on this starless night | pjm
park jimin x reader
light angst, light fluff, mafia!au, arranged marriage ; wc : 2566 words
rating: pg13
warnings: swearing, mentions of violence
note: this is the prequel to this jimin drabble! you don't have to read that to understand this, though, but it would be nice :>> it's finally out!! i can't believe the very first drabble was posted on ao3 in november 2019,,, anyways, here we go!! hope you guys enjoy this <3
You’ve gotten yourself into quite the predicament. And no, it’s not particularly life-threatening, nor is it that serious, but to you, a very sensitive person, this might as well be the end of the world.
You haven’t been kidnapped; you’re sick.
And to top it all off, you’re completely alone, too.
Well, maybe not completely alone, but like hell are you going to ask for help from Jimin’s lackeys walking around the damn mansion. Asking for help means showing pain, and to show pain is weakness. You already know what his men say about you—that you’re too soft, too kind to lead anyone. You are too weak to be the Lady of the estate, but no one would ever question your position. You’ve been reluctantly accepted into the organization ever since your marriage to Jimin.
Jimin.
Where is he? He’s been away on a “business” trip for a few days now, and with no communication, he could be very well dead, rotting in a ditch somewhere—
Stop, you tell yourself sternly. Jimin is fine. He has to be.
You’re not sure why you’re so concerned about him when all he is to you is a man you used to know. It’s been a long time since he chased you through the gardens of your home, and even longer still since he last held you in his arms when you cried as a child. Jimin is not the same person who held your hand on the way home. He is not the boy who once made you laugh until your sides hurt, but it’s still so hard.
Before the two of you were “engaged” (more like forced), the last time you had heard from him was when you were nine years old. And now, eighteen years later, you were married to him.
In the earlier stages of your marriage, you tried to find the kind-hearted boy who was your friend as a child. You tried to find the boy with gentle hands and a soft voice, but all you find is a man consumed by the darkness, whose hands are calloused and stained with blood, whose voice is harsh and cold. When he touches you (and make no mistake, he only touches you in the direst of situations), his hands are cold and barely there. Gone is the boy with the warm hands, and in his place is a killer.
That’s what he is, at the end of the day. The leader of the group known as Bangtan, the largest damn mafia in Seoul, the most ruthless man in the game, and your husband.
Husband—the word itself is funny to you. In the past, you had daydreamed about finding true love and maybe even marrying that person. You always thought that marriage would be beautiful, a lasting testament to your love for that one person, but not like this. Never like this.
In a different world, maybe your spouse would fuss over your rising temperature, maybe tuck you in and get you some tea. Maybe they would feed you some soup as they checked your temperature. Maybe they would cuddle you despite the fact that they might get sick too. It would be a wonderful world, you think, as the fever clouds your mind further. You sink deeper into your sheets as you close your eyes and drift off to a world where a nameless person smiles at you gently as they pull your blanket over you. You don’t put too much effort into imagining it, but you swear the nameless person smiles just like Jimin…
When Jimin arrives, it’s early in the evening and not only is he tired, but also extremely pissed off.
Some fucker had been leaking delivery information to a smaller rival group, and small as they were, they were a pain in the fucking neck, alright. A few hours ago, they planted fake information about the next gun delivery in hopes of catching the mole in the act, but just their fucking luck—the rival group (Jimin, for the love of all things good and holy, just cannot remember their name) didn’t even show up, and instead ambushed the real delivery area.
Now, Jimin wasn’t the type of person to get mad that easily, but boy was he fuckin’ pissed. When he finds that mole, he swears he gonna rip that piece of shit limb from fucking limb for making him look like a goddamn idiot in his own turf—
Huh.
The mansion is quiet. Almost too quiet, but when Jimin halts he can hear some of his men making their usual rounds and the occasional tuneless whistles from here and there. No, no—what’s quiet isn’t the mansion. It’s you.
It’s barely seven in the evening, and as early as you tend to turn in for the night, you never go to sleep this early. You almost always have some music playing, whether it’s the latest pop song or an obscure indie song, your wing of the mansion is never that quiet.
When had he noticed that?
Shaking his head, he walks to your room instead, in the opposite direction of his. Maybe you were just tired, or maybe you had your earphones on. Jimin has no fucking idea, and he knows that this shouldn’t be any of his business but this small sense of wrongness nags his brain.
You’re his wife, for fuck’s sake. He shouldn’t be this awkward when he’s just walking to your room.
Your door appears in his line of sight far sooner than he would like, but it would probably be best to do this sooner rather than later. Taking a deep breath, he poises his fist over the door and halts. What if you were sleeping, or maybe you were busy? What if you didn’t want to see him—
Wait, when did he start caring about what you thought of him?
Just that revelation had him stepping back. When did your thoughts start to matter to him?
“Come on, Park,” he hisses, clenching his fists. “Just fucking knock.”
In, out. In, out. He knocks three times on your door.
No response.
Another three knocks.
Still no response.
“Kid?”
You hated that nickname, hated the fact that he constantly held his age over you. Not that it mattered, but sometimes, a year really did make a difference.
Silence.
Okay, now he was really starting to worry.
Twisting the doorknob, he discovers four things: one, your door wasn’t locked. Two, as his eyes fell on your sleeping form wrapped up in blankets, you were most likely sick. Three, you were so fucking cute with your flushed cheeks and dotted pajamas that his heart actually skipped a beat.
And four—maybe, just maybe, he was the tiniest bit in lo—nope. Nope, nope, nope.
Jimin wasn’t quite sure how he ended up in this situation, but here he was anyways. Cooking was never his strongest suit, but surely he couldn’t fuck up something as simple as instant ramen, right?
Wrong. Apparently, he can.
Somewhere in his peripheral vision is the estate’s chef—Seokmin? Seokjin? Whatever the bastard’s name was, he was currently hovering anxiously by the door, wringing his hands as he watched Jimin move around the kitchen with all the grace of a drunk horse.
Irritated, Jimin halts in his movements and turns to the chef. “You know what,” he seethes, “I’m gonna need you to fuck off. I’m a grown man; I can handle two packets of instant fucking ramen.”
Seok-something lets out a squeak and bows hurriedly before running away to who knows where. Huffing, he turns back to the pot of water. Stupid water. Why won’t it just boil?
He hears the sound of something rustling, and he’s just about to turn around and yell at that goddamn chef, when—
“You know, you should turn the heat up a little higher. That helps it boil faster.”
Jimin turns, and there you are.
Your eyes are sleepy and your cheeks are flushed from the fever and Jimin’s heart clenches at the sight of you. And yet, ever the image of composure, he gives nothing away. “What are you doing here?” He asks coolly as if you hadn’t just made his heart skip a beat.
You smile softly. “I heard you were home. Wanted to give you a proper welcome.”
He chuckles slowly, letting a rare smile creep onto his face. “Really now? Even when you’re sick?”
You stiffen.
“I’m not sick,” you say harshly, crossing your arms in front of you. It makes you look downright adorable, but Jimin would rather die than tell you that. Besides, he knows where you’re coming from. In this world, pain is weakness, and you don’t want to show weakness of any sort.
He turns back to the now slowly bubbling pot of water, watching it as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. You don’t see his smile slowly fall.
You shouldn’t be in a world like this. You deserve a world of sunshine and flowers and beauty because that’s what you are. You are soft and kind and this world is killing you from the inside. You deserve to be able to marry for love, and not for political gain. You deserve someone as kind and gentle as you are, not someone as cruel and damaged as he is—
“Jimin?”
The water is boiling. Hurriedly, he adds in the noodles before placing the lid on it again.
You’re sitting on a stool by the counter now, and as much as Jimin wants to sit across you and ask about your day, something keeps him from doing it.
“Yeah?” he replies, tearing open the flavoring. He should be able to add it in any moment now.
“Why are you making instant…” You pause, squinting at the wrapper beside him on the counter. “Cheese ramen? You could’ve asked Soobin to cook some for you instead.”
Oh. Was that the chef’s name? He wasn’t even close.
“I wanted to make some for you.” He says simply, adding the packet of flavoring into the pot, stirring it with a fork. He could have used chopsticks, but frankly, he had no idea where those were.
You seem stunned, he notes, as he turns the stove off and transfers the ramen into a bowl. He somehow manages to get you a spoon and oh look! So that’s where the chopsticks are. He brings it over to your place and you watch him silently. “Why are you being nice?”
“Didn’t know I needed to have a reason to be nice,” he says nonchalantly, sitting on the chair opposite your seat. “Eat.”
Warily, you pick up the spoon and begin to eat. The silence is stifling as he watches you practically shovel the noodles into your mouth. As he observes you, he notices how unladylike you hold yourself in his presence; your posture was, quite frankly, horrible. Your hair was a mess, and he was pretty sure the sweater you’re wearing has been with you for more than five years. Jimin knows he should find it mildly off-putting, especially as a man most familiar with the most extravagant in the country, but he can’t bring himself to mind.
If anything, his heart warms at the realization that you don’t feel the need to put on a mask with him, to don the cold grace you almost always seemed to have during public occasions.
He lets his thoughts wander, wondering if in another world, where you two are married for love and not for anything else, where the two of you live normal lives… would you let him hold you close in your sleep? Would you let him take care of you when you were sick?
In another life, Jimin wonders if you would have fallen in love with him.
Taking the seat opposite you, Jimin shuts his eyes. Thoughts like that were dangerous and had no place in a world like this. In this world, all he had to do was protect you. There was no need for him to complicate it with love.
You’re nearly finished with the food, and it’s with a bitter revelation that Jimin realizes that simply protecting you is no longer enough for him. He wants to hold your hand and brush your hair back when it falls into your face. He wants to go out on stupid dates with you to wherever you wanted to go, to give you his jacket when it’s cold outside. He wants more than this, even as you’re bound to him in almost every sense of the word.
He wants you to smile at him like he hung every star in the sky. He wants you to look at him and not feel scared or ashamed. He wants you to stay with him for the rest of his life but above all, he wants you to love him.
He wants you to love him because he loves you too.
The realization makes his heart plummet.
Later that night, he drops by your room once he’s sure you’re fast asleep.
He sits at the very edge of your bed, making sure to remain as still as possible so he doesn’t wake you up. Slowly, he reaches out, wanting to stroke your hair as you sleep but he halts at the last possible moment.
Sighing, he clenches his fist and moves away, terrified he’ll wake you with his touch. Instead, he brushes a strand of hair away from your face as gently as possible, chuckling to himself when you begin to snore lightly. It’s amazing just how light you make his soul feel, as if your smile alone has absolved him of his sins.
It terrifies him.
In his many years leading Bangtan, Park Jimin might have been known for his bravery and his determination, but if he knows one thing, it’s that fear keeps him alive. Not bravery, not determination—fear. It’s what keeps him alert, what forces him to plan for the worst-case scenario after the worst-case scenario has already happened. It’s because of fear that he knows when to move forward and when to retreat.
He knows something is on the horizon, something that might genuinely put you at risk and to protect you from that, Park Jimin must be a coward.
I can’t have more than this, he thinks bitterly. I can never have more than this.
He leaves without telling you what he was supposed to say, without giving you a kiss on the forehead like he had originally planned. Despite how much he wanted to stay, to watch over you just in case your fever got worse, he can’t.
No matter how much he wants to, he can’t let himself love you. At the end of the day, his love is a death sentence no matter how much he wants it to be a gift. On this starless night, Park Jimin hopes—prays to every saint he knows that this sacrifice is enough to keep you safe.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers to the air, hoping they’ll somehow reach you. “I’m sorry.”
Your eyes flutter open in the darkness. You could’ve sworn Jimin was here, but you brush it off as another dream. You don’t notice the smell of his perfume still lingering in the air as you slowly fall back asleep.
When you wake again, there is an unexplainable sadness lingering in your heart.
