting. shit. you dialed again anyway.
buzz.
unknown number:
don’t call him.
unknown number:
he never listens fast enough.
your breathing grew uneven. you typed quickly.
you:
what do you want?
unknown number:
i wanted to meet you properly.
another sound, closer now. footsteps scraping softly against concrete somewhere behind the vents, slow enough to feel deliberate like they wanted you nervous, wanted you listening. you looked around desperately. fire ladder? another exit? nothing, just open rooftop.
buzz.
unknown number:
you know what's funny?
unknown number:
you’ve seen me before.
unknown number:
more than once.
your eyes darted across the rooftop trying to spot movement. a shadow, anything. but still nothing.
then movement. fastnear the far vent. a black hoodie, gone just as quickly. your breath caught.
“hey!” the word left before you could stop it.
stupid.
silence followed, then a phone vibration. not yours but somewhere nearby. close, hidden behind metal. you froze because suddenly they weren’t just here, they were close enough to hear you breathe.
buzz.
unknown number:
warmer.
then the rooftop door behind you rattled violently. someone trying the handle from inside. jimin’s voice muffled through the metal. “open the door!” your chest nearly gave out in relief. “jimin!”
you turned and behind you another sound. close. footsteps right behind you and quietly almost at your ear, a female voice. soft and strangely calm, obsessively familiar somehow. “you really ruin everything, you know that?”
your back hit the metal rooftop door as the footsteps slowed. the clinking near the vents stopped completely.
your phone buzzed.
unknown number:
turn around.
your stomach twisted violently.
slowly you did. nothing, just vents an cold air. an empty rooftop. you frowned, your heart still pounding.
because something about her felt familiar. too familiar. you couldn’t place it but the way she stood, the slight tilt of her shoulders, the careful posture. your breathing slowed unintentionally.
“…who are you?”
the woman stopped. she didn’t answer.
instead she raised her phone.
your phone buzzed.
unknown number:
better.
your stomach dropped. “no…”
another step. the moonlight shifted around her and caught part of her face. your blood ran cold instantly because that wasn’t possible. your brain rejected it immediately, rejected what your eyes were seeing. “no.”
manager kim was dead, you saw the article. the police, the office, everything.
but there she stood. alive.
pale and tired with dark circles beneath her eyes. she wore the same careful makeup and same expression, except now something looked off like she hadn’t slept in weeks.
“you…” your voice barely came out.
kim smiled small and sad, almost relieved. “there you are.”
your body didn’t move. it couldn’t, because this made no sense.
“you’re..dead?''
“that’s what they think.”
your stomach churned violently. “no.”
“you were found-”
“a body was found.” she said matter-of-fact. “not mine.”
your pulse staggered. what?
jimin’s muffled voice echoed through the rooftop door. “open the door!” kim barely reacted. instead she looked tired, so unbelievably tired. “you really don’t get it,” she said quietly, her voice softer now.
your throat tightened. “then explain it.”
kim looked out over seoul for a second, the lights stretching below them. “I spent years protecting him.”
“I knew his schedules before he did sometimes. i covered scandals, hid injuries, made excuses when he was exhausted.” her eyes flickered toward you. “i watched him destroy himself for everyone.”
your stomach twisted because part of you understood, at least the exhaustion and the sacrifice.
but not this. never this.
kim continued. “and then you happened.”
“he smiled more.”
the words caught you off guard. “what?”
“he smiled more,” she repeated. “showed up distracted, wanted free time.” something bitter flickered through her expression. “started choosing himself.”
“you mean he was happy?”
that made something in her crack. “no. he was reckless.” her voice sharpened. “you made him reckless.”
“you think fans forgive things like this?” she asked quietly. “you think companies do?” she shook her head slowly. “one leak, one scandal or one mistake and suddenly people turn on him.”
her voice dropped softer. “I was protecting him.''
“so you stalked me?” you asked quietly.
“so i tested you.”
your stomach dropped.
“the notes. the tasks. the secrecy.” kim swallowed. “if you really loved him, you’d protect him too.”
“and kim?” your voice cracked slightly. “namjoon?”
pain flickered across her face. “I didn’t mean-”
she stopped and looked away. “we lost control.”
the rooftop suddenly felt colder. behind the door, another hard slam. “unlock the door!” jimin, he was desperate now. kim looked toward it again, her expression twisting briefly.
“he always chooses people over himself.”
buzz.
your phone lit up suddenly.
unknown number:
wow.
unknown number:
she really told you everything?
kim’s expression changed immediately.
“no…”
unknown number:
you thought you were special?
kim stepped back, her face draining of color.
“no.”
unknown number:
you were useful.
your pulse spiked and you looked up slowly. kim looked horrified.
“what…” your voice barely came out. kim shook her head immediately. “no.” more frantic now.
“no, that’s not possible.”
buzz.
unknown number:
you really thought she was the only one watching?
kim looked toward the maintenance stairs immediately, panic taking over. “I need to go.”
“what?”
she turned quickly actually trying to leave.
“you’re not leaving!” adrenaline hit before thought. you grabbed her sleeve but kim jerked away immediately, hard.
“let go!”
“no!” she shoved your shoulder.
not enough to hurt but enough to stumble. fear replacing panic in her eyes. “I can’t be here!”
“kim-” she pushed past again, you grabbed her arm harder this time.
“let go!” the struggle turned messy fast. coat sleeves were ripped, hands slipping and scratching. real panic. kim trying to wrench free with you stumbling against metal railing. “stop!”
the rooftop door suddenly unlocked with a loud metallic click. both of you froze mid scramble as the door swung open, warm light spilling across the rooftop.
the ceo stepped out. calm, his hands resting at his sides and his expression unreadable.
for a second nobody moved. then quietly and firmly he spoke. “kim soojin.”
sharp enough to cut through the panic instantly. kim froze.
“sir-” her voice cracked, small now and afraid. the ceo sighed softly, almost disappointed. “you’re making this harder than it needs to be.”
why was he here? alone? where did jimin go?
you slowly stepped back eyes darting between them. ''it was the both of you, wasn't it?'' kim looked at the floor immediately, staying silent. the ceo adjusted his sleeves calmly. “we’ve known each other a long time.”
kim shook her head quickly, her voice trembling. “I didn’t tell her anything.”
“she figured it out herself.” the ceo hummed quietly like he was considering something, then looked at you. “you’ve been very curious lately.” your stomach dropped.
because that smile felt familiar somehow. the control, the wording, the tone.
your phone buzzed.
you looked down.
unknown number:
finally.
you looked up. the ceo’s phone screen dimmed, the same notification glow. same timing. your blood ran cold.
no.
no way.
he slipped his phone calmly into his pocket, his expression unchanged.
then softly, almost amused, he spoke. “you really should’ve stayed secret.”
“she deserves answers,” kim said quietly.
deserves? like any of this was normal. the ceo nodded once. “there’s a maintenance shed,” he continued, motioning lightly toward the far side of the rooftop. “it's private.”
“no.” you said without thought. “no way.”
his expression barely shifted. “you can either keep guessing,” he said calmly, “or understand what’s actually been happening.”
he paused for a moment.
“and trust me…” his eyes flicked briefly toward your phone. “…you’ll want answers.”
your phone buzzed.
jimin:
where are you?
jimin:
i went to get security. answer me.
jimin:
security says the roof door is unlocked now
you swallowed hard and the ceo noticed.
“go ahead,” he said firmly. “tell him you’re fine.”
everything about this felt wrong because you weren't fine, but you needed information. you needed to know.
slowly and carefully you typed.
you:
im okay. just needed air.
sent.
you regretted it immediately. help was so close and somehow they still had control over you which made you feel pathetic.
before following them toward the maintenance shed your fingers slipped quietly into your coat pocket, your phone already there. your heart pounding too hard because something in your gut screamed:
you may not get another chance.
without looking you unlocked it, the brightness turned all the way down. after some fidgeting you shoved it deep into your pocket. silent and hidden.
the rooftop shed was a small maintenance storage with dim overhead lighting buzzing faintly above and metal shelves lined with cleaning supplies and dusty equipment. the air smelled stale and industrial.
there was one folding table and one chair. it was too enclosed and private for your liking. you wondered if this was where kim has been hiding out.
the ceo locked the door behind him and your stomach tightened immediately. click.
kim stayed near the wall with her arms folded tightly around herself. she was avoiding eye contact now. the ceo sighed quietly. “questions,” he said simply, like this was a business meeting.
you swallowed hard. “what the hell is this?”
“the relationship,” he said carefully, “was becoming a liability.”
your stomach dropped. “what?”
he folded his hands neatly. “you think companies don’t calculate risk?” there was a soft vibration against your thigh. “jimin is valuable,” he continued. the wording was cold. a valuable, not a human.
“kim became… emotionally compromised.”
kim flinched beside him, looking ashamed. “she cared too much.”
your eyes moved between them. “you stalked me.”
kim looked away her voice quieter now. “at first i just watched.” your pulse spiked. “at first?”
she swallowed. “I found out about the relationship months ago.”
your chest tightened. “how?”
“schedules, duh... i noticed patterns.” her voice cracked slightly. “long nights, changed routines, excuses.” she laughed once. “you looked happy with him.” that sounded resentful and devastated. the ceo continued calmly. “she struggled separating personal attachment from professional responsibility.”
“you threatened me.”
kim nodded once, barely. “I wanted you scared. I thought if i made you understand what secrecy costs…” she stopped, voice shaking. “…you’d leave.” your phone buzzed quietly, hidden beneath fabric.
jimin:
where are you?
jimin:
the roof door is unlocked now.
jimin:
security can’t find the ceo either.
they were looking. you decided to keep talking. you looked back up. “what about namjoon?”
“an unfortunate complication.” the ceo replied. ''that wasn't apart of the plan until the dimwit kim blackmailed into following you around the award show got brave and attacked namjoon.''
kim looked sick immediately. “I didn’t want that,” she whispered. “I swear.”
''how the hell did you know what we were saying or doing in the moment?!'' your eyebrows furrowed together as you asked.
''you're much younger than me and you don't know about hidden cameras?'' kim scoffed humorously, ''the company just has the funds to get their hands on extremely good quality ones. I recommend getting rid of your TV.'' she said, before going quiet.
“what happened to you kim?” you asked suddenly. their expressions shifted. manager kim was supposedly dead and yet she was standing just a few feet away from you, alive. you didn't get the benefit of that at all.
the ceo sighed quietly like the answer should be obvious. “convenience.”
your stomach twisted. “what?”
“the death was useful.”
your breathing stopped briefly. “she disappeared.” he motioned lightly toward kim. “people stopped asking questions eventually and it made it easier for her to track you.”
kim looked horrified now. “I didn’t know it would go that far.”
“he said no one would get hurt.”
the ceo looked annoyed instantly. your fingers tightened subtly in your pocket. the ceo straightened. “you’ve seen too much.” your stomach dropped because suddenly the room changed. he wasn’t explaining anymore, he was deciding. your hand moved toward the door immediately. “I’m leaving.”
“no.” a simple and firm no.
you grabbed the handle anyway. it was locked, of course. panic flared. “what are you gonna do? keep me here?”
the ceo stepped closer. “If you go public…you destroy jimin.”
he paused for a moment. “or worse.”
there it was, threat. a real threat.
kim looked visibly uncomfortable now. “sir maybe we should-”
“no.”
your phone buzzed again.
jimin:
please answer me.
you shoved your phone quickly back deeper into your pocket. “I’m not staying here.” you shoved past. the ceo grabbed your wrist immediately, his grip strong. “let go of me!” you shouted as panic rose to your throat.
kim stepped in. “stop!” everything turned messy fast. there was shoving and voices raised, the metal shelves rattling loudly as you twisted and turned out of the ceo's grip.
he came for you full force, wrapping his arms around you and picking you up in a threatening bear hug. you squirmed and screamed as kim protested from the other side of the room like a coward.
you kicked at his knee causing him to stumble backwards. you escaped his grip and you pushed again, hard, and then the sounds of heavy footsteps outside and voices began to fill your ears.
the shed door burst open. it was detective han and the police with security, the screaming basically led them to the commotion. “hands where i can see them!” the ceo froze. kim immediately stepped back, crying now. “I didn’t mean-” han moved fast, his eyes flicking to you instantly. “you okay?”
your chest heaved and slowly you pulled your phone from your pocket. the voice memo still recording, the red dot glowing.
voice memo:
04:17:42
your hand shook slightly. “…i got everything.”
behind him the ceo stayed unnervingly calm while officers secured his hands, like this was temporary and manageable. he looked at you once. then quietly began to speak. “that recording won’t save him.”
jimin moved before anyone else could. “what the hell does that mean?” han stepped between them instantly. “not now.”
the ceo only smiled slightly. small and knowing. it was pissing you off. kim finally spoke through shaky breaths her eyes red and mascara ruined. “I didn’t want this.”
nobody answered because how were you even supposed to respond to that? namjoon, the threats, weeks of fear, the games?
han motioned toward the officers. “take them.”
the ceo walked without resistance. Kim didn’t, she hesitated and looked back at you once, her expression cracked open completely now.
“i really did care about him.”
your throat tightened unexpectedly because somehow you believed that part despite everything. they were gone and the rooftop suddenly felt too quiet.
your legs nearly gave out but jimin caught you immediately, both hands steadying your waist. “hey.”
“look at me." you did but barely. and the second you really looked at him something cracked. all of it hit at once. your eyes burned instantly. “I’m so tired,” you whispered, your voice shaking.
“I know." he pulled you closer against his chest, one hand at the back of your head holding you there, like he needed proof you were safe and alive. “you’re okay.” he said softly, more for himself than you.
han approached again. “we’ll need statements.”
your stomach sank, of course. “we also need the recording.” he looked between both of you, his expression serious. “…but before that.”
“we found something.”
“what?” han hesitated which immediately made everything worse.
“the ceo wasn’t acting alone.”
of course he wasn’t. kim was proof of that alone, but who else could be involved? han sighed quietly. “we recovered devices from his office; folders, photos, even videos.”
“…how many people knew?”
han looked uncomfortable. “we’re still figuring that out.”
jimin went completely still beside you, his jaw tightening at the new information. “no more secrets,” he said quietly.
the questioning lasted hours or maybe it only felt that way. time blurred after the rooftop and after the shed, after realizing none of this had actually been paranoia. you weren’t crazy.
someone had been watching.
someone had been following.
someone had been controlling things.
you sat across from detective han in one of hybe’s smaller conference rooms, cold water untouched beside you and hands wrapped around the sleeves of jimin’s hoodie he’d draped over your shoulders.
outside the room jimin paced, occasionally glancing through the glass, refusing to leave.
han noticed and gave a small smile. “he’s worried.” you looked down.“…i know.” han opened a notebook, his voice gentler now. “start from the beginning.”
so you did. the first text, the weird feeling, the tasks, the ring, the notes, the fake venue staff, the hotel, namjoon, Kim, everything. every ugly detail. han barely interrupted, just listened and scribbled notes, occasionally asking for clarification.
“when did you realize kim might be involved?”
“what exactly did the venue worker say?”
“did the ceo ever directly threaten you before tonight?”
hours. actual hours.
at some point coffee arrived, cold by the time either of you touched it. then finally; the voice memo. han listened through headphones, his expression changing slowly: first surprise, then disbelief and then quiet satisfaction. because it was all there. kim confessing, the ceo threatening. the manipulation, the cover-up, the fake death, the relationship interference. all of it.
when it ended han removed the headphones slowly, sat back and exhaled. “…you got lucky.”
your stomach dropped. “what do you mean?”
“i mean with the recording.” he tapped the phone lightly. “If you hadn’t done this?”
he paused. ''this would’ve turned into power versus accusation.”
the cold reality made your chest tighten because he was right. they were powerful, wealthy and connected. han continued. “this?” he held up the phone slightly. “this is court-level evidence.”
real evidence. “you did the smartest thing possible.”
“the ceo won’t buy his way out of this, the recording’s too strong.”
your shoulders loosened slightly, just slightly. for the first time in weeks things felt real. han stood slowly. “we’ll still need your cooperation.”
he paused. “but…” his expression softened slightly. “…you can finally stop looking over your shoulder.”
8 months later
“breaking developments continue in what media outlets have labeled the hybe stalking scandal.” the television played softly in the living room, the morning sunlight spilling through the apartment windows.
it was warm and peaceful. finally. something that had once felt impossible was on screen, photos flashed in full display.
kim and the former ceo.
people were still discussing your relationship with jimin online. some fans were angry but most were supportive and happy, which made up for all the crappy people in your comments. nothing they said would amount to the things kim and hybe's ceo put you through.
the headlines online were still going crazy and the recent arrest of the CEO made all of the drama pop up on your timelines again.
FORMER HYBE CEO SENTENCED IN STALKING & CONSPIRACY CASE
EX-MANAGER KIM SOOJIN RECEIVES REDUCED SENTENCE AFTER COOPERATION
the reporter on screen continued:
“following months of investigation, prosecutors confirmed extensive harassment, unlawful surveillance, coercion, and conspiracy involving multiple staff members. Court evidence included private recordings obtained by the victim, which legal experts called ‘critical to securing conviction.’”
your stomach still twisted hearing it even now, months later.
the reporter continued:
“kim soojin reportedly cooperated extensively with investigators, revealing internal misconduct and illegal surveillance networks tied to entertainment staff access.”
the reporter paused before continuing.
“meanwhile, the former ceo was sentenced following charges including intimidation, obstruction, and criminal conspiracy.”
you muted the t because you’d heard enough. enough interviews, enough articles and enough strangers discussing the worst weeks of your life.
soft footsteps approached behind you. you felt warm hands settle on your shoulders. jimin. he looked sleepy with his messy hair. he was still half awake.
“you watching that again?” quiet teasing. you leaned back against him slightly. “it came on.”
he hummed softly, his chin resting on your shoulder.
home. that word still felt new because eight months later you lived together now. quiet mornings, shared groceries, laundry arguments and late-night takeout with his hoodies somehow permanently becoming yours. this was something steady and safe for once.
jimin pressed a soft kiss against the side of your head. “all over now.”
you looked down at the promise ring back on your finger. the same one the stalker failed to take forever. you were so happy when the detectives had retrieved it during the search of kim's house.
“…yeah.” and for the first time in a long time you actually believed it.
you turned off the television completely, the sudden silence filling the room as jimin's hands gently squeezed your shoulders. his thumbs traced small circles against your skin, a comforting rhythm that had become second nature to him when sensing your tension.
"come back to bed," he murmured against your hair, his voice still thick with sleep. "it's too early for all that noise."
you nodded, letting him help you up from the couch. as you stood, his arm wrapped naturally around your waist, pulling you close. the familiar scent of him filled your senses, grounding you in the present.
in the bedroom, morning light filtered through the blinds, casting soft stripes across the rumpled sheets. you had both fallen asleep watching a movie last night, evidence of which still played on the laptop perched precariously on the nightstand.
jimin guided you toward the bed, his movements unhurried. "you're thinking too loud," he whispered, turning you to face him. his eyes, still soft with sleep, searched yours. "what's going on in that pretty head of yours?"
you reached up to smooth his messy hair, your fingers tangling in the soft strands. "just... everything. nothing. i don't know." you sighed. "sometimes it feels like I should be more... fixed than I am."
his expression softened with understanding. "there's no timeline for healing, love." he captured your hand in his, bringing your palm to his lips. "you're here. you're safe. you're with me. that's what matters."
he kissed your palm, then your wrist, then the inside of your elbow, his lips trailing a path of warmth up your arm. when he reached your shoulder, he paused, his breath ghosting across your skin.
"let me help you forget," he murmured, his voice dropping to that deeper register that never failed to send shivers down your spine.
you tilted your head back, exposing your neck to him. "please."
his lips met yours in a soft kiss that quickly deepened, all the unspoken reassurance and affection passing between you. his hands slid down your back, settling on your waist as he pulled you against him. you could feel his heart beating against your chest, steady and strong.
"jimin," you breathed against his mouth.
"shh," he replied, guiding you backward until your legs hit the edge of the bed. "just feel."
he lowered you onto the mattress, following you down, his body covering yours in a way that felt both protective and intimate. his kisses grew more deliberate, more passionate, as his hands explored your body with a familiarity that still managed to feel new and exciting each time.
your fingers tangled in his hair as his lips moved along your jaw, down your neck, pausing to linger in the hollow of your throat. you arched against him, a soft sigh escaping your lips as his hands slipped beneath your shirt, his warm palms spreading across your back.
"better?" he whispered against your skin.
you could only nod, words failing you as sensation took over. he chuckled softly, the vibration sending another wave of pleasure through you. his fingers traced the hem of your shirt before slowly lifting it, his eyes meeting yours as he exposed your stomach, your ribs, until the fabric was gathered beneath your arms.
"you're so beautiful," he murmured, his gaze sweeping over you with an intensity that made your cheeks flush. "every part of you."
he lowered his head, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your stomach, his tongue darting out to taste your skin. you squirmed beneath him, your hands gripping his shoulders as he continued his exploration, taking his time as if memorizing every curve, every dip of your body.
when he finally removed your shirt completely, you felt no vulnerability, only the overwhelming certainty that you were safe, cherished and loved. his eyes never left yours as he reached behind you to unhook your bra, his fingers deft and practiced.
"jimin," you whispered, reaching for him.
he leaned down to kiss you again, deeper this time, his tongue exploring your mouth as his hands roamed freely across your now bare skin. you responded in kind, your own hands slipping beneath his t-shirt, feeling the warmth of his skin, the hard muscles of his back and shoulders.
he broke the kiss long enough to pull his shirt over his head, tossing it aside before returning to you. Tthe sight of him; his toned chest, his smooth skin, the way his muscles shifted as he moved still took your breath away.
"touch me," he murmured, guiding your hands to his chest.
your fingers traced the lines of his muscles, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart beneath your palm. he closed his eyes, leaning into your touch, a soft sigh escaping his lips. you took advantage of his distraction, rolling suddenly so that you were on top, straddling his hips.
his eyes flew open in surprise, then darkened with desire as he looked up at you. "well now," he murmured, his hands settling on your waist. "what do we have here?"
you leaned down, your hair falling around his face as you kissed him, taking control in a way that still felt new but empowering. his response was immediate, his hands tightening on your waist as he returned the kiss with equal passion.
you broke away, trailing kisses down his neck, across his chest, pausing to pay special attention to the sensitive spots you knew drove him wild. his soft groans and the way his body tensed beneath you were your reward, spurring you on.
you continued your downward journey, your lips and tongue mapping his torso until you reached the waistband of his pajama pants. you looked up at him, finding his eyes dark with anticipation, his lips slightly parted.
"please," he breathed, his voice husky with need.
you smiled, taking your time as you slowly lowered his pants, revealing him inch by inch. when he was completely bare before you, you took a moment to simply appreciate the sight of him; beautiful, vulnerable and completely yours.
you lowered your head, pressing a soft kiss to his inner thigh, feeling him tremble beneath you. his hands tangled in your hair as you continued your exploration, your mouth moving closer to where he clearly wanted it most.
"baby," he gasped when you finally took him into your mouth, his hips rising instinctively to meet you.
you took your time, enjoying his responses, the way his breath hitched, the soft curses that fell from his lips. you could feel his control slipping, his movements becoming more erratic as you brought him closer to the edge.
just as he was about to lose control completely, you pulled back, earning a frustrated groan. you laughed softly, climbing back up his body to straddle him again.
"tease," he accused, though his eyes sparkled with amusement and desire.
"you love it," you countered, leaning down to kiss him.
he responded eagerly, his hands sliding down your back to grip your hips, positioning you exactly where he wanted you. you sank down slowly, taking him inside you inch by inch, both of you gasping at the sensation.
for a moment, you simply stayed still, adjusting to the feeling of fullness, of connection. jimin's hands moved restlessly across your back, his eyes locked on yours, his expression one of pure adoration.
"move for me," he whispered, his voice strained with emotion.
you began to move, slowly at first, finding a rhythm that felt right. his hands guided your hips, encouraging you, praising you with soft words and kisses. the pace gradually increased, the room filling with the sounds of your pleasure; soft moans, whispered names, the rhythm of your bodies moving together.
he shifted suddenly, rolling you onto your back without breaking your connection. now he was above you, his movements more deliberate, more controlled as he drove you both toward the edge. his eyes never left yours, even as his control began to fray, his breath coming in harsh pants.
"cum with me," he gasped, his hand slipping between your bodies to find that sensitive bundle of nerves that would push you over the edge.
you cried out as pleasure washed over you, your body arching against his as waves of ecstasy pulsed through you. he followed moments later, his body tensing above you as he found his own release, your name falling from his lips like a prayer.
for long moments afterward, you simply lay together, tangled in each other's arms, your bodies still humming with pleasure. jimin's weight was a comfort, his steady breathing against your neck a reminder that you were safe, cherished, home.
when he finally shifted to roll beside you, you protested softly, already missing his warmth. he chuckled, pulling you into his arms, your head resting on his chest.
"jimin?" you whispered after a while.
"hmm?"
"I love you."
he tightened his arms around you, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head. "I love you too, more than you'll ever know."
a few hours later you stirred awake, the afternoon sun peaking through the blinds. jimin's spot was empty next to you but you heard him rustling around in the living room. curious, you got up and checked on him.
''hello sleepy head.'' he said as he noticed you. he sat at the dining table organizing papers. you sat across from him, your phone face up on the table beside his.
''I went to namjoons house earlier.'' jimin said. ''how is he doing?'' you ask, tilting your head. ''better. he can dance again, but now he won't stop.'' jimin said with a chuckle as he shook his head. ''you know staying home has been driving him crazy, it doesn't surprise me.''
''well he's supposed to call me after he takes his medicine.''
then, buzz.
both phones lit up at the exact same time.
''maybe that's him?'' you say, glancing over at your phone.
Don't Look at Me Like That - Park Jimin (BTS) x You - Part 1
🩰 Pairing: Idol!Jimin (Park Jimin) x Dancer-Choreographer!Reader
Seven years ago, Park Jimin was the most distracting man at a dance intensive in Paris—charming, shameless, impossible to ignore, and responsible for one night neither of you has managed to forget. Now he is building a dance company in Seoul and insists you are the only choreographer capable of helping him do it properly. Seven desperate emails, three unreasonable conditions, one BTS comeback, and several arguments that look suspiciously like foreplay later, you are both forced to admit that the rivalry was never the whole truth.
🩰 Genres: Rivals to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers but They’re Lying About the Enemy Part, Second-Chance Romance, Mutual Pining for Seven Extremely Embarrassing Years, Smut, Banter as a Love Language, Workplace Romance, Secret Hookups Everyone Immediately Notices, Dance as Foreplay, Forced Proximity, Jealous Jimin, Jimin Being Shameless, Reader Being Even Worse, Love Triangle Featuring One Genuinely Lovely Man, Hoseok Fanboying Over Reader While Jimin Suffers, BTS Found Family, Fame and Industry Logistics, Emotionally Avoidant Adults Making Terrible Professional Decisions, Nobody Believes They Hate Each Other
🩰 “They have spent seven years pretending it was rivalry. The problem is that their bodies have never believed them.”
You have always known when someone is performing.
Onstage, at least, people have the decency to admit it.
A dancer can smile through a bad landing, cheat half an inch out of a turn, hold an extension three seconds past the point where the muscle starts begging for mercy. It does not matter. The body keeps records. Give it eight counts and it will tell on you.
People do the same thing. Dancers just use better lighting.
The wings smell like rosin and hot gel and the particular dust that only exists in theaters built before anyone thought to ask what stage floors should be made of.
Sweat, cold cream, the metallic tang of the fly system somewhere above your head.
You come down off the stage still half-inside the performance, the house lights bleeding gold through the gap in the legs behind you, applause collapsing into the low roar of an audience getting up out of their seats, coats, bags, someone's perfume already overpowering the greenroom air before you've even reached it.
Your body is still counting.
It always is, for a while after. Eight counts, eight counts, eight counts, the tempo living somewhere under your sternum long after the orchestra's gone quiet.
You saw it happen from the wings, twenty minutes ago, mid-number — Marisol's landing off the pirouette sequence, the fraction of a second where her weight found the floor wrong. Nobody else would have caught it. The audience didn't. Even half the company didn't, because it was small, and she recovered fast, and recovery is the entire job. But you catch things like that the way other people catch a wrong note in a song they've heard a thousand times. You don't decide to notice. You just do. It's the same instinct that's kept you employed since you were four years old, and the same one that makes you insufferable at dinner parties, according to your mother.
So you don't head for your own dressing room first. You go straight for hers, weaving backstage through the tangle of moving set pieces and stagehands calling clear behind you, letting the muscle memory of this specific building — which door sticks, which hallway is narrower than it looks — carry you there faster than thinking would.
The dressing room is thick with hairspray, sweat, cold cream, and the particular overheated air of an old Broadway theater in December. Around you, the company is dismantling the evening version of themselves. Wigs come off. Makeup disappears beneath cleansing balm. Someone has connected a phone to the speakers and turned the music up loud enough to compete with three separate conversations about where everyone is going after the show.
Marisol is halfway through removing her eyelashes when you find her, one still attached, the other pinched between two fingers, leaving her face in a state of interrupted symmetry. She doesn't look up. She knows exactly why you're standing in her doorway, and she is, visibly, hoping you'll let it go anyway.
You don't.
"Your ankle."
Marisol stops halfway through removing her eyelashes. One is still attached, the other pinched between two fingers, leaving her face in a state of interrupted symmetry.
"What about my ankle?"
"It's swelling."
"It is not."
You look at her. Just look, the flat, unhurried kind of look that has ended more arguments in this dressing room than actual words ever could.
She looks down. Her left ankle has already started pushing against the satin ribbon of her shoe.
"Okay," she says. "It is doing something."
"It's swelling."
"You make everything sound so judgmental."
"Your ligaments don't care about my tone."
You crouch in front of Marisol before she can object, press two fingers carefully along the outside of her ankle, and watch her face.
She flinches. The wince is small and involuntary, gone almost as fast as it arrives, but you clocked it before she could smooth it over.
"You're icing it."
"I'm going dancing." Marisol says it lightly, like the matter's already settled, already reaching for her other eyelash as if the conversation is over.
"You have just spent two and a half hours dancing."
"That was employment. This is different." She says it with her particular cheer, because she knows she's losing and has decided charm is her best remaining strategy.
"You're icing it."
Marisol studies you for a moment, head tilted, weighing the likelihood that she can win this conversation. She has known you for seven weeks. She knows better. Something in her shoulders drops half an inch — the tell-tale give of someone conceding before they've said so out loud.
"You're very controlling for someone who claims not to care about people." It comes out fond despite itself, an accusation with no real heat behind it.
"I have never claimed that." Flat. Immovable. You don't even look up from where you're already reaching for the ice pack.
"You imply it with your face."
"That sounds like a personal interpretation." One eyebrow lifts, just slightly. The closest thing you offer to amusement when you're busy winning an argument.
You rise and take an instant ice pack from the emergency drawer beneath the makeup counter. You crack it against your palm and hand it to her. She accepts it with a sigh dramatic enough for the mezzanine, head tipping back against the mirror like she's been asked to give up a limb rather than twenty minutes of her evening.
"Twenty minutes," you say. "Then compression. If it hurts tomorrow, you tell stage management before warm-up."
"Yes, Mom."
"Your mother would let you go dancing?"
"My mother likes me."
You turn away before she catches the smile pulling at the corner of your mouth. You are not in the business of confirming that you have a sense of humor. It ruins the effect.
Behind you, someone calls your name.
A girl is hovering near the dressing-room door with a program held against her chest like a shield. She cannot be older than sixteen, although the severe bun and the posture say she has been attending ballet classes long enough to have been told that standing normally is a moral failure.
"Sorry," she says immediately. "I know you're probably busy."
You are. You are also still wearing half your stage makeup and one false eyelash. There is a bruise forming beneath your right knee, your toes are numb, and you have approximately eleven minutes before the stage door becomes crowded enough to make leaving unpleasant.
You put the ice pack more firmly against Marisol's ankle anyway.
"What's your name?"
The girl blinks, startled that you asked. "Sophie."
"Hi, Sophie."
She exhales like you have granted her something enormous.
"We studied A Study in Blue at my summer program," she says. "The Vienna recording. I've watched your solo. I don't know, probably fifty times."
"It was better by closing night."
Her face falls, just slightly, the specific crumple of someone who came here hoping for a moment and is worried she's already ruined it.
You soften the statement before she can mistake accuracy for rejection.
"The company filmed the second week. We were still finding it." You gesture toward the program, your tone gentler now than it was with Marisol, something in Sophie's careful posture makes you want to be careful back. "Do you dance?"
"Ballet. Mostly." She says it almost apologetically, like she's bracing for the answer to matter more than it should. "But I want to do contemporary."
"Then do contemporary." You say it simply while you sign her program, like it's the most obvious thing in the world, because to you it is.
"My teacher says I should wait until my classical technique is stronger." Her eyes drop to the program now in her hands when she says it, the specific shame of a kid repeating a rule she doesn't actually believe in.
"Your teacher is afraid you'll enjoy yourself."
Marisol snorts behind you, ice pack still pressed to her ankle, entirely too delighted by the way you just detonated a stranger's ballet teacher in four words.
Sophie's mouth twitches, caught somewhere between a laugh and asking permission for one, her eyes flicking to you like she's checking whether it's safe to find you funny.
"Keep the ballet," you tell her. "It gives you somewhere solid to push from. But don't wait for someone else to decide you're ready to move differently."
You hand it back. Sophie thanks you three times before disappearing into the corridor, clutching the program the way people clutch things they intend to keep for a very long time.
Marisol watches you over the top of the ice pack.
"What?"
"Nothing." Marisol's mouth is doing something it clearly doesn't want to do, pressed flat to keep from spreading into a full grin, and failing.
"You're looking at me." You say it without turning fully around, aware of her eyes on you anyway. You always are.
"I'm looking at the cold, terrifying woman who just changed a teenager's life while wearing one eyelash." The grin wins. It spreads slow and unguarded, the kind she'd deny giving you if you called her on it, one hand still pressed to the ice pack like she's forgotten it's there.
"Her life will survive the interaction." You keep your face carefully unmoved, but there's something at the corner of your mouth that gives you away completely — the two of you speaking a whole conversation neither of you is willing to say out loud.
"Come out with us."
"No." No hesitation. No glance up.
"You didn't even pretend to consider it."
"I considered it yesterday when you asked." Dry, already reaching for your bag.
"That was for yesterday."
"The answer has maintained structural integrity."
Marisol drops her head back against the mirror, a hand over her heart like you've wounded her, though the grin underneath says otherwise — the picture of someone who's accepted defeat but wants credit for the effort. "You are twenty-nine years old."
"I'm aware."
"You're finishing a perfect show eight times a week, men are frightened of you, women want to be you, and you go home every night before midnight."
"Some of us enjoy sleep."
"Some of us are wasting excellent cheekbones." She says it to the ceiling now, mournful, like she's mourning the cheekbones personally.
You start peeling tape from around your toes, not looking up. "I use them at work."
"That sentence is why you're going to die alone." But she's laughing when she says it, already halfway to letting you win.
Your phone vibrates inside your bag. You ignore it.
Marisol's eyes flick toward the sound, sharp with sudden interest, ice pack forgotten. "Secret lover?"
"No."
"You answered quickly."
"Because the answer was easy."
The phone buzzes again. Marisol points at your bag with the ice pack, delighted with herself, eyebrows halfway up her hairline. "That is how every story about a secret lover begins."
"It's probably Lulu."
"Your Manager calls when she wants to destroy your peace. She doesn't email." A beat, considering. "Suspicious."
The phone goes still.
You finish removing the tape, inspect the reddened skin beneath it, and begin packing your things. By the time you've changed into wool trousers and a black sweater, Marisol has negotiated herself into one drink, ankle propped on a second chair, looking entirely too pleased with the compromise.
You make her promise to send a picture of the swelling before bed.
She calls you emotionally repressed, cheerfully, like it's a compliment.
You tell her to use compression.
At the stage door, Sophie is still standing with her mother beneath the yellow spill of the theater lights, staring at the signature on her program like it might fade if she looks away too long.
You pretend not to see. You are good at that when necessary.
December in New York insists on being cold, in the specific, theatrical way certain people insist on being difficult. The walk home starts to feel less like six blocks and more like an episode of survivor.
A wind that finds the gap at your collar no matter how you angle yourself against it, breath fogging under streetlights strung with wreaths the size of tires.
But you still insist on walking.
Storefronts glow gold and red down the avenue. Somewhere behind a lit window, a family is doing the things families apparently do this time of year — a tree half-trimmed, someone's kid pressed to the glass, the noise of people who like each other enough to be loud about it. You walk past three different apartments with their curtains open just enough to see it happening.
Your own family's version of a holiday gathering tends to involve a conference room, a shared calendar, and at least one attorney present to make sure nobody's version of "jolly" contradicts anyone's trust agreement.
Your mother is in Gstaad. Your father is wherever your father currently is. You stopped expecting a tree by the time you were nine and stopped minding somewhere shortly after that, or told yourself you had, which by now amounts to roughly the same thing.
The apartment is on the eleventh floor of a prewar building on the Upper East Side that your grandmother has owned outright since before your mother was born — high ceilings, crown molding nobody makes anymore, a view of a sliver of the park if you stand at exactly the right angle in the kitchen.
You have never had to think about rent in your life and you don't pretend otherwise; it would be its own kind of performance, and you don't do those. It's simply a fact of the architecture of your life, the way perfect pitch is a fact for some people. You didn't earn it. You also didn't apologize for it. Both things are just true.
Lulu is sitting at the kitchen island when you get home, surrounded by open folders, colored tabs, and the remains of what appears to have been a violent encounter with a container of pad thai.
She does not look up when you enter.
"You're late." Lulu doesn't look up, but her voice does the thing it always does when she's already three moves ahead of you, half-distracted, half a challenge.
"It's twelve fourteen."
"You usually reject human connection faster." A small, satisfied smile, still aimed at her folders.
"Marisol's ankle was swollen."
"Of course it was." Lulu says it the way you'd acknowledge weather — inevitable, mildly interesting, not worth further comment.
You hang your coat and glance at the folders spread across the island like evidence at a crime scene, organized with a precision that only Lulu is capable of imposing on chaos. Three are familiar. One is new.
"No."
Lulu finally looks up, chopsticks paused mid-air, eyebrows lifting with delight because you know she's been waiting all night for exactly this opening. "You don't even know which one I was going to show you."
"The red tab is the film."
"It's Toronto." She says it like the city alone should settle the argument, like you're supposed to be dazzled into agreement.
"No."
"The director won an award." A little more insistent now, leaning forward on her elbows.
"For directing. Not choreography."
"They're offering executive credit."
"They want my name on promotional material while someone else tells actors to move vaguely in rhythm."
Lulu closes the folder without protest, entirely unbothered, already three steps ahead in her own head — she never fights for a pitch longer than it takes to gauge whether it's dead. "The green one?"
"Two years."
"In Europe." Said hopefully, like geography might tip the scales.
"Still two years."
"The revival?" Her voice softens slightly here, testing, because she already half-knows the answer to this one too.
"I danced that role when I was twenty-three."
"You would be choreographing it." A small, careful point. She's not conceding yet.
"I would be rearranging furniture in a house I already know."
Something in Lulu's face shifts at that — not defeat exactly, more like she's just caught something she wasn't fishing for. She doesn't push. She just watches you for a second too long, the way she does when she's decided something is worth being gentle about instead of winning.
She watches you put your bag on the counter, something assessing in her expression now, the look of a woman doing math she isn't ready to say out loud yet.
"You're bored."
"I'm tired."
"You're bored and tired. They're different diseases."
"I'm not bored."
"You corrected the spacing in the finale last Thursday."
"The spacing was wrong."
"You were performing in it."
"I had time."
"That," Lulu says, pointing a chopstick at you like a gavel, "is not the defense you think it is."
You open the refrigerator. She has stocked it, because she knows the contents of your refrigerator are reduced to sparkling water, mustard, and half a lemon by the end of every performance week.
There is a labeled container on the top shelf.
EAT THIS BEFORE YOU DECIDE COFFEE IS DINNER.
You take it out without commenting.
Lulu smiles down at the folders, pleased with herself in the specific way she gets pleased when she's already won something and is simply waiting for you to notice.
"You're welcome."
"I didn't say anything."
"You took the container. We've been friends eight years. That was practically a sonnet."
You place it in the microwave.
Luisa Reyes has managed your career for four years and your life for considerably longer, although she disputes this description whenever contracts are due and embraces it whenever you are making a bad decision. She danced until her right knee made the choice for her, rebuilt herself with a speed that frightened everyone who loved her, and now runs your calendar with the efficiency of an air-traffic controller operating under active threat.
She is also the only person alive permitted to call you an idiot more than once in the same conversation.
Your phone vibrates again.
Lulu's attention moves to it, quick and unmistakable, like a bird catching motion in its periphery.
You watch your own phone buzz on the counter and know, with the specific certainty of someone who has spent seven years refusing to forget a name, exactly whose it is.
You do not want Lulu anywhere near this information. Not because it's a thing. It is, categorically, not a thing.
It's an email, unread by choice, from a man you last spoke to seven years ago, and the fact that you could still describe the exact weight of his voice if someone asked is simply a detail of memory, not evidence of anything. But Lulu has a talent for taking a non-thing and turning it, through sheer force of interest, into an event with its own timeline. You have seen her do it to smaller material than this.
So you turn the phone face-down, too fast, and know immediately it was the wrong move.
"What?"
"Nothing." You say it too quickly for it to land as nothing.
"You have been home forty seconds and have already hidden your phone." Lulu's eyes track the motion like she's clocking evidence, chopsticks abandoned entirely now.
"I turned it over."
"Like a woman with nothing to hide." One eyebrow climbs, slow and merciless.
"I have nothing to hide."
"Wonderful." She holds out her hand, palm up, utterly serene, she knows she's already won and is simply enjoying the formality of asking. "Give it to me."
"No."
"Then we have identified a hidden thing." She says it gently, almost kindly, which is somehow worse than if she'd gloated.
The microwave beeps. You use it as cover — turning away, retrieving the container, buying yourself four seconds you don't actually need.
Lulu keeps her hand extended anyway, patient, entirely willing to wait you out. She has waited you out before, over bigger things than this. She will, apparently, wait you out over this too, and you already know — with the same certainty you know a turn is late before the dancer's even landed it — that you are not going to win this one.
"You have contracts to review," you say.
"I reviewed them. You rejected them through color-coded osmosis." Lulu says this with the weary patience of a woman explaining gravity to someone who keeps falling up.
"I'm eating."
"You are stalling." She points her chopsticks at you like an accusation.
"I am chewing."
"You haven't taken a bite."
You look down at the fork in your hand, hovering exactly where it's been for the last thirty seconds. She's right, which is somehow more irritating than if she'd simply been wrong. You stab a piece of chicken with more force than the chicken has earned.
Lulu leans back in her chair, arms crossed, the particular satisfaction of someone who has just watched her opponent walk directly into the trap she set. "You're unbearable."
"I'm excellent. This is why you pay me."
"My family office pays you." You say family office the way other people say the government — with a small eye roll built in.
"Right. Thank your grandfather for me."
"He's dead."
"And yet, still contributing." You keep your face perfectly straight when she says it, which is what finally breaks her — a startled laugh she tries and fails to swallow, hand flying up to cover her mouth like she can stuff it back in.
You take a bite so you do not laugh either. It doesn't entirely work.
Your phone buzzes again against the stone countertop, loud in the small silence left behind by her laugh.
Lulu's eyes cut toward it immediately, sharp and delighted, then back at you, then back at the phone — the exact rhythm of someone watching a rehearsal room where she can already tell something's about to go wrong before anyone else has clocked it, and is thoroughly enjoying the anticipation.
"Is someone dying?"
"No."
"Are they threatening litigation?"
"No."
"Did you accidentally join a cult?" She asks this one completely seriously, like it's a real and recurring risk in your life.
"Not recently."
"Then who has sent you" — she leans across the island, craning for the screen, entirely without shame about it — "seven emails?"
You pick up the phone, fast.
Too late. She's already seen enough.
Her eyes narrow, the gleeful kind of narrow, a bloodhound catching a scent. "HYBE? As in the K-pop company, HYBE?"
"It's work."
"HYBE does not usually email you seven times in 40 minutes unless you've kidnapped an entire boyband." She says it like a woman citing case law.
"It's not HYBE."
The answer comes out before you can stop it — too fast, too specific, and you watch the exact moment it lands, Lulu's whole face going still and delighted at once, like a cat that has just heard a can opener from two rooms away.
That is the problem with spending eight years beside someone who used to make her living reading bodies for a stage. Lulu does not need a confession. She just needs one badly chosen verb, and you have just handed her one, gift-wrapped, with a bow.
"Who is it?"
"No one."
"A specific no one or a general no one?" She's grinning now, fully, chin propped on her hand, in absolutely no hurry to let this go.
You unlock the phone because refusing to look at it has become more conspicuous than looking.
Seven messages sit beneath the same thread.
The first arrived eleven days ago from an official HYBE address. Formal subject line. Formal introduction. Formal description of a privately funded dance center and resident company in Seoul. They wanted someone to help develop the artistic program, build the choreography department, train the inaugural ensemble, and consult on portions of an upcoming tour.
You had read it twice. Then archived it.
The second arrived today.
This time, the signature at the bottom was personal.
Park Jimin.
Of BTS
As if there were another one.
As if your body hadn't already recognized the name a full second before your brain caught up and supplied the rest of it — the group, the stage, the quality of a man who has spent a decade being watched by more people than most countries have citizens, standing in a rehearsal room in Paris seven years ago telling you your turn was late when it was not late, it was simply not the turn he would have done.
You had archived that one too.
This did not stop him.
"What kind of work?" Lulu asks.
You open the first message and slide the phone across the island.
She reads quickly, eyes flicking down the screen with the speed of someone who's skimmed a thousand contracts and knows exactly where the important numbers live. Her eyes pause at the salary.
Actually pause — stop scrolling, go back up, read it again like she thinks she misplaced a decimal.
"That is offensive."
"Yes."
"I mean offensively high." She sets the phone down flat on the counter, very carefully, like it might be worth something and she doesn't want to be the one who drops it.
"I know."
"He is offering you more money than God." She says it with real reverence, the tone usually reserved for describing someone's engagement ring.
"God has never had to negotiate with HYBE's legal team."
"No," Lulu agrees, delighted, "God's never had to do a lot of things. Must be nice." She sets the phone down flat on the counter, still shaking her head at the number.
"That continues to be irrelevant." You say it flatly, but Lulu's already laughing under her breath, shaking her head at you, the specific laugh she saves for the very small percentage of your sentences that are, technically, indefensible.
Lulu scrolls to the bottom. Then back up. Then down again, mouth pressing into a shape that means she is doing arithmetic she isn't ready to announce.
"Park Jimin."
You concentrate on the food.
"Personally led by Park Jimin," she reads aloud. "Park Jimin will oversee the creative direction. Park Jimin has personally requested—"
"I can read."
"Apparently you can also ignore one of the most famous men on earth with an efficiency I find deeply inspiring."
"He's not asking as one of the most famous men on earth."
Lulu's thumb stops over the screen.
There it is again. The badly chosen verb.
Her eyes lift very slowly, sharp now, delighted in the specific way she gets delighted right before she ruins your evening.
"How is he asking?"
You take the phone back.
The second email is shorter than the first.
I wanted to contact you myself. This is not an endorsement arrangement, and I am not looking for someone who will lend their name to the center and leave. I want someone who can help me build it properly.
The third includes a link to an interview you gave six months ago about choreographer ownership and dancer longevity.
You remember the interview. The publication had a small circulation outside the dance world. Your mother had not read it.
Jimin had.
I agree with what you said about companies treating dancers as temporary equipment. I don't want to build another place that does that.
You had stared at that line longer than the others. You are not going to tell Lulu that. You are barely willing to tell yourself that.
The fourth email arrived after you opened the third and failed to respond.
I know you saw the first three.
Lulu reads it over your shoulder, eyebrows arching.
"Oh, I like him."
"You don't know him."
"No, but I support his commitment to the bit."
"He is not funny."
"That sounded personal."
"It was factual."
The fifth email is the longest. You have read it four times.
I have met with other choreographers. They are talented. They also agree with everything I say before I finish saying it.
I cannot build this with someone who agrees with me because of my name. I need someone who will tell me when an idea is bad, even if I've already spent money on it. Especially then.
You are the only person I know who would enjoy doing that.
You reach for the phone before Lulu gets to the next line.
She catches your wrist, quick, delighted, entirely without mercy.
"Absolutely not."
"Lulu."
She reads aloud.
I also think you are the only person who can help me make this what it should be.
Something small and traitorous shifts beneath your ribs.
It did the first time too. In a rehearsal room in Paris, seven years ago, when he looked at you like you were the only correction in the room worth listening to and then spent three weeks pretending he hadn't meant it that way.
Not because he called you talented. People have been calling you talented since you were too young to understand that talent is usually the least interesting thing about an artist.
Because he said only.
Because Park Jimin, who once spent three weeks contradicting every correction you gave him on principle, has spent seven years becoming one of the most exacting performers in the world and has still decided there is something he cannot do without you.
Lulu looks at your face, reading it the way she reads everything — instantly, without asking permission.
You remove your wrist from her hand.
"It's manipulative."
"It's effective."
"That doesn't make it less manipulative."
"It usually does in marketing."
"It's not marketing."
Lulu's smile arrives slowly, the particular smile that means she has just decided something about your evening that you have not yet agreed to.
"No," she says. "I don't think it is."
You open the sixth email.
It arrived 20 minutes ago.
For the avoidance of doubt, Paris does not need to be discussed. It has nothing to do with the offer.
Lulu stops breathing.
You lock the phone.
She blinks at you, delighted, predatory, already halfway out of her chair.
"No."
"Luisa."
"I am going to ignore you just called me my full government name. Unlock it."
"I'm going to bed."
"Unlock the phone."
"You have the important information."
"I have the word Paris and your face doing something I have not seen since—"
"You haven't seen my face do anything."
"Your face has filed for political asylum."
You stand, carrying the container toward the sink.
Lulu follows you around the island, quick on her feet even in socks, the particular energy of a woman who smells a story and has never once in her life let one go unfinished.
"Is he Paris?"
"That is not a complete question."
"Is Park Jimin the man from Paris?"
"There was no man from Paris."
"You went to a private dance retreat in France seven years ago, came home furious, refused to discuss one particular dancer, and watched every performance he posted for the next six months."
You turn.
"I did not."
"You used my laptop."
"Once."
"You were still logged into your account."
"That proves nothing."
"It proved his name, but I was respecting your privacy." She says this with the particular gravity of a woman who has clearly been sitting on it for years. "I thought maybe you were becoming an ARMY. I thought, okay, she likes their music, that's normal, half the world likes the music. And then I did the math — the dates, the way you got quiet for a week after you came back from France, the fact that you never once mentioned his name out loud but somehow knew his tour schedule — and I decided some things are not my business until you make them my business."
"There is no math."
"There is extensive math. I minored in it."
"You minored in dance."
"I contain multitudes."
You turn back to the sink so she cannot watch your face do whatever it is currently doing.
He wasn't — you correct yourself, silently, because there is no version of this you are willing to say aloud, even to Lulu, even at midnight, even after eight years of her knowing you better than most people who share your blood.
He is Park Jimin.
Was, seven years ago, a twenty-three-year-old with something to prove and a body that argued with every correction you gave him on principle, in a rehearsal room in Paris that smelled like rosin and cold spray, where you disliked him within eleven minutes of meeting him and disliked him more with every week that followed, right up until the week you stopped disliking him in any way that was useful to either of you.
You have never discussed what happened after that. Not with him — you have not spoken one real word to him in seven years, not once, not at an awards show you both happened to attend, not through any mutual acquaintance foolish enough to try to bridge the gap. And not really with Lulu either, though she has clearly built her own theory of the case out of six months of suspicious internet activity and a laptop you forgot to log out of.
You have watched his career since. Out of spite. That is the version you have always told yourself, and you intend to keep telling yourself that version for as long as it remains structurally sound, which — you are aware — has been considerably longer than spite usually lasts.
The uncomfortable truth, the one you are not saying out loud in your own kitchen at midnight, is that a man does not send seven emails to someone he successfully forgot. And you have a reasonably confident suspicion, based on nothing you could defend in a court of law, that he has been keeping an equally detailed, equally denied account of you for exactly as long.
The email chain currently sitting on your phone is not really a job offer.
It's a confirmation.
The phone vibrates in your hand.
Both of you look down.
The last email has arrived.
There is no formal subject line this time. No company language. No careful explanation of the center, the company, the contract, or the reason he has decided to break seven years of mutually enforced silence.
Just one word.
Please.
Lulu reads it beside you.
For once, she does not immediately say anything.
The apartment hums around the silence — the refrigerator motor, the pipes knocking somewhere inside the old walls, a taxi leaning on its horn eleven floors below. Your food is getting cold in the sink. Your body still carries the show in small places: adhesive at the base of your neck, rosin between your toes, the ache beneath your right knee.
You look at the word again.
Jimin does not ask twice.
At least, the version of him you knew did not. The twenty-three-year-old who would repeat the same turn until his feet bled but would rather lose a limb than admit he needed help. The man who could charm an entire room and still bristle whenever you looked at him for half a second too long, as though you had found a door he did not remember leaving open.
Seven years, and apparently he has learned how to ask.
Or he has become desperate enough to try.
Lulu nudges your shoulder, gentler now, some of the delight softening into something more serious.
"He said please."
"I can read."
"In writing."
"Yes."
"Save that for the divorce attorney."
You turn your head.
"As If."
"You know what I mean."
Unfortunately, you do.
You should archive it.
The job would mean moving to Seoul with almost no preparation. It would mean leaving Broadway before you have properly decided what comes next. It would mean placing yourself in a studio with a man you have spent seven years insisting, mostly to yourself, that you no longer think about.
It would also mean building something from the floor up. A real company. A real program. The kind of work none of the folders on the island had managed to offer.
Something difficult enough that you might fail at it.
Something he believes only you can do.
Lulu watches you open the reply window, arms crossed, and for once says nothing — just watches, the way she watches you before a show, when there's nothing left to fix and the only thing left to do is see what you do with it.
"I am not accepting," you say.
"Of course not."
"I'm requesting the full proposal."
"Naturally."
"This is a professional decision."
"Everything about your face agrees."
You begin typing.
Send me the complete artistic plan, operating structure, rehearsal schedule, and the actual authority attached to the role. Not the version written by your legal team.
You pause.
Then add:
And if you mention Paris again, the answer is no.
Lulu reads over your shoulder.
"You know that mentioning Paris in the sentence forbidding him from mentioning Paris still counts as mentioning Paris."
You press send.
"Go home, Lulu."
"I live here when your life gets interesting."
"It isn't interesting."
Your phone registers the email as delivered.
Three dots appear almost immediately beneath it.
Lulu sees them.
You see them.
Neither of you comments.
You have always known when someone is performing.
The problem with Park Jimin has never been that you cannot tell.
The problem is that he has always known when you are too.
It is considerably harder to pretend you are indifferent to a man when his face is forty feet tall.
You discover this before you have technically entered Seoul.
The airport has been warning you for several hundred meters. Seven faces rotate across illuminated screens above baggage claim, disappear behind advertisements for cosmetics and credit cards, then return in coordinated black tailoring beneath the announcement of BTS’s first full-group comeback in four years. Their music follows you through customs at a volume low enough to qualify as ambiance and high enough to make escape impossible. By the time you step outside, Park Jimin has attempted to sell you a phone, a duty-free fragrance, and something involving a bank account you are not eligible to open.
You lower your sunglasses despite the fact that it is February and the sky has the exhausted grey of a city that has not seen direct sunlight in days.
Beside you, Lulu wheels two suitcases through the automatic doors and stops.
“Oh,” she says.
You keep walking.
“Y/N—”
“Don’t.”
“I haven’t said anything.”
“You inhaled with intent.”
“I just think you should prepare yourself.”
“For what?”
Lulu points.
A bus moves through the airport traffic lane, wrapped from end to end in a comeback advertisement. Jungkook occupies the back third. Taehyung and Jin are somewhere in the middle. Jimin’s face covers the section directly beside you, enlarged to the point that one eye is nearly the size of your head.
He is looking over his shoulder at the camera with his mouth parted and his hair falling across his forehead in a way that probably required twelve people and a wind machine to appear accidental.
The bus pauses at the light.
His enormous face pauses with it.
Lulu looks from the bus to you.
You look straight ahead.
"Oh, this is going to be so much worse than I thought." Lulu says it slowly, drawing it out, watching your face like she's reading a scoreboard.
"I don't know what you mean." You keep your eyes fixed pointedly on the crosswalk light, which has not changed, and will apparently take its time about it.
"Your face."
"My face is fine." It is not fine. You are aware it is not fine. This does not help.
"Your face just saw a ghost with excellent bone structure and beautiful lips." She's grinning now, delighted, tilting her head to get a better angle on whatever your expression is currently doing.
"He looks ridiculous." You say it too fast, too flat, the specific overcorrection defending a position you know is already lost.
"He looks expensive." Lulu tips her chin toward the bus, entirely unbothered, like she's appraising a painting rather than a forty-foot photograph of a man you have spent seven years insisting you don't think about.
"He is advertising public transportation."
"He is advertising an album. The public transportation is carrying his face." She says this with the patient authority of someone explaining a very simple concept to a child.
The light changes. The bus pulls away, taking Jimin's left eye with it, and you feel your shoulders drop half an inch you didn't know you were holding.
You release the handle of your suitcase only long enough to adjust the cuff of your coat — a small, precise motion, entirely unnecessary, the kind of thing your hands do when they need something to be busy with.
Lulu watches this. Watches all of it, actually, waiting for exactly this reaction since the plane landed.
"You're nervous."
"I have been on a plane for fourteen hours." You say it like it settles the matter.
"You flew first class." She raises an eyebrow, entirely unconvinced.
"Time still passed."
"You slept for nine of those hours." A small, satisfied smile now, building toward something.
"I rested my eyes."
"You drooled on a pillow that probably cost more than my first car." She's fully grinning now, arms crossed, clearly enjoying herself far too much.
"I did not drool."
"I took a picture." She says it with the calm confidence of someone holding evidence and in absolutely no rush to produce it.
You turn to her.
She smiles brightly and begins walking toward the line of waiting cars.
The cold reaches through your coat as soon as you step beyond the shelter of the terminal. Seoul smells like jet fuel, winter air, and coffee from the kiosk near the taxi stand. Drivers hold signs in gloved hands. People move around you with luggage and phones and the contained urgency of arrivals. You have been here before for work, but never for long enough to learn the city beyond studios, hotels, and the interiors of company vans.
Never when Park Jimin was waiting somewhere inside it.
Not waiting for you personally, you remind yourself.
He has a project. You have a contract. The fact that he sent seven emails to secure that contract does not change its professional nature.
The driver waiting beneath your name bows and reaches for your luggage. Lulu hands hers over before you can stop her, then climbs into the back of the black van and slides across the seat.
You settle beside her.
The car has barely left the airport when she begins counting.
“One.”
You look out the window.
A BTS advertisement covers the side of a building near the expressway.
“Two.”
A digital billboard changes from a skincare campaign to all seven members walking toward the camera.
“Don’t.”
“I’m collecting data.”
“You’re being annoying.”
“These are not mutually exclusive activities.”
The city gathers around the windows as the van carries you farther from the airport. Bridges, apartment towers, traffic pressed into narrow lanes. Comeback posters appear at bus stops and convenience stores. Their faces cover the glass outside a department store. A coffee shop has placed cardboard cutouts near the entrance. Someone has decorated a street-facing window with purple lights and seven names spelled in silver lettering.
“This is objectively insane,” Lulu says.
“They are famous.”
“I understood that concept academically.”
“You manage performers.”
“I manage dancers. Nobody has ever wrapped your face around a city bus.”
“I would sue.”
“You would approve the final image and then sue.”
You pretend not to hear her.
Another bus passes in the opposite direction. This one carries the full group, although Jimin is closest to the window again, smiling as though he knows you are trapped in traffic beside his face.
You hate the photograph.
You have seen it before.
It appeared online three weeks ago. You had been awake after a show, stretching your hip on the living-room floor, when the first promotional images were released. You had looked at the group photographs because the costume construction was interesting. Then at the individual photographs because understanding the visual direction required context.
Then at Jimin’s photograph three times because the lighting was strange.
You had not saved it.
You had, apparently, committed it to memory.
Lulu turns in her seat.
“How much did you actually know?”
“About what?”
She gestures at the city outside. “This.”
“I know who BTS are.”
“That was not the question.”
“They’re one of the largest music acts in the world.”
“Still not the question.”
You look at her.
Lulu folds her hands in her lap. “When you met him, was he already this?”
Your attention returns to the window.
The honest answer is yes.
The more honest answer is that you had refused to care.
Paris had been too hot that summer.
Not pleasantly warm — hot enough that the old studio windows stayed open all day and accomplished nothing beyond letting traffic noise interfere with the music. Twenty-four dancers, twelve companies, six weeks of contemporary training that cost enough to require justification.
Park Jimin arrived forty minutes late on the second morning, baseball cap on, two apologetic staff members trailing behind, the attention of the entire room following him without being asked to.
You knew the type. Trained young, praised often, accustomed to rooms rearranging themselves around him. You did not expect to like him. You were, initially, entirely correct.
"You don't like me," he said, day nine, standing beside you at the barre like the observation cost him nothing.
"I don't know you."
"Is that different?"
It should have stayed that simple. It did not.
He stayed after rehearsal every night, taping his own ankle, repeating combinations until his shirt darkened, working like being second-best in any room was a private emergency. You started answering his questions. He started listening to your corrections instead of just charming his way past them. Weeks in, you caught yourself doing the thing you'd promised yourself you wouldn't — thinking of him not as an idol who danced, but as a dancer who happened to be famous.
That distinction turned out to be the whole problem.
There was a duet neither of you could finish. A studio at eleven at night, everyone else gone, rain against the high windows. There was a moment neither of you anticipated the other, for once, instead of fighting for the lead.
You are not thinking about what happened after that. You have not thought about it for seven years.
What you will allow yourself to remember is the morning after — a rehearsal, an audience of twenty-two dancers who did not need to hear what they heard, and a sentence Jimin said that turned something private into entertainment for an entire company. You said something back. Something aimed precisely enough to land exactly where you wanted it to.
Neither of you apologized. The truce was gone before lunch.
He went back to Seoul. You went back to New York. You told yourself you hated him. It was simpler than admitting how much you'd respected him before he ruined it — and infinitely simpler than admitting that hatred, it turned out, was not incompatible with knowing exactly how someone took their coffee, or how they liked to be touched.
"Your eye is twitching."
You blink and find Lulu watching you from the other side of the van, chin propped on her fist, studying your face with the unhurried focus of someone who has already decided this is going to be the highlight of her week.
"It is not."
"It absolutely is." She says it with real satisfaction, like a doctor confirming a diagnosis she's been hoping for.
The city moves beyond her shoulder. Another billboard. Another comeback announcement. All seven members in profile this time, Jimin standing near the center, jaw doing something unreasonable in fifty-foot lighting.
Lulu follows your gaze before you can redirect it. Her whole face changes — eyebrows up, mouth already curving into the specific shape it takes right before she says something you'll regret her saying out loud.
"Did you sleep with him?"
You turn so fast the seatbelt catches against your coat, half-choking you on your own scarf.
The driver's eyes remain professionally, diplomatically fixed on the road, a man who has clearly transported worse conversations than this one and intends to survive this one the same way.
"Could you lower your voice?"
"He doesn't speak English."
"You don't know that."
Lulu leans toward the front seat, entirely undeterred, already treating this like due diligence. "Sir, do you speak English?"
The driver meets her eyes in the rearview mirror, utterly unbothered.
"A little."
"Wonderful," you say, dragging a hand down your face. "Excellent work, everyone."
Lulu smiles at him, apologetic and completely insincere, and settles back into her seat like she's just gathered useful intel. "So?"
"This is not a conversation for the car."
"That is a yes." She says it triumphantly, pointing at you like she's just solved a case.
"It is not anything."
"You have spent seven years referring to Paris like it was a natural disaster." She ticks it off on her fingers, delighted with her own memory. "Hurricane. Earthquake. 'The incident.' I have heard you call it the incident, Y/N."
"It was an intensive."
"Did the intensive have abs?"
You look out the window again, jaw tight, refusing to dignify that with anything.
Lulu presses both hands over her mouth, eyes going wide over the top of them, the exact expression of someone watching a plot twist unfold in real time. "Oh my God."
"Please stop."
"You slept with Park Jimin." Muffled, through her fingers, entirely too gleeful for someone supposedly scandalized.
"Lower your voice."
"You slept with the man on the bus."
"You have officially gone insane."
"That does not make the information less significant." She drops her hands, fully invested now, twisted sideways in her seat to face you properly.
"It happened once."
"Once?" Her eyebrows climb higher, delighted by the specificity, like you've handed her a gift she wasn't expecting to unwrap this early in the ride.
You say nothing. You look, very deliberately, at absolutely nothing out the window.
Lulu's hands slowly lower, and something in her expression shifts — the teasing easing back just slightly, replaced by the sharper, more attentive look she gets when she's actually paying attention instead of performing outrage for sport.
"Y/N."
"It was seven years ago."
"That was not the question."
"It was a long night."
Her eyes close briefly, like she's receiving spiritual guidance from somewhere above the van's ceiling. When she opens them again, something has clicked into place.
"And then he hurt your feelings."
"He did not hurt my feelings."
"You refused to hear his name for almost a decade." She's counting on her fingers again, methodical now, building a case.
"I have heard his name."
"You changed the radio station in a dentist's office."
"I didn't like the song."
"You don't speak Korean."
"I can still dislike production choices." You say it with total conviction, chin lifted, daring her to argue.
Lulu studies you for several seconds, and for once, doesn't. She just watches — really watches, the amusement settling into something quieter — and then she reaches across the seat and squeezes your knee.
The gesture is so unexpectedly gentle that you stop mid-breath, halfway through preparing your next defense, and just let her hold on for a second.
"I'm going to destroy him," she says. Calm. Certain. Like she's confirming dinner reservations.
You stare at her.
"With professionalism," she adds, entirely serious, releasing your knee to sit back with her arms crossed. "I represent you now. I have standards."
"You are not destroying my employer."
"He's not your employer. Technically the company is."
"The center is privately funded by him."
"Then I will destroy him while respecting the corporate structure." She says it like this is obviously the reasonable compromise, nodding once like the matter's settled.
You pull your sunglasses down over your eyes, done negotiating.
Lulu pats your knee once more, entirely too pleased with herself.
"Don't worry. I'll be subtle."
"That is the least reassuring sentence you've ever said."
The suite has two bedrooms, a living room larger than your first New York apartment, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the river, the city smeared gold and glass below. It is, in the specific way of hotel rooms designed for people who never see the bill, entirely too much.
There are flowers on the dining table.
White lilies.
Not orchids. Not roses. Not the safe, anonymous arrangement any competent assistant would order for a business trip. White lilies, exactly the way you've ordered them for yourself since you were nineteen years old and finally had your own apartment to fill with them, a fact you cannot remember ever telling him, a fact you're fairly certain you never told him, which means he noticed. Once. Seven years ago. And filed it away.
There's a card tucked between the stems.
You tell yourself you're not going to read it. You read it.
I remembered. I hope that's still true.
Something in your chest does something you don't have a polite word for. You stand very still with the card between two fingers, willing it to mean nothing, willing yourself to believe it's coincidence — a devastating coincidence, the worst kind, the kind that requires him to have thought about you specifically enough to remember a detail you'd have sworn you never gave him.
Lulu watches you read it twice. She doesn't say anything, which is somehow worse than if she had.
You shower. Wash fourteen hours of airplane air off your skin, stand under water hot enough to loosen the knot between your shoulders, and by the time you're back in the bedroom in a robe, Lulu has opened three suitcases and laid your clothes across the bed like she's staging a trial.
"Our car's at seven-thirty," you say. "This is a contract meeting."
"Mhm." Lulu isn't listening. She's holding up the black dress — the one with almost no back — against her own body, studying it in the mirror with the focus of a general reviewing artillery.
"Absolutely not."
"It says you take contracts very seriously."
"It says I have no internal organs."
"It says your organs are private." She drops it onto the bed, already victorious.
You reach for the navy suit folded beside it. She slaps your hand away without even looking.
"He spent seven years knowing he hurt you and still put his face on public transportation."
"I don't think the bus placement has anything to do with me."
"Don't defend him." She holds the dress out, arms extended, patient as a woman with all the time in the world and none of your objections. "You flew across the planet after he begged you in writing seven times. He thinks he won."
"It's a job."
"He thinks he won."
You look at the dress. Black silk, clean lines, a back that exists mostly as a technicality. You know, with the flat certainty of someone who has worn it before, exactly what it does to a room.
You take it anyway.
Lulu's smile turns unbearable. "This doesn't mean anything," you tell her.
"Of course not."
Twenty minutes later you step out of the bathroom. The dress fits the way it always has — maybe better, your body having spent seven years quietly getting even more furious on your behalf. Lulu turns from the mirror, lipstick still raised halfway to her mouth, and just — stops.
"Oh," she says. "He's going to hate you."
"That's the goal."
"Mhm."
You catch your own reflection over her shoulder and don't entirely recognize the effect — hair pinned back, bare shoulders, the kind of breathtaking that isn't trying to be anything, which is exactly what makes it work. Nothing about it says seven years. Everything about it says you should have thought about this before you sent the seventh email.
Lulu grabs her coat, tosses yours at you, and heads for the door with the specific energy of a woman preparing for battle she has no personal stake in and every intention of enjoying.
"Alright, that is a revenge dress." she announces, one hand on the doorframe, chin lifted like she's about to lead a cavalry charge. "Let's go, Lady Diana. Let's go slay some dragons."
You stare at her.
"That sentence means nothing. Lady Diana didn't slay dragons. Lady Diana was a princess."
"She had presence, Y/N. Work with me."
You're still laughing — helpless, undignified, entirely unplanned — when the elevator doors open downstairs.
This is a professional dinner.
The dress is a coincidence.
You are, demonstrably, lying to yourself about at least one of those things.
And Park Jimin, somewhere across Seoul, is about to learn that seven years have done absolutely nothing to improve your patience.
The restaurant occupies the top floor of a building in Cheongdam, behind an entrance discreet enough to suggest that anyone who needs directions cannot afford to eat there.
The car deposits you beneath a black awning at exactly seven twenty-eight. Lulu steps out first, surveys the entrance, then turns back toward you with the solemn expression of someone preparing to send a close friend into active combat.
“Last chance to fake food poisoning.”
She reaches for your coat before the driver can and holds it while you step onto the pavement. Cold air moves beneath the hem of your dress, sharp against your bare legs. Through the restaurant windows, Seoul glitters in fragments—headlights, glass towers, the reflected glow of advertisements that have followed you across the city all afternoon.
At least none of them are visible from here.
“You look terrifying,” Lulu says, settling the coat over your shoulders.
“Thank you.”
“I meant it lovingly.”
“You usually do.”
“And your ass looks divine.”
“Please develop another interest before we go inside.”
“No.”
The host recognizes your reservation immediately and leads you through a corridor lined with dark wood and low lighting. The restaurant smells faintly of charcoal, citrus, and something expensive being reduced in a copper pan. Private dining rooms sit behind sliding doors, each one far enough apart to keep conversations from travelling.
You almost appreciate the discretion until the host stops outside the last door.
Lulu leans closer.
“Do you need a safe word?”
“For dinner?”
“For him.”
You look at her.
She smiles. “Just checking.”
The private room sits behind a door that slides rather than swings, opening onto floor-to-ceiling windows that hold the whole glittering sprawl of Seoul at night — the kind of view that costs more than most people's rent, offered here like it's incidental.
Park Jimin is standing in front of the table.
One hand is in his pocket. The other checks his watch, an absent, restless motion, like a man who has been ready for twenty minutes and has run out of ways to occupy himself.
He is still blond.
A shade lighter now, pushed back off his forehead instead of falling loose the way it did in Paris, and you find yourself absurdly, uselessly thrown by the difference anyway — the particular golden edge of it catching the window light, softer than you remember, like even his hair has learned some kind of restraint in seven years.
His hair looks like it simply grew this way, like the color was doing him a favor the whole time and nobody told you. It suits him in a way that feels almost unfair. Almost natural. You hate that you notice the difference in under three seconds.
The suit is black, tailored close enough to make the fitting itself sound like a small act of violence — no tie, shirt open at the throat, the kind of quiet, expensive restraint that doesn't announce itself and doesn't need to.
For several seconds, the room becomes inconveniently quiet.
His eyes find you first — not the dress, not the room, you — and something moves across his face before he has time to arrange it into anything more polished. His jaw shifts, almost imperceptibly, the smallest fracture in composure. His lips part around whatever he was about to say to his manager and the words simply don't arrive.
Then his eyes move.
Not far. Not obviously. Far enough that you clock it — the exact half-second his attention drops to the neckline of the dress, follows the line of black silk down, and catches somewhere it has no professional business catching before returning, with visible effort, to your face.
Personal victory arrives warm and immediate beneath your ribs.
You keep your expression perfectly neutral. You have had considerably more practice at that than he apparently has.
Beside him, someone clears their throat — a manager, hovering a respectful two feet back — and Jimin blinks like he's been startled out of somewhere private.
Then he smiles.
There it is. The exact smile that once convinced twenty-two dancers in Paris that language was optional, that a man could get away with anything as long as he delivered it with enough sincerity behind the eyes. Older now. More controlled. Sharpened by seven years of knowing precisely what it does to a room, and precisely when to spend it.
"I'm so glad you're here, Y/N."
Your name doesn't just leave his mouth. It rolls off his tongue slow and deliberate, landing somewhere between a secret and a confession, like he's been waiting seven years for a reason to say it out loud again and has decided, apparently, to make the most of it.
Shameless. Utterly unrepentant.
Seven years, and he has not changed even slightly.
His English is almost fluent.
You resent this immediately.
"Jimin."
His gaze drops again, shameless now that he knows you noticed the first time — no attempt to disguise it, no flicker of embarrassment, just an open, unhurried look that lands somewhere south of your collarbone and stays there a beat too long.
"You look—"
"Employed?"
Lulu makes a strangled sound beside you, quickly disguised as a cough.
Jimin's smile widens, slow and unbothered, like your interruption is exactly the response he was hoping to provoke. "I was going to say beautiful."
"That would have been inappropriate for a contract meeting."
"Then I'm glad you interrupted me."
"You usually are."
His manager steps forward before either of you can improve upon the situation, the practiced motion of a man who has clearly done this exact maneuver before — inserting himself at the precise moment a room threatens to combust. He introduces himself in English, polite and careful, bows, welcomes you to Seoul, asks about the flight, says they appreciate you accepting the project on such short notice.
Lulu shakes his hand, entirely pleasant, entirely unarmed-looking, which is how you know she's about to cause a problem.
"We haven't accepted the full project yet."
The manager's smile holds, though something behind his eyes recalibrates. "The contract was signed."
"The preliminary contract was signed."
"It includes the full term."
"Subject to final approval of the artistic structure."
Jimin looks between them, one eyebrow lifting with open interest, like he's watching a match he has no stake in and every intention of enjoying. You look between them too, arms folding loosely, letting Lulu do exactly what you brought her here to do.
His manager turns slightly toward Jimin, positioning himself with such subtle protectiveness that another person might miss it. Lulu moves half a step closer to you with considerably less subtlety, chin lifting, shoulders squaring like she's decided this is a formation now.
Jimin notices. Of course he does. His gaze settles on Lulu, curious, assessing, faintly delighted. "You must be Lulu."
She tilts her head, not blinking. "You must be Paris."
His manager closes his eyes. Only for a moment, recalculating his entire evening.
Jimin looks at you.
You study the arrangement of glassware on the table with great interest.
"Interesting," he says.
"Is it?" Lulu asks, all innocence.
"You've told her about me."
"She has told me almost nothing about you. I formed my opinion from the silence."
"Lulu."
"What? I'm being charming."
"You're threatening the employer."
"I haven't threatened anyone."
Jimin slides one hand into his trouser pocket, mouth curving further, entirely too entertained for a man supposedly under attack. "I feel a little threatened."
"You should."
His manager says something quietly in Korean, low and urgent. Jimin answers without taking his eyes off Lulu, easy and unbothered, and whatever he says makes his manager's mouth tighten as though suppressing either a sigh or a deeply inappropriate laugh.
"What did you say?" Lulu asks.
"That I like you."
"No, you don't."
"I could."
"You hurt my client and best friend's feelings."
The room changes.
Not dramatically. No one stops breathing. No glass breaks. But Jimin's smile loses a fraction of its ease, something flickering behind his eyes that wasn't there a second ago — surprise, maybe, or the beginning of it.
His manager looks at you, quick and searching. Lulu looks at Jimin, entirely unrepentant. You consider, briefly and seriously, walking directly back to New York and changing your emergency contact information.
"I did not say that," you tell her.
"You did not need to."
Jimin's eyes return to yours. The humor is still there, but something else has moved beneath it — something more careful, more exposed than he probably intended to let show in front of three witnesses and a maître d'.
"I didn't know she was hurt."
"You didn't ask," Lulu says.
His manager steps in fast, smooth, practiced. "I think perhaps there has been a misunderstanding about the purpose of tonight."
"Yes," Lulu says. "You think this is dinner. I think this is discovery."
"Lulu."
She raises both hands, the picture of surrender, entirely unconvincing.
Jimin laughs.
It is quiet, unguarded, and far too familiar, a sound that arrives before he seems to have decided to let it, head tipping back slightly, the performance dropping away for one unscripted second.
You look at him.
He is already looking at you, laughter still settling in the corners of his mouth.
"Still bringing someone else to fight for you?" he asks.
Lulu turns toward you slowly, delighted, silent, waiting.
His manager's expression becomes alert, watching you the way you'd watch a match about to be lit.
You fold your arms beneath your coat. "Still confusing basic loyalty with weakness?"
"No." Jimin's gaze flicks toward Lulu, considering, almost fond. "I think she could kill me."
"She has considered it," you say.
"I have a list," Lulu confirms, entirely serious.
His manager straightens, visibly alarmed. "A list?"
"For legal reasons, it is figurative."
Lulu smiles at him, sweet and unbothered.
You are not entirely certain it is figurative.
Jimin steps closer. Not enough to be improper. Enough that the faint scent of his cologne reaches you — something warm beneath the clean edge of citrus, familiar only in the dangerous way certain memories live inside the body before the mind gives them permission. Your pulse does something inconvenient. You do not let it show.
His attention travels over your face, slow, deliberate, cataloguing.
"You cut your hair."
Your hair is longer than it was in Paris. You don't correct him. You let him be wrong, mostly to watch what he does with it.
"You got better at English."
"I practiced."
"Clearly."
"I had motivation."
"Threatening foreign choreographers?"
"Understanding when they insult me."
"You managed without vocabulary."
His mouth curves, something warmer sliding into it. "You noticed."
"I notice distractions."
"And yet. You came."
"You sent seven emails."
"You answered the last one."
"You begged in the last one."
His manager looks at him, alarmed anew. Lulu lights up like she's just been handed the winning lottery numbers, leaning forward with both elbows on the table.
Jimin's expression does not change, carefully composed, chin level — but the tips of his ears begin turning pink beneath his blond hair, a small, involuntary betrayal that no amount of composure can override.
You feel a satisfaction so pure it should probably embarrass you.
It does not.
"In writing," you add.
His manager says his name in Korean with the weary tone of a man discovering new information about his employer in front of hostile witnesses, rubbing at his temple like this evening has aged him considerably.
Jimin finally looks away from you, jaw tightening slightly. "The first six emails were professional."
"The sixth mentioned Paris."
"The sixth clarified that Paris would not be mentioned."
"By mentioning it."
"I was establishing a boundary."
"You don't establish my boundaries."
"I was respecting one."
"You created it."
"You were already going to create it."
"Then you should have waited."
"For what? Email eight?"
Lulu covers her mouth with both hands, shoulders shaking. His manager stares fixedly at the table, a man who has fully checked out and is simply waiting for the meal to end.
You take one step toward Jimin.
He does not move back. If anything, something in his stance settles, like he's been waiting for you to close that particular distance all night.
"You said you would stop after the third."
"You ignored it."
"That was an answer."
"No, that was avoidance."
"You're an expert now?"
"I had seven years to study."
The words leave him easily. Too easily — no performance behind them, none of the practiced ease from thirty seconds ago. For the first time since the door opened, neither of you has a response ready.
Jimin's gaze stays on yours, steady, unguarded in a way that catches you off balance. The room around him softens at the edges — the table, the city lights beyond the windows, your respective guardians standing nearby and silently reconsidering every decision that led to this evening.
Seven years to study.
The line should sound like another joke. It does not, and you both seem to notice it at the same time, a small, mutual falter neither of you acknowledges out loud.
Then his eyes lower to your dress again, and the softness disappears beneath something openly, unapologetically appreciative.
"You wore black."
You glance down as though the color has surprised you. "A remarkable observation. Your English really has improved."
"I remember you wearing black."
"I own several colors."
"Not when you want to win."
Lulu turns away, shoulders shaking harder now, no longer bothering to disguise it as anything else.
You narrow your eyes. "Win what?"
Jimin steps aside, gesturing toward the dining table, unbothered, entirely too pleased with himself.
"You tell me."
The gesture opens his jacket slightly. The shirt beneath it fits close enough that you can see the movement of his breathing. His hair falls across one eye, and he pushes it back with a ringed hand without breaking eye contact, unhurried, like he has all the time in the world to be looked at.
He is flirting with you.
Not the careless, generous flirtation he once distributed across studios and hotel bars, spread thin enough for anyone to catch a piece of it. This is deliberate. Focused. Aimed at you specifically, and far more shameless than it was in Paris because he now possesses both the language and the confidence to make certain you understand every part of it.
You should find it irritating.
You do.
You also become acutely conscious that the back of your dress is almost entirely open.
Jimin's gaze passes over your shoulder, locating the missing fabric. His eyebrows lift, just barely, just enough. The reaction lasts less than a second.
It is enough.
Lulu catches your eye. Her expression says everything.
Divine.
You refuse to give her the satisfaction of agreeing out loud.
His manager moves toward the table and pulls out one of the chairs, apparently deciding the evening has a better chance of surviving if everyone is seated and provided with food.
"We have prepared an agenda," he says.
"Excellent," Lulu answers, already reaching into her bag. "We have revisions."
"Of course you do," Jimin says, resigned and amused in equal measure.
She smiles at him. "You're learning."
He looks at you again, something quieter settling behind his eyes.
"Yes," he says. "But I already knew."
There is something unbearable about the certainty in his voice. As if seven years have not changed anything essential. As if he still knows how you enter a room, how you choose a dress when you intend to make a point, how silence is not the same thing as surrender.
As if you have not spent those same seven years learning him from photographs, performances, interviews, and every piece of work you watched while telling yourself professional curiosity was a sufficient explanation.
His manager gestures toward the table. Lulu does not move. Neither do you.
Jimin glances between the three of you, then exhales through a smile, hands spread slightly, the picture of a man conceding a point he never actually planned to fight.
"Should we take our seats?"
"You first," you say.
"Still don't trust me behind you?"
"I don't trust you anywhere."
"That wasn't true in— before."
His manager makes a small choking sound. Lulu's head snaps toward you, eyebrows somewhere near her hairline.
Jimin's face becomes luminous with satisfaction, the specific look of a man who has just been handed exactly the reaction he wanted.
You smile.
It is not a kind smile.
"This dinner hasn't started," you tell him, "and you're already violating one of my conditions."
"You haven't given me the conditions yet."
"You knew I would have them."
"I wanted you to have them."
You should leave.
Jimin's eyes drop to the open back of the dress. This time, he does not bother pretending otherwise — his gaze lingers, open and unhurried, something unguarded crossing his face before he can smooth it back into something more careful.
The expression on his face is worth the flight.
Worth the billboards.
Almost worth the bus.
You hand the coat to the host and walk past him toward the table, spine straight, chin level, refusing to give him the courtesy of watching you do it.
Behind you, Lulu whispers, "Personal victory," with enough pride to suggest she selected the dress for precisely this outcome.
You take the chair opposite Jimin. He sits across from you, his manager on one side and Lulu on the other, dividing the table into two protective camps that have already declared war without bothering to establish terms.
Jimin reaches for the water, unhurried, watching you over the rim of the glass. "So," he says. "How badly are you planning to make me suffer?"
You unfold your napkin over your lap, not looking up.
"I have three conditions."
His smile returns, slow, delighted, entirely too confident for a man about to hear them.
"Only three?"
"For now."
He leans back in his chair, blond hair brushing the collar of his suit, and looks at you the way nobody else in the room would dare to — not the careful, filtered attention people give a stranger, and not the reverent, distant kind people give a stage. Direct. Unhidden. The look of someone who has decided, somewhere in the last ten minutes, that pretending not to look is no longer worth the effort.
It is going to be a very long night.
You have always known when someone is performing. The body tells the truth eventually — a missed count, a held breath, a pair of dark eyes lingering half a second longer than they should.
Across the table, Park Jimin smiles as though he has nothing to hide.
You know better.
The problem is that, judging by the way he is looking at you, so does he.
And somewhere underneath the conditions you're about to lay out, underneath the seven years and the seven emails and the dress you'll never admit you wore for him, is the quiet, inconvenient fact that you have not finished deciding which one of you is actually winning tonight.
You place your water glass down.
“For the first month, you personally attend every rehearsal connected to the resident company’s inaugural program.”
Jimin’s smile remains.
Author's Note
OMG OMG OMG!! here we have it friends 🖤 the first part of DLAMLT — Jimin's story, in this wonderfully chaotic universe of The B-Side Series. if you're new here, hi!! hello!! come sit, grab a cookie from the back, let me tell you a story
so this is part of a whole collection i'm writing for all seven members, and this is the FOURTH one to be published. we've got What Happens When You Fall, which is Namjoon's (slow burn, medical setting, will absolutely ruin you in the best way), and The Real Thing, which is Yoongi's (a fake dating premise that stopped being fake approximately five minutes in) — both of those are complete!! and i'm currently posting The Space Between Us, which is Jin's (marriage, distance, learning how to come back to someone — that one's going to take its time and it's going to be worth it)
and now: Jimin's
yes, you can absolutely read each story as a total standalone. but they are all interconnected, bc i am apparently a madwoman standing in front of a corkboard with red string connecting seven different men's love lives into one universe and i regret nothing
WITH THAT BEING SAID — if you're not new here, come here, let me kiss your forehead, thank you thank you thank you for following me down every single one of my unhinged rabbit holes. i mean it
confession time: i have discovered that i enjoy writing jimin an EMBARRASSING amount. i am already bias wrecked. send help. actually don't send it, i am having way too much fun over here and i refuse to be saved
also i need to formally go on record that writing dance scenes might be the single hardest thing i have ever done as a writer. and i say this as someone who wrote an entire fic with real orthopedic surgical accuracy in it. bones? fine. tibias? no problem. but describing MOVEMENT, making choreography feel alive on a page instead of just "and then she did a spin" — dear god. have mercy on me. it's humbling in a way very few things are humbling
this was supposed to be a small teaser and i ended up writing the entire first chapter instead, so. that happened. the next part is coming soon, but there's a full schedule you can check HERE for what's dropping when
and if you want to be added to my permanent taglist — you are so welcome here, just send me a DM or drop a comment and i'll add you 🖤
okay i love you all go read about these two idiots who hate each other so much they wrote each other seven emails about it
Tag list: @whoisbts @sexytholland @btsevxn @kacythecarat @granataepfelchen @goawaysha @unknownbeknowst @joonmonjagi @cherryblossom1234567890 @blamgyuuuu @swagtimemachinecherryblossom @leftmensh @mikrokookiex @busanbby-jjk @jungkook97l @singularitypromise @angelarin @cherrycheolie @proudnoona @leeknowsbigtoe @pleasantheartsworld @lobbera @pinklasagna04 @idk-what-myurl-shouldbe @genu7 @jkwritez
Tags: fluff, explicit sexual content, very personal.
SFW:
His humor is a gift, carefully unwrapped for u. He’ll immediately notice when u have a bad day, then appears in the doorway wearing ur frilly apron as a cape, striking a dramatic superhero pose. He’ll send u a perfectly timed, ridiculously exaggerated slow-mo video of himself tripping over nothing in the living room, just to hear ur surprised laugh through the phone. He studies what makes u giggle – a specific silly face, a terrible pun, an impromptu dance to elevator music – and he hones it. Your joy is his happiness.
His hugs are legendary for a reason. He does not just grab u, he envelopes u. He opens his arms and u step into his space; he closes them around u like he’s sealing in warmth. One hand cups the back of ur head, fingers threading gently through ur hair. The other always on ur waist, or spreads wide on the small of ur back, pressing u firmly, securely, against his chest. He often lets out a deep, contented sigh, his chin resting over ur head or shoulder. In that hold, u feel both utterly protected and like u are his shelter. He’ll sway slightly, a barely-there rock, and whisper, “Mm. So perfect.”
Watch him when he thinks no one is looking. The way his soft, elegant fingers carefully straighten a crooked picture frame. How he examines a fallen leaf on a walk, turning it over to see the intricate veins, his expression one of quiet wonder. He touches the world softly, thoughtfully. That same delicacy is reserved for u – the way he brushes a stray hair from ur face, his thumb tracing the arch of ur eyebrow, his hands cradling ur face as if you’re made of the most fragile glass.
When you're overwhelmed, he doesn't ask for a list of what u need. He observes, assesses, and acts. “Okay,” he’ll say, voice low and steady. “Give me your phone. Go take a bath. I’ll order food, handle the texts, and you are not to think about any of it for the next two hours.” It’s not controlling; it’s relieving. He creates a space where u can truly shut down because he’s got the wheel, and u trust his hands completely.
He cannot sit still if you're working. You try to cook, he's immediately behind you, washing the vegetables you just set down, his hip subtly bumping yours. “What do i do next,” he murmurs, observing ur moves and waiting for ur next request. He finds purpose in partnership, in sharing the mundane load. Folding laundry becomes a quiet, intimate ritual, his fingers brushing yours as he passes you a sock.
grocery shopping with him is an adventure. he’ll put things in the cart u didn’t ask for—a weird fruit he wants u to try, a fancy chocolate bar “for later,” a silly-shaped gummy candy “because it looked lonely.” the bill is always higher (will never let u pay), but the experience is worth it.
he sends u pictures of things that makes him think of u. a cup of coffee perfectly placed on a windowsill. a puppy he saw on his walk. a sunset. captioned simply: “thought of u.” his world is constantly filtered through the lens of ur presence in his life.
he loves teaching u small things about his world. how to do a dance step, the meaning behind a lyric he wrote, how to cook a simple dish his mom taught him. he gets so focused and gentle in his explanations, his eyes shining. sharing his knowledge is sharing a piece of his soul.
he has a “comfort voice.” when u’re sick or sad or just tired, his normal playful tone drops into something lower, smoother, like warm milk. he uses it when comforting u or reading to u. it’s a vocal blanket.
he’s ur personal temperature regulator. if u shiver, his jacket is already around u. if u sweat, he’s fanning u with a pamphlet or his hand, gently wiping ur face. he’s constantly attuned to ur physical comfort, adjusting the environment around u like he’s ur own living thermostat.
he celebrates ur tiny victories like they’re national holidays. u finished a work task? “let’s get ice cream!” u finally fixed that wobbly shelf? “my genius baby! i’m so proud!” his enthusiasm makes ur ordinary achievements feel extraordinary.
he’s the first to notice ur new things. a new earring, a new pen, a new shade of lip balm. he’ll point it out immediately. “that’s new. it’s pretty baby. suits u.” his attention to the tiny details of ur existence makes u feel seen in a way no one else does.
he has a specific scent that is just ‘jimin’. it’s not just his cologne; it’s his skin, his clothes, his natural smell mixed with clean laundry and warmth. when u bury ur face in his chest, that scent is instant calm. he knows this, so he leaves his hoodies at ur place strategically.
His phone always in his hands, except lots of messages, especially if ure working separately:
“Babe you there? Miss you already T.T”
“Saw a blue bird today. Thought of you ☺️”
“Is that cafe good? Should I order lunch? What are you eating?”
“Finished my schedule! Be home in 40 mins exactly. Don’t start the movie without meeeeeeee!”
“Love you. <3 <3 <3” (sent roughly every 20 minutes).
he keeps a "comfort kit" in his bag/car for u: painkillers, a hair tie, pads/tampons, mints, a portable charger, a spare pair of socks. u only find out when u need something n he produces it like magic.
he will literally drop anything if u say his name in a certain tone. from across the room, if u just say “jiminie...” softly, he's at ur side in seconds. “yes? what do you need?”
if u cough once, he appears with water n honey. if u sniffle, he's checking the thermostat. his caretaking is immediate n instinctual.
he’s a magnet for animals and kids, and u love watching it. a cat will wander over to him on the street. a kid in a park will offer him their toy. he interacts with them with the same gentle, focused respect he gives u. seeing that purity reflected back at him from the world confirms everything u know about his heart. ㅤ♡ྀི
NSFW:
Sex with him is a study in overwhelming sensation and relentless closeness. He does not simply take you from behind; he molds his body to yours, his chest a solid wall against your back, one arm banded like iron across your ribs, the other hand tangled in your hair, pulling just enough to arch your neck for his teeth. He whispers filth into the shell of your ear, each word a puff of hot air. “This cunt was made for me. It sucks me in like it's starving. You are starving for me, aren't you?” His thrusts are deep, punishing, designed to erase all thought, all space between you.
he’s obsessed with making u cum first. multiple times. it’s his mission. he’ll eat u out until ur thighs r shaking, then kiss his way up ur body, whispering “just one more, baby, i know u can give me one more,” before sliding in. coming before u isn’t an option for him. ur pleasure is his prerequisite.
he loves when u beg. but not pathetic begging—frustrated, needy begging. when u grind against his thigh whining “jimin, please,” he’ll smirk, palming ur ass. “please what? use ur big girl words. tell me exactly what ur cunt is asking for.” he makes u articulate ur filth, and it makes u hotter.
Hes a big bully in bed. Not always but sometimes he laughs at u, especially when he fingering u, ur pathetic words and moans turns him on sm he can’t help it but bully u for it. “Aw jiminie fuck me pls, i need ur cock in me pls. Do u listen to yourself ,baby? You sound so pathetic. So cute. Im gonna ruin you.”
his strength snatches ur breath away. he can lift u and carry u to the bed while still inside u, not breaking stride. he’ll hold u up against the shower wall, water sluicing over his flexed biceps as he pounds into u, ur moans echoing on the tiles.
spanking is a whole ritual. he doesn’t just spank. he warms u up with firm rubs, then delivers sharp, crisp smacks that sting so good. he’ll make u count them. if u lose count, he starts over. “we’re doing this properly, sweetheart. focus.” the mix of pain and his controlled focus is intoxicating.
after rough sessions, his aftercare is mother-hen level. he’ll apply aloe to any red marks from his grip, kissing each one. he brings u chocolate and water. he cradles u, rocking slightly. “my brave girl. u took me so well. so perfect.” the whiplash from beast to caregiver makes u fall for him all over again.
he’s a vocal fucking mess in bed. low grunts, guttural “fucks,” sharp inhales. when he’s close, his moans get high, breathy, so pretty—a crazy contrast to the rough way he’s fucking u. hearing that break in his control is everything.
The audio tapes. Oh, the audio tapes. They're his secret weapon. He'll send them when he's traveling. Just a voice memo, sometimes 30 minutes long. At first, it's just his soft voice telling you about his day, missing you. Then his breathing will hitch. You'll hear the faint, slick sound of lube, then the slow, rhythmic stroke of his cock. His voice goes thick, dreamy. “Thinking about your mouth... god, the way you look up at me...” The sounds get wetter, faster. You can hear his pre-cum, the slow twist of his wrist on the tip. He moans your name like a prayer, then a curse, then a sob. The climax is raw, shuddering, and often ends with a shaky breath and a soft, tearful “I love you so much it hurts.”
sometimes he wants to be used. not in a sub way, but in a ‘i am ur playground’ way. he’ll lay back and guide ur hand to his cock. “do whatever u want. tease me. ruin me. i’m just here for ur entertainment.” seeing him bite his lip, eyes closed, giving u complete control over his pleasure is a power trip.
he finds sex in the kitchen irresistible. the risk of someone maybe calling, the mundane setting. he’ll bend u over the counter while ur hands r still wet from washing dishes, pushing ur shorts down just enough. “couldn’t wait. u looked too good standing here.” it’s quick, dirty, and leaves u flustered for hours.
he’s fascinated by ur reactions. he’ll try different things just to catalog the responses: a gasp for this, a full-body shudder for that. he’s a student of ur body. “oh, u like that? good to know.” he files everything away for future use.
he gets off on praise. tell him “u feel so good inside me” and his thrusts stutter, a broken moan leaving his lips. “say it again. fuck, tell me how u feel.” he craves the verbal confirmation that he’s pleasing u.
he loves using toys on u, bigger than him, just to watch u stretch and take it, whispering “look at u, taking so much. my greedy girl.” He finds sickening joy in stretching ur pussy.
he loves when u wear his clothes to bed—just one of his big t-shirts. he finds it insanely hot. knowing ur naked under it, smelling like him. he’ll push the fabric up slowly, kissing ur stomach, murmuring “my favorite look on u.”
Always touching u under the blanket. He always gets this idea and desire, especially if there’s ppl around u. He’s either pulling u on his lap, slowly grinding his hips up ur pussy, feeling his cock already hard asf, or rubbing his fingers on ur clit inside ur panties. It’s a big challenge for u since u need to be quiet, but jimin loves the risk. All that while talking to the person standing next to u both. Pretending like ure not even there.
He’s obsessed with ur boobs. His eyes always on them first b4 looking at ur face, especially if u wear tiny crop tops. Or if u wearing a baggy shirt, he will hook his fingers in ur collar, picking inside curiously. Just to check on them.
His hand always kneading them, while u watching a movie on the couch, his hand always inside ur shirt. While u standing doing ur makeup or in the kitchen cooking smth, he’s always behind u touching ur tits.
And during sex ugh. U always end up with ur tits bruised, lovely bruises. His mouth literally making hearts on ur chest, leaving love bites everywhere. Sucking, biting, slapping, squeezing, and always end up sleeping on them, while his lips wrapped around ur nipple.
Therefore why he’s a complete mess when u ride him. Fucking hell just tie him up and let him see them bounce, or on his face. Or even better, stroke his cock with ur tits. God hes a goner. He LOVES tits fucking.
Jimin always loses his mind when u give him head. It’s the best fucking feeling to him. He never lasts more than 5 mins. Ur head game is crazy, u just know how to use ur tongue on his already leaking tip. Especially if u use ur hand and mouth combo. Hes gone. Moaning so loud and giggling bcuz it always blows his mind how u make him reach his peak so fast.
Another obsession of his is ur waist. He loves sitting down while u standing between his thighs just rubbing his face on ur stomach, his hands gently stroking ur sides while he kiss every inch of ur body. Or holding ur waist as he fucks u deep, his hands always leaves lovely bruises on ur hips, kissing them later as an excuse cuz hes a gentleman and he has to worship u.
Sleep is merely another arena for his possession. He prefers you on your side, his front plastered to your back, his arm a heavy weight across your waist, his hand splayed possessively over your lower belly. Even in unconsciousness, his hips occasionally press a lazy, seeking rhythm against your ass. Or on top of u, His face is buried in ur chest , breathing you in. You are held, surrounded, consumed, And happy ㅤ♡ྀི
A/N: the difference between how i write jk hcs and jm hcs is fcking killing mednjdjdjdjjddj why im like this
And I didn’t necessarily went with the ‘clingy bf’ ones bcuz I’ve more to say abt him than how clingy he is okay
Now ik I ghosted yall for a bit now but im back with a better mood and promise will go through all ur requests very soon 💕
→ summary: stuck sharing a motel room with him, you finally give into your craving for thee park jimin
→ pairing: bts!jimin x femsub!reader
→ tags: park jimin x reader, jimin x you, bts x reader, friends to lovers, slow burn, motel, one bed trope, forced proximity, rainy night, road trip, spring getaway, friends vacation, smut, fluff, angst (light), romance, cozy, intimate, first time, pining, mutual pining, soft jimin, confident jimin, explicit sexual content, oral sex, praise kink, multiple orgasms, aftercare, fanfiction, bts fanfiction, oneshot, bts au, body worship, kissing, creampie
→ word count: 2.8k
→ a/n: I enjoyed this ALOT. it's very cozy and sweet. I love body worshippppp...and yes I made namjoon drive now that he's got his license LMAO sue me
masterlist
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the rain hammered against the windows of the van, a steady beat that matched the thrum of excitement in your chest. you were sandwiched between jimin and taehyung, the latter already dozing with his mouth slightly agape, his head lolling against his girlfriend's shoulder.
jimin, however, was wide awake. his knee kept bumping yours, a small, rhythmic touch that sent little jolts of electricity through you each time. he'd catch your eye in the dim glow of the dashboard lights and offer a small, secretive smile, one that was just for you.
"almost there," namjoon called from the driver's seat, his deep voice a comforting rumble. "the 'pines motel'. sounds… rustic."
jungkook snorted from the back. "as long as it's dry and has beds, i don't care if it's rustic."
you did care. you cared a lot. because this trip, this spontaneous getaway to see the spring grass and blooming flowers, was the first time you and jimin would be properly sharing a space. you weren't officially anything, not yet. you were a mixture of stolen glances, lingering touches, and conversations that stretched late into the night when everyone else had gone to bed. the unspoken thing between you was growing too big to contain, and this weekend felt like the tipping point.
the van pulled into a gravel lot, the headlights cutting through the pouring rain to illuminate a small, rectangle shaped building with a neon sign that flickered ever so slightly. it was exactly as advertised: cozy. a little dated, maybe, with its faded green carpet and wood-paneled walls, but charming in a retro way. hoseok, ever the planner, had booked three rooms. you watched with a sinking heart as he began doling out keys.
"okay, so me and namjoon, jin and his girlfriend, and…" hoseok paused, looking at the last key, then at you, jimin, and the remaining couples. "hmm. i think i messed up the booking. i only got three rooms, but there are… more of us."
a moment of chaotic silence descended. jungkook and his girlfriend were already looking at each other with a 'we can share' expression, as were taehyung and his partner. that left you and jimin. and one double bed.
"it's fine," jimin said, his voice disarmingly calm as he took the key from hoseok's hand. "we can share. right?" he turned to you, his eyes soft, questioning. there was no trace of awkwardness on his face, only a quiet confidence that made your stomach flip.
"right," you managed, your voice a little thin.
the room was small, dominated by a queen bed covered in a kitschy floral bedspread. the air smelled faintly of pine cleaner and something else, something clean and warm. jimin dropped your single bag and his own by the door and turned the lock with a soft click. the sound seemed to echo in the sudden quiet, sealing you in together.
"well," he said, a small laugh escaping him as he gestured to the bed. "cozy."
you couldn't help but laugh with him, the tension breaking. "rustic, too."
you both stood there for a moment, just looking at each other. the rain outside had softened to a gentle patter, creating a cocoon of intimacy around the small room. jimin took a step closer, his eyes never leaving yours. he reached out, his fingers gently tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear. his touch was feather light, but it burned a trail down your neck.
"you know," he began, his voice dropping to that low, honeyed tone he used when he was being sincere, "i've been wanting to get you alone all night."
your breath hitched. "jimin…"
the tension in the room shifted, and you tilted your head towards him.
"is this okay?" he asked, his thumb stroking your cheek. he was always so careful, so considerate, even when his eyes were dark with a hunger that mirrored your own.
you answered by closing the small distance between you and pressing your lips to his. it wasn't a frantic kiss, but a deep, searching one. his lips were soft, tasting faintly of the strawberry gum he'd been chewing earlier. he sighed into your mouth, his hands coming up to frame your face, holding you gently but firmly, like he was afraid you might disappear.
the kiss deepened, slow and tender. his tongue traced the seam of your lips, and you opened for him willingly. the kiss became wetter, more urgent, a silent conversation of months of pent up desire. one of his hands slid from your face down the curve of your neck, his fingers tracing your collarbone before coming to rest on your hip, pulling you against him. you could feel the hard line of his arousal through his jeans, and a fresh wave of heat pooled inside of you.
he broke the kiss, both of you were breathing heavily. "i've wanted this for so long," he confessed, his voice raspy. "just you, like this."
"me too," you whispered, your hands fisting in the soft material of his sweater.
he smiled, a genuine, breathtaking smile that reached his eyes. "good." he leaned in for another kiss, this one shorter, sweeter, before taking your hand. "come on. let's get more comfortable."
he led you to the bed, sitting down on the edge and pulling you to stand between his knees. he looked up at you, his expression a mixture of adoration and raw desire. his hands roamed up your sides, from your hips to your waist, his thumbs stroking the soft fabric of your shirt.
"you're so beautiful," he murmured, his gaze roaming over your face, your body. he leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to your stomach, right through your shirt. the gesture was so tender it made your heart ache. he continued his exploration, his lips tracing a path up your body as his hands slowly, torturously, inched your shirt upward. he kissed your ribs, the valley between your breasts, the hollow of your throat. each touch was deliberate and intentional.
you raised your arms, allowing him to pull the shirt over your head. he tossed it aside, his eyes darkening as he took in the sight of you in your simple lace bra. he didn't say anything, just watched for a moment, his adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. then he reached around, his fingers fumbling slightly with the clasp before it sprang free. he slid the straps from your shoulders, his gaze never leaving your skin as the bra fell away.
he leaned in, pressing a kiss to the swell of one breast, his tongue darting out to taste your skin. he took his time, worshiping every inch of you with his mouth and hands. he palmed the weight of your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your nipples.
"jimin, please," you breathed, the need building to an almost unbearable pitch.
he looked up at you, a wicked glint in his eyes. "please what, baby?"
"touch me," you begged. "everywhere."
he chuckled, a low, husky sound. "that's the plan." he stood up, quickly shedding his own sweater and t-shirt, revealing the smooth, toned expanse of his chest and stomach. your eyes traced the lines of his muscles and the line art of his nevermind tattoo, and you reached out, wanting to feel him under your palms. he caught your hands, bringing them to his lips and kissing your knuckles before guiding them to his chest. your fingers splayed across his warm skin, feeling the steady beat of his heart.
he kissed you again, hard and deep, as he walked you backward until your legs hit the bed. you fell back onto the floral comforter, and he followed, covering your body with his. the weight of him felt perfect, grounding. he kissed you until you were dizzy, his hips pressing into yours in a slow, teasing rhythm that drove you wild.
his hands deftly unbuttoned your jeans, and he lifted his hips just enough to slide them down your legs, taking your panties with them. he paused, kneeling between your thighs, just looking at you, laid bare for him. the vulnerability should have been scary, but the look in his eyes; a pure desire made you feel powerful.
"you're perfect," he said, his voice thick with emotion.
he lowered his head, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh, so close to where you needed him but not quite there. he repeated the action on the other side, his stubble scraping deliciously against your sensitive skin. you were squirming, whimpering, by the time he finally parted your folds with his thumbs and gave you what you were craving.
the first swipe of his tongue was pure bliss. he was skilled, knowing exactly how to tease and torment, building the pressure slowly. he circled your clit, flicking it with the tip of his tongue before sucking it gently into his mouth. your fingers tightened in his hair, holding him to you as waves of pleasure washed over you. he slid one finger inside you, then another, curling them just right to hit that spot that made you stare up at the ceiling.
"jimin," you gasped, your back arching off the bed. "don't stop."
jimin didn't stop immediately, but slowed his movements, his tongue and fingers gentling you through the waves of your orgasm, drawing out every last bit of pleasure until you were a helpless, panting mess beneath him.
he kissed his way back up your body, his lips soft and worshipful against your still flushed skin. when he reached your mouth, you could taste yourself on him, a heady, intimate flavor that made a fresh surge of arousal course through you. you kissed him deeply, pouring all the gratitude and desire you felt into it.
"you're incredible," he murmured against your lips, his voice thick with awe.
"you are," you countered, your hands roaming over the smooth, warm skin of his back. you could feel the tension coiled in his muscles, the evidence of his own desire pressing insistently against your thigh. you wanted, needed, to give him the same release he had just given you.
you pushed gently at his shoulder, rolling him over so you were straddling his hips. the look of surprise on his face quickly melted into one of dark appreciation as you leaned down, your hair cascading around both of your faces, and kissed him. you took your time, exploring his chest with your hands and mouth, tracing the defined lines of his abs with your tongue, feeling the way his muscles quivered in response. you loved having this power over him, the ability to make him gasp and shiver with just a simple touch.
you worked your way down, your eyes never leaving his. you could see the desperate need building in his gaze, the way his jaw was clenched with restraint. you reached the waistband of his jeans, your fingers making quick work of the button and zipper. he lifted his hips, allowing you to slide both his jeans and his boxers down his legs. his cock sprang free, hard and thick, the tip already glistening with precum.
you'd imagined this, fantasized about it, but the reality of him was so much more intense. you wrapped your hand around his length, feeling the velvety skin over the steel-hard shaft. he let out a choked moan, his head falling back against the pillows. you stroked him slowly, watching his face as you did, learning what he liked.
"baby," he breathed, his voice strained. "please."
you leaned down and took him into your mouth, swirling your tongue around the head before taking him deeper. the taste of him was sweet and uniquely jimin. he groaned, one of his hands coming to rest gently on the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair as you set a rhythm, bobbing your head, taking him as deep as you could. you used your hand to stroke what you couldn't fit into your mouth, your movements sure and confident.
you could feel him getting closer, his hips beginning to thrust up to meet your mouth, his breathing becoming ragged. but just as you felt him start to tense, he gently tugged on your hair.
"stop," he gasped. "come here. i want to be inside you when i cum."
you released him with a final, lingering lick and crawled back up his body. he captured your lips in a searing kiss, rolling you over once more so he was on top. he settled between your thighs, his propped on his elbows as he looked down at you. the rain had slowed to a misty drizzle, and the only light in the room was the soft, golden glow from the bedside lamp. it cast his features in a warm, gentle light, making his eyes shine.
"are you sure?" he asked, his voice serious, even as his body trembled with need.
you reached up, cupping his face in your hands. "i've never been more sure of anything."
he smiled, that beautiful, genuine smile that you loved so much. and then he was pushing into you, slow and steady. the stretch was exquisite, a slight burn that quickly melted into a deep, full pleasure. he filled you completely, and for a moment, you both just lay there, savoring the feeling of finally being connected, skin to skin, heart to heart.
he began to move, his hips rolling in a slow, deep rhythm that was both tender and possessive. each thrust was deliberate, stoking the fire that was already smoldering in your belly. this wasn't frantic or desperate; it was a deep, soulful connection. he looked into your eyes the entire time, his gaze so intense it felt like he was seeing straight into your soul.
"you feel so good," he panted, his forehead dropping to yours. "so perfect and made for me."
the words sent a thrill through you. you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, meeting him thrust for thrust. the room was filled with the sounds of your soft moans, the slick sound of your bodies joining, and the gentle patter of rain against the window. it was the most intimate music you had ever heard.
he shifted his angle slightly, and suddenly he was hitting that spot inside you that made your toes curl. a sharp cry escaped your lips, and you felt him smile against your skin.
"hold it," he murmured, his voice smug. he began to aim for that spot with each thrust, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your entire body. the pressure began to build again, higher and higher than before, a tight coil of tension in your core.
"jimin," you gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders. "i'm… i'm close."
"let go then, baby," he urged, his own rhythm becoming more erratic. "cum with me. let me feel you."
his words were your downfall. with a few more perfectly aimed thrusts, the coil inside you snapped, and you were flying. your orgasm crashed over you, more intense than the first, your body arching off the bed as a silent scream tore from your throat. your inner walls clenched around him, and with a guttural groan, he followed you over the edge. you felt him pulse inside you as he found his release, his body shuddering with the force of it, a gush of warm liquid filling you up.
he collapsed on top of you, his face buried in the crook of your neck, both of you breathing heavily, your bodies slick with sweat. the weight of him was comforting, and you ran your hands up and down his back, feeling his heart hammering against your chest.
after a few moments, he rolled off of you before grabbing some tissues off of the rusty motel desk and cleaning you up as best as he could. he tossed the tissue and plopped down onto the bed, pulling you into his arms. he tucked you against his side, your head resting on his chest, his heartbeat a steady, soothing rhythm in your ear. he pulled the floral comforter over both of you, creating a warm, contented nest.
neither of you spoke for a long time, just lay there in the quiet, listening to the rain and the sound of each other's breathing. it was comfortable, peaceful. the unspoken thing was no longer hanging between you; it had been acknowledged, explored, and sealed in the most intimate way possible.
finally, he pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head. "so," he said, his voice a low rumble in his chest. "does this mean i get to call you my girlfriend?"
you tilted your head up to look at him, a wide smile spreading across your face. "i think that's probably a good idea jimin."
he beamed, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "good." he tightened his arms around you. "because i'm not letting you go now, never."
you snuggled closer, pressing a kiss to his chest. as you drifted off to sleep in his arms, the rain finally stopping outside, you knew this cozy, rainy night at a rundown motel was just the beginning of something magical.
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taglist: @mikrokookiex
lmk if u wanna be added <3 haven't done a TL in a long timeeee
Summary: Jimin's view of himself completely changes when he sits down and watches the Normal music video
Word Count: 2.7K
Rating: 18+ Minors Do Not Interact!
Tags: porn with no plot, shameless smut, Jimin gets turned on by his own body, I partially blame Taehyung too, boners, solo masturbation, masturbation in front of a mirror, hand jobs, finger sucking, edging, cum shots, Jimin is a vision and he knows it
Authors Note: I really have no words for this. The horny demon took over and hey, here we are. I am currently being very very biased wrecked by a certain Park Jimin and if I didn't get this fic out of my brain I was going to lose it.
Reblogs are appreciated
Also don't be scared to talk about it in the tags!
“And cut!” The director called, as Jimin remained in place for another beat or two before he sagged against the comfortable bed that he was currently sprawled out on.
He lolled his head to the side in time to see Hoseok and Jungkook entering, hooting and hollering as they eyed Jimin on the bed in his open shirt, revealing his toned chest and abs.
“Oh so sexy Jimin!” Hoseok called over the chatter of the crew.
Jimin felt heat rise to his face as he sat up quickly and swung his legs over the side of the bed.
While both his friends were still in their street clothes, Taehyung soon made it on set wearing his outfit for the music video, and Jimin stood up to greet him, nimble fingers trying to do up the buttons of his shirt as he walked over.
“Wow, Jimin, so hot. You’re going to kill half our fandom with this look!” Jungkook teased, his tongue darting out to play with his lip ring, as Jimin grinned sheepishly and greeted Taehyung with a sideways hug.
“Okay Jimin, let’s review. We should be able to move on, but I want to make sure we all like it first.” The director says.
Jimin jostles for space as the four members of Bangtan plus half the crew crowd around the small monitor.
Immediately, the scene starts, and as always, Jimin starts to pick out all the things he didn’t like about himself.
Before he could get lost in his thoughts, Taehyung wraps an arm around him, and his breath tickles Jimin’s ear, causing him to shiver.
“God, Chim. You look….god you look so hot.”
He keeps his voice low enough so that only Jimin can hear it, and he feels a sense of pride bloom in his chest as it seems this scene is flustering Taehyung.
“Oh. I don’t know.” Jimin whispers back as Taehyung nudges him.
“Stop being so modest, Jimin. Seriously, you look hot all sprawled out like that.”
Maybe it was the way Taehyung said it, all low and husky, or maybe it was the fact Jimin could no longer find a single thing wrong with the scene, but he suddenly felt his tongue dance over his lower lip as he watched himself on the bed.
“I think it’s a go and we can move on. What do you think, Jimin?” the director asks as Taehyung’s arm melts off his shoulder as if it wasn’t even there in the first place.
“Good. I think it’s good. Yeah. We can move on.” Jimin says, trying to ignore the weird feeling settling low in his stomach as he watches himself on screen.
-------
Jimin forgot about the music video.
With how hectic idol life is, usually he forgets he filmed something the second it wraps up because he is always whisked onto the next thing.
The day the music video drops, Namjoon is the first to mention it.
He sends a link in the group chat congratulating all the boys on another great music video.
Jimin is in his studio not doing much of anything and decides to click the link and watch it.
Sure, he remembers watching the final cut, but that was months ago, so he settles back in his chair, crosses his arms over his chest, and hits play.
Jimin quirks an eyebrow as it opens with water running down Jungkook as he sings.
He can’t help but snicker to himself, remembering how the hot water just wasn’t working so they had to opt for cold water instead, and how Jungkook pouted about being doused in cold water for the rest of the day.
Taehyung stayed by his side and reminded the younger boy it was for Army, but that didn’t stop Jungkook’s doe eyes and constant complaints.
Jimin sucked in a breath when he saw himself on screen, and his shaky hand reached for his mouse to pause the video as his eyes roved his body.
“God Chim, you look…God, you look so hot.”
Jimin shivered in his seat as he remembered Taehyung’s words whispered for only him to hear as goosebumps rose on his arms and legs.
For a long time, Jimin just sat there staring at his body.
He wasn’t sure why he was so captivated by it; it was the same body he lived in every day.
The same body that was currently covered in a baggy grey sweater and black sweatpants that were most definitely Taehyung’s.
But something about the way he looked on that bed was making him feel a certain way.
He felt it while they were watching the playback too.
He felt.
Naughty,
Dangerous,
Sexy.
It was the way the necklaces lay perfectly on his bare chest, the way his legs were sprawled open with the black pants hugging his thighs impossibly tight.
Jimin swallowed hard and ran his sweaty palms down his pants.
Why was he sweaty?
Why was he…turned on?
His cock was half chubbed up, pushing against his boxers, and Jimin bit his lower lip as he hesitantly pressed play.
The camera angle switched to a side shot, and he saw how ripped his torso looked and how devilishly low those pants were sitting on his waist.
His cock gave an impatient twitch as Jimin absentmindedly brought a hand down to cup his hard length through the thin material.
His tongue darts out to lick his lower lip, and he gives himself a light squeeze as he pauses the music video right before Jin shows up.
Jimin rewinds the video and watches his part again, feeling arousal pool in his stomach as his eyes take in what they are seeing.
This is him, of course.
But also not him at the same time.
He is both the voyeur and the exhibitionist, and something about that is turning him on more than he could care to admit.
His cock twitches again, and Jimin applies more pressure as his other hand comes to the keyboard to do some good old web surfing.
-------
It took Jimin a total of thirty-six minutes to get home.
Usually it would take longer, but he was speeding.
He quickly kicked off his shoes as he entered his house and left all his stuff in the front entryway.
He could deal with that later.
For now, his mind was brimming full of desire and ideas, so he padded across the floor to the bathroom and turned on the shower.
He slowly took in his reflection, cheeks red, eyes blown wide, and he slowly brought his hand up to his face to card his fingers through his long blonde hair.
Once steam begins to fill the bathroom, he takes his time unzipping his sweater and shoving his sweatpants down.
All the while he keeps his gaze firmly locked on his own reflection as he does so.
The whole thing is making his cock once again fill between his legs, but Jimin doesn’t dare touch it as he steps into the steam and takes his time cleaning himself.
He cleans his hair first, taking his time lathering the product and letting it run down his body as he washes it out.
His fingers scratch at his scalp in a satisfying way that has his eyes fluttering closed.
He lathers his expensive body wash and runs his hands down his body, massaging his sore muscles from hours of dancing.
Steam gathers around his body, and Jimin watches with wonder as rivulets of water rush down his chest and shoulders.
His cock is hard, almost achingly so, but Jimin gives it a quick clean before rinsing off and stepping from the shower.
He grabs his favourite fluffy robe, wraps it around his body and makes his way to his bedroom, leaving a water trail behind.
Jimin was too excited to properly dry off, so he slipped slightly as he grabbed the door frame for support, rolling his eyes at his own foolishness.
Once he made it into the bedroom, he shut the door and dimmed the lights.
He lit a couple of candles and stood in front of the full-length mirror in the corner and admired his body.
Damp blonde hair sticking in all directions.
Lust-filled eyes.
Plump lips.
A sliver of chest peaking out from his robe.
His erection, hot and heavy between his legs, pushing the robe outwards obscenely.
His phone was on silent, his house was empty…it was the perfect time.
Candlelight flickers off the walls as he reaches for the rope holding his robe closed.
He takes his time undoing it, eyes glued to the mirror as it opens with ease and reveals his body to his own hungry eyes.
Jimin stands there, taking in the hard planes of his chest and stomach and the muscle that is corded around his legs from years and years of dancing.
His body is muscled but also delicate as he runs a finger down his chest and towards his throbbing erection.
He had no idea mirror masturbation was a thing until today, and the idea intrigued him.
Jimin loved watching fancams of himself on stage, loved to critique and see what the fans were saying.
He loved when they freaked out when he rolled his hips just right or parted his lips in a way that drove them wild.
This, however, was for no one else’s eyes except his own, and it made his cock throb and leak as he guided his hand to his hard shaft.
Jimin wrapped a hand around the base and held it.
It was the same hard velvety feeling it had always been, but watching his reflection do it made his cock kick up helplessly in his hand.
He sucked in a breath as he slowly stroked himself from root to tip, gathering the slick that was steadily leaking from the tip to drag it down his heated shaft.
His knees trembled, and Jimin lowered himself to the floor, spreading his legs wide to give himself a better view as he scooted closer to the mirror.
The candles flickered, casting his body in a warm glow as Jimin stroked himself in slow, easy glides.
His cock was impossibly wet and hard, as Jimin squeezed the head, making more pre-cum ooze from the bulbous tip and drip off his fingers.
A hunger for more filled his veins as he applied more pressure and twisted his wrist in a way that sent his eyes rolling in the back of his head.
But no, he had to keep them open
Focused…
Watching…
His reflection was a mess, with eyes glassy and lips wet as Jimin released his cock and shivered when the length bobbed and smacked against his stomach, smearing precum against his abs.
God, this was so erotic.
He spread his legs further and saw how big and full his balls were.
He lightly cupped them with his other hand, rolling them with ease and feeling arousal zip through his body as he continued to stroke his cock.
His reflection was radiant, and Jimin bit his lip as he watched a pretty pink blush bloom all over his chest as his hips began to rock into his fist as if on its own accord.
The pleasure was building hot and fast, and Jimin squeezed the base of his cock to cool himself off as he let out a shuddering breath.
“Fuck.” He whined as his cock twitched painfully in his grasp.
He wanted to cum.
He needed to cum.
But he didn’t want this to end just yet.
He took his hand from his length and brought his fingers to his nose to smell the salty arousal that was left behind.
Fuck he smelled so good.
Slowly he inserted two fingers in his mouth and sucked his digits clean.
Salty precum flavour exploded on his tongue as Jimin lapped them up, all the while whining at how good it tasted and felt.
He left his cock neglected between his legs for now as he removed his fingers from his mouth and ran a hand down the hard planes of his body.
Down his arms, his chest, his legs.
His reflection was gasping and moaning as Jimin trailed the very tips of his fingers down his chest, circling them around his hips; he brought them behind to cup his ass, and a broken whine left his mouth as he did.
Fuck.
He grabbed his ass with more force and kneaded the flesh.
His eyes were glassy, his cock was steadily dripping, causing the shaft to be shiny and wet.
Jimin wrapped his fingers around his aching length again, and gave himself a couple greedy strokes as he felt his cock throb at the stimulation.
Every sensation was heightened, and he didn’t know how he didn’t think to do this sooner as his knees shook and his muscles were taut with anticipation.
He was close again.
Too close too soon.
Jimin took a deep breath, and despite everything telling him to keep going, he ripped his hand from his cock and let out a strangled groan as his orgasm faded away.
“Fuck fuck fuck.” He cursed as his breath was ragged and his hair was falling in front of his face.
His temple was covered in sweat, and he knew he would have to shower again after this.
He closed his eyes momentarily and let out a shuddering breath.
When he opened his eyes, his reflection had changed.
Gone was the shy Jimin who felt uncomfortable about being sexy.
Gone were the critical thoughts about himself that sometimes kept him up at night.
His eyes were wide, his cheeks were red, and his cock was standing proud against his stomach.
He was a vision.
He was exquisite.
He was sex itself
His hand wrapped around the base of his cock and he twitched violently at the overstimulation.
His balls were hot and heavy between his legs, and when Jimin cupped them, he felt his thighs twitch, muscles tired from being strained for so long.
The air reeked of sex even though Jimin had not come yet, and when he gave himself a slow and cautious stroke, he bowed forward in pleasure and luckily darted his hand out before he smacked his face on the floor.
His gaze snapped up.
Jimin was on his hands and knees with one hand working feverishly over his cock while the other was firmly planted on the ground keeping him upright.
His shoulder muscles were rippling, his eyes were wide and wild, and his fist was a blur on his cock as he brought himself close to release.
His tattoos caught his attention in the lowlight, and Jimin squeezed the head of his cock as he watched his corded arm muscles hold him steady as he worked himself towards his high.
It was carnal
And dirty
And animalistic the way he fucked his hips up into his fist to give himself just a little more.
His hips rocked just as they did when he was dancing, and he now understood why the fans went crazy for it.
His body was taut, and his muscles were struggling to hold him steady as he felt his orgasm creep up on him impossibly fast.
Curses left those plump lips as he worked himself towards his high.
One more gaze at himself in the mirror and he was cuming hard all over his fist as spurt after spurt of hot, milky cum shot from his tip.
It was the most erotic thing Jimin had ever done, and when he finally slumped to the floor, he found he was struggling to catch his breath as he watched himself come down from his high.
A sheen of sweat covered his entire body, and his fist was covered in cum as he lay on the floor and pressed his sweat-soaked face to the cold hardwood.
“Holy fuck.” He whispered.
It seemed to take longer than normal for him to come down, and when he finally stood, he noticed his body felt like jelly and his legs shook.
Never in his life had an orgasm made his legs shake like that.
Jimin stared at his reflection once more, and a completely different person stared back.
It was the same face
The same body
But he felt changed forever as he padded across the floor on shaky legs to take his second shower of the day.
BTS FANFIC Writer @queenelizabitch12 - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
