#jimin ff

[swanlakebaby]

secret blowjob | pjm

→ summary: you give jimin a secret blowjob during a get together at taehyung's penthouse → pairing: bts!jimin x fem!reader → tags: smut, jimin smut, kissing, bts fanfiction, jimin x reader, park jimin, secret relationship, angst, romance, bts au, idol au, party scene, tension, forbidden love, slow burn, head, blowjob, teasing, flirting, dialogue, dirty talk, etc → word count: 3.0k → a/n: I FEEL MYSELF RUNNING OUT OF IDEAS...feel free to suggest things in my inbox >:)

masterlist

the bass of taehyung's expensive sound system thrummed through the floor, a steady heartbeat for the gathering. laughter echoed off the high ceilings and glass walls of the penthouse, the city lights of seoul twinkling outside. it was one of those rare nights where the chaos of their schedules aligned, bts and their partners, all gathered in one space.

you were nursing a flute of champagne, the bubbles tickling your nose, your body angled just so on the velvet sofa to have a clear line of sight to him.

he was leaning against the kitchen island, effortlessly captivating in a simple black silk shirt that clung to his shoulders and chest. he was listening intently to something yoongi's girlfriend was saying, his head tilted, a polite smile on his lips, but you knew him better. you saw the way his eyes kept flickering away, scanning the room, searching. and when they found you, the polite smile transformed into something else entirely.

it was a private, searing look that lasted no more than two seconds before he deliberately turned his attention back to the conversation. but it was enough. a current arced between you across the crowded room, a secret energy. your stomach clenched, a familiar heat pooling low in your belly.

this was the game you played. the delicious, maddening, terrifying game of being his secret. six months of stolen glances, of coded text messages, of quick, desperate encounters in back hallways and darkened cars. the secrecy was a kind of constant low level hum of danger that made every touch feel risky. but nights like tonight, surrounded by everyone you were hiding from, were a special kind of torture and thrill.

"are you even listening to me?" hae, hoseok's girlfriend, nudged your arm playfully. you blinked, snapping back to the present. "sorry, zoned out for a second. what were you saying?"

"i was asking if you've seen the view from the terrace yet. it's insane. tae really outdid himself."

"i bet," you murmured, your eyes drifting back to jimin. he had moved now, standing by the large windows, staring out at the city skyline. his profile was sharp, beautiful, the line of his jaw tense. he looked pensive, distant. you wanted nothing more than to go to him, to wrap your arms around his waist and press your cheek against his back, but you couldn't. you were just friends, another guest at the party. the thought was a bitter pill.

as if sensing your frustration, he turned from the window. his gaze found you again, and this time, it was heavier, more deliberate. he let his eyes linger, a slow, appreciative sweep from your face down to the bare skin of your legs, exposed by the slit in your dress. you felt the caress of his gaze like a physical touch, your skin prickling with heat. he raised his glass to you in a silent, mocking toast before taking a slow sip. the message was clear:i want you and we can't do a damn thing about it.

you clenched your jaw, taking a gulp of your own champagne. two could play at that game. you set your glass down, stood up, and made your way towards the balcony, deliberately walking a path that would take you right past him. you didn't look at him, but you felt the shift in the air as you approached. you paused by the door to the terrace, pretending to be interested in a piece of art on the wall, your back to him.

"you're playing with fire," a low voice murmured right beside your ear, making you jump. he had moved so silently.

"someone has to," you retorted quietly, not turning around. "you can't just look at me like that and expect me to do nothing."

"like what?" he asked, his voice a challenge. you could feel the warmth radiating from his body and smell the faint, clean scent of his cologne.

"you know exactly how you were looking at me."

he chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that you felt more than heard. "i have no idea what you're talking about. i was just admiring the art."

you finally turned to face him, your eyes flashing. "the art? is that what we're calling it now?"

his smile was wicked, his eyes dark and alive with mischief. "the best kind. a living masterpiece." his gaze dropped to your lips for a fraction of a second. "but you're right. it's not fair." he took a small step closer, bringing you into the shadow of a large ornamental plant near the entryway. the proximity was dizzying. "i've been thinking about that dress you wore last week; how i peeled it off you, how you tasted."

your breath hitched. "jimin, stop."

"or what?" he leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your earlobe. "you'll make me stop thinking about bending you over this railing right now?"

a shiver raced down your spine. the risk was immense. taehyung's girlfriend was laughing with jin just a few feet away in the living room. "we can't," you whispered, your voice trembling slightly.

"i know," he breathed, his hand coming to rest on the small of your back, his thumb stroking circles through the thin fabric of your dress. it was an innocent enough touch for anyone who might glance over, but for you, it was branding. "that's what makes it so much fun, isn't it?"

he was right. the fear, the adrenaline, it was all mixing with the raw desire to create a potent cocktail. you could feel your resolve crumbling.

"i have an idea," he whispered, his eyes gleaming. "trust me?"

you looked into his face, searching for any sign of hesitation. there was none. only confidence, desire, and that familiar, dangerous spark. against your better judgment, you nodded.

"good girl," he murmured, the praise sending another wave of heat through you. "finish your drink. walk back to your seat. in two minutes, get up and head for the main hallway. the one by the guest bedrooms. don't look back."

and then he was gone, melting back into the party as smoothly as he'd appeared, leaving you leaning against the wall, your heart hammering against your ribs. you did as he said, your legs feeling unsteady as you walked back to the sofa. you picked up your champagne, your hand trembling so much the liquid sloshed against the sides of the flute. the next two minutes were the longest of your life. you nodded and smiled at the conversation around you, but you heard none of it. all your senses were focused on the hallway, on the promise of what awaited you.

when the time was up, you stood. "just heading to the restroom," you said to no one in particular, your voice sounding surprisingly normal.

the hallway was dimmer, quieter, the thumping bass of the music a distant pulse. you saw him immediately, standing outside a door halfway down the corridor, his back to you. he didn't turn as you approached, but you knew he was aware of your every step. he pushed the door open; a guest bedroom, not the bathroom - and gestured for you to go in.

"jimin, no," you protested in a harsh whisper. "someone's bedroom?"

"relax," he said, following you in and closing the door. the click of the lock was unnervingly loud in the sudden silence. "it's the spare room. no one's been in here tonight." he took your hand, his grip firm, and pulled you further into the room, away from the door. the space was pristine, the bed perfectly made, the air still. it felt like a different world.

"this is insane," you breathed, but you were already moving into his embrace, your body betraying your words.

"completely," he agreed, his lips finding yours. the kiss was desperate, hungry, six months of pent-up frustration and longing pouring into it. his hands were everywhere, tangling in your hair, sliding down your back to cup your ass and pull you flush against him. you could feel how hard he was, the rigid length of him pressing insistently against your stomach through his trousers.

you moaned into his mouth, your own hands roaming his chest, feeling the taut muscle beneath the silk shirt. you wanted to feel his skin, to taste him, to have him in a way that was impossible in this room, on this bed, with a hundred people just outside. the frustration was agonizing.

"i need you," you gasped, breaking the kiss.

"i know, baby. i know," he soothed, his forehead resting against yours. "but we can't. not here. not like this." he took a deep breath, his eyes closing for a moment. when he opened them, they were dark with a new kind of intensity. "but i can't leave you like this. and i can't go back out there like this."

he took your hand and guided it down to the front of his pants, pressing your palm against his straining erection. "see what you do to me?" he groaned. "this is your fault."

a thrill went through you, a surge of feminine power. "then let me fix it," you whispered, your eyes locked on his.

his breath hitched. "here?"

you nodded slowly, a slow smile spreading across your face. the idea was reckless

a slow, wicked grin spread across jimin's face, his eyes darkening with a mixture of surprise and raw, unadulterated lust. "here?" he repeated, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through you. "right now?"

"right now," you confirmed, your confidence growing with every passing second. the risk was a potent drug, and you were already addicted. you sank to your knees on the plush carpet, the fabric soft against your skin. the movement was graceful, deliberate, your eyes never leaving his. from this angle, you had to look up at him, and the shift in power sent a fresh jolt of arousal straight to your core.

"fuck," he breathed, his hand coming up to rest on the top of your head, his fingers tangling gently in your hair. "you're going to be the death of me."

you smiled, a slow, seductive curve of your lips. "i'll try to make it worth it." your hands went to the buckle of his belt, the metallic clink sounding like a gunshot in the quiet room. you both froze, listening. the party was still a distant, muffled hum of bass and laughter. no one was coming. you continued, your fingers working with practiced ease to undo his trousers. the zipper was next, another sharp sound that made his grip on your hair tighten.

you freed him from the confines of his silk boxers, and he sprang into your waiting hand. he was already rock-hard, the tip flushed and glistening with pre-cum. you took a moment to just look, to appreciate him in the dim light filtering in from the hallway. he was beautiful, perfectly formed, and the knowledge that you were the one who made him this way, who could reduce the confident, charismatic park jimin to this state of desperate need, was heady.

you leaned forward, not taking him into your mouth yet, but letting your warm breath ghost over the sensitive head. he shuddered, a low groan escaping his lips.

"stop teasing," he pleaded, his voice strained.

you smirked and finally gave him what he wanted, swirling your tongue around the tip to taste the salty bead of moisture there. his hips jerked involuntarily, a choked sound catching in his throat. you took him into your mouth then, slowly, inch by agonizing inch, until he hit the back of your throat. you relaxed, taking him deeper still, your nose buried in the coarse hair at his base.

"jesus christ," he hissed, his head falling back against the door with a soft thud. "your mouth… so fucking perfect."

you began to move, establishing a rhythm that was both leisurely and intense. you pulled back until just the tip was between your lips, then sank down again, taking him deep. your hands came up to cup his balls, rolling them gently as your mouth worked its magic. you could feel his control fraying, the taut muscles in his thighs trembling under your touch.

you were so lost in the sensation, in the taste and feel of him, that you almost missed it. a sound. footsteps. not the muffled, indistinct noise from the party, but the clear, distinct click-clack of high heels on the hardwood floor of the hallway, getting closer.

panic, cold and sharp, shot through you. you froze, your mouth still full of him. jimin's eyes flew open, wide with alarm. his body went rigid, his hand tightening in your hair, not in pleasure but in a silent command to stay still. the footsteps grew louder, accompanied by a female voice, laughing.

"…so i told him, if you think i'm wearing that, you've lost your mind!" the voice was right outside the door now. it sounded like one of the stylists' assistants.

jimin's eyes were locked on yours, a frantic, silent communication passing between you. don't move. don't make a sound. you could feel his heart hammering through his shaft, the frantic pulse a stark contrast to the stillness of his body. the risk was no longer thrilling; it was terrifying. your own heart was beating so hard you were sure they must be able to hear it through the door.

the doorknob jiggled.

your blood ran cold. it was locked. thank god, it was locked. but what if they had a key? what if taehyung told them where it was?

"strange," the voice outside said. "it's locked. is someone in there?"

a second voice, closer this time, replied, "maybe it's just tae being weird. let's try the other guest room. i think i saw one down by the kitchen."

there was a moment of agonizing silence, and then, blessedly, the sound of the footsteps receding, moving away down the hall.

both of you let out silent, shaky breaths. the adrenaline was still coursing through you, making your hands tremble. you started to pull back, to end this madness, but jimin's grip on your hair tightened, stopping you.

"don't you dare stop," he growled, his voice a low, dangerous command. his eyes were blazing with a fire you'd never seen before, a mixture of fear, relief, and a primal, desperate need that overshadowed everything else. the near-miss hadn't scared him off; it had fueled him.

he began to move his hips, a slow, shallow thrusting into your mouth. "finish it," he breathed, his voice raw. "now."

the command sent a fresh wave of heat through you, washing away the fear and replacing it with a renewed sense of purpose. you redoubled your efforts, your head bobbing faster now, your tongue working feverishly against the sensitive underside of his cock. you hollowed your cheeks, sucking hard, and he rewarded you with a guttural moan that he quickly muffled with his own hand.

"fuck, yes," he whispered, his eyes squeezing shut. "just like that. don't stop."

you could feel him getting closer, his thrusts becoming less controlled, more erratic. his breathing was ragged, his whole body tensing like a coiled spring. you looked up at his face, at the way his brow was furrowed in concentration, his lips parted as he fought for breath. he was utterly lost in the pleasure you were giving him, and the sight was the most erotic thing you had ever seen.

"right there," he choked out, his hand fisting in your hair. "i'm gonna… fuck…"

with a final, deep thrust, he came, his body shuddering violently as he spilled himself down your throat. you swallowed quickly, your throat working to take every last drop. you continued to suck him gently, milking him through his orgasm, until he was completely spent.

he slumped against the door, his body limp, his chest heaving. you slowly released him, tucking him back into his trousers and refastening his belt with nimble fingers. you rose to your feet, your knees a little stiff, and met his gaze.

he looked wrecked. his hair was messy, his cheeks were flushed, and his eyes were heavy-lidded with satisfaction. he reached for you, pulling you into his arms and crushing his lips to yours in a kiss that was less about passion and more about gratitude, and possession.

"you," he said, his voice hoarse as he rested his forehead against yours, "are absolutely insane."

"you knew that when you met me," you whispered back, a smile playing on your lips.

he chuckled, a low, contented sound. "i did." he kissed you again, softer this time, a lingering press of his lips. "and i wouldn't have you any other way."

after a moment, he pulled away, checking his reflection in the dresser mirror and attempting to smooth his hair into some semblance of order. "okay," he said, taking a deep breath. "we go back one at a time. you first. wait two minutes, then i'll follow."

you nodded, your heart already starting to settle back into a normal rhythm. you smoothed down your dress, ran a hand through your own hair, and gave him one last, lingering look before unlocking the door and slipping back out into the hallway. the party was still in full swing, oblivious.

you walked back to the living room, a secret smile on your face, the taste of him still on your lips. you had just reclaimed your seat on the sofa when jimin reappeared, looking cool and composed as if he'd simply been taking a private phone call.

he caught your eye from across the room and gave you a small, almost knowing nod. the game was over for tonight and you had won.

[a-nyx-7]

BLACK RIBBON, WHITE ROSES | PARK JIMIN

You are the star ballerina of an elite ballet company. Every opening night, you receive white roses tied with a black ribbon from an anonymous patron. Years later, you discover that the patron is a young billionaire who has attended every single one of your performances since you were seventeen. He knows every role you have ever danced, every injury you've ever hidden, every dream you've ever whispered into the dark. Genre: Obsession, Yearning, Elegant Tension, Old-Money Aesthetic, Romance, Smut. Pairing : Rich! Jimin x Ballerina! Reader ONE SHOT - 17K WORDS

Taglist : @imjustcrabby @graydolan12

You slowly twirled, a movement practiced a thousand times over, effortless and elegant. Your legs extended with fluid grace, your eyes mirroring the depth of the music, and your posture remained flawless as you commanded the stage. As the final notes slowly faded, you offered three deep bows and stepped back just as the velvet curtain fell. The thunderous applause followed you all the way backstage, where your teacher and peers stood waiting.

"Brilliant as always, my dear," the head mistress praised. You tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear, a soft blush warming your cheeks and neck as you offered a gracious smile.

You were the theater's reigning prima ballerina, the singular force that sold out every tier of the house, night after night.

Stepping into the quiet sanctuary of your dressing room, you began unlacing your satin pink gloves. The moment the door swung open, your eyes immediately found the vanity table. There it sat, a pristine bouquet of white roses, tied with a heavy black silk ribbon. Every bloom was immaculate, perfectly cultivated and fresh, looking as though they had been hand-plucked from a private conservatory moments ago.

A quiet, familiar smile touched your lips.

For the past ten years, ever since your debut, these flowers had awaited you. Every single performance, without fail, they appeared on your vanity like clockwork, a silent testament to your artistry.

There was never a card, never a name.

In the anxious hours before a show, you always resolved to catch whoever left them. Yet, amidst the chaos of backstage preparation, the mystery slipped away, leaving the bouquet to feel like a deeply personal, exclusive ovation upon your return. You had questioned the theater staff countless times, but the answer was always the same.

no one had seen a soul enter the room.

As you carefully lifted the bouquet from the vanity, the door burst open.

"Tell me he proposed this time."

You barely managed to steady your hands to keep from dropping the flowers as your closest confidante, Mina, swept into the room, the tulle of her costume rustling with her dramatic entrance.

You rolled your eyes, maintaining your composure. "For the last time, Mina, there is no he."

Mina snorted, collapsing onto the plush velvet sofa with practiced theatricality. "Please. A decade of flowers? White roses? Imported white roses, might I add. Whoever your mystery gentleman is, he is either hopelessly devoted or entirely mad."

You busied yourself setting the stems into a heavy crystal vase, arranging them with meticulous care. "It could very well be a woman," you countered.

Mina raised a single, perfectly sculpted brow. "A woman with the patience to send flowers for ten years without demanding your attention? Even the most dedicated patroness would have requested a proper introduction by now. No, it is a man, without a doubt."

"He could be an old patron," you murmured, keeping your gaze fixed on the blossoms.

"An old patron does not track your schedule after every single performance for a decade."

You offered no retort, simply because Mina was not entirely wrong.

The flowers had evolved into a sacred ritual. On grueling nights when rehearsals stretched into the early morning hours and exhaustion settled deep into your bones, the thought of returning to your dressing room sustained you. You looked forward to the roses. To the heavy black ribbon. To the silent, enduring reassurance that somewhere in that cavernous, darkened auditorium, someone had come solely to watch you move.

Mina caught the subtle shift in your expression immediately. A faint, private smile had touched your lips as you stared down at the white petals, genuinely wondering for the first time if a man truly sat behind the gesture.

"Oh my God."

"What?" you asked, defensive.

"You fancy him."

"I do not even know his name."

"Exactly," she declared, leaning forward. "You have fallen in love with a bouquet."

A sudden heat rushed to your cheeks. "Be quiet, Mina.”

°

The following week found you in the grand rehearsal hall, surrounded by floor-to-ceiling mirrors that reflected every precise, fluid movement of your practice.

Suddenly, the heavy double doors swung open, and your head mistress marched in, clutching an official parchment that bore a prominent, gilded seal.

"Y/N!" she exclaimed, her usual stern demeanor giving way to pure excitement. "You have been personally selected to perform at the Cornetthe!"

The room erupted. The other dancers cheered and applauded, but the sound felt distant as your eyes widened in sheer disbelief. To take the stage at the Cornetthe was the pinnacle of a dancer's career—the very dream you had bled for since you first laced your slippers. Every grueling hour, every bruised ankle, and every late-night rehearsal had been a quiet dedication toward reaching that sacred stage.

You caught Mina in a breathless embrace, a rare, uncharacteristic giggle escaping your lips as you jumped slightly.

Beneath the artistic triumph, however, a wave of profound relief washed over you. A performance at the Cornetthe commanded an exorbitant fee—wealth that would change everything. Your first thought flew instantly to your younger sister.

She was approaching the age to enter a proper university, and after losing your parents five years ago, the weight of providing for her had fallen entirely on your young shoulders. Every performance had been a means to ensure her security. Now, you could finally buy her the fine dresses she deserved and secure her tuition without a second thought.

"Miss Y/N?" a maidservant called out softly, knocking on the open door frame.

You stepped back from the huddle, smoothing your leotard. "Yes?"

"A parcel has just arrived for you, miss." She carefully placed a structured box onto a nearby mahogany table and offered a polite dip before withdrawing.

"A gift?" Your brow furrowed slightly.

Your head mistress gave a knowing, proud nod. "Rest now, and prepare yourself. The official itinerary will be dispatched shortly." With a final, encouraging pat on your shoulder, she swept out of the hall, taking the rest of the company with her.

Left alone with Mina, you approached the table, your curiosity piqued. The box was wrapped in immaculate, heavy cream paper and bound with a thick, silk black ribbon.

Your heart skipped a beat. The texture, the precise knot, the deep midnight shade—it was identical to the ribbons on your bouquets.

"Oh?" Mina gasped, instantly appearing over your shoulder with a delighted giggle. "Is this from your phantom suitor as well?"

"No... how could it be?" you whispered, your hand hovering over the silk.

"Of course it is! Look at the ribbon." Mina gently lifted the edge of the bow. "Did he send this to congratulate you on the Cornetthe?" she asked, her eyes wide with realization.

A chill, both thrilling and unnerving, raced down your spine. "How could he possibly know I was selected? I only just found out myself…”

You carried the elegant box home with you that evening, keeping it tucked securely under your arm. Once you were safely behind the closed door of your bedroom, the quiet of the small apartment enveloped you.

The room was modest but entirely yours, decorated in soft, faded pink wallpapers, walls adorned with vintage ballet posters, a simple iron-frame bed in the center, and a wooden dressing table positioned right by the window.

Sitting on the edge of the mattress, you finally untied the black silk ribbon and peeled back the crisp cream paper.

Inside lay a pair of opera-length gloves.

A sudden warmth bloomed in your chest. You lifted the silk-lined fabric, tracing the exquisite craftsmanship with your fingertips. The material was impossibly supple, carrying the distinct weight and flawless sheen of haute couture—the kind of luxury born from elite ateliers, far beyond what your standard wages could ever afford.

"Oh..." A soft breath of wonder escaped your lips.

You carefully slid them onto your hands, the fabric hugging your arms like a second skin. Turning toward the vanity mirror, you offered a small, private smile. As you leaned closer, your eyes caught a glimpse of something remaining at the bottom of the box.

It was a small, heavy cardstock note. On it, written in sharp, elegant calligraphy, was a single letter:

J.

Your breath hitched. J?

A hundred questions flooded your mind. Who was he? An aristocrat? A quiet fixture in the grand tier boxes?

Your gaze drifted to the vase on your windowsill, where the white roses from last week’s performance were basking in the evening twilight. A flush of heat warmed your cheeks as you approached the vanity, your fingers gently brushing against the cool, velvet petals.

Could it truly be a man? A gentleman who had watched you from the shadows for an entire decade, quietly celebrating your triumphs from afar?

You leaned in, carefully pressing a single petal to your lips to inhale the faint, sweet fragrance, your heart racing with a feeling you couldn't quite name.

°

Tonight, the veil of secrecy would finally be torn away.

The decision had been solidified the precise moment your eyes opened that morning.

As the wardrobe mistress fastened the final, delicate pearl button of your bodice, your gaze drifted toward the heavy oak door of your dressing room. Soon, if a decade of tradition held true, another immaculate bouquet of white roses would materialize upon the marble vanity, bound in that signature black silk.

Ten years.

Ten years of unyielding devotion, delivered in silence.

You had spent countless evenings painting a portrait of him in your mind. Was he a distinguished patron of the arts? A reclusive aristocrat? Someone who had caught a fleeting glimpse of you on stage a decade ago and remained forever captivated?

Tonight, speculation would end.

"Places in ten minutes, ladies!" the stage manager’s voice boomed down the corridor.

Instantly, the backstage area erupted into a flurry of motion as dancers hurried toward the wings, the ribbons of their pointe shoes trailed by the scent of powder and resin. You followed the tide, your steps clicking softly against the lacquered floorboards.

Then, you paused.

This was your moment.

Murmuring a swift excuse to a passing ballerina, you slipped away from the throng, turning down a narrow, dimly lit servants' corridor that looped back toward the private dressing rooms.

The theater was eerily tranquil here, insulated from the grand auditorium. The distant, muffled hum of the audience settling into the velvet tiers echoed faintly through the stone walls, sounding like a rising tide.

Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic rhythm that had nothing to do with stage fright.

As you neared your door, your pace slowed to a breathless crawl.

The door was ajar, a sliver of warm candlelight spilling across the threshold.

Someone was inside.

Holding your breath, you pressed closer, peering through the gap.

A gentleman stood before your vanity.

He was exceptionally tall, carrying an aura of effortless, old-world elegance. Even from behind, his presence was commanding; broad shoulders filled out a tailored charcoal overcoat, the exquisite cut unmistakably born from a master artisan. Dark, lustrous hair, perfectly styled, brushed the high collar of his coat.

In his gloved hands, he held the familiar, pristine arrangement of white roses.

With an almost reverent tenderness, he leaned forward and placed them upon the vanity table.

By all accounts of propriety, you should have pushed the door open. You should have demanded his name.

Instead, you remained entirely frozen, captivated.

The gentleman’s gaze swept slowly across the private sanctuary of your room. Then, his hand moved. Deliberately, he reached out for the pale silk shawl you had discarded across the chaise after morning rehearsals.

Your breath caught in your throat.

He lifted the delicate fabric with astonishing gentleness, his long fingers smoothing over the silk before bringing it toward him. For a fleeting, suspended second, he closed his eyes, inhaling the faint trace of your perfume that lingered in the threads.

A quiet, nearly imperceptible sigh escaped his lips.

It was a sound heavy with contentment, longing, and an absolute, unshakable devotion.

A sudden chill raced down your spine, yet it was entirely devoid of fear. The sheer intimacy of the gesture should have horrified a lady of your upbringing. Instead, an intoxicating warmth unfurled deep within your chest, accompanied by an inexplicable thrill that rooted you to the floor.

Who was this ghost?

As though catching the subtle shift in the air, his eyelashes fluttered.

You startled, stepping back.

At that exact moment, the grandfather clock at the end of the gallery began its deep, resonant chime.

Eight o'clock.

The curtain was rising. Your performance was beginning.

A wave of panic supplanted the spell. Without another thought, you gathered your tulle skirt and hurried back toward the stage, your heart hammering wildly against your ribs as you fled into the shadows.

You missed the way the gentleman turned slowly toward the doorway moments later. His dark eyes fixed upon the empty corridor and no one was there.

You barely managed to take your position before the heavy velvet curtains parted.

As the orchestra began its swelling overture, your body moved instinctively. Years of rigorous, unforgiving training guided every graceful extension and precise turn, yet tonight, your thoughts refused to be disciplined.

Because it had been a man.

Not a collective phantom, nor some frail benefactor hidden behind a wall of distant philanthropy.

A man.

An exceptionally handsome man.

Even now, as you floated effortlessly across the stage, the memory of him burned vividly in your mind. The pale, luminous quality of his skin beneath the warm amber lights of your dressing room. The sharp, aristocratic line of his jaw. The immaculate black coat that seemed tailored to him like armor. There had been something distinctly regal about his bearing—an effortless, innate elegance that could not be bought or taught.

And then, there was the way he had lifted your shawl.

The absolute reverence in the gesture.

The quiet, desperate sigh that had escaped him as he inhaled your scent.

A strange, intoxicating warmth spread through your chest, contrasting sharply with the cool stage air. Somewhere among the hundreds gathered in the darkened auditorium tonight, he was watching you. Watching, just as he had for the past ten years.

Your heart stuttered in its rhythm.

Without meaning to, breaking the strict discipline of your art, your eyes drifted toward the upper tiers.

And found him.

Seated entirely alone within a shadow-drenched private box, he looked almost ethereal amidst the gilded gold moldings and crimson velvet. Dressed in midnight black, he sat with effortless poise, one gloved hand resting lightly against the brass railing. His dark eyes were fixed solely on you.

It was as though he had been waiting for you to look.

The precise moment your gazes locked across the vast expanse, a violent shiver danced down your spine. You nearly faltered, your foot slipping a mere fraction of an inch on the lacquered wood before you recovered with practiced grace.

Throughout the remainder of the performance, your eyes sought him again and again, drawn by an irresistible gravity.

And every single time, he was already watching.

The sheer intensity of his unwavering focus should have unsettled you. It should have felt invasive. Instead, it made your skin prickle pleasantly beneath the layers of silk and satin.

Tonight, you danced differently. More passionately. More intimately. It was as though the grand theater had emptied entirely, leaving only the two of you locked in a silent dialogue.

When the final, dramatic note echoed through the hall and thunderous applause erupted from the stalls, you stepped forward to take your bows. Instinctively, your gaze rose toward the private box one last time.

He was still there, a solitary silhouette against the crimson backdrop.

Unable to help yourself, you allowed the smallest, rarest smile to grace your lips before lowering your head in a final, sweeping bow.

A smile meant for him alone.

°

The moment the heavy velvet curtains fell and the final, echoing wave of applause washed over the stage, you were already moving.

Ignoring the bewildered calls of your fellow dancers and the stage manager’s sharp reprimands, you gathered the voluminous tulle skirts of your costume and hurried through the labyrinth of backstage corridors. Your satin pointe shoes slipped precariously against the highly polished marble floors, but you didn't slow your pace.

You didn't stop to change into your street clothes. You didn't stop to wipe away your stage makeup. You only knew one undeniable truth: you had to catch him.

The crisp, cool evening air bit at your bare shoulders as you burst through the grand proscenium entrance of the theater. A line of pristine luxury automobiles lined the cobblestone curb, their chauffeurs waiting patiently beneath the warm pools of golden streetlight.

Your eyes frantically scanned the departing high-society crowd. For one agonizing, terrifying moment, you thought you had missed him entirely.

Then, your gaze locked onto a silhouette.

Standing beside a sleek, midnight-black Rolls-Royce, one gloved hand resting lightly on the open carriage door, was the gentleman from your dressing room.

The moment his eyes found you, he froze completely. It was the first time his unyielding composure faltered, as though he had never, in ten years, anticipated you coming after him.

And for the first time, in the clear clarity of the lamplight, you truly saw him.

He was utterly breathtaking.

The soft, ambient glow of the theater facade illuminated features so striking they appeared chiseled from marble. Dark, lustrous hair perfectly framed an impossibly handsome face, his pale skin luminous against the deep black of his cashmere overcoat.

Every inch of his bearing exuded quiet wealth—not the loud, vulgar ostentation of the newly rich, but the effortless, understated elegance that only generations of old money could cultivate. The exquisite cut of his tailored suit alone likely cost more than your entire season's salary.

For a few suspended moments, neither of you spoke, the city sounds fading into a hum between you.

Gathering the remains of your courage, you took a step closer into his space. "It was you."

The gentleman regarded you with a calm, guarded intensity.

"The flowers," you continued, your fingers clutching the delicate silk edge of your bodice. "You have been leaving them for me. For a decade."

Something entirely unreadable flickered across his dark eyes, gone as quickly as it had arrived. "I believe you have mistaken me for someone else, Miss."

You stared at him, incredulous. "Mistaken you?" you repeated, your voice breathless. "I saw you in my dressing room. Not an hour ago."

A faint, ghost of a smile touched the corner of his lips. "I was merely returning a misplaced item."

"My shawl?" you challenged softly.

He inclined his head with impeccable, aristocratic politeness. "Precisely."

"Then the flowers?"

"The theater receives many wealthy admirers, mademoiselle. I am merely one of many."

A profound confusion swirled within you. He had been caught. You had witnessed his reverence with your own eyes, yet he stood before you now, maddeningly composed, offering a flawless mask of denial.

"Who are you?" you finally whispered, the question escaping before you could stop it.

For the very first time, a genuine trace of hesitation crossed his striking features. He looked at you, really looked at you, before speaking.

Before you could press further, his chauffeur stepped forward, holding the rear door fully open. Jimin turned back to you and offered a small, old-fashioned bow—impossibly elegant, a gesture from a bygone era.

"Congratulations on tonight's performance, Miss. Your Giselle was entirely exceptional."

Your breath caught completely in your throat. You had performed Giselle only three times in your entire career, years ago.

By the time you managed to gather your scattered thoughts, he had already slipped into the darkened luxury of the vehicle. The heavy door closed with a muted thud, and the Rolls-Royce glided effortlessly into the London mist, leaving you standing beneath the theater lights, draped in tulle and satin, entirely captivated by a phantom who finally had a name.

°

The moment the heavy car door clicked shut, insulating him from the cool night air, Jimin finally exhaled.

He looked down. His hand was trembling.

He stared at his fingers in quiet, clinical disbelief. Trembling.

Park Jimin—heir to one of the realm's oldest and most formidable fortunes, a man who had negotiated multi-million-pound acquisitions before the age of twenty-five without so much as a flicker of unease—sat entirely paralyzed in the plush leather backseat of his vintage car. All because a breathless ballerina had looked into his eyes and spoken to him.

"It was you."

Her voice reverberated through the quiet luxury of the vehicle, soft, accusing, and achingly beautiful. For ten long years, he had composed this exact confrontation in the private theater of his mind. Yet, in all his carefully orchestrated scenarios, it had never once unfolded with him completely stripped of his armor, utterly defenseless against her gaze.

"Home, sir?" his chauffeur inquired, his voice a low, deferential murmur through the glass partition.

Jimin offered a curt, absent nod, his eyes still anchored to his uncharacteristic tremors.

She had looked at him. Truly looked at him, past the high society facade and the tailored armor of his overcoat. And at the end of her performance, before she offered her final curtsey to the auditorium, she had smiled.

The memory alone was enough to throw his highly disciplined heart into utter disarray.

As the gas lamps and misty London streets blurred past the tinted windows, Jimin let his forehead rest against the cool glass, allowing his mind to wander back to the absolute genesis of his ruin.

Ten years.

A decade ago, he had been dragged to the annual Winter Arts Gala solely to satisfy the unyielding social obligations of his grandmother. He had been nineteen, cynical, detached, and wholly indifferent to the arts.

Then, she had stepped onto the stage.

She was seventeen then. Nervous. Exquisite.

He remembered every microscopic detail of that evening with terrifying clarity: the pale blue tulle of her practice costume; the slight, endearing tremor in her hands before the conductor raised his baton; the exact moment, midway through her variation, when her anxiety evaporated and she surrendered entirely to the music, a radiant smile transforming her features.

Jimin had been unable to draw breath. He had never truly looked away since.

Over the years, his quiet observation had deepened into an intimate, unspoken understanding. He knew her favorite composer was Tchaikovsky. He knew she considered Swan Lake’s Pas de Deux the pinnacle of romance, and that she invariably listened to Debussy in the solitude of her dressing room before opening nights.

He knew that when she was terribly anxious, she would absentmindedly twist the silk ribbons of her pointe shoes around her slender fingers until the knuckles turned white.

He knew, because he was always there. A silent, permanent fixture in the shadows of the grand tier boxes.

The white roses had begun a mere week after that initial performance. At first, they were a gentleman’s anonymous tribute to a rising star. Then, they became a sacred tradition. Eventually, they became a necessity, the only way he knew how to breathe.

When her academy scholarship had mysteriously faced revocation due to clerical politics, an anonymous endowment had materialized the following morning. When the theater company suffered devastating budget cuts, private donations quietly restored their funding. When she suffered that agonizing ankle injury during her third season, a world-renowned specialist had arrived at her side within hours, his exorbitant fees settled by an untraceable account.

She never knew. She was never intended to know. The Park name carried a weight that would have suffocated her pure artistry, and he refused to let the cynicism of his world touch the sanctuary of hers.

By the time the Rolls-Royce glided through the wrought-iron gates of his family’s country estate, the trembling in his hands had finally subsided. Almost.

Jimin moved through the sprawling, ancestral mansion in absolute silence, ignoring the distant servants and passing beneath the stern gazes of painted forefathers lining the marble corridors. He walked until he reached the isolated corridor of the west wing—his private sanctuary.

With a heavy brass key, he unlocked the reinforced oak doors and stepped inside.

The room belonged entirely to her. It was a museum of a life preserved in meticulous, breathless devotion.

Framed programs from every single performance she had ever given lined the silk-paneled walls. Ticket stubs, obscure newspaper critiques, and candid photographs filled silver-gilt frames. In illuminated glass cases lay the retired costumes auctioned off for charity, purchased through proxies and restored by master tailors with painstaking care. Another display held every pair of satin gloves she had ever discarded in the theater bins, neatly pressed and preserved.

At the absolute center of the room hung an immense, breathtaking portrait.

Her. Painted in the dramatic, tragic costume of the White Swan. Timeless. Pure. Utterly untouchable.

Jimin stopped before it, his hands clasped behind his back in his habitual aristocratic posture. Ten years ago, he had merely thought her beautiful. Tonight, looking at the canvas, he realized he could no longer remember what his life had even looked like before her existence defined it.

His dark eyes lingered on the painted lines of her face, remembering the years of sorrow the canvas couldn't capture. He remembered the year she lost her parents; the heartbreaking performances where she danced with hollow, grief-stricken eyes and a forced, fragile smile.

He remembered the agonizing months she vanished from the playbills entirely, and the fierce, protective pride that had swelled in his chest when she returned—thinner, quieter, but possessed of a profound, unbreakable strength.

He had watched her leave rehearsals early, her shoulders slumped with exhaustion as she rushed home to raise her younger sister alone. He remembered the precise night she had finally smiled with genuine warmth again on stage.

Jimin had kept the program from that evening in a separate, velvet-lined drawer. It remained his most treasured possession.

Slowly, modern restraint warring with a decade of suppressed longing, Jimin raised his hand. His long fingers hovered just inches away from the painted edge of her cheek.

"Who are you?"

Her voice lingered in the quiet room.

He closed his eyes, a low, disbelieving laugh escaping his chest. He still could not entirely comprehend the reality of the evening. She had confronted him. She had demanded to know his name.

And for the first time in a decade, his silent devotion no longer felt entirely confined to the shadows.

°

You arrived at the theater nearly an hour earlier than usual that evening.

You told yourself it was because you wished to rehearse the difficult adagio alone before the company arrived. Nothing more. It was certainly not because a certain dark-haired gentleman had occupied your thoughts with alarming, relentless persistence over the past three days.

Stepping into the quiet sanctuary of your dressing room, you carefully hung your heavy wool coat before settling before the illuminated vanity mirror. For several moments, you simply stared at your reflection, the quiet hum of the empty theater vibrating through the floorboards.

Then, moved by a sudden, inexplicable impulse, you bypassed your usual stage cosmetic and reached for a different lipstick. A richer, deeper shade. A soft, flush-toned rose.

Your brows furrowed in the mirror. Why were you making such an effort?

The answer came unbidden, striking a chord deep in your chest.

Because he will be there.

Heat immediately flooded your cheeks, staining your skin a natural crimson. It was entirely ridiculous. You had exchanged barely a handful of words with the man in the damp night air, and yet...

Your gaze drifted toward the elegant opera-length gloves resting atop the mahogany vanity.

You hesitated only briefly before lifting the supple fabric and slipping them on. The silk embraced your arms flawlessly, smooth and impossibly luxurious against your skin. Even now, you could scarcely believe they belonged to you, or that his hands had chosen them from some exclusive atelier.

"You look unusually lovely today."

You nearly jumped as Mina entered the room, her tulle costume draped over one arm. She stopped short, her sharp eyes immediately narrowing as she took you in. "Is that a new lipstick?"

"No," you lied softly, turning your face away.

"And the gloves?"

"They're old."

Mina folded her arms, a look of profound skepticism crossing her features. "You are a terrible liar, my dear."

You busied yourself with adjusting your pearl earrings, refusing to meet her gaze. "I simply felt like wearing them tonight."

"Hm." Mina's lips curved into a knowing, maddening smile. "Waiting for someone, perhaps?"

Your heart stumbled in its rhythm. "What? Of course not."

Mina's smile only widened. "You've glanced toward the door six times since I walked in."

"I have not."

"You absolutely have."

You turned away completely before she could dissect your expression any further. Thankfully, the call for places echoed down the corridor moments later, rescuing you from her interrogation.

The familiar, cold pre-performance nerves settled over you as you took your position in the wings. Yet tonight, beneath the customary anxiety, another feeling thrummed quietly in your veins. Anticipation.

As the heavy velvet curtains rose and the golden stage lights bathed you in their artificial warmth, your eyes instinctively sought the grand private boxes in the upper tier.

And there he sat. Exactly where you had expected him to be.

He was entirely alone, dressed impeccably in black, looking like a prince of the old world. The gilded, baroque surroundings of the theater only seemed to sharpen his quiet elegance. One gloved hand rested lightly against the crimson velvet-lined railing as he watched the stage with unwavering, absolute attention.

He was watching you.

Your breath caught in your throat. For a fleeting, dangerous moment, you forgot the conductor, the orchestra, and the hundreds of spectators in the stalls entirely. Then, the music swelled, and your training took over.

Tonight, however, you danced differently. Every pirouette felt lighter, as if gravity had lost its hold on you. Every extension was executed with a desperate, fluid grace. Again and again, as the choreography allowed, your gaze drifted upward toward the shadows of the box.

And every single time, you found his dark eyes already fixed upon you. Steady. Intent. Devoted.

The sheer intensity of his focus should have unsettled a lady of your propriety. Instead, it sent a delicious, intoxicating shiver down your spine. You found yourself smiling more, performing not for the critical eyes of the directors hidden in the stalls, but for him alone.

When the final, dramatic note faded into the rafters and thunderous applause erupted throughout the grand hall, you bowed deeply, your chest heaving from exertion. As you straightened, your eyes lifted instinctively to the upper box one last time.

He remained in his seat, a solitary figure amidst the standing ovation, simply watching.

Unable to help yourself, you allowed the faintest, most private smile to grace your lips—a fleeting gesture no one else in the crowded theater could possibly notice.

But he did. You knew he did.

With your heart fluttering wildly against your ribs, you hurried toward your dressing room the moment the curtains fell, eager to escape the backstage chatter.

You pushed the heavy oak door open.

And there they were. The white roses. Pristine, dew-kissed, and waiting for you on the marble table.

A breathless smile blossomed across your face before you could stop it. Setting the heavy bouquet closer to the light, your fingers caught on something white tucked deep amongst the velvet blooms.

A card.

Your hands trembled slightly as you unfolded the heavy, cream cardstock. Written in that sharp, elegant calligraphy you had seen once before were just four words,

The gloves suited you.

— J.

For several seconds, you could do nothing but stare at the ink, the breath trapped in your lungs.

He had noticed. Amongst hundreds of spectators, beneath dazzling, blinding stage lights and layers of theatrical costume, he had recognized the very gloves he had gifted you.

A deep, warm blush spread slowly across your cheeks and neck as you pressed the note to your chest. Your mysterious patron finally had a name, and your world would never be the same.

°

Nearly an hour later, the grand theater had finally emptied.

The excited, melodic chatter of the corps de ballet had long faded from the galleries, replaced by the distant, rhythmic thuds of stagehands dismantling the evening’s scenery. In the vast auditorium, the soft, amber hum of the single ghost light illuminated the abandoned stage, casting long, romantic shadows across the velvet stalls.

You packed your belongings with slow, deliberate movements, carefully wrapping the silk ribbons of your pointe shoes before placing them into your satin bag. Yet, before zipping it shut, your gaze was drawn back to the heavy, cream-colored card resting atop your mahogany vanity.

A profound, intoxicating warmth bloomed within your chest despite your best efforts to remain disciplined. You quietly slipped the card into your vintage purse, snapping the clasp shut.

The moment you stepped through the heavy oak exit of the theater, the sheer violence of the elements greeted you.

It was a torrential downpour. Heavy, unrelenting sheets of water swept from the midnight sky, drumming a fierce rhythm against the marble steps and the ornate, neoclassical stone façade of the building. The city beyond the courtyard had dissolved into a mesmerizing blur of silver and gold reflections beneath the storm.

You let out a soft, defeated sigh. No umbrella. Truly perfect.

Resigned to wait out the tempest, you stepped back beneath the deep, sheltered architecture of the grand portico, hugging your wool coat tighter around your frame to ward off the damp chill.

Then, the low, aristocratic purr of an engine interrupted the steady roar of the rain.

A sleek, midnight-black Rolls-Royce glided silently through the mist, coming to a flawless halt directly before the portico steps. Your heart stumbled, a sudden, frantic pulse leaping into your throat.

The heavy rear door swung open. And he stepped out.

Tonight, dressed in an impeccably tailored charcoal cashmere overcoat layered over a bespoke black evening suit, he looked every bit the unapproachable patrician you had imagined. Mist and stray droplets kissed the broad, commanding line of his shoulders, yet his bearing remained entirely unbothered by the squall.

He was exceptionally tall—far taller than you had realized in the fleeting chaos of your first encounter. It was the kind of height that seemed to effortlessly master whatever space it occupied. He was elegant, intimidating, and flawlessly beautiful. Every sharp plane of his face and the quiet, innate confidence of his movements whispered of an inherited, ancient wealth.

His dark, luminous eyes swept upward through the rain, settling instantly upon you.

"Miss Y/n."

Your breath caught in your throat, the sound of your name on his lips feeling far too intimate. "You... you know my name."

A faint, nearly imperceptible smile ghosted across his lips. "I have watched you perform for a very long time. It would be impossible to not know."

An immediate, breathless heat flooded your cheeks. Of course he knew. He had a decade of your history memorized.

With practiced grace, he opened a large, black silk umbrella, stepping out into the deluge to close the distance between you. He ascended the marble steps, bringing the shelter of the umbrella over you, effectively cutting off the rest of the world.

"You will never find a carriage or make it home in this weather," he noted, his voice a low, melodious baritone.

You glanced helplessly at the sheets of rain obscuring the street. "I shall manage, I'm sure."

"You won't."

You blinked, looking up at him. There was no arrogance in his declaration—only a quiet, absolute certainty that brooked no argument.

"Allow my chauffeur to drive you home," he murmured, his gaze holding yours.

"Oh, no." You immediately shook your head, your fingers nervously tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear as propriety warred with desire. "I could not possibly impose upon your evening, sir."

"It would be entirely no imposition."

"I really do not wish to be a trouble to you."

For a brief, suspended moment, his dark eyes slowly swept over your figure. Beneath his deliberate, heavy attention, you became acutely, agonizingly aware of your appearance.

You had changed out of your heavy stage costume, opting instead for a soft, blush-pink satin tea dress that fell elegantly around your silhouette. Beneath his quiet scrutiny, the delicate, fluid fabric suddenly felt embarrassingly exposed, as though he could perceive every erratic beat of your heart.

"You could never be a trouble," he said, his tone dropping an octave, softening into something dangerous. "Besides, I would much rather not leave you standing here in the dark alone."

Your heart betrayed your outward composure with a violent flutter.

A few moments later, the spell was cast, and you found yourself seated beside him inside the luxurious, insulated cabin of the vehicle. The interior was a sanctuary of old-world opulence, rich cream leather, highly polished walnut paneling, and soft, amber ambient lighting that kept the shadows close.

And him.

His presence immediately enveloped the enclosed space, carrying a distinct, intoxicating scent. Sandalwood, rare cedar, and something deeply rich and masculine. You found yourself helplessly inhaling the fragrance before forcing your lungs to still.

"Forgive me," you said quietly, the silence between you stretching thin and heavy with unsaid words. "I only know you as... J."

His eyes flickered toward you in the dim light, a sudden depth in their corners. "J?"

You reached into your purse, your fingers tracing the crisp edges of the cardstock before retrieving it. "The note. From..."

Understanding dawned in his expression, a quiet satisfaction relaxing his features. For a moment, he simply looked at the elegant script held between your slender fingers. Then, finally, he spoke the word.

"Jimin."

The name settled with an exquisite, warm resonance inside your chest. "Jimin," you repeated softly, testing the syllables.

He looked away first, his eyelashes casting long shadows against his pale cheekbones. "You may call me that."

As the car glided forward into the rainy night, you reached across your lap for the seatbelt, but your fingers, still trembling slightly from the sheer proximity of him, fumbled awkwardly with the clasp.

"Allow me."

Before you could offer a word of polite protest, Jimin leaned across the narrow space separating your seats.

Your breath caught entirely.

He was suddenly, breathtakingly close. The world narrowed to the mere inches between your faces. At this distance, you could perceive the tiny, delicate mole resting just beneath his left eye, and the impossibly long, dark sweep of his lashes. He was close enough that his warmth radiated against your bare collarbones, close enough that his scent became an overwhelming, dizzying wave. Your lungs entirely forgot how to function.

With a deep, resonant click, the heavy metal seatbelt locked into place across your lap.

Yet, neither of you moved.

For one agonizing, suspended second, the only sound in the universe was the frantic, uneven rhythm of your breathing and the heavy patter of the rain against the glass. His dark eyes rose, locking onto yours with an intensity that made your skin prickle with a delicious, terrifying thrill. His gaze dropped to your lips for a fraction of a heartbeat before rising back to your eyes.

Slowly, deliberately, Jimin withdrew, returning to his side of the carriage, though the charged air between you remained thick enough to cut.

"Comfortable?" he asked quietly, his eyes never truly leaving you.

You could only nod, entirely unable to trust your own voice.

By the time the car left the city limits, the rain had only grown heavier.

Thick curtains of silver lashed against the heavy glass windows, reducing the world outside to little more than blurred lanterns and shadowed silhouettes. You had expected Jimin’s chauffeur to pull up outside your modest apartment complex. Instead, nearly forty minutes later, the vehicle turned sharply through towering, intricate wrought-iron gates.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Beyond them stretched a long, winding driveway lined with ancient oak trees, their grand branches swaying violently beneath the force of the storm. Soft, low-voltage amber lights illuminated perfectly manicured hedges and marble fountains, guiding the way toward an estate so magnificent that, for a moment, you genuinely believed you had stepped into a different century altogether.

The manor emerged through the mist like a living piece of history.

It was enormous. Built from weathered pale stone and crowned with ivy-covered turrets, it stood proudly atop a gentle hill, every illuminated window glowing warmly against the surrounding darkness. Grand, imposing columns framed the entrance, while towering French windows reflected the jagged flashes of distant lightning.

You simply stared, utterly speechless.

Jimin caught the wonder in your eyes. "It has been in my family for generations," he explained quietly, his tone indifferent, as though he were discussing something far less extraordinary than a palace.

Generations. Of course it had.

In an instant, everything about him fell into place. The bespoke suits. The effortless, innate refinement. The quiet confidence that required no volume. The old-world manners that seemed entirely second nature. Jimin belonged to places like this—places built on time, legacy, and silent power.

The car rolled to a seamless stop beneath the grand portico. Before you could gather your scattered thoughts, Jimin had already stepped out into the damp air, opening his large silk umbrella and extending a gloved hand toward you.

You hesitated only briefly before placing your hand in his. His grip was warm, steady, and incredibly strong. He guided you carefully through the sweeping rain and up the sweeping marble steps, shielding you perfectly from the damp chill.

The enormous, iron-studded oak doors opened before you even had the opportunity to knock.

The grand foyer stole what little breath remained in your lungs. Flawless marble floors gleamed beneath massive crystal chandeliers suspended from impossibly high, vaulted ceilings. Large, oil-painted portraits of stern-looking ancestors lined the walls, their gilded frames catching the soft, flickering glow of antique sconces. Everything smelled faintly of cedarwood, old books, and expensive, polished mahogany.

The manor was breathtakingly beautiful. And impossibly silent.

There was no distant laughter. No echoing conversation. No signs of ordinary life. Only the soft, rhythmic echo of your own damp footsteps against the stone.

"Do you live here alone?" you found yourself asking, your voice a small whisper in the cavernous space.

Jimin glanced down toward you, his expression unreadable. "For the most part, yes."

Something about the absolute solitude of his answer made your chest tighten with a strange, sudden ache.

He led you through a series of dim, elegant corridors before finally stopping outside a cozy, firelit sitting room. "I shall have something warm prepared for you immediately," he said, his eyes scanning your bare shoulders. "You must be freezing."

Before you could offer a polite protest, he stepped away briefly, returning moments later carrying a plush, heavy cream towel. He extended it toward you.

You accepted it quietly, your voice catching. "Thank you."

As the fabric transferred between you, your fingers brushed against his. The contact lasted scarcely a second, yet a sharp, electric warmth lingered on your skin long after his hand withdrew.

Shortly afterward, a maidservant entered the room silently, carrying a heavy silver tray. She placed a steaming cup of tea and a crystal glass of water upon the mahogany coffee table before offering Jimin a deeply respectful, practiced bow and departing without uttering a single word.

The room fell into absolute silence once more.

Only you and Jimin remained.

The storm battered softly, relentlessly, against the tall windowpanes. You wrapped the thick towel more securely around your shoulders, suddenly acutely aware of how terrifyingly intimate the situation had become. You were sitting alone, draped in satin, in the heart of his ancestral home. It was midnight.

And sitting directly opposite you was the mysterious man who had spent ten years watching you move through the shadows.

Jimin sat back, impossibly composed as always, his long hands folded neatly over his knee. His dark, piercing eyes met yours across the small expanse, holding your gaze captive.

For a long, agonizing moment, neither of you spoke. Neither seemed willing to break the exquisite, agonizing tension that stretched between you.

For several moments, the room remained suspended in that breathless quiet, the storm outside providing the only tether to reality as it lashed against the tall windows. You cradled the porcelain cup, the heat of the tea seeping into your palms, while your gaze repeatedly drifted to the gentleman opposite you.

Jimin appeared entirely unruffled by the intimacy of the hour. To him, inviting a ballerina he had covertly adored for a decade into his ancestral home seemed as effortless and natural as breathing.

You, meanwhile, felt as though your heart were executing a frantic, undisciplined tempo.

"So," you began, carefully setting the saucer down upon the mahogany table, your voice steady despite the flutter in your chest. "Who exactly are you, Park Jimin?"

A faint, localized smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "That is rather a broad inquiry, is it not?"

You tilted your head, a touch of playful defiance entering your eyes. "You happen to know practically everything about my life, sir. I think a little reciprocity is only fair."

Jimin leaned back against the plush velvet of his armchair, his dark eyes regarding you with quiet, unmistakable amusement. "And what precisely is it you wish to know?"

"Everything."

The demand earned you a soft, low laugh. The sound startled you; it was the first time you had heard it. It was warm, resonant, and terribly beautiful.

"Everything?" he repeated, the syllables lingering between you.

"Your family. Your position. How you spend your hours when you are not mysteriously materializing in theater wings."

Jimin’s smile deepened, though his gaze remained guarded. "My family has been entrenched in banking and high philanthropy for several generations, Miss Y/N."

"That is all you intend to offer?"

"For the present moment, yes."

You frowned slightly, unconvinced. "And your own pursuits?"

"A little of this. A little of that. I oversee the family's arts endowments."

"That is hardly a proper answer."

"It is the answer I am prepared to give."

You huffed softly, turning your face toward the hearth, which only elicited another quiet, captivated chuckle from him.

"You are a very secretive man, Jimin."

"So I have been told by many."

You turned back, studying the sharp, aristocratic contours of his face under the firelight. "Then tell me this. Why me? Out of all the dancers in city, why have you stayed?"

The question hung heavily in the air, shifting the entire atmosphere of the room. For the first time that evening, Jimin’s composed facade slipped, replaced by a profound, sudden stillness. Outside, a low rumble of thunder vibrated through the floorboards.

"You truly wish to know?" he asked, his voice dropping to a private, reverent murmur.

You nodded, holding his gaze.

Jimin’s eyes lowered briefly to his elegant, clasped hands before rising to lock onto yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. "The first time I saw you take the stage, I was nineteen years old."

Your pulse quickened.

"It was a minor variation, but halfway through, you smiled," he continued softly, his dark eyes fixed entirely on your face. "In that singular moment, you forgot the grandeur of the hall. You forgot your nerves. You forgot the audience even existed. There was only you, entirely surrendered to the music."

You remained perfectly motionless, captivated by the cadence of his words.

"I have attended countless performances in my life," Jimin murmured, stepping into the memory. "Operas in Paris, symphonies in Vienna, ballets across the world. But until that evening, I had never seen anything so purely beautiful."

A sudden, breathless heat flooded your cheeks. "Jimin—"

"You possess an extraordinary, terrifying gift, Miss Y/N," he interrupted gently, his tone laced with a decade of unspoken devotion. "Your artistry. Your fierce discipline. The absolute poetry of how you move." His eyes softened impossibly. "And you are quite beautiful."

Your breath faltered entirely. No director, no critic, and certainly no suitor had ever spoken of your dedication in such a manner. No one had ever looked beneath the performance to see you.

You lowered your gaze, suddenly fascinated by the intricate gold filigree of your teacup, purely to hide the depth of your emotion. "Thank you," you whispered into the quiet.

A thick, charged silence settled over the room once more. Then, you detected the subtle rustle of fabric.

Looking up, you realized Jimin had crossed the expanse between your chairs. He stopped directly before you, his tall silhouette blocking out the rest of the firelit room. Your heart stuttered violently against your ribs.

Slowly, deliberately, he sank to one knee before your chair, his movements possessing the fluid grace of an aristocrat. He reached out, his long, warm fingers gently taking hold of your hands.

"You wore them," he murmured, his gaze dropping to the silk.

"The gloves?" you breathed, your throat dry.

He nodded, his thumb lightly tracing the smooth fabric covering your wrist.

You swallowed hard, the proximity making your head spin. "I wanted to. For tonight."

Something dark and utterly unreadable flashed through his eyes, a hunger mixed with absolute reverence. Carefully, almost tenderly, Jimin began to slide the opera gloves from your hands. He peeled the silk away inch by inch, his touch agonizingly slow, leaving your skin tingling as the cool air of the room kissed your bare arms.

When the fabric was completely discarded, he did not let go. Without breaking eye contact, he lifted your bare hand toward his face.

And pressed his lips softly, lingeringly, against your knuckles.

A sharp gasp escaped your lips. The touch lasted only a second, yet a fierce, intoxicating warmth bloomed from the point of contact, racing through your veins and settling deep within your chest.

Jimin withdrew slowly, his head bowing slightly, though his eyes remained anchored to yours. "Thank you," he murmured against the quiet room. "For granting me that."

Your pulse thundered like the storm outside, a dizzying, reckless thought taking hold of your mind as you looked down at him—that perhaps the rain should never stop, and the carriage should never take you home.

The lingering heat from your earlier proximity followed you like a phantom as you stepped into the corridor, your fingers still tingling from where his skin had pressed against yours. The silence of the manor felt heavier now, charged with a quiet, seductive gravity that pulled the two of you closer with every step.

When the grand double doors swung open, the sheer romance of the room took whatever breath you had managed to reclaim.

The floor-to-ceiling glass ran the entire length of the far wall, a massive canvas of weeping silver and fractured moonlight. Against this backdrop of untamed storm sat the obsidian grand piano, its polished wood gleaming like liquid silk under the amber glow of the chandelier.

"It is beautiful," you whispered, the sound velvety in the vast space.

Jimin did not look at the room. His dark eyes remained anchored entirely to you, tracking the way the soft light caught the exposed curve of your collarbone. "I am glad you think so."

"You play?"

"A little."

You offered a slow, knowing smile, the flush still warm on your neck. "Somehow, I do not believe your modesty, sir."

A low, captivated chuckle escaped him. Crossing the parquet floor with effortless, predatory grace, Jimin settled onto the bench. His tailored charcoal coat parted slightly, revealing the crisp line of his waistcoat. Then, his gaze lifted, heavy and dark.

"Dance for me."

The command sent a sudden, thrilling shock straight to your core. You laughed nervously, the satin of your blush-pink dress rustling as you shifted back a step. "Jimin, I... I cannot simply dance on command. Not like this."

"You can."

The absolute certainty in his baritone felt like a physical touch.

"It is different," you protested softly, your eyes locking onto his. "There is no stage. No grand auditorium. There isn't an audience."

"There doesn't need to be." His fingers hovered just above the ivory keys, his focus narrowing until the rest of the world ceased to exist. "Tonight, I do not wish to share you with a crowded house. Dance for me alone."

The air in the room grew thick, suffocatingly warm. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a wild, reckless rhythm.

"I have already performed tonight," you murmured, a weak defense against the pull of his presence.

"And yet," Jimin said quietly, his voice dropping to a seductive, raspy register as his hands descended onto the keys, "I don't believe you have danced for yourself. Or for a man who truly sees you."

The first chords drifted into the air—rich, melancholy, and achingly beautiful. You froze, your breath hitching. It was your favorite piece, a melody you only listened to in the absolute solitude of your room. Of course he knew.

Slowly, helplessly, you stepped into the center of the room.

At first, your movements were tentative, heavy with a delicious shiver of shyness. But as the dark, swelling rhythm enveloped you, your body surrendered. The fluid satin of your dress clung to your silhouette as you turned, arching your spine with a fierce, desperate grace that was entirely raw.

You forgot the constraints of the theater. You forgot the rules of propriety. There was only the music, the storm, and the man pulling the strings of your soul.

Again and again, your eyes locked onto his across the expanse of the room. Every single time, his gaze was already waiting, burning with an unshielded, intoxicating hunger. It was a look that stripped away the wealthy benefactor and left only a man utterly consumed by what he saw.

Heat rushed to your cheeks. You spun, the pink satin swirling around your thighs like liquid fire.

Jimin’s fingers faltered, missing a minor chord.

The tiny, uncharacteristic slip sent a jolt of pure, wicked adrenaline through your veins. He was affected. Unstrung. Without a word, you held his gaze through your next extension, stretching the movement out, tilting your head back deliberately to let him see the pulse leaping in your throat.

A dark, heavy flush crept high onto his aristocratic cheekbones. His jaw clenched, his hands pressing into the keys with a renewed, fierce intensity.

The atmosphere shifted instantly. The dance ceased to be a performance and became something intensely carnal—a silent, breathless conversation between his hands and your body. Neither of you spoke. You didn't need to. The agonizing tension in the room said everything.

When the final, resonant note faded into the rafters, neither of you moved.

The rain continued its frantic assault against the glass. You stood breathless, your chest heaving beneath the satin bodice, a stray lock of hair damp against your cheek.

Jimin remained at the piano, his long fingers still resting on the keys, his chest rising and falling in sync with your own frantic breathing. He stared at you through the shadows, his eyes wild with a decade of suppressed longing, as though he had finally claimed the phantom he had chased for ten years.

And as you looked back at him, your pulse thundering in your ears, you realized you were entirely caught in his web.

Your eyes remained fixed on his, tracking the deliberate, heavy swell of his breathing and the way his tongue swiped across his lower lip as the tension in the room thickened to a suffocating weight. Guided by a reckless, intoxicating impulse, your hand reached behind your back, your fingers catching the small metal tab of your zipper.

With a slow, deliberate tug, the satin parted.

The fluid fabric of your blush-pink dress pooled around your feet, leaving you standing in the center of the polished floor wearing only your delicate, cream-toned silk undergarments.

Jimin’s breath caught completely, a low, ragged sound escaping his chest. The immaculate melody of the piano faltered, a deep chord dropping sharply out of rhythm before his hands instinctively forced themselves back into the notes. His gaze broke away from your eyes, dropping instantly to the exposed, luminous expanse of your bare skin—the curve of your waist, the long, sculpted line of your legs, and the frantic, heavy rise and fall of your chest.

A dark, fierce hunger flooded his features, his jaw clenching so tightly the muscle leaped beneath his pale skin. He couldn't believe what his eyes were showing him.

For ten years, he had imagined you in every light, but having you here, in the absolute privacy of his ancestral home, dancing for him half-clothed, felt like a beautifully wicked dream he never intended to wake from.

The final barrier fell away, and your bra slipped from your shoulders, joining the satin pooled at your feet.

Jimin let out a sharp, ragged gasp, the sound echoing loudly through the cavernous music room. The sudden, violent movement of his hands caused his fingers to slam against the keys in a harsh, discordant clash that shattered the melody entirely. The music stopped dead.

He didn't move to start it again. His hands froze over the ivory, his knuckles white as his chest heaved, breathing hard, his lungs starving for air in the suddenly suffocating heat of the room. His dark eyes flared, widening with an unshielded, almost feral intensity as they tracked the unrestricted movement of your body.

The aristocratic mask was entirely gone, burned away by the raw, intoxicating sight of your bare, luminous skin under the amber light of the chandelier.

Yet, despite the sudden silence, you did not stop.

Surrendering completely to the quiet rhythm of the storm, you continued to dance. Every movement became a masterclass in elegant seduction. Without the music, the soft rustle of your bare skin against the cool air and the quiet, rhythmic scrape of your feet against the polished parquet floor became the new melody.

You extended your arms, your spine arching with a fluid, mesmerizing grace that highlighted every taut muscle and delicate curve.

You moved with absolute, unbothered poise, a siren in the shadows of his ancestral home, keeping your eyes locked onto his unstrung, breathless form as you pulled him deeper into your spell.

Unable to endure the agonizing distance a second longer, Jimin stood up. The heavy piano bench scraped sharply against the parquet floor as he abandoned the instrument, his tall silhouette immediately overtaking the dim room.

He closed the distance between you with slow, predatory strides, his dark eyes never breaking contact with yours. As he stepped directly into your space, the sheer heat radiating from his large frame brought your elegant movements to a breathless halt.

He didn't speak. He simply reached out, his long, warm fingers wrapping possessively around your wrist, anchoring you in place. His touch was heavy, trembling slightly with a decade of suppressed hunger.

Without a word, he lifted your bare hand toward his face, his gaze locking onto yours as his lips met the sensitive skin of your wrist.

He kissed you there, a slow, searing press of his mouth that sent a violent shiver straight down your spine.

Then, he began his ascent. His lips moved seductively against the soft, bare skin of your inner forearm, each kiss deliberate, hot, and agonizingly slow. You let out a quiet, trembling breath, your fingers automatically curling into the crisp fabric of his waistcoat to keep your balance as your knees grew weak.

Jimin’s other hand slid up the curve of your waist, his palm resting firmly against your bare ribcage, his thumb tracing the frantic, erratic rhythm of your heart. He didn't rush. He lingered in the soft crook of your elbow, his tongue tracing a fleeting, intoxicating path upward along the delicate skin of your upper arm.

By the time his mouth reached your shoulder, your head had tilted back, your breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. He pressed his lips firmly into the slope where your neck met your shoulder, inhaling the raw scent of your skin mixed with the lingering trace of your stage perfume.

"Ten years," he rasped against your skin, his voice a low, gravelly growl of pure surrender. "Ten years, and you are finally here.”

Jimin’s hand shifted from your waist, his long fingers trailing a slow path up your ribcage before his palm settled gently against your shoulder, applying a firm, persuasive pressure. He guided you downward with a deliberate grace, his gaze holding yours captive until the cool, polished parquet floor met your back.

The contrast of the cool wood against your feverish skin drew a sharp breath from your lips. Jimin hovered over you instantly, his large, tailored frame blocking out the light of the chandelier, trapping you in a sanctuary of his own making.

He settled between your thighs, the heavy fabric of his trousers pressing intimately against you as he braced his weight on one forearm. His free hand reached up, his fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from your damp cheek, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw with a reverence that felt entirely sacred.

"You have completely undone me," he murmured, his voice a low, raspy confession against your skin, his gaze dropped.

Slowly, agonizingly, Jimin leaned down, his breath blowing hot across your bare chest before his lips made contact with the aching fullness of your breast. A soft, breathless gasp escaped you, your fingers instantly tangling into the thick, dark strands of his hair as his mouth moved with a slow, agonizingly seductive intent.

He didn't rush. He traced the soft contour with his lips, his tongue dipping out to leave a searing, wet trail across your skin that made your core ache with a sudden, restless heat.

Every touch was deliberate, designed to unstring you just as you had unstrung him at the piano. When his lips finally brushed the sensitive, tight peak, a quiet, helpless moan broke through the silence of the room.

The sound seemed to fuel the fire consuming him. His grip on your hip tightened, his palm warm and possessive against your bare skin as his mouth trailed across to your other breast, repeating the slow, torturous adoration.

He coaxed another ragged sound from your throat, his name slipping past your lips like a prayer. The storm outside raged on, entirely forgotten, as you melted completely into the bruising, intoxicating reality of his touch.

The sound of your breathing was a ragged melody in the vast, quiet room, entirely matching the heavy rise and fall of Jimin's chest as he remained draped over you. The old-money composure he usually wore like armor had completely evaporated, leaving only a raw, unyielding focus centered entirely on your pleasure.

Slowly, his lips parted over the sensitive peak of your breast. He drew the tight bud into the heat of his mouth, sucking on your nipple with a slow, agonizing rhythm that sent a violent jolt of electricity straight to your core.

Your hips twitched off the polished floor, your fingers tightening frantically in his dark hair as a breathless, fractured moan escaped your lips. Just as the pleasure became overwhelming, his teeth nipped against the sensitive peak—a sharp, wicked bite that made you gasp, your back arching off the wood.

"Jimin..." your voice was a broken whisper, a plea for something you couldn't quite name.

"Shh," he rasped, his breath burning hot against your damp skin. He pulled back just enough to look down at you, his dark eyes dilated, heavy with a decade of unshielded desire. "Stay still for me, my darling."

His mouth began a slow, torturous descent, leaving a trail of searing, wet kisses down the center of your ribs and across the flat expanse of your stomach. Every press of his lips was a deliberate worship, making the muscles of your abdomen quiver beneath his touch.

His long, elegant fingers found the waistband of your silk shorts. With a smooth, practiced movement, he slid the final barrier down the length of your legs, casting them aside into the shadows of the parquet floor. You were completely exposed to him now, trembling beneath the amber glow of the crystal chandelier.

Jimin hovered over you, his gaze sweeping over every inch of your bare, sculpted form with absolute reverence. A dark, knowing smile touched his lips as he leaned down, his mouth brushing right against your ear.

"Ten years I watched you under the stage lights," he murmured, his voice a gravelly, deeply seductive purr that vibrated through your entire body. "So perfect. So untouchable. My beautiful Odette..." He pressed a hot kiss to the sensitive skin just behind your earlobe. "My sweet, perfect Odette. You are finally entirely mine."

The name sent a shiver through your veins, blurring the lines between the stage and the reality of his possessive touch.

Before you could gather your thoughts, Jimin slid further down, his large hands cupping the backs of your knees, lifting them slightly to open you up to his gaze. He pressed a lingering, soft kiss to the inside of each knee, his thumbs tracing the long, elegant lines of your calves.

Then, his mouth moved higher.

He kissed his way up the soft expanse of your outer thighs, his touch maddeningly slow, before his lips moved inward. His hot breath fanned across the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, ghosting over the heat gathering between them.

As his mouth pressed firmly against the tender flesh just inches from your core, a soft, helpless cry broke from your throat. Your thighs clenched instinctively around his broad shoulders, your body turning entirely slick and wet with a desperate, heavy ache that demanded everything he had to give.

Jimin slowly parted your thighs, his eyes fixated on your slick folds as he could smell the tender perfume of yours, the one he gets from your clothes and bag everytime.

He pressed his nose against your folds, slowly inhaling the pure flowery scent of your mound. You arched slightly, feeling the graze of his soft lips against your folds, aching to be kissed by him.

He held your thighs apart, enjoying himself slowly. "I can't believe you are real." He whispered yet again. You whined in response and moved closer to his mouth. He pressed his mouth against your folds, slowly sucking on your folds and licking the inside of your folds, slowly giving a long lick down to your wet hole.

You moaned out his name, feeling the ghost of touch of his mouth everywhere suddenly as he latched his lips against your mound. Your eyes rolled back in utter pleasure. "Jimin...." You gasped.

Jimin slowly kitten licked your clit, flicking it with his tongue few times before rubbing your enterance with two of his fingers. He circled it, spreading the wetness everywherre. You were a mess of moans and gasps, tugging his hair and arching into him.

He slowly pulled up. He felt a protective instict looking down at you. Under him, naked and a mess, leaking all over his floor for him. He was so turned on. You were his ruin. His obsession. He slowly dragged his eyes down your squirmy body and unbuckled his belt.

He wanted to ruin you. Make you his wholly. Make you feel the very obsession he has with you.

You gasped as you saw the tent forming in his pants. He removed his pants and boxers, his cock sprung free with pre cum leaking. Your mouth watered.

Your lips parted slightly. He fisted his cock and rubbed the pre-cum to your clit and slowly pushed inside your hole. You gasped, feeling him everywhere. Your eyes rolled back. It burned but it felt so good.

Jimin groaned, feeling how warm and welcoming you were, he almost lost it. You were his pure happiness and right now he was on cloud nine. He watched your reaction, the way your eyes watered, the way your chest panted up and down and the way your nipples were begging for attention. He leaned down and licked your nipples, sucking them slowly into his mouth and nibbling with his teeth a few times as he waited for you to adjust to his length.

“J-jimin.” You whimpered, holding onto his shoulder for support.

Jimin hummed and slowly moved, his eyes closing for a second before he locked them to your hazel eyes, drowning into the deep water. He gasped as he felt you squeeze him.

He pressed his tongue against your neck and slowly licked down to your cleavage. You felt him move, your body responding to his thrusts.

He slowly increased his pace, thrusting slowly deeper until he knew he was hitting your spot. He was going slow but deeper everytime. You were seeing stars at his pace. You wanted more.

“M-more.” You whined.

Jimin hummed again, finding your mouth to kiss you hungrily before licking your tongue with his, slowly sucking it and making you moan into his mouth. He moved his head back and smirked, the glint in his eyes unapologetic as he thrust harder this time. You let out a scream, your grip tightening on his shoulder.

“Ahh.” You whined, letting out muffled noises against his shoulder. “Please…j-jimin!”

His thrusts were faster and harder, he was panting and growling. Your eyes rolled back in pleasure, tearing trickling down the corner of your eyes. You felt the unfamiliar knot form in your stomach, feeling it tighten and snap.

Jimin felt your release. He kissed your neck, marking you and growled as he came inside you, filling you with his hot seeds.

You gasped as he pulled out completely and laid next to you. You were his utter obsession and he was sure he couldn't get rid of it now at all.

The lingering warmth of his touch still simmered beneath your skin, a heavy contrast to the sudden stillness that settled through the west wing.

As the tall mahogany doors creaked open, the air inside the room felt different—cooler, thick with the scent of aged paper, cedar, and dried lavender. You stepped over the threshold, expecting perhaps a gallery of family history or a private study.

Instead, the ground beneath your feet seemed to dissolve.

The moonlight slicing through the arched windows illuminated the space piece by piece, and with every detail that emerged, the blood in your veins slowed to an icy crawl. It wasn't horror that gripped you, but a profound, disorienting vertigo. The sheer scale of what surrounded you was staggering.

Your eyes tracked the walls. The framed programs weren't just a handful of memorable nights; they were an unbroken lineage of your entire career. Rows upon rows of ticket stubs, perfectly aligned, dated back to afternoons you had long forgotten—matinees performed to half-empty houses where you assumed no one was truly paying attention.

But he had been there.

You walked slowly toward the glass cabinets, your fingers trembling so violently you had to tuck them against your stomach. Inside lay objects that felt intensely, almost embarrassingly intimate. Your retired performance gloves, the silk still bearing the faint creases of your knuckles.

The ivory gown from Giselle, its delicate tulle preserved so perfectly it looked alive. These weren't things a casual patron could buy. These were pieces of your life that had vanished backstage, items you assumed had been discarded or lost to the theater's chaotic wardrobe department.

He had rescued them. He had treated the remnants of your exhausting, grueling labor as holy relics.

"Jimin..." The name was nothing more than a breathless exhalation, catching in the back of your throat.

He didn't defend himself. He didn't offer a charming, aristocratic excuse. He simply stood near the desk, his silhouette dark against the silver moonlight, letting you witness the full, crushing weight of his silence.

Your gaze fell to the newspaper clippings spread across the mahogany desk. When you saw the date on the central article, a sharp, familiar ache bloomed in the center of your chest. The year the world went dark. The year the plague of grief had threatened to swallow you whole, leaving you to raise your sister on nothing but sheer willpower and broken dreams.

"You disappeared for seven months," Jimin’s voice cut through the quiet, stripped of all its usual polished composure. It was raw. Fragile. "The papers called it a sabbatical. But I knew. I saw the way you had been dancing before you left—like you were trying to break yourself against the stage."

You turned around slowly, the satin of your dress whispering against the silence.

"I thought you would never return," he confessed, his dark eyes fixed on yours, completely defenseless. "And for those seven months, the world felt entirely dark. When you finally stepped back into the wings... I was in the box. I didn't care if you missed a step. I didn't care if you ever reached the principal title. I just needed to see you survive."

His voice faltered, a rare fracture in his immaculate bearing. "The first night you smiled during a variation again... I knew you were going to be alright. I kept that program in my jacket for a year."

You looked around the room one last time, the sheer magnitude of it pressing down on your chest. This wasn't the obsession of a collector. It wasn't the passing fancy of a wealthy man spending his inheritance on a beautiful dancer.

This was an entire life built quietly, reverently, in the shadows of yours. Every triumph, every heartbreak, every silent tear you had wiped away in lonely dressing rooms—he had sustained himself on it. He had anchored his soul to your movement.

"You were never supposed to see this," he murmured, his gaze dropping to the floor. "I know how it must look."

But as you stared at him—this powerful, unapproachable aristocrat looking so utterly undone before you—the initial chill in your blood gave way to something overwhelming and heavy. It was a terrifying, beautiful truth that rewrite every lonely night you had ever spent doubting your worth.

You had never truly danced in the dark. Even when the theater was empty, even when you felt entirely abandoned by the world, Park Jimin had been holding his breath, keeping the light alive for you.

The silence that followed his confession was not the warm, intoxicating quiet of the music room, but something heavier—a dense, suffocating stillness that made the air feel thin.

Your gaze remained fixed on the open chest, your eyes tracking the rows of velvet boxes. Each one represented a night you had bled for your art, a night you had collapsed into bed with aching muscles and a hollow chest, entirely unaware that a man was driving back to this colossal manor to lock a piece of his soul away in your honor.

"Every opening night," you whispered, the words tasting like lead on your tongue.

"Every one," Jimin confirmed. He hadn't moved. He stood so perfectly still he might have been one of the marble statues in his foyer, yet the tension radiating from his frame was palpable.

You looked down at the breathtaking diamond pendant resting against your collarbone. It felt impossibly heavy now, less like a gift and more like a beautifully forged anchor, pulling you down into the depths of a history you hadn't consented to be a part of.

The romance of the evening was fracturing, the smooth facade of the fairytale giving way to a jagged, disorienting reality. You had thought he was a man captivated by a dancer; you were beginning to realize he had built an altar to a phantom.

"Jimin," you started, your voice trembling as you took a half-step back, your bare heels brushing against the edge of the plush rug. "This... all of this. If I had never agreed to get into your car tonight... what were you going to do with these?"

His dark eyes lifted, locking onto yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. There was no hesitation in his gaze, no shame. Just that devastating, quiet certainty that had fascinated you from the moment he stepped out of the Rolls-Royce.

"I would have kept buying them," he said softly.

A cold shiver rippled down your spine. "Forever?"

"Until you stopped dancing." He offered a faint, almost melancholic smile that didn't reach his eyes. "And perhaps even after that."

The honesty was what unnerved you the most. If he had been a monster, if his intentions had felt predatory or cruel, you could have fled. You could have screamed for his chauffeur to take you home. But there was a profound, agonizing tenderness in his devotion that made it impossible to hate—and that was exactly what terrified you. The boundary between love and a beautiful, gilded madness had been entirely erased.

You reached up, your fingertips fumbling slightly as you touched the cool diamonds at your throat. "It's too much," you breathed, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

Jimin’s smile faded, his posture stiffening imperceptibly. The shadow that had crossed his features in the west wing returned, deeper this time. He took a slow step toward you, his hand rising as if to comfort you, before he caught himself and let it drop back to his side.

"Does it frighten you?" he asked, his baritone dropping to a private, fragile register.

You looked at the chest, then at the man who had spent a decade harboring a quiet, impossible longing for a woman he didn't even know.

"I don't know," you confessed, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. "It feels... as though I am stepping into a story that was written long before I arrived. I don't know where the dancer you've imagined ends, Jimin, and where I begin."

For the first time since you had met him, Jimin looked entirely at a loss. The quiet, inherited confidence that seemed to master every room he entered cracked, revealing something desperate and profoundly human beneath.

"You are the only reality I have ever cared about, Y/N," he whispered, his eyes searching yours with a raw, pleading hunger.

The rain outside suddenly seemed louder, a relentless drumming against the glass that underscored the sudden, terrifying distance opening up between you in the center of the room.

----

The rhythmic, sharp clack of pointe shoes against the linoleum floor suddenly sounded incredibly loud, slicing through the hazy remnants of your fairytale.

Mina’s words hung in the air between you, heavy and toxic, instantly tarnishing the bright morning sunlight that flooded the studio. You looked down at your hands, your knuckles white against the wooden barre. The diamond pendant hidden beneath your loose rehearsal leotard suddenly felt blistering hot against your skin, like a brand rather than a gift.

"He isn't dangerous, Mina," you said, your voice sounding defensive even to your own ears. You hated how small it wrapped around the vast emptiness of the room. "You didn't see the way he looked at me. It wasn't... it wasn't malicious. He was entirely undone."

Mina stopped stretching, turning her full body toward you, her expression laced with a fierce, protective gravity that pulled you right out of the clouds.

"Every stalker in history thinks they're a romantic, Y/N," she said, her voice dropping to a harsh, urgent whisper so the other dancers wouldn't overhear. "Undone? He’s a billionaire who has spent a decade treating your life like his personal gallery. He bought your costumes. Do you have any idea how much money and influence it takes to bribe a theater’s wardrobe department to smuggle out principal pieces? That isn't just admiration. That is a calculated, quiet insertion of himself into your existence without your consent."

A cold, creeping numbness started at the tips of your toes and traveled upward, settling right in the pit of your stomach.

Your mind flashed back to the music room—the dark, intoxicating friction of his skin against yours, the bruising intensity of his mouth on your collarbone, his low, gravelly whisper calling you. Odette. His Odette. At the time, it had felt like the height of passion, a beautiful surrender to a ten-year-old melody.

But looking at it now, under the sterile, unforgiving fluorescent lights of the practice studio, a sickening question took root, Had he been kissing you, or had he been kissing the phantom he had spent ten years curating in his mind?

"He said he was just a man in the audience," you murmured, desperately trying to anchor yourself to the vulnerability you had seen in his eyes when he opened that chest of unopened gifts. "He said he didn't want to presume familiarity."

"But he did presume it," Mina countered sharply, reaching out to grip your forearm. Her touch was grounded, a stark contrast to Jimin's reverent, ghostly caresses. "He collected your grief, Y/N. He watched you suffer through the worst year of your life from a dark box, keeping score of your smiles like they belonged to him. If he truly cared about you as a human being, he would have stepped out of the shadows when you were drowning. He didn't. Because a fantasy is easier to control."

The studio clock ticked relentlessly, marking the seconds as the ground beneath your feet continued to fracture.

The image of the west wing room flashed behind your eyes—not as a holy relic of his love, but as a beautifully gilded cage. The countless velvet boxes, the meticulous chronologies, the sheer weight of a man's entire life built silently around a woman who had no idea he was there. It was a terrifying realization. You hadn't just stepped into a romance; you had stepped into an altar where you were the prize.

"What am I supposed to do?" you whispered, the butterflies that had animated your morning turning into a flock of trapped, frantic things inside your chest.

Before Mina could answer, the studio doors swung open, and the sharp, authoritative clap of Madame Cornettee’s hands echoed through the space, calling the company to order.

You forced yourself to stand, your legs feeling strangely disconnected from your body as you took your place at the barre. As the piano music started, you moved automatically, your body executing the familiar geometry of the choreography. But for the first time in ten years, you didn't feel the comforting, invisible warmth of a dedicated gaze shielding you from the dark.

Instead, every time you turned toward the mirrors, you found yourself looking past your own reflection, wondering what else was watching from the shadows—and exactly what it expected you to be.

°

The heavy scent of scorched petals and smoke hung like a shroud in the small dressing room, completely suffocating the sweet, floral perfume of the remaining bouquets.

Jimin tossed the blackened, skeletal remains of the lilies into the waste bin. The metallic clang echoed through the room like a gunshot. He took a slow, deliberate step toward you, the light from your vanity bulbs catching the stark, sharp lines of his face. The aristocratic gentleman who had played the piano with such devastating tenderness a week ago was gone. In his place stood someone cold, unyielding, and utterly territorial.

"What was that?" your voice trembled, a thin thread of sound against the deafening quiet.

"They were unnecessary," he replied, his voice terrifyingly calm, devoid of any inflection whatsoever as he adjusted the cuffs of his tailored shirt.

"They were a gift from a patron, Jimin," you said, your fingers instinctively curling into the fabric of your costume, your knuckles white. "It is common courtesy to accept them. You had no right—"

"I have every right," he interrupted, his baritone dropping to a dangerous, gravelly low that seemed to vibrate the very air between you. He did not shout. He didn't have to. The quiet force behind his words was enough to make your breath falter.

He moved closer, his tall shadow stretching over you, completely boxing you in against the vanity. The proximity, which had felt intoxicatingly seductive in his manor, now felt predatory. Your back pressed against the edge of the wooden table, the lightbulbs casting a harsh, unforgiving glare over his dilated, dark eyes.

"Jimin, you are acting insane," you whispered, the small voice of doubt that Mina had planted blooming into a full, choking panic in your chest.

"Am I?" Jimin leaned down, his face mere inches from yours, his breath hot against your lips. But there was no passion in his gaze now—only a consuming, unblinking focus that made your skin crawl. He reached out, his long, elegant fingers wrapping firmly around your chin, forcing you to look at him. His grip wasn't brutal, but it was unyielding. A reminder of the strength hidden beneath his expensive silk and wool.

"For ten years, I have protected you from the dark, Y/N," he murmured, his gaze tracing your trembling lips, then moving to the diamond pendant still resting against your skin. "I watched you bleed for your art. I bought the very clothes that touched your skin. I built an entire world to keep you safe, to keep you mine. Do you truly believe I will allow another man to leave his mark on what belongs to me?"

"I don't belong to you," you breathed, a tear of pure, suffocating realization slipping down your cheek.

Jimin’s thumb caught the tear, wiping it away with an agonizing, gentle slow motion that felt entirely threatening. A dark, chilling smile touched the corners of his lips.

"You have always belonged to me, my beautiful Odette," he whispered, his voice a seductive, terrifying purr against your ear. "You simply didn't know it until tonight."

He pulled back, his eyes searching yours one last time, ensuring you understood the boundaries of the gilded cage he had built around you.

The heavy scent of the scorched lilies still suffocated the small dressing room, but the air between you had turned bitterly cold.

Jimin stood frozen in the center of the room, his long fingers tightening around the thorns of the white roses you had violently thrust against his chest. He didn't seem to feel them piercing his skin. His immaculate, aristocratic bearing had cracked entirely, leaving behind a jagged, hollow emptiness. For ten years, he had been the architect of a flawless world where he was your silent guardian; in a single breath, you had torn the foundation out from beneath his feet.

"You cannot ask that of me," he whispered, his baritone fracturing, stripped of all its terrifying authority. The sound was thin, bleeding with a raw, desperate agony that vibrated through the quiet room.

"I am asking it, Jimin," you said, your voice shaking with a volatile mixture of fear and hot, boiling anger. You stood by the open door, your knuckles white on the brass handle, your chest heaving under your costume. "I want you out. Out of my dressing room, out of my theater, and out of my life."

He stared at you, his dark eyes wide, dilated, and drowning in a pure, devastating disbelief. He looked down at the pristine white roses in his hands, then back up at you, as if waiting for the punchline of a cruel joke. He had survived seven months of your absence by living on memories, but this—this explicit, visceral rejection from the goddess he worshipped—was a mortal wound. You weren't just banning him from a building; you were ripping away the only light he had used to navigate his own darkness.

"Y/N..." he stepped forward, a blind, instinctive reach toward you, his lips parting to plead.

"Don't," you choked out, flinching away from his advance.

The movement was worse than a physical blow. Jimin stopped dead in his tracks. The realization that he—the man who had dedicated a decade to keeping you safe—was now the source of your terror seemed to age him in an instant. The unyielding, possessive predator from moments before withered away, leaving only a man profoundly, utterly broken.

A suffocating, deafening silence settled over the corridor.

Slowly, his head bowed. The man who mastered boardrooms and held the theater's fate in his hands looked small. Trembling, he clutched the rejected bouquet closer to his chest, the white petals bruising against his tailored waistcoat. Without another word, he finally took a step backward, crossing the threshold into the dim hallway.

You didn't hesitate. With a sharp, desperate motion, you slammed the heavy wooden door shut, throwing the deadbolt into place.

The sharp click of the lock echoed like a final verdict. On the other side, through the thick mahogany, there was no sound of retreating footsteps. No engine revving in the alley. There was only a heavy, lingering silence, leaving you alone in the smoke, wondering if you had finally broken the phantom who had held your world together.

°

The rain outside the west wing had slowed to a miserable, rhythmic weeping, mimicking the hollow silence that now filled the room.

Jimin sat on the cold parquet floor, slumped against the base of the glass cabinet that held your debut dress. The pristine white roses lay scattered around him, their stems broken, a few petals stained with the dark, sluggish drops of blood from where the thorns had pierced his palms. He didn’t notice the pain. The ache blooming in his chest was a vast, suffocating gravity, collapsing his entire world inward.

In his trembling hands, he held your retired performance gloves.

Slowly, reverently, he lifted the delicate silk to his face, burying his nose into the fabric. He inhaled deeply, his chest shuddering as he sought the faint, lingering phantom of you. It was all there—the scent of the stage powder, the crisp hum of the theater air, and that distinct, flowery perfume that had haunted his senses for a decade. He drank it in like a dying man in a desert, his eyes closing tight as a single, rare tear slipped down his cheek, dampening the silk.

"Y/N," he rasped into the fabric, his voice a broken, fragile string of sound.

He looked up, his dilated eyes sweeping across the dark, silver-lit room. The framed programs, the meticulously aligned ticket stubs, the towering portrait of you as Odette—everything he had built, everything he was, existed solely because of you. He hadn't just built a collection; he had constructed a sanctuary to keep himself anchored to the living world.

“You are my life,” he had told you, and it wasn't a hyperbole. It was a terrifying, absolute truth.

For ten years, his existence had been calibrated to the rhythm of your breath before a leap. He had learned to breathe when you smiled; he had learned to survive the winter of your grief by counting the days until your return. To be cut off from you, to be banned from the dark corner of the box where he spent a decade guarding your light, was a sentence worse than death. It was complete erasure.

A ragged, desperate breath escaped him. He couldn't do it. He couldn't simply stop existing. The thought of an opening night arriving without him there to protect you, without his eyes tracing the line of your spine, made his lungs seize with a pure, agonizing panic.

He didn't need to touch you. He didn't even need you to look at him again. The memory of your skin beneath his mouth, the soft, desperate whines you had made on his floor—they were a beautiful, fleeting luxury he had never dared to dream of possessing permanently. But he needed to watch.

Even if he had to hide further in the shadows. Even if he had to buy the entire upper tier just to sit in the furthest, darkest corner where the light couldn't catch the reflection of his eyes.

Clutching the silk gloves tightly against his heart, Jimin leaned his head back against the glass, staring up at your portrait in the moonlight. The polite, aristocratic mask was gone, replaced by a raw, eternal yearning. He would obey her rules. He would stay away from her door. But he would never stop watching his Odette. He couldn't.

°

The auditorium of the Grand Theatre was completely dark, a vast chasm of hushed breathing and anticipation. Way in the back, past the luxury boxes, in the deepest shadows of the highest tier where the velvet curtains met the cold stone wall, a figure stood.

Jimin did not sit. He stood perfectly still, his hands clasped behind his back, his tailored coat blending seamlessly into the dark. He had bought every seat in the last three rows under an assumed name, ensuring that no one would stumble into his sanctuary. He was a ghost in his own theater, keeping his promise to stay out of your sight—but he could not stay out of your world.

Then, the stage lights flared to life, a brilliant, blinding wash of gold and ivory.

And there you were.

Jimin’s breath caught, his chest tightening with an ache so profound it made his knees weak. This was the *Cornettee* variation. Your dream dance. The piece you had talked about with quiet, burning passion during the brief hours you had shared in his manor.

The orchestra swelled, the first notes rising like a tidal wave, and you moved.

A quiet, reverent exhale escaped his lips. You were magnificent. Any doubt, any exhaustion from the harrowing week behind you had vanished the moment your pointe shoes struck the floor. You floated across the stage with a fluid, impossible geometry, every extension a masterpiece of discipline and raw emotion.

Standing in the shadows, a fierce, overwhelming sense of pride bloomed in Jimin’s chest.

The aristocratic composure he usually wore like armor dissolved, replaced by the sheer, unadulterated awe of a man watching his universe expand. He didn't look at you with the possessive fury of that night in the dressing room; he looked at you with a pure, humbling admiration.

Your form was flawless. The delicate arch of your back, the effortless grace with which you suspended yourself in the air during a grand jeté, the absolute elegance of your landing—it was poetry in human form. You were no longer just a woman; you were the very definition of art.

He watched the way the stage lights caught the sweat glistening on your collarbone, the fierce determination burning in your eyes as you neared the climax of the piece. You were dancing for yourself tonight, completely untethered, entirely free.

And as the final notes resonated through the rafters and the auditorium erupted into a deafening, standing ovation, Jimin didn't applaud. He simply closed his eyes, a soft, melancholic smile touching his lips. He let the thunderous praise of thousands wash over him, content in the absolute darkness of his corner.

You had won. You had conquered your dream. And even if he could only ever love you from the deepest shadows of the room, he was there, holding his breath, utterly consumed by your grace.

The final, echoing chords of the orchestra were suddenly cut short by a violent, tearing screech from the rafters above.

Jimin was already turning to slip out of the exit when the grand chandelier flickered once, twice, and died, plunging the upper tier into a terrifying shadow. A heartbeat later, the first scream tore through the auditorium, sharp and piercing enough to curdle the blood. *Fire.*

Panic erupted like a physical shockwave. The audience surged toward the doors in a blind, deafening frenzy, but Jimin stood entirely frozen, his eyes locked onto the stage. Smoke—thick, chemical, and pitch-black—was already billowing from the heavy velvet wings backstage, illuminated by the sudden, angry orange glow of a roaring inferno.

Y/N.

Without a single thought for his own safety, abandoning his promise, Jimin lunged against the terrifying current of the screaming crowd. He sprinted down the stairs, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped animal. In his right hand, he still gripped the bouquet of white roses he had brought to the theater—a habit he couldn't break, even if he had only intended to leave them in the alleyway.

He burst through the backstage doors. The air here was a suffocating wall of pure heat and gray ash. Dancers and stagehands fled past him, sobbing, their faces smeared with soot. He ignored them all, shouting your name into the blinding, toxic fog, his voice tearing raw.

He reached the corridor of the dressing rooms. The ceiling above was already a lattice of roaring flame, dropping chunks of burning plaster. And there, at the very end of the hall, he saw you.

The heavy wooden door to your dressing room had warped from the intense heat, jamming you inside. You were coughing violently, trapped behind a screen of rising fire, your small hands desperately clawing at the frame.

"Y/N!"

Jimin slammed his weight against the burning wood. The heat was blistering, searing straight through his tailored wool coat. He didn't care. He kicked the door with a desperate, savage force until the frame splintered and gave way. As he lunged into the roaring heat of the room to pull you out, the edge of the collapsing ceiling rained embers down upon him.

The white roses in his hand caught instantly, the pristine petals curling into black ash, the fire licking directly across his palms. The skin of his hands blistered, a sharp, white-hot agony tearing up his arms, but his grip on you never faltered. He dropped the burning stems, wrapped his long arms entirely around your trembling, fragile frame, and shielded your head against his chest as he carried you through the gauntlet of falling debris.

By the time he burst through the final exit into the cool, rain-slicked alleyway, your head was lolling against his shoulder, your body half-unconscious from the smoke.

Jimin collapsed against the side of his waiting Rolls-Royce, his chest heaving as he carefully laid you onto the leather backseat. Looking down at your pale face, at the soot smudging your cheeks and your closed eyes, a cold, paralyzing terror seized his soul. He felt his entire life dying right there in his chest.

The universe was going silent. You couldn't leave him. You were his air, his sanity, his very reason for drawing breath. If you died here, he would simply walk back into the flames.

With trembling, blistered hands, Jimin lifted a crystal flask, pouring cool water into a glass. His fingers were shaking so violently that a few drops spilled onto the leather upholstery, but his focus never wavered from your face. He carefully hovered over you, supporting the back of your neck with the uninjured crook of his arm as he pressed the glass to your parched lips.

"Drink," he pleaded, his voice a low, ragged rasp that sounded entirely unraveled. "Please, Y/N. Just breathe."

The cool water hit your throat, washing away the bitter, scratching taste of the smoke. You coughed weakly, your chest heaving as the fresh oxygen finally revived your senses. The blurred, chaotic world of the alleyway began to steady, and the very first thing that came into focus was the stark, terrified silhouette of Jimin looming over you.

You stared up at him, your voice nothing more than a tiny, breathless thread. "You came..."

A soft, bruised smile touched your lips, defying the absolute ruin surrounding the theater. Because the devastating truth was, tonight during your dream performance of the Cornettee, the thunderous standing ovation had felt hollow. Walking backstage to an empty vanity, without his pristine white roses waiting to anchor you, without the heavy, protective weight of his shadow lurking in the back of the auditorium—you had felt stupidly, agonizingly incomplete.

You had realized, in the quietest depths of your soul, that your art had become inextricably bound to his gaze.

But seeing him here, you knew. He had watched you tonight, too. He had never left.

Your eyes drifted downward, falling onto his hands resting on the leather seat.

The skin of his palms was severely burned, blistered and raw from where he had shattered the burning door. Right beside his hip lay the blackened, charred remnants of the roses he had carried straight through the inferno just to reach you.

A profound, quiet certainty settled deep into your chest, chilling and beautiful all at once. Mina was right. This was madness. It was a terrifying, consuming, unyielding obsession that defied every rule of a sane world. But looking at the man who had willingly walked into hell just to ensure you kept breathing, you realized you didn't care about a sane world anymore.

Whatever this dark, intoxicating thing was between you two—his obsession, his insanity, it wasn't just his anymore.

It was yours.

A/N : I hope you guys enjoyed thisss!! I spent a lot of time writing this piece of work! Do leave your reviews! I wanna know my readers thoughts!

[ecstasyjimin]

Sub!Jimin

Sub!Jimin who cries and whimpers, “Mommy.” every time you bounce relentlessly on his pretty sensitive cock.

Sub!Jimin who slurps and sucks greedily on your throbbing clit, while looking at you with the prettiest, adoring eyes.

Sub!Jimin who deep throat’s your strap, begging you to not go easy on him—encouraging you to go harder.

Sub!Jimin who sometimes leaves small hickeys on your body during aftercare, to show the world that you’re his.

Sub!Jimin who enjoys pampering you with acts of service, like sugaring you with—Cuddles, body rubs, delicious food, and your absolute favorite…being eaten out.

Sub!Jimin who wears the cutest, coquette lingeries ranging from pastel pinks to white to pastel purples; matching with you.

Sub!Jimin who loves it when your titties squeeze against his chest as you both are kissing.

Sub!Jimin who moans very heavenly whenever he is inside you, turning you on even more almost every single time.

Sub!Jimin who cums just by eating your pussy.

Sub!Jimin who fingers you until your legs are trembling, and you're squirting everywhere on the bed.

Sub!Jimin who loves it when you get possessive towards him during foreplay, declaring to him that he's Yours, while simultaneously having your hands wrapped around his neck gently as you ride him fervently.

[chwrrybby]

── Boyfriend Headcanons ⋮ Jimin

domestic boyfriend!Jimin when he’s on tour :(

박지민 x f!reader ˖ ࣪ ꉂ🗯˙ ‹— cw | idol!jimin • domestic boyfriend!jimin • fluff • comfort • clingy jimin • long distance during tours • lots of physical affection • late night calls • lowercase intended

┈ [ ✉️ ] Hi angels !! I’m a sucker for blonde Jimin so !! I have gotten many asks and such for members in this headcanon type - so I have decided that I will just do each member !! This will be posted last. But any-whom !! I hope you all enjoy nevertheless !! Happy reading <3

Divider creds: @cursed-carmine

before tour boyfriend!jimin :(

— gets emotionally clingy before tour without even realizing it :( suddenly he wants to spend every second beside you no matter what you’re doing

— the type to pull you into bed for “five more minutes” every morning because he already hates the idea of sleeping without you soon

— keeps asking little reassuring questions before leaving. “you’ll call me a lot, right?” “you’re not gonna replace me while i’m gone, right :(”

— absolutely takes candid pictures of you constantly before tour starts. especially when you’re laughing or not paying attention because he swears those are his favorite versions of you

— spends more time touching you before leaving :( fingers intertwined during movies, forehead against yours while talking, holding your waist while you brush your teeth together at night

— loves slow domestic nights before tour. skincare together, sharing snacks in bed, soft music playing while he lays across your chest listening to your heartbeat

— acts okay at the airport but the second you hug him goodbye he gets visibly emotional :( soft pout, watery eyes, whispering “already miss you” before leaving

during tour boyfriend!jimin :(

— facetimes you constantly :( hotel beds, backstage waiting rooms, in the car after schedules. he just likes seeing your face whenever he can

— the type to send “look jagiya ” texts with attached selfies whenever he’s feeling particularly clingy or tired

— misses physical affection more than anything and is always complaining about how cold hotel beds feel without you there beside him :(

— sends voice messages late at night in the softest sleepiest voice telling you about his day while half drifting off

— definitely falls asleep during facetime calls with his cheek squished against hotel pillows while you quietly watch him :(

— gets extra affectionate through texts during tour :( “wish u were here” “i wanna hold u” “come cuddle me rn”

— secretly keeps one of your stuffies with him during tour and sleeps with it beside him because it smells comforting

— when he misses you badly after concerts he gets emotional and starts talking about wanting normal things with you :( staying home together, cooking together, lazy mornings where neither of you has schedules

— acts playful most of the time but admits one night that performing feels lonelier when he can’t come home to you after

after tour boyfriend!jimin :)

— immediately melts into you the second he gets home :) long hugs in the doorway where he just stays there quietly holding you

— follows you around the apartment nonstop for the first few days because he missed your presence so much

— absolutely the type to stand behind you while you do skincare just so he can rest his chin on your shoulder and hold your waist

— domestic routines become deeply comforting to him after tour :) showering together before bed, sharing blankets on the couch, late night convenience store runs

— gets softer seeing all your little habits again :) the way you organize things, your morning voice, how you move around half asleep

— spends the first nights back tangled around you in bed because he slept ‘ok’ without you there during tour

— honestly looks happiest when you’re both doing absolutely nothing :) quiet movie nights, laying together while scrolling on your phones, soft conversations at 2am

— after tour he loves you more openly somehow :) clingier kisses, longer hugs, softer smiles. like being away reminded him how much comfort he finds in you

Perm taglist : @kimmynammy @celliez @alphabetically-deranged @m4aimm @raceme2hell @bo-rimmy @mustanggbabyy @divakoo @snookerdoodle @bratz-lad (comment or ask to be added)

© All rights reserved @chwrrybby 2026.

[95rkives]

SWIPE RIGHT FOR A DARE

hookapp isn’t your average dating app. every match comes with a dare, and every dare comes with rules. your dry streak had lasted far too long—until you stumbled across it; another silly app to waste time scrolling through, except this one promised something different. and suddenly, your nights weren’t so empty anymore. swipe if you dare.

pairings. jimin x fem!reader

genre/warnings. smut, one night (day) stand, cunnilingus, face sitting, rough sex, pwp, p in v, unprotected sex (we do not endorse this behavior), oral (m!receiving), edging, light dom/sub dynamics, horny as hell

wc. 6.4k ( and it’s all filth )

note. it’s finally here </3 i was this close to scrapping it bc i reread it so many times it stopped making sense to me, i can’t tell if it’s any good anymore! anyway! banner was made by the lovely, showstopping, talented miss @voyter ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡ (added a greenish filter on top to match my theme since i change it every fucking week 😭)

⟢ masterlist ⸝⸝ taglist ⸝⸝ ao3 ver.

your saturday morning starts with you on your knees.

not for anything exciting, unfortunately, but for the dusty shoebox shoved beneath your bed where you’re pretty sure your ID is hiding. hookapp won’t let you finish signing up without it, which feels both annoying and embarrassingly legitimate for an app built around dares and fucking strangers.

you groan, tugging the box out, praying you don’t find crumpled wrappers and old receipts you swore you’d throw away. no such luck. a few more seconds of digging and your fingers brush the familiar edge of plastic. victory.

you hold up your ID like it’s some kind of trophy. all this just to get laid. your weekend plans were nonexistent anyway, and if you’re going to spend another night in bed, it might as well be with someone else there.

the app screen is still glowing on your phone, waiting.

please confirm your identity to continue.

you angle the card, snap the photo, and wait for the little green checkmark.

it pulses once before the screen flips to a new page, white text against a sleek black background.

disclaimer

hookapp is for adults only. by continuing, you agree to:

☑︎ be respectful and courteous to all members.

☑︎ abide by the community guidelines.

☑︎ acknowledge and assume all risk associated with meeting others.

you confirm without hesitation, pulse ticking a little faster when the app shifts into profile setup.

it’s mercifully simple. a photo, a line or two about yourself, a toggle asking what you’re here for. you skim through and move on, thumbs tapping through the bare bones questions until the app finally releases you into the home screen.

dark interface, neon accents, two tabs sit at the bottom: feed and dares.

the feed is obvious—profiles, matches, a timer that counts down once you’ve paired with someone. apparently you only get twenty four hours to complete a dare together before the match expires. dramatic, but it fits the whole adrenaline junkie marketing.

but it’s the dares tab that catches your eye first.

it opens like a catalog. cards you can swipe left or right on, except instead of faces it’s, well, dares.

some are stupid. some are easy. some spark a heat low in your stomach you weren’t prepared for at ten in the morning. you swipe through them slowly, liking the ones that don’t make you cringe, skipping the ones that feel like they’d require therapy afterward.

each time you like a dare, a soft icon fills in and you notice the tiny note at the bottom; your likes help curate future matches. meaning if someone else has liked the same dares, the app bumps you toward each other.

when you finally swipe back to the main feed, the app gives you a gentle buzz—your profile is set. your dares are logged. your pool is ready.

the first card slides into view.

you catch your reflection in the screen—bed rumpled hair, sleep crease still on your cheek, eyes a little tired. this is ridiculous. you should be out running errands, doing laundry, literally anything else.

but your dry streak has been pathetic, and maybe you’re allowed something reckless.

you drag your thumb across the screen.

the card flutters away.

another takes its place. on this one, you linger.

a face like that is the kind you swipe right on out of habit. dark hair that’s messy in that artful way, a tilt to his jaw.

the name flashes at the bottom—jimin. thirty. city somewhere nearby. no bio, no tagline. doesn’t matter. he’s hot. you swipe.

your phone buzzes. it’s a match.

a new screen slides in, and for a second it’s just the two of you, side by side, tiny green heart pulsing between your faces. beneath it, the first dare;

send a message to your match. start with a truth, end with a dare.

huh. okay. weird. whatever. you tap the text box, fingers hovering for longer than necessary, because apparently starting conversations is a skill you’ve misplaced somewhere between high school and now.

hey, you type. then backspace.

hi, you try. still too bland.

you stare at the blinking cursor, wondering if you should be more profound.

idk how this works. you hit send. settled for simple, honest. a few seconds later, his reply pops up.

first time?

yeah, you?

tried it a few times. results vary lol

he answers like someone who isn’t overthinking a single word, which is weirdly refreshing.

your chat drifts from the interface, to the dumbest dares he’s ever tried, to which ones seem like they were made for people with zero self preservation.

and then your phone buzzes again, the screen flashes, and a dare card slides over your conversation like it owns the place.

meet your match in under 60 minutes to advance.

you blink at it, heart ticking a little faster.

well, you type, this escalated quickly.

i’m down if you are.

you stare at the message, suddenly hyper aware of how stupidly early it is. normal people are making coffee, walking dogs, not scheduling hookups like some pathetic hormonal teen.

yeah, i’m down.

he sends a location pin a second later—a café a fifteen minute walk from you. neutral territory with decent human pollution.

30 mins? he types.

you glance at the time. yeah, that’s doable. barely.

reality catches up fast. your brain kicks into high gear—shower, clothes, makeup, does your hair look like you just crawled out of a cave? probably.

you toss your phone onto the bed and practically sprint to the bathroom. the mirror greets you with someone who definitely did not prepare for spontaneous human interaction today. you scrub your face, pull on something that looks effortless but took four different tops to achieve, and try to convince your hair to behave. it doesn’t. you accept defeat.

by the time you’re slipping your shoes on, your phone buzzes again.

leaving now.

you grab your keys, lock the door behind you and head out.

the café comes into view just as you start regretting every life choice you’ve ever made. your palms are already warm, your heartbeat doing something obnoxious in your chest, and you’re silently praying he’s not one of those people who look nothing like their pictures.

you’re proven wrong when you spot him.

he’s leaning against the brick wall beside the entrance, hands in his pockets, head slightly tilted like he’s listening to something only he can hear. he looks up when you approach, and—yeah. it’s him. the picture didn’t lie.

“hey,” he says, voice smooth.

“hey,” you echo, trying to sound like you didn’t practically sprint here.

you both hover in front of the café door. you almost gesture toward it, ready to play out the mental script you’d already built—awkward small talk over burnt coffee, assessing vibes, maybe leaving together after at least pretending you’re normal adults.

but jimin glances at the door, then back at you, and there’s this tiny curve at the corner of his mouth.

then he nods his head down the street.

a silent, confident follow me.

and you do.

you fall into step beside him, matching his pace. he doesn’t give an explanation, doesn’t fill the quiet with pointless chatter, just walks like someone who’s sure of where he’s going and even more sure you’ll keep up.

you wonder if this is his usual routine—skipping pleasantries.

stupid you, expecting croissants at 11 in the morning.

he glances over, catches whatever expression is on your face, and laughs under his breath. “what?” he asks.

“nothing,” you say quickly. too quickly.

the corner of his mouth lifts again like he doesn’t buy it, but he doesn’t push.

you keep walking. past the café, past a few empty storefronts, past a guy hosing down the sidewalk. the streets are still washed in that early glow, too soft for what you’re about to do.

and then he turns into a different doorway. small, unremarkable, a building you never look twice at unless you know what you’re looking for.

a motel.

it didn’t look creepy, thankfully. clean enough, quiet enough, cheap enough. the kind that rents rooms by the night or by the hour, no questions asked.

your stomach does something strange, a twist of nerves and heat and the sharp awareness of exactly what you signed up for.

he pushes open the front door, holds it with one hand just long enough for you to slip inside. casual, smooth, like he’s done this a dozen times, and he probably has.

the lobby is empty except for a tired looking clerk and a bowl of stale mints. jimin doesn’t go to the counter. he just walks straight past it.

your eyes flick to him, he catches the look, lifts the room key between two fingers, already in his pocket.

of course he booked ahead. of course he did.

“this okay?” he asks, voice low, like he’s giving you an out even though you’re already here, already following, already choosing.

you nod before you can overthink it.

he studies your face—just for a beat—then jerks his chin toward the stairs. “come on.”

you follow him up, heart thudding in that annoying, needy way you wish you could hide. every step feels heavier, brighter, realer. he unlocks the door with a soft click when you reach the top and pushes it open. then he steps back, leaving the threshold to you.

the room smells faintly like cheap detergent and cold air conditioning, one lamp on the nightstand glows bright, the bedspread is the typical motel pattern, but your pulse is too loud for you to care.

you’re barely two steps in when the door clicks shut and locks behind you.

you turn, and he’s there, jacket half off his shoulder, a small, knowing smile pulling gently at his mouth.

“you look like you’re waiting for an alarm to go off,” he says.

your face heats. “i’m not.”

“you kind of are.” he shrugs off his jacket completely, drapes it over the small chair beside the door. “it’s okay. most people do.”

you narrow your eyes. “is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“is it working?” he tilts his head.

you huff—not quite a laugh, but close. “not really.”

he smiles wider at that.

he takes a few steps into the room, stopping just close enough that you can feel his warmth.

“you can still change your mind,” he says quietly. “the app says meet up, not hookup.”

“i’m okay,” you say.

his eyes flick down to your mouth, then back to your eyes, slow. “good.”

he lifts a hand, brushing his fingers through his own hair, pushing it back. a ridiculously simple movement, but it draws your attention to the line of his throat, the way his shirt shifts against his chest.

“you nervous?” he asks.

you open your mouth to deny it. shut it again. “a little.”

he hums, amused but gentle. “cute.”

“don’t call me that.”

“okay,” he says immediately, still smiling. “i won’t.”

you look away, because staring at him too long feels dangerous.

he steps past you then, moving towards the nightstand where the lamp sits. his shoulder brushes yours by accident—or maybe not—and the warmth that skims your skin sends a shiver down your spine.

he adjusts the lamp, dimming it slightly, the room dipping into a softer glow. and then he turns back to you, “come here,” he says, voice low but patient, like he’s inviting you instead of telling you.

you take a slow step toward him, the floor creaking under your weight. he meets you halfway, fingers brushing the collar of your jacket before curling around the fabric.

you let your arms fall, and he slips the jacket off your shoulders in one easy motion. his hands don’t linger, but the ghost of his touch does, warm against the sudden cool air on your skin.

he folds it lazily, tosses it onto the chair with his own, and when he faces you again, he’s closer than before.

“phone?” he prompts.

right. the app.

you dig yours out of your pocket at the same time he does. the glow from both screens lights the space between you. you open the chat and a timer is ticking down, a little button blinking confirm meetup.

you click it. he does too, and a card slams into view.

remove your partner's clothes using only your teeth and mouth.

of all the things you expected, something tame to ease into it—this, isn’t exactly tame. but it’s not the worst thing either, considering where this was headed anyway. it was efficient. a shortcut you’re not sure whether to be grateful for or intimidated by.

your pulse jumps, you feel his eyes on you before you look up.

he sits at the edge of the bed, legs spreading just enough to make space. his hands come up, settling lightly on the back of your thighs and tugs you in, slow and sure, until you’re standing between his knees.

“should i go first?” he asks, voice low, teasing at the edges.

the boldness doesn’t fluster you so much as it sparks something hot in your chest. maybe because he said earlier he’s done this before.

he glances at your hand still clutching your phone, plucks it gently from your fingers and tosses it onto the nightstand—right beside his, which you somehow didn’t even notice he’d already put there.

“there,” he murmurs. “now we’re not distracted.”

your breath leaves you in something between a laugh and a soft exhale.

his hands slide just a little higher on your thighs, just enough to invite you closer without pulling.

“go ahead,” you say, the words catching a little in your throat but sounding steady enough.

jimin’s smile widens, a slow, pleased curve that makes your stomach flip. he leans in, head tilting, and you feel the soft brush of his hair against your stomach.

his teeth clamp down on the fabric at your waistband, and the metal button pops free with little to no restrain. you barely felt the tug at all.

he pulls back an inch, and you look down, genuinely surprised. he just undid your pants with his mouth. your lips twitch into a small, impressed smile.

he catches your eye, a soft laugh warming his own, and without another word, he moves to the zipper.

the open zipper makes the next step easy. your pants are soft, the material cooperative, and they slide easily down your hips with a gentle nudge of his nose, pooling around your ankles.

he straightens up a little, his hands gliding from your thighs to just behind your knees, and he pulls. a smooth, gentle motion that brings you down onto his lap, one thigh on either side of his. the soft fabric of his jeans a welcome friction as your arms instinctively circle his neck.

“that’s it?” you murmur, a teasing challenge in your voice. “you’re stopping there?”

he shifts beneath you, a low, satisfied sound rumbling in his chest. his hands rest on your waist, thumb tracing the bare skin revealed between your shirt and the top of your underwear.

“are you in a rush?” he asks, his voice pitched low, a lazy drawl that makes the hairs on your arms stand up.

“not really,” you counter, not looking away.

he laughs, a deeper, chestier sound this time, and the vibration against your skin makes your nipples pebble beneath your top. “patience, sweetheart. this is the best part.”

you smile, a genuine, easy smile that reaches your eyes and you lean in without thinking.

your lips meet in the middle, a soft, searching press at first, and then it deepens. his mouth is soft but demanding, the angle perfect, the kiss melting away the last vestiges of nerves. your hands reach down, fingers fumbling for the hem of his shirt, intent on hauling the barrier up and over his head.

you get a grip on the fabric, tugging, but jimin’s hands are suddenly on your wrists, gentle but firm, stopping the motion. he pulls back from your mouth, breaking the kiss with a soft pop of wet air.

“no hands allowed,” he whispers, a low tease in his voice, his thumb brushing over the pulse thrumming frantically in your wrists.

“i think i’m allowed one rule break,” you counter, your voice low and husky.

jimin’s eyes darken with amusement, the corner of his mouth lifting into a devastating half smirk. “but the rules is what makes this fun,” he corrects, his voice a low, gravelly sound that sends a shiver down your spine.

his mouth reclaims yours, hotter and deeper than before, demanding a response you eagerly give. his tongue sweeps inside, skilled and insistent, stealing your remaining breath.

one palm flattens against the small of your back, pressing your hips forward, grinding you against the insistent hardness rising beneath his jeans. your body reacts immediately, your hips instinctively circling against him, pulling a low, strangled groan from jimin’s throat.

the other hand slides up, cupping the side of your breast over the thin fabric of your top. his thumb brushes over your already aching nipple which makes your whole body arch. you tighten your arms around his neck, gripping his hair, your fingers clenching into the strands as if holding on to the only anchor in the room. but he only indulge you enough before he pulls his mouth from yours, leaving you panting.

he falls backwards, landing on the mattress, his hands slide down your legs, catching you behind the knees. he pulls you higher, his grip firm, settling you right above his face.

your fingers tangle in his hair, a nervous, expectant gesture, as you watch the heat darken his eyes. his hands, still holding your knees, slide up to cup the backs of your thighs, the pads of his thumbs tracing the smooth skin.

he exhales softly before the first warm, wet pressure of his mouth touches the cotton of your underwear. it’s a curious sweep of his tongue, a soft lick right over your clothed center. the fabric is a thin, frustrating barrier, and the unexpected heat of his mouth sends a jolt of pleasure sharp and immediate enough to make your back arch.

he hums, a low, pleased sound that vibrates against your core. he applies pressure, sucking the damp fabric into his mouth and you press down into the delicious sensation, letting out a whimper that you don’t even try to stifle.

it’s a glorious torture—the thin material soaking up the saliva, becoming slicker, hotter, making the touch of his tongue maddeningly imprecise. you grip his hair tighter, a silent plea for more, for less of a barrier.

he obliges.

he pulls back just enough for his teeth to catch the edge of the cotton and with a quick, sharp tug to the side, the elastic fibers break, making it sound like the fabric ripped.

his mouth opens wide, hot and wet, and he covers you entirely. the first deep, sucking draw sends a shockwave through your body, and you moan deep and strangled in pure pleasure. his tongue is a precise weapon, hard and fast against your clit, then dipping low to lick into the sensitive folds below.

you faintly hear the quiet rasp of a zipper giving way, a sound swallowed quickly by your gasps. his hand disappears inside the denim, wrapping around his hardened length, giving slow, firm strokes. his breath hitches, a sharp inhale between wet sounds, feeding off the sight of your nipples standing out in stark, hard relief against the thin material of your shirt.

the pleasure is already a tight, burning knot in your belly, right up until he pulls back sharply, leaving you bare and wanting. before you can protest the loss, he has you on your back.

jimin is immediately settled between your splayed thighs, his weight pinning your hips, his knees pressing the soft, exposed skin on the inside of your legs. he catches your surprised exhale in a demanding kiss, his tongue already seeking.

his left hand slides up your side, hooking under the hem of your shirt which he bunches the soft fabric up over your chest. his palm is hot as it cups the weight of your breast, his fingers spread wide to capture the curve, his thumb pressing firmly onto the sensitive peak.

you gasp into his mouth, your whole body shuddering as you pull back, breaking the kiss with a breathy sound.

“hands.” you manage, breathless.

jimin glances down at your chest, a dark, satisfied look in his eyes as he continues to knead your flesh. “that rule only applies to the first piece of clothing,” he murmurs, his voice low and thick with desire. “we’re past that now.”

“you serious,” you breathe out, the words catching on a shaky laugh as he rolls your nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

he doesn't answer verbally, just tilts his head and reclaims your mouth. you cling to him, the pleasure overriding the need for any further argument. the rules are irrelevant when your body is screaming for what he’s offering.

jimin slides his free hand down to the front of his jeans, snags the edge of the zipper he’d undone earlier and he pushes the denim down far enough to free his cock. the material catches around his thighs, but the hard, hot length of him is suddenly there, slick and enormous, guided by his hand.

he presses the heavy, pulsing head against your damp entrance and circles between your swollen lips, dragging the moisture he gathered earlier with his mouth over the tip.

he slides in, past your folds, pushing just the tip inside and then pulls back out, leaving you breathless and aching. he repeats the motion followed by a slow withdrawal.

with his next retreat, instead of driving back in, he snakes a hand down your left leg, catching your inner thigh, grabbing firmly and tugging it from the spread position to roll your body onto your right side.

you settle quickly into the new position, with your right leg extended beneath you, your left knee bent high and drawn towards your chest. you love the lack of ceremony, the confident way he simply positions you how he wants, maneuvering your body without asking. you’ve never been more turned on in your life.

his forearm presses into the mattress beside your head, bracing him, while the other hand slides beneath your bent knee, pushing it higher, deepening the angle of your hips and granting him perfect access.

he guides himself to your entrance immediately after and with a deep, hungry thrust, he buries himself inside you.

the sensation is a sharp, stunning shock of fullness that takes the air out of your lungs, a raw sound muffled by the mattress as your hands clench into the wrinkled sheets.

you try to stifle the gasps that keep escaping, but each deep pump pulls a fresh sound from your throat. your head is swimming, and the world is reduced to the thick, slick rhythm of his body inside yours.

he groans, a low, thick sound of effort that vibrates against your neck and reaches across the nightstand for your phones, bringing them onto the mattress in front of you.

“confirm the dare,” his breath warm and moist against your ear.

with a shaky hand, you reach out, snatching your phone. your fingers hover over the screen as jimin pulls out slowly, then drives back in with a sudden, deep shove that makes you grunt, deep and breathless. your thumb swipes to confirm the dare even though you didn’t go through with it yourself, but he didn’t seem to care. he instead rewards your compliance with a series of quick, shallow thrusts that rattle your core, making you whimper.

you grab his phone next. your vision swims with pleasure, but you manage to find the same button, tapping it quickly.

the moment you confirm, the screens flash, and a new dare card slams into view, your eyes blur, trying to focus on the text.

jimin slows his pace, settling into a deep, slow grind, giving you just enough space to focus.

“read it,” he commands.

you inhale sharply, the words a difficult task with the pressure still filling you. you finally manage to focus your eyes on the screen, swallowing hard before pushing the words past your lips.

“‘edge your partner,’” you stutter, the pleasure making your voice tremor.

jimin lets out a low chuckle that sends a new wave of chills down your spine.

he pulls his hand from your thigh and clamps both hands onto your hips, tilting your pelvis and driving a rapid, punishing rhythm deep into you. he focuses on that one perfect angle, slamming into you with a frenzy that makes the bed squeak against the wall. you are lifted and dropped with every stroke, your breath coming in sharp, desperate gasps that turn into helpless cries.

jimin groans, a deep sound that echoes your own building orgasm. he pushes one last time, a hard, final stroke that pins you to the mattress as your body shatters.

the orgasm is violent, pulling a long, shuddering moan from your throat. you spasm around him, squeezing tight as wave after wave of pleasure rolls through you.

he holds himself still, deep, until the last tremors fade to a sweet, heavy ache.

he lets out a breath, a low, pleased exhale. he pulls out slowly, the wet suction sound drawing a fresh moan of loss from you.

his muscles flex as he scoots up the bed, easily pushing the two phones aside. he leans back against the headboard, his arms resting on his bent knees, watching you with a satisfied smile.

“come here,” he says, his voice soft, almost a lazy drawl.

you are a mess of sweat, spent muscles, and glorious ache, tangled in your shirt and the damp sheets. you groan, but he’s too tempting to ignore.

you push up, awkwardly sliding your legs free from the bunched fabric of your panties. you crawl up the mattress towards him, a little effort required, the heat between your legs a fresh throb with every movement.

when you finally reach him, slightly breathless, you collapse against his knees.

he reaches out, brushing the damp hair from your forehead. “good girl,” he praises, the words a warm, low reward that sends a fresh wave of heat through your lower belly.

he cups the back of your neck, guiding you. “your turn,” he adjusts his legs, pushing his knees apart, offering the heavy, pulsating length of himself to your mouth.

you look up at him, a flicker of challenge in your eyes, but the need to please him wins out.

he is still heavy, substantial, but noticeably less rigid than before.

you take him in your mouth, a deep, slow suck that immediately draws a sharp intake of breath from him. the flavor is clean and salty, and the warm, velvet pressure against your tongue is an intoxicating rush.

jimin leans back against the headboard, his eyes dropping to watch your head bob. his fingers immediately slide into your hair, gripping the strands loosely at your nape.

you use your tongue and the heat of your mouth to bring him back to full attention. his tissue stiffens and swells against your palate, lengthening and hardening until he is a rigid, throbbing weight in your mouth.

“yeah,” he groans, the sound low and strained.

as he hardens, you deepen the suction, moving your head down his length until you bump against his abdomen and he pushes your head down the rest of the way, forcing you to take him deeper, making you gag against the base of his shaft.

you pull back instantly with a gasp, a small cough escaping your throat, and shoot him a look that he meets with a lazy, satisfied smirk.

he releases your hair, his thumb catching the small bead of drool at the corner of your mouth, wiping it away with an unnerving tenderness. “don’t choke,” he mocks.

“i won’t,” you vow, the words thick and husky as you glare at him before pushing back down, no longer gentle.

you take him back into your mouth, your lips sealing tight around the rigid weight, applying a deep suck that pulls a sharp hiss of breath through his teeth. your hand slides down to grip the base of his cock, your fingers curling around the throbbing warmth as you add a firm squeeze.

his lips part with a low moan and he threads his fingers back into your hair, this time gathering the strands back.

you sweep your tongue along the underside of his cock, swirling around the frenulum, before moving your lips to the tip, using your teeth to graze against the velvet head, making him twitch, hips jerking forward and shoots you a glare similar to one you gave him mere seconds ago.

his hand tightens in your hair, and he uses the grip to pull your head back, easing you off his length with a warning.

“too much?” you challenge, your voice a sultry whisper.

“no teeth.”

you just smile, a small, knowing upturn of your lips that holds no apology.

you lean down, taking him back into your mouth, lips wrapping around the head, careful to leave the delicate skin untouched by your teeth.

your hands slide up his thighs, the muscles tight under your palms and you bob your head in time with his continuous, low grunts.

he throws his head back against the headboard, his hips lifting slightly off the mattress, chasing the pleasure. his muscles tense beneath your hands, his cock twitching in your mouth and his hand clenches, hauling your head back with a sudden, forceful tug that breaks the suction entirely.

you look up, mouth wet and open, your breathing shallow. jimin is panting, his eyes squeezed shut, his face taut with effort. a deep, internal shudder runs through his entire body, and you can see the visible strain in his neck muscles.

you watch the visible tension slowly drain from his body, the ragged edges of his breath smoothing out, and you take that opportunity to run your tongue—flat—along the underside of his shaft, collecting the thin layer of moisture clinging to the skin.

he twitches violently, hips jerking up into your mouth. “hold on,” he manages to choke out, the words strained and low, his hand hovering over your head, not knowing if he should push it down or yank it back.

you use your thumb to gently rub a circle on the head of his cock, gathering the slick pearl of precum, smearing it down the length of him before you bring your mouth down, drawing the head in with a slow, deep suck.

the moan he releases is low, thick, and helpless. his hips squirm against the pressure, trying desperately to find a release he won't allow himself and his fingers clench into the fabric of the sheet next to him, his knuckles turning white.

the sight of him, it spreads dampness between your legs. you feel it heavy and slick, dripping down onto the mattress.

you never would have expected that you could reduce him, the man who walked in with such confidence, to this state.

you push up onto your knees and grab the hem of your shirt, pulling the fabric up and over your head, tossing the last piece of clothing onto the mess of sheets beside you.

jimin watches, his eyes dark, his focus momentarily shifting to the sight of your bare breasts heaving.

you swing your legs over him, sitting high on his hips.

your hands find his face, your thumb tracing the tightness of his jaw and you kiss him, not gently, licking into his mouth, forcing him to taste the saltiness of his own arousal.

you press your hips down, rubbing your slick, throbbing pussy along the hard, heavy length of his cock with shallow grinds, keeping the pressure on your clit.

he lets out a series of raw, strangled moans into your mouth, his hands shooting out to grip your hips. “like that,” he grits out, his voice thick and broken.

it's at that precise moment of unbearable pleasure that the shrill, jarring sound of his phone breaks the spell.

jimin groans deep in his throat, pulling his mouth from yours with a sharp pop of wet air and tips his head back against the headboard, his eyes squeezed shut in annoyance.

“ignore it,” he mutters, the words rough. he clamps his hands tightly onto your hips, tilting you sharply forward and buries his face in the curve of your neck, his lips hot and wet against your skin as he nuzzles and then bites down gently.

you let out a low moan, tilting your head back to grant him better access. as you do, your eyes flick to the phone glowing innocently on the mattress beside you. the screen displays the name of the caller, female.

you slow your rhythm slightly, the change instantly drawing a protesting grunt from jimin while you reach out a hesitant hand for the phone.

“did your next appointment come early?” you whisper against his ear, the words husky and playful.

jimin stops the nibbling, his breath warm on your skin. “it’s nothing,” he insists and leans up to kiss your chin, trailing his lips down your jaw, his focus entirely on getting you to continue. “just ignore it, baby.”

“it’s alright,” you murmur, “i’ll get it for you.”

with that, you accept the call, lift the phone and press the receiver right against his ear.

“h-hello?” he manages to rasp out, the sound strained and breathy, his voice sounding entirely too deep and the look he gives you entirely too sharp.

you rotate your hips and sink down until you take him as deep as you can bear, watching his eyes roll back in his head.

a faint, tinny female voice drifts from the phone pressed to his ear, the caller is apparently standing right outside the café where the two of you met up, sounding bright and expectant.

he lets out a quiet, frustrated grunt and reaches out to snatch your wrist and tug the phone away from his ear. he glances at the screen, the time display confirms that she indeed came early.

he clears his throat, a rough, broken sound. “no, no, everything’s fine,” he manages to inject into the phone. “just… running late. traffic.” he throws you a sharp, warning glance as he speaks. “yeah. something came up. give me half an hour, okay? i’ll call you back.”

he doesn't wait for a response, he ends the call and tosses the phone onto the floor beside the bed before he flips you over suddenly, landing you flat on your back beneath him.

he shoves your thighs back against your chest, spreading you wide and uses the angle to push into you again easily with a hard, deep thrust that jars your core and punches a sharp cry out of you.

“you think you’re funny, pulling that stunt?” he demands, the words punctuated by a deep thrust.

your head is swimming, your body‘s aching. you try to find a scrap of your earlier confidence, managing a weak, breathless protest. “you should schedule things further apart,” you gasp, the words barely a coherent sentence.

he laughs a sharp, unapologetic sound that vibrates deep in his chest. “i’ll be sure to block out the whole day for you next time,” he promises, pushing you deep into the mattress with every single thrust. he keeps your legs pressed back, the speed escalates, the air fills with wet, slapping sounds and your ragged, breathless moans.

the deep, pounding pressure of his cock hitting the perfect spot repeatedly shatters the last of your resistance. a harsh cry tears from your throat, and your whole body locks up, convulsing around him.

he feels the final clench before he follows you over. he buries himself as deep as possible and pumps his seed into you.

he sinks down heavily onto his forearms and lets his hips settle into a slow, deep grind, riding out the last, delicious waves of your orgasm with heavy, panting grunts.

he slowly pulls back when he’s satisfied, allowing your legs to drop gently back down onto the mattress and he pushes back on his heels.

he reaches out and offers you his hands. “come on,” he says, his voice rough but gentle now. “up.”

you take his hands, your muscles protesting the movement. he pulls you up and immediately into a swift kiss.

“i usually abide by the gentleman’s code and clean up the scene of the crime before releasing my captives,” he says, the corner of his mouth curving into that familiar, infuriating smirk. “but alas, duty calls, and i have a rather impatient appointment waiting for me.”

“your greed sickens me,” you state wryly before pulling away to grab your clothes. he just laughs. “it’s a demanding market, sweetheart.”

you pull on your top, feeling the uncomfortable stick of the damp fabric, and quickly slide into your jeans. jimin does the same, before you’re both on your feet and he scans the room one last time before heading for the door.

opening it, a woman stands there, blocking your way, her fist raised and poised to knock on the door. clearly here to noise complain.

her eyes sweep over the two of you—clearly disheveled and her expression shifts immediately from annoyance to sheer judgment.

jimin slides his arm around your waist and pulls you tight against his side, offering the woman the politest, most dazzling smile he can muster.

“good day,” he says brightly, his voice entirely too loud and cheerful before he guides you past the stunned woman quickly, practically dragging you down the stairs. you manage to stifle a full blown laugh into his shoulder as you descend, glancing back only long enough to see her gaping at the closed door.

he leads you out into the soft afternoon sunlight and stops you just outside the motel entrance, releasing his grip on your waist to turn you toward him. he reaches out, gently brushing a stray lock of hair from your cheek.

“so will i see you again?”

you know the answer before you even look up at him.

“call me,” you say, the word a simple, easy dare.

he grins, a warm, knowing curve of his lips that reaches his eyes. he gives you one last firm kiss before turning and jogging off down the street.

TAGLIST ꩜ @dearjoons @nellbyy @jellihueni @invalidjams @furioustrashlover @franzisswan @yeskookii @luviupji @shiftinpages @kikibabess

[gukcnt]

BENEATH OUR FRIENDSHIP ⭒ M. LIST

jimin was always your safe place, but you never noticed him. not when you were kids or when you broke his heart in silence. now years later, jimin is still by your side—watching, waiting, loving you quietly even as you fall for the wrong people. soon... heated moments and stolen touches ignite something deeper, but is it too late to rewrite your story and embrace the love you've been blind to all along?

pairing — dom!jimin x sub!femreader

genre — college au, childhood friends to lovers, friends with benefits, literally idiots to lovers, slowburn, coming of age, unrequited love, one sided love, second chance, pining, forced proximity, longing and yearning, romance, comedy, drama, angst, smut, fluff

warnings — 18+, explicit sex scenes, mature themes, toxic relationship, emotional manipulation, heartbreak, jealously and insecurity, argument and miscommunication, love confessions and confrontation, healing and self-acceptance, violence and physical harm, fear of rejection, dark aspects, mental health themes, smoking and drinking, each chapter contains their individual warnings (reader discretion is advised due to the potentially triggering content)

taglist — [open]

main masterlist

⤷ 01 : to be released.

© GUKCNT — all rights reserved. | divider by @/uzmacchiato

[lilmeowzsworld]

Serendipity

One-shot

pairing: park jimin x reader

summary: You and Jimin have been together for three beautiful years now, and tonight he's acting completely suspicious. He's got that specific smile on his face, he's secretive and his hand hasn't let go of yours the entire drive. What starts as a simple anniversary dinner leads you to a rooftol straight out of a dream with fairy lights overhead, rose petals at your feet and Seoul glittering in the night. And you begin to understand that tonight was not just about the dinner after all.

trigger warning: happy crying, mild swearing, mentions of seperation, making-out, semi-public display of affection, exhaustion/overworking

masterlist

The gentle hum of the car was the only sound breaking the comfortable silence you both created inside this warm cocoon, well, minus the sound of the radio playing a low jazz tune Taehyung had recommended to Jimin. Both you and Jimin liked it, though. The city lights outside the window blurred into streaks of gold and white as you drove, casting fleeting reflections across his face that just made him look even more ethereal than he already was.

His breathtaking features carried the calmness you’ve witnessed time and time before, yet the corner of his lips betrayed him. Those soft lips that yours remember from so many make-out sessions were now curled upward, betraying that he carried a secret he clearly enjoyed keeping from you.

You leaned softly toward him, studying how his fingers drummed lightly against the steering wheel in time with the music, how his eyes occasionally flickered your way before darting back to the road. It reminded you of that shy boy you used to know when you two first started dating. For a man who flirted on stage for a living, he’s quite shy.

Curiosity finally got the better of you, though. “Are you going to tell me where we’re going now?” You asked, voice playful, but demanding of answers. “You’ve been so tight-lipped all evening, Mr. Park.” You nudge his arm very lightly, mindful that he’s driving.

He chuckled immediately and briefly met your eyes again before turning back to the road as he’d done a handful of times during the drive. “Where’s the fun in that, jagiya? It’s our anniversary, and I wanted to make it special. A surprise, just for you.”

Then he reached over, his warm hand finding yours on the top of your lap, and interlaced your fingers together, giving them a tender squeeze. It was a simple gesture, done a thousand times before during your quality time together, but it never failed to spread warmth through your whole body. It seeped into your chest, right where your heart beat, and lingered there. You glanced down at your interlocked hands, watching his thumb brush over your skin softly, and smiled to yourself.

The car went on for a little while longer, while you watched the city lights of Seoul twinkle like scattered diamonds as dusk truly settled over the skyline. The glow of neon signs danced across the windshield, continuing to paint fleeting colors on your faces as Jimin drove through the quieter streets. The hum of the city faded bit by bit, slowly replaced by the gentle rhythm of tires gliding over smooth pavement and the occasional flicker of passing headlights.

You leaned closer to the window now, trying to catch any hint of where you were headed, but Jimin had chosen a route that gave nothing, absolutely nothing, away. Your hand was still in his, and you were surprised how well he could drive with one hand. And quite frankly, the sight of him made the car feel way hotter than before. Or maybe that was just you.

Finally, the car slowed to a stop in front of an elegant building tucked discreetly away from the main streets. Its clean lines and soft exterior lighting gave it an air of exclusivity, like a place that only allowed its presence to those who needed to find it. It gave off one of those magical kdramas you so often binge-watched with Jimin.

A valet appeared almost immediately, bowing politely as he opened both your doors one by one. The cool evening air met your skin as you stepped out. There was a faint scent of blooming night jasmine lingering somewhere nearby, a scent that always reminded you of your childhood because your parents had one in the garden. Jimin rounded the car and reached for your hand again. His fingers slid into place with yours perfectly. Then, without a word, he led you inside.

The lobby was luxurious, but it didn’t scream luxury. There was sort of a quiet elegance to it, in a way. Marble floors, soft lighting, and the muted sound of a fountain somewhere nearby. It was fancy in that carefully put-together way to feel calm and intimate enough for clients to feel comfortable.

Jimin guided you toward the private elevator that was tucked into the far corner, pressing the button for the very top floor of the building. The doors closed with a soft chime once you both entered. Inside was lined with mirrored walls and a warm, golden light. Then began the gentle whir of the elevator as it ascended. For a while, everything was silent, neither of you making a sound or a move.

Then Jimin shifted. The soft expression he wore since your date began faded away, and that playful glint lit up his eyes. It was very familiar to you, because he always had this expression when he was about to kiss you dumb. As usual, his smile widened, lips curving just enough for you to guess what he intended to do. And before you could say anything, he moved.

In a smooth motion, he stepped forward and closed the small distance between you two. Then you found yourself trapped against the cool mirrored wall of the elevator. His hold on you was firm enough to let you know that he’s not letting you move anywhere, but gentle enough not to hurt you. The impact was feathery light, but it still made your heart stutter in your chest. His hands found your waist and settled like they belonged there. Well, you wouldn’t complain if they took up permanent residence there.

You were so adjusted to Jimin’s antics that this didn’t surprise you at all. The scent of his perfume, a little musky but with that distinct whisper of orange blossom, wrapped around you instantly now that he stood this close. It carried hints of sun-warmed tangerine and lilac. The scent was soft and to you intoxicating enough that you’ve begun to associate these smells with him. It always lingered around you just enough to make you want to lean closer.

He was so close you could feel his breath, the tip of your nose touching his. And his eyes… those beautiful eyes, were locked onto yours. Then, as if he had all the time in the world, and not just until the elevator reached its destination, he leaned in and caught your lips with his.

This wasn’t one of his fleeting kisses, not a teasing one he sometimes used to make you laugh. This one was slow, the kind that made you forget to breathe for a moment. His lips moved against yours, deepening gradually until it felt like the world had tilted and settled around that single point of contact between the two of you. Nothing else mattered except it.

His hands stayed at your waist, holding you still, like you might run away, even though running away couldn’t be on your mind right now, while you were so deeply entangled with Park Jimin. It felt as if heaven itself couldn’t separate you two. You vaguely felt his fingers find their way under your shirt, even though his lips were distracting as it is. His thumb drew small, absent circles on your skin, and the feeling made you melt into him even further.

The elevator, its buzz, the light, the hum of machinery… it all became secondary to this. To him. All that remained was his warmth against yours, his fingers brushing against your skin, his soft lips pressing against yours ,and the thrum of your own heartbeat in your ears. He tasted faintly of the wine you two shared over dinner. It was sweet and a little sharp at the edges.

He finally pulled back just enough for the air to pass between you two, but he pressed his forehead against yours, staying as close as he could. Your lips still tingled with his touch after, like you still felt him touching you even when he’s already stopped. You could still feel your pulse racing somewhere deep in your chest, but that’s just the effect Jimin had on you, as always. If you were being honest, you had no idea when you closed your eyes during the kiss either; that's how much Jimin affected you.

You drew in a shaky breath, the best you could muster right now, and finally opened your eyes, only to find him already watching you. There was something in his gaze that made your heart literally stumble for a short moment. It was a mix of affection and satisfaction of knowing what exactly you were feeling right now, all thanks to him, of course. His eyes lingered on your lips for another second longer, then raised them to yours. You felt heat climb up your neck, all the way to your face, despite yourself.

You whispered his name, and it was as if the syllables barely left your lips, just loud enough for him here, even when there was no one but the two of you in the elevator. It came out even softer than you had intended, but it carried everything you couldn't say in this moment.

He just smiled slowly, giving you that same grin that always made you forget where you were or even what you'd meant to say. It wasn't cocky, not the kind he gave off on stage when he was Jimin of BTS, no. It was gentle, almost shy, actually. The one where his eyes disappeared slightly, and he looked like that freshly debuted boy with a big dream and a small budget.

The elevator came to a stop at last, and Jimin reluctantly stepped back half a pace, his hand sliding from your waist but not quite letting go. Jimin never shied away from physical contact, ever. Even if it was just holding your hand, he would do anything just to be closer to you physically.

As the doors parted, your breath caught. The world that was just revealed to you felt almost unreal. Jimin stepped out into the open expanse of the rooftop, and you followed after him. The rooftop garden seemed to hover above the city itself as you stood atop it. The air was cool, touched with the faint sweetness of flowers carried by the light breeze. Now you knew where the smell of the blooming night jasmine came from, somehow, the wind had carried it all the way to the ground. There was also a fountain, just like the one in the lobby. The sound of the water trickling slowly threaded through the still air up here.

Fairy lights stretched above you like a constellation brought down to earth just for this occasion, which you still haven't figured out what it was. The lights glowed softly, giving this place a warm atmosphere that you thought only came in movies or books. A narrow path of smooth stone led forward, guiding you two through clusters of green and pale blooms that caught the light and even faintly shimmered. The path led you to a couple of low tables, dotting the edge of the space. Each one was crowned with glowing lanters that swayed with the breeze. And scattered between the lanterns and on the ground were white rose petals. Your favorite flower.

Beyond this small rooftop garden, Seoul sprawled endlessly. Its skyline was a magical mix of colorful lights, with glass towers reflecting across the Han river below. You've never seen Seoul like this before. It was really the kind of view that made you feel small and infinite all at once.

„Jimin,“ You breathed out, turning to him. „This is... incredible. How did you even find this place?“ Your eyes were wide with wonder for the sheer beauty of this place. For all your time in Seoul since you moved in, you've never seen such a pretty place and view.

Jimin slipped an arm around your waist again, the movement as natural to him as pulling a complicated dance move on stage. He drew you closer to him until your steps matched. You moved down the path together. „I have my ways,“ he whispered, brushing his lips against your temple as he spoke. „I wanted somewhere beautiful, somewhere just for us, away from everything.“

You reached a space that was set apart from the rest of the garden. Here, the glow of the lights softened, and the hum of the city felt miles away. It was just for the two of you, the rest of the world didn't matter. A small table waited for you two beneath a wooden pergola, which was laced with strands of fairy lights that didn't glow as bright as the rest, creating a more intimate area. White roses were present too, woven through the beams. The chairs looked really soft and inviting, draped with soft throw blankets that caught the faint evening breeze. And the table... it was simple yet fancy, at the same time. Glassware shone lightly on top of it, reflecting the candlelight. A bottle of champagne rested in a bucket of ice beside them.

You turned toward him fully just then, your hands finding their way on top of his chest. Then your eyes searched his face, taking in how the soft light touched his perfectly smooth skin, and they caught the pride hiding in his expression. „You've outdone yourself, seriously. This is the most thoughtful anniversary gift. Just being here with you... It's perfect.“

Jimin smiled again, just like he did in the elevator moments earlier. It reached his eyes easily and made their corners crease the way they always did when he smiled this widely for you. He lifted his hand and brushed a loose strand of hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear. You leaned into his touch until he cupped your face. This is where you felt the most loved.

„Nothing is too much for you, jagiya. Every year with you feels like a gift. You light up my world in ways I never imagined possible.“ His voice came out quiet, and he let the words settle between you two. Park Jimin was so full of love for you that it bled out in the way he looked at you, the way he held yo,u and the way he spoke to you. And God, it made your heart ache in the best possible way.

He let his hand fall from your face, only to take both of your hands into his. His warm palms pressed against yours, thumbs moving slowly over your knuckles. It was comforting. It was loving. His eyes stayed on yours, giving you a view of his vulnerability. He looked like he was about to hand you something fragile, like a piece of himself, as if he hadn't given you all of him already.

You felt your pulse quicken, that anticipation from before coming back. He brought you here for a reason, and you knew that. Everything around you both melted into the background: the lights, the distant hum of Seoul city life. This time, truly, nothing mattered. Not even the slightest. Jimin drew in a slow breath, and his expression shifted as well. You knew Jimin enough that you were partially ready for this. Ready by knowing that something was coming, but not ready at all for what was coming.

Then, a faint melody drifted through the air. It wasn't loud, it just simply existed. It found the space between the two of you and filled it, already touching your heart before you even heard the lyrics. And then came his voice. It was rich, smooth, and impossibly sincere. Every word carried the weight of his feelings and love. Every note bloomed into the next one as he began to sing:

All this is no coincidence

Just, just, by my feeling

The whole world is different from yesterday

Just, just, with your joy

When you called me

I became your flower

As if we were waiting

We bloom until we ache

Maybe it's the providence of the universe

It just had to be that

You know, I know

You are me, I am you

Your eyes widened, and your breath caught before you could stop it. The sound of his voice suspended everything around you. The wind, the lights, even time itself. You turned toward him, confusion flickering across your face at first, the kind that came when something feels too impossible to be real. But as the melody continued, understanding began to take its place.

This song... you'd never heard it before. It wasn't just the words or the way he sang them, no. It was the way they felt. Each line seemed to reach for you, to say everything he'd never quite fully put into words. His voice carried something he'd most likely guarded for a long time, as though he now stripped every layer of himself away until only the truth remained.

It sounded like him. Like every bit of his soul caught the rise and fall of the notes, every memory that lived between you two was stitched into the melody itself. The world around you was still distant, non-existent. You weren't sure you could ever feel like you existed anywhere else but right here in this moment, on the magical rooftop. There was only his voice, the weight of what it meant, and both of you.

Jimin's gaze never left you, not even for a second. You always thought that his eyes would be your undoing, and perhaps it finally came tonight. This wasn't him playing a song and asking your opinion, nor was it a performance. It was a confession, a simple truth that was hidden behind simple 'I love you's and bodies pressed together while his lips devoured yours. He was singing to you this time, not to an audience.

A single tear slipped free before you even noticed it. The tear slid down your cheek, feeling warm against the cool air. The melody carried on, and the garden seemed to breathe with it. The flowers swayed gently in the breeze, and the lanters flickered in time with the soft beats. It was truly magical, as if the entire rooftop was listening to your love story too.

As much as my heart flutters, I'm worried

The destiny is jealous of us

Just like you I'm so scared

When you see me, when you touch me

The universe has moved for us

Without missin a single thing

Out happiness was meant to be

‘Cause you love me, and I love you

~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~

The HYBE rehearsal studio was alive with the sound of a heavy bass vibrating, even through the floorboards if you focused enough. Sneakers squeaked with every turn in perfect sync with the seven boys practicing for their new single release. Sunlight filtered through the window, spilling onto the wooden floorboards. Dust caught in its light like glitter flying around the room. And the mirrored walls reflected the seven hardworking boys in motion.

In the middle of it all, Jimin was moving like a body of water. So graceful, one would be mesmerised with each movement he made. His blonde hair stuck to his forehead, the colored strands already damp with sweat. Even while fatigue was pulling at his muscles after almost the whole morning of warm-up and practice, he was still sharp as ever. This is the space he thrived in. The space he feels the most comfortable in, doing what he love,s and doing it with some of the most important people in his life: his members.

But he had this tendency that none of the people who loved and cared for him liked. Everyone knew about it. The said tendency was to forget the simplest things. Like eating, like drinking water. Or, like taking a break before his body protested. That was why the boys noticed before he did, the figure stepping inside and clutching a paper bag against their chest.

“Hyung,” Jungkook called out to him during the music break, since he was the first one to spot you entering. “Delivery”

Jimin’s head whipped toward the sound of Jungkook’s voice first, before it settled on you and suddenly his entire expression cracked wide open into a smile that made the corners of his eyes disappear. Almost instantly, his shoulders relaxed, despite his slightly uneven breath from the last run-through of the choreo.

“Y/N?” he breathed out your name so softly, like he wasn’t expecting you to actually come here today.

“Breakfast,” you said simply, lifting the bag to show him. “Because someone I know was about to go another five hours on nothing but coffee.” Your tone was light, but with a hint of accusation he knew all too well when it came to his dietary habits.

Taehyung grinned, taking off his cap and fanning himself dramatically. “Busted,” Came as a low amused mumble. All the boys knew there was no playing about eating when you’re around.

“I give it two minutes before Jimin forgets we exist,” Yoongi, who was already seated on the floor with a bottle of water, spoke with a smallest twitch of his lips. It earned a laugh from Seokjin, which sounded like an agreement. If anyone knew him inside out, it was the members. And they knew they were practically second to you on the Jimin hierarchy of needs.

And Yoongi’s statement wasn’t wrong at all. Jimin’s whole world seemed to tilt toward you the moment you stepped closer to him. As if you were the gravity holding him on the ground and he couldn’t fight it even if he wanted to.

“Did you walk here?” Jimin asked, already moving toward her before she could even set the bag down. His voice softened completely, it the way it only did for her and almost no one else. He reached for the bag automatically. A small crease formed between his brows, she recognized it as the one that always appeared when he was worrying about something. Her apartment was too far to walk here this early, and even though she looked fine, he still worried. He always did, it was simply his default feeling.

“No, I took a cab. Don’t worry, I wasn’t carrying this halfway through Seoul,” Y/N teased, with a smile tugging at her lips. She handed the bag over to him and he took it, gentle fingers brushing over hers. He gave her a look, half relieved, half scolding, and she couldn’t help the quiet laugh that slipped out. She always found him adorable like this, when his concern showed in every tiny movement, every thought, like he didn’t know how not to care. That was just Jimin through and through: always looking after everyone else, but never realizing how much it showed in his actions.

He ran a hand through his hair, which was already damp from practice, letting his pale blond strands fall forward over his forehead. Without thinking, Y/N reached up and brushed the loose locks aside, before he could pull away. Her fingers grazed his skin and he almost shivered. The gesture was small, almost careless truly, but the effect was instant.

Jimin stilled completely, and for that brief moment, the noise in the room dimmed. His gaze flicked up to meet hers. The corners of his mouth twitched like he wanted to smile but couldn’t quite manage it, and instead he was caught somewhere between a memory and reality. He didn’t have to tell her anything, not really. She could tell what he was thinking, just from his look.

He was stretched out across the couch of his apartment, his head resting peacefully in your lap, body loose with the kind of calm that only came to him when the world finally went quiet. The soft fabric of your sweatpants had turned into the most comfortable pillow imaginable, and he looked perfectly at peace here like this. His eyes were half-lidded, threatening to take him down into a deep kind of sleep. And his lips, oh those were curved into a lazy smile that you knew all too well. The late afternoon light filtered through the window in golden streams. It spilled across the floor, climbed over the edge of the couch, and brushed over the blanket draped across his legs.

You sat quietly, your fingers tracing slow paths through his hair, as you often liked to do when you two sat like this together. His pale strands slipped between your fingers like silk, still a little unusual from his recent bleach job. It took a while to get used to his new looks, but by far, blonde has always been your favorite color on him. You combed through it with a kind of unconscious tenderness, and the motion of it lulled him further into the comfortable haze that lingered between sleep and awareness.

The faint scent of your lotion clung to the air, it was something floral, and beneath it, lingered the sweetness of the tea you had made earlier. The mix of it felt like home here, even though you two haven't made a home yet in either of your apartments. However, a specific place wasn't really a home for you two. Not when home was wherever you two were forever. Jimin's breathing had settled into a very steady rhythm, chest rising and falling slowly as you played with his hair.

„You know,“ You murmured, voice low above him. „I think I like your hair like this. It feels so... soft. Like a cloud.“ You tugged gently on a strand, watching how it cought the light.

Jimin let out a quiet sigh, but let the corners of his lips twitch up. „Is that so? I always worry about the damage from bleaching. But if you like it, then it's worth it.“ His voice was slightly drowsy, but touched with humor at the same time. At moments when he's too comfortable to hold anything back, his laugh came the easiest, as it did now. He shifted slightly to stretch his limbs and make himself more comfortable. A soft sound escaped him once he settled, and it sounded almost like a purr.

„Oh, don't say that!“ the sound of your brief laugh filled the room. „You shouldn't damage your hair for anyone, not even me. But really, it suits you.“ You run your fingers through his strands again, as if to make a point. „It makes your eyes stand out even more.“

He tilted his head slightly. „My eyes?“ he mumbled, cracking one open to look up at you. „What about my eyes?“

You smiled down at him, thumb brushing along his temple absently. „They just sparkle more against the lighter color,“ you saif softly. Your fingers never stopped their gentle work through his hair. The motion was soothing and unhurried, as if time has lost it's meaning completely and there is only him and you in this world. „Like little stars. And your smile... it looks brighter too. You know, you have the cutest smile in the entire universe.“

The sound that left his lips next was warm, simply a quiet laugh that settled between you both like it belonged. And, truthfully, it did. „You're just saying that because you love me.“

„Well, that's certainly part of it,“ you admitted, teasingly. „But it's also true. You know, sometimes I just watch you when you're busy with something, or when you're just deep in thought, and I think about how lucky I am.“

Jimin finally opened both eyes, lookng up at you with that gaze of his that always made your heart skip a couple of times. „Lucky? I'm the lucky one, Y/N. Getting to come home to this? To you, just being here, letting me rest my tired head on your lap, listening to you ramble about my hair. It's the best part of my day.“ He reached up and gently cup your cheek, rubbing his thumb across your skin upon contact.

The warmth of his palm against your skin made your breath hitch. The feel of his thumb brushing slowly against your cheekbone gave you the shivers right across your spine. Your heart fluttered in your chest. It was a quiet response to his touch, one he'll never know about because only you felt it.

„It's not rambling,“ you pouted first, but then a fond smile made your lips curl up. „It's appreciation.“ You leaned down toward him. Your eyes searched his face, commiting it to your memory for a hundreath time. Park Jimin was truly an angel in disguise, and he was your angel. „And if you're going to keep saying sweet things like that, you might get a reward.“

Before Jimin could even respond to that, you lowered your head completely. Your lips gently pressed against his soft ones. The kiss was soft at first, just a gentle meeting of your lips with his. His hand, lingering against your cheek just a second ago, drifted up to the back of your neck. You felt your fingers tangle into your hair urgently, a sensation that made you let out a brief sigh against his mouth. You leaned further down despite the awkward angle because it was worth it. So damn worth feeling his lips.

His head shifted slightly in your lap carefully, not to stop this moment, but to prolong it just a little longer. Your other hand slipped to his jaw, thumb tracing his smooth skin there. He was right here, kissing you back, loving you back. Nothing else mattered anymore. The world outside didn't matter. Nothing, absolutely nothing, except what you two had right here.

When you finally broke apart, breathless and hazy, you stayed close. Your lips brushed his cheek once as you attempted to catch your breath. Then you rested your forehead against his, noses almost touching. Jimin's lashes fluttered and he smiled faintly, that beautiful smile you praised just minutes earlier. And your fingers, still tangled in his bleached hair, absently combed through the soft strands. You just weren't willing to let go yet.

„That was a very good reward,“ he murmured, his slightly husky voice almost sending your mind into a frenzy. Oh, you just loved knowing that you caused it. „Maybe you should appreciate my hair more often.“

The small intimacy display drew a chorus of muffled groans and chuckles in the background though. As much as they love how comfortable and happy Jimin is with you, they won’t miss a chance to tease. “Seriously, you two,” Namjoon muttered loud enough to be heard. But his complaint is betrayed by the amusement in his tone.

Jimin decides it’s better to ignore them. “You’ll stay while we eat, right?” He asks, not taking his eyes off you.

“Of course,” you said with the smallest of nods, and that was all he needed.

The boys dispersed quite quickly to their own devices, some grabbing water, others collapsing dramatically on the floor to scroll their phones or chat. But Jimin still hasn’t let go of your wrist, so he tugged you gently toward the corner of the studio. The spot was away from the mirrors and speakers, enough to help him pretend the world had narrowed down to just the two of you.

He sank onto the floor beside you, enough to leave minimal space between both of you, as usual. He stretched his tired legs out, his chest still rising and falling with leftover effort. He watched you unpack the bag, not even looking at what you got him. He trusted your judgement when it came to what he ate, a lot. Meanwhile, you laid out neatly wrapped sandwiches and warm pastries, and almost immediately, the faint aroma of eggs and cheese wafted through the air. It was breakfast you two often got when he had a free morning. Sometimes it was easier to order than waste precious time cooking, time you could spend cuddling, of course.

Jimin finally laid his eyes on the spread and let out a small laugh, well, it was more half a laugh, half genuine awe. “God, I love you,” his voice carried that familiar hint of emotion that it felt as if the sun had moved closer when it reached your chest.

“You love food more,” you corrected while handling him the sandwich you knew he specifically always ordered.

He accepted it obediently with both hands, like you handed him a prize or something. But then he leaned closer until his temple brushed against your shoulder. “I love you more.”

The words were so natural coming from him. No matter how frequently he voices them, they never lose weight. Being loved by him wasn’t grandiose nor loud, no. He wasn’t one for grand speeches or sweeping gestures. Love from him didn’t come in fireworks, but in the slow burn of everyday kindness. His love showed up in the way he remembered your tea just the way you liked, in the way his hand pressed to the small of your back whenever he could. And especially in the way he listened, really listened, when you spoke.

As he unwrapped his sandwich, you caught him glancing at you more than the food. His eyes sparkled with warmth you were well familiar with. Despite the exhaustion clinging to him, he still had energy to admire you. His lips curled into that small, and almost shy smile that said a thousand different things at once.

You nudged his knee with yours. “What?”

“Nothing,” he murmured with a head shake. He looks down at his sandwich briefly, and before taking a bite, adds: “Just… you’re here. That’s all.”

The words were so simple, such bare minimum, but they still made your throat tighten because of the way he said them. In his world, they were sacred, carrying an entire universe within. But, from the other side of the room, he caught attention.

“Hyung, don’t get all sappy now. We’re trying to eat in peace here.” Jungkook called out between bites of his own food. You let out a laugh, Jimin groaned, and Hoseok clapped his hands together, throwing himself back onto an old bean bag that was there for convenience. Hoseok laughed with his whole body and it’s always good to have something soft beside him to land on.

He spoke once he calmed down and straightened up again. “Yah, Jungkook, let them be. We should be thankful, our Jiminie is this happy because of her. Look at his face!”

Jin, because why not, added: “Happier than when he gets extra rice cakes.”

The teasing simply rolled off Jimin like sweat beads after a concert. Normally, he might turn pink and deny it, but he was long past that phase of shyness. Now he only smiled wider, accepting every word they spoke. He even reached up and brushed the couple of stray breadcrumbs from your bottom lip with his thumb as though to prove every word they said true.

“You make me soft,” he confessed under his breath, just low enough for you to hear him. “I don’t even care if they tease me.” He said it and meant it. It didn’t help that the way he was looking at you made it impossible to doubt.

The two of you took your time finishing breakfast, lingering over each bite like there was no rush. He offered you sips of his water, fed you the last bite of his sandwich even though you protested, wiped your fingers with a napkin more carefully than necessary. His every action screamed devotion, no matter how quiet and small. It said a lot about him as a person.

When it was time to practice again, the boys were already back in their work mode. Jimin rose reluctantly and tugged you up with him. “Stay a little longer?” he asked, still holding onto your hand and brushing his thumb over your knuckles.

When you nodded, his whole face lit up at once. It struck you how love looked on him, like the music he and the boys worked so hard on to perfect for ARMY. His hands went around your face, gently holding it like a drop of water on the surface of his palm. His soft lips pressed a quick kiss to yours. It was short, yet loving, just enough to keep you both together for the next few hours of physical separation.

When he pulled back, he brushed his thumb against your cheek, and then stepped back to return to the center of the room.

~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~

The hallway outside Yoongi’s studio was dim at this hour, lit only by the soft glow spilling under his door. The rapper was hardworking as usual, staying later in his studio to work on beats, whether it was a group project or his solo stuff. Jimin admired that about him, since their first days together.

Jimin stood there for a few seconds longer than he had planned. He chewed on his bottom lip because he hasn’t felt this nervous about anything else other than performances and new releases. In his hand, he clutched folded pages of lyrics he’s been writing for a while. He wasn’t usually nervous about asking his hyung for help, Yoongi had always been dependable and ready to lend a hand, but this was different. It wasn’t a group thing, it wasn’t for ARMY. This one thing was for him and her. For something that mattered to him in a way he couldn’t even put fully into words with these lyrics he held.

He took a breath, and finally knocked lightly on the door.

A muffled voice came from inside. “It’s open.”

Pushing the door, Jimin stepped inside. The familiar scent of coffee and warm electronics greeted him, along with a subtle tang of whiskey Yoongi would indulge in, for inspiration, of course. There was a familiar comfort of the neat clutter of Yoongi’s space: stacks of notebooks, scattered cables, and the faint hum of a beat looping on the speakers. Jimin didn’t know how a man can make a mess but at the same time make it look… organized, the way his hyung does. Speaking of, Yoongi sat in his chair, spinning lazily from side to side since he couldn’t sit completely still the whole time. His hair, which he didn’t bother to push aside, fell into his eyes as he looked up at Jimin’s entrance.

“Oh,” Yoongi said casually. “You. Thought you were Hobi with more coffee.”

Jimin let out a small laugh and shut the door behind him. “Sorry to disappoint, hyung. It’s just me.”

Yoongi shrugged, gesturing vaguely toward the chair across from him. “Sit. You look like you’ve got something on your mind.” Classic Yoongi. The silent guy that knows them so well, possibly better than they know themselves. It comes from years of sitting silently, watching everyone and noting their words and interests to store into his internal memory of people he cares about.

Jimin crossed the room, feeling his nerves build more and more with each step. He set the folded papers on his lap and sat down. For a moment, he only stared at them, absolutely unsure where to begin. Yoongi didn’t press, he never actually did. Instead, he turned back toward the monitor, paused the track he was working on and leaned back in his chair. His hands folded loosely in his lap and Jimin knew the man meant business.

Finally, the younger man drew in a breath. “Hyung… I need a favor.”

His words got Yoongi’s complete, undivided attention. His head tilted slightly and dark eyes flicked over Jimin’s expression. “Big or small?”

“Big.”

Then, a quiet beat passed between them before Yoongi nodded once like that was it, all the info he needed. “Alight. What is it?”

Instantly, Jimin’s throat tightened. He cursed his own nerves, especially in moments like these when he needed himself to be at his best. Despite all that, he unfolded the papers and smoothed them out on the desk between them. His handwriting filled the pages in lines that were scribbled and rewritten, some verses were crossed out, there were even little notes in the margins all around. Yoongi leaned forward to glance at them, interest peaking right away, and Jimin felt his ears heating.

“It’s… lyrics,” Jimin explained, while keeping his voice even. Despite trusting Yoongi, even with his life, Jimin didn’t want his friend to see him so not composed as he usually is. “I’ve been working on them for a while now. They’re not for an album, or anything official. They’re just… for me. Well, for someone.”

Yoongi’s eyes flicked up to him and Jimin knew he could read him like these messy words on the white paper. “Y/N.”

Was Jimin surprised? Not really. But he still swallowed hard and blinked at his friend. “That easy to tell?”

“You wouldn’t look this nervous if it was for anyone else,” Yoongi replied simply, like it was the most obvious thing. And it was, actually. He looked back down at the lyrics, taking the paper into his own hands. Jimin let him, trusting his judgement. The rapper skimmed the first few lines, lips pressed tight in thought. “What’s the occasion?”

There it is. The moment of reveal which had Jimin in a chokehold since he decided to come to Yoongi. His voice dropped when he spoke. “Our third anniversary. And… I’m going to propose.”

For the next moment, silence filled the studio again, except for the silent hum of the equipment that should otherwise be unnoticeable. But Jimin heard it, along with his own heartbeat. Yoongi’s brows lifted slightly, but his expression betrayed pride. That fact eased Jimin, just a little. He watched Yoongi lean back and cross his arms over his chest loosely.

“Well,” he said after the pause. “that explains the nerves.”

Feeling less rigid, Jimin laughed weakly and rubbed the back of his neck. “I want it to be special, hyung. I want to give her something that’s… just for us. A song no one else will hear. And I thought… I thought maybe you could help me make it real.”

Yoongi studied him for a moment, no judgement in those dark eyes at all. Then, he leaned forward again and looked back down at the lyrics, continuing to skim the rest. He was obviously imagining the beat, the rhythm, and probably how it will all turn out in a final draft already. Yet there was something… just a little curve at the corner of his mouth. It was subtle, but it gave Jimin all the answers he needed. “You really had to ask?”

Jimin blinked though, anxiety getting better of him. “What do you mean?”

“You know I’ll help you,” Yoongi said flatly, but his actions already contradicted the characteristic calmness he expressed. He picked up a pencil and started marking the margins of Jimin’s lyrics. He was tapping the desk with his other hand on the side, already working the rhythm as he read. “Doesn’t matter if it’s for release or not. If it’s important to you, I’ll make time.”

Jimin’s chest instantly tightened before he even finished the sentence. This was Yoongi. No drama follows this man, no noise in his actions, but he’s always there. Always. He was the kind of person who would never turn down a friend in need.

“Thank you, hyung,” Jimin said softly. He didn’t doubt Yoongi’s willingness to help, but he didn’t want to take it for granted either, especially not when he knew Yoongi was a busy man.

Yoongi’s response sounded distracted, since he was still focused on the words written. “Mmm. Don’t thank me yet. Let’s see what you’ve got here.” Jimin didn’t comment, just letting his friend do his music magic, or whatever it is he did to make everything about music and songs so magical and special. Speaking of Yoongi, he tapped a line with the eraser end of his pencil, humming to himself again. “This one’s good. Simple and honest. But the flow stumbles here, if you want it to sit over a melody, we might have to adjust. You okay with tweaking a few lines?”

“Of course.”

Yoongi nodded, satisfied with the answer. “Good. You already have a melody in mind?”

“Sort of. Just…” Jimin hesitated, unsure about something this important. “Bits and pieces. Nothing solid, really.”

“Sing it,” Yoongi said without looking up.

The younger man’s eyes widened. “Now?”

Yoongi finally looked up, giving him a look. “What, you want me to wait until tomorrow? Sing it.”

With a sheepish laugh, Jimin cleared his throat. He began humming the melody that’s been circling his head for weeks. It wasn’t perfect, not final yet. But it carried the feeling he wanted for this project: soft and yearning. As Jimin sang, Yoongi’s pencil started moving over the paper again. He sketched notes and little arrows only he could understand and connect across the page.

When Jimin finished, a third round of silence lingered for the shortest of moments as Yoongi finished sketching. Then he hummed the tune back slower, testing it against the words he newly added. “Not bad,” He finally said. “Needs some smoothing, but it works nicely. We can build around that,” He looked up, meeting Jimin’s eyes. “You want this to feel intimate, yeah? Just the two of you.”

Jimin nodded quickly. “Exactly.”

“Then we keep it stripped down,” Yoongi said, nodding at the paper. He was in full lyricist-producer work mode now. “Acoustic base, maybe piano. Let your voice carry it mostly. No need for heavy production or it’ll drown the meaning. You want her to hear you, not the layers around you.”

Jimin swallowed, slightly overwhelmed by just how easily Yoongi understood. “That’s… that’s perfect.”

Yoongi shrugged like it was nothing, just his usual daily thing to do. Well, truthfully, it was. He lived music. This truly was nothing. “When do you need it by?” He asked, flipping to a blank page in his notebook.

“The anniversary’s in two weeks,” Jimin admitted. “I know it’s short notice, hyung, but-”

“Two weeks is plenty,” Yoongi cut in before Jimin can begin rambling and panic about the due date. “We’ll get it done.” He added, matter-of-fact.

Jimin just blinked, his heart squeezing with so much love he thought was impossible to have for a man he considered a brother. “Really?”

“Do I look like I’m joking?” Yoongi shot him a flat look. He had a point, Yoongi never joked about finishing on time.

Jimin laughed, shaking his head. “No. I just… I didn’t think you’d drop everything for this.” If he was to be honest, now he felt guilty for pulling Yoongi away from everything else he had on his schedule. He’d hate to be the reason for Yoongi's dark circles.

Yoongi leaned back, twirling the pencil between his fingers. “You’re my brother. You ask, I help. It’s that simple.”

With Yoongi, words like that carried weight. He didn’t say them often and he didn’t need to. But everyone who knew him understood that when he did speak like this, it wasn’t to fill silence, it was because he meant it. Even when he spoke them as easily as saying a quick “hello”, those words pressed against Jimin’s chest and sunk deeper than he expected.

Sincerity has always been his quiet strength, not masked and dressed up in grand gestures or flowery phrases, but it was a certainty that made you believe him without question. And right now, Jimin believed him with everything he had. He ducked his head, suddenly shy as the papers in his lap rustled under his hands. “You always say things like that so easily.” he murmured, almost accusingly even when his voice carried nothing but warmth.

Yoongi glanced at him, eyes narrowing slightly in thought, like he was debating whether to respond or not. And for a moment, Jimin even thought he’d hear something else, like a dry quip, or even a deeper, rarer confession. But then, Yoongi just closed his mouth and huffed out a breath through his nose. Then gave a small nod. Enough sentimentality for one night. Agust D wasn’t built to sit in feelings too long.

It was time to work anyway, Jimin knew so. He wouldn’t leave this studio without at least seeing the first draft, knowing how Yoongi operated. So, for the next fifteen minutes, Yoongi bent over the lyrics. His pen scratched the paper, leaving the gray mark on the paper, occasionally pausing to tap the desk in rhythm as he adjusted a phrase or mapped a possible chorus.

Meanwhile, Jimin sat quietly opposite him with his hands folded in his lap. His thumb and forefinger fidgeted, rolling the edge of the paper as he watched Yoongi work. At first, the silence made him aware of his own nervous heartbeat, but the steady sound of Yoongi’s pencil became a kind of anchor he could focus on and it was pulling him into the calm state he didn’t come into this studio with.

The reassurance Yoongi had given him was almost short, but it was still echoing in his mind. We’ll get it done. It was all he needed to hear to help the anxiety twisting in his stomach for days now to unravel finally. He knew that he had all the support from his members, without a doubt. But it still helped to know that for certain, since Yoongi was the first to find out.

His thoughts drifted toward what came after, more specifically, the anniversary and the proposal. He pictured it in flashes: her face when she hears the song, the way her hands might tremble, the way her eyes would widen. He imagined holding out the ring he already picked out, his heart thumping in his throat at that point. And then asking the question he’s been carrying for months.

It had to be perfect. It just had to. He knew life didn’t always give you perfect moments, but this one… he wanted to create it with his own hands for her. No, for them. Not just as an anniversary or a celebration of three years together, but as a promise. A marker of the day they’d step into the rest of their lives together. The happily ever after.

Once the clock Yoongi never glanced at, but kept in his studio just because, crept past midnight and that first rough demo was saved, Jimin leaned back in his chair and let his shoulders sag like he’d carried all the weight of the day upon them. The glow on his face wasn’t just from the screen of Yoongi’s monitor, it was actually the kind of tired brightness that came from pouring himself into something that mattered.

That’s when Yoongi slid a fresh cup of coffee across the desk without a word. He had taken a break to boil water in the kettle and poured in the little bag of 3in1 coffee he kept in his studio for emergencies. Not his usual go-to, but it works when he’s too work drunk to wait for an order to arrive. Jimin had no idea how many times he’s been in this situation back when he had to record his parts of group songs when he was too busy to be there for the group record sessions.

Jimin wrapped his hands around the cup, letting the warmth seep into his fingers. His throat tightened impossibly tight, partly emotion about everything he has planned, partially the gratitude he couldn’t quite put into words right now. So, he decides not to address how much help Yoongi was and make the man go through all the sentimentality again. But, his anxiety flared up again about something. “Hyung,” he murmured, not daring to look up from the dark swirl of coffee. “she’s going to say yes, right?”

Yoongi didn’t laugh at his worry. Didn’t tease or mock him for being nervous, or make light of the question asked. Instead, he rested a steady hand on Jimin’s shoulder. The younger man felt the weight of it immediately and it was comforting. It was enough to pull Jimin out of the tangle of the doubts circling inside his chest.

“If she loves you the way these lyrics say she does,” Yoongi’s voice was even, but there was no mistaking the gentleness. “then she already has.”

Jimin let the words sink in as the room settled into a comfortable silence again. His lips curved just slightly, feeling the quiet reassurance anchor him more than any grand pep talk ever could. Sometimes you just need less words and more presence than a whole speech. And that was exactly what worked for Jimin right now. He couldn’t be more thankful for the people he’s surrounded himself with over the years. And he’s going to spend the rest of his life with one of them soon.

~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~

Seoul never really slept, but inside the HYBE building there was this little studio called the Genius Lab that might as well have been its own world. Even before Jimin’s project, the studio lights were on until wee hours. Specifically this week, Jimin found himself there every night, slipping in after schedules ended, after rehearsals drained him of sweat and breath, and after laughter and chatter with the boys gave way to silence. He would knock gently and Yoongi would already be waiting inside with half-finished coffee on the desk and the light of his monitor shone brightly upon his face.

The first night had been a little shaky. Jimin’s voice trembled just a little when he hummed the melody and he knew it happened because he was afraid of breaking something so delicate he’s built in this song. But Yoongi caught it immediately and cast his chord magic that always left Jimin in wonder. Now, several nights later, the song was taking shape and what started as mere pencil-scribbles in messy margins of a notebook was slowly transforming into something special.

Jimin leaned against the booth wall, headphones slipping slightly over his ears. His chest rose and fell in rhythm with his singing when he went over one line again, making it softer now and with less strain, as Yoongi suggested. He could already imagine her hearing it for the first time, while he knelt to the ground with that ring in his fingers, he can imagine her smile breaking open as she realized what it meant. That scene alone was enough to make his voice catch with emotion, but he didn’t let that stop him.

Yoongi listened, as usual when he worked on projects. His eyes were closed and head tilted slightly as though he could picture every note and imagine them settling into place within the walls of his mind. When Jimin finished, he looked through the glass that separated him and Yoongi.

“Better,” Yoongi finally opened his eyes, locking them with Jimin’s inside the recording booth. “You don’t need to push so hard. Let it breathe.” He adjusted a dial on his mixer and glanced back at Jimin. “Sing it like you’re whispering it to her.”

The words found their way to Jimin through the headphones and he nodded. He pressed the headphones closer and gave it another shot. This time, there was less force and more tenderness in how he sang it. When he finished, the look Yoongi gave him was subtle but approving in that Yoongi way. “That’s it,” the rapper murmured, already saving the take.

Jimin smiled faintly, heart full of love and whatever else it could muster up. “Hyung… thank you. Really.” He said, knowing Yoongi could hear him loud and clear.

The rapper didn’t answer right away though. Momentarily he busied himself with the screen to adjust what he deemed needed before finally saying, “Don’t thank me until she hears it. That’s when it matters.”

Days after that blurred together for Jimin. He had this song to work on and the group’s schedule was also very packed. Rehearsals that left everyone half-collapsed by evening, a variety show recording that stretched into the afternoon, and a whole lot of different things as well. Cameras followed them wherever they went, recording half their lives to be forever up on the internet.

And just beneath all the chaos and hectic work life, Jimin carried a secret sitting in his chest like he grew a second heart. It would often quicken like his actual heart whenever he looked down at his phone and her message sat in his notifications, the silly little hearts she always used making his day better. Every free minute, every silver of quiet he managed to catch during his busy day, his thoughts drifted back to that song, and the moment she heard it. The moment he goes down on one knee.

He didn’t tell the rest of the boys yet. Not because he didn’t want to. God forbid there was anything he didn’t share with them. But he was as nervous about it as he was when Yoongi found out, only five times over this time. He didn’t know how to do it, which might be stupid, considering he once shared a single bedroom with a bunch of bunk beds with these six guys. And a bathroom, for that matter. But the boys did notice he was different. Oh, they always notice.

It was Seokjin who caught on first, actually, during a late night group dinner they rarely had when life gets busy. Nothing ever went past those older brother senses of his. Everyone was eating noisily, especially the two youngest. Jungkook made a bet with Taehyung about who can eat his noodles sooner. But Seokjin? Oh, that man leaned back in his seat and eyes Jimin like he’s grown two heads. And Jimin was half-distracted with his chopsticks hovering and a smile tugging at his lips.

“You’ve been glowing lately,” Seokjin remarked casually, like talking about the weather. But that glint in his eyes said this was anything but casual. “Care to share why?”

The table quieted down just enough for Jimin to realize all five pairs of eyes had turned toward him (minus Yoongi who seemed to know where this was going, his cat sense tingling or whatever). Taehyung leaned in immediately, noodles forgotten and a boxy grin on display. Jungkook also forgot the bet, obviously and let his curiosity get the best of him. Hoseok also tilted his head and Namjoon simply waited and watched, so intensely that Jimin almost thought that the leader had him figured out already.

Speaking of Jimin, his face burned under their gazes and he let out a nervous laugh, trying to wave it off. That’s when Yoongi set his chopsticks down and glanced at Jimin, as if confirming whether or not he’s about to spill it. But for the rest of the boys, the silence and the glance was enough of an answer.

“Hyung!” Taehyung gasped almost dramatically, slapping the table. “You know something!”

Yoongi didn’t blink or flinch at the accusation. He only sipped his soda and let the chaos build around him. It wasn’t his place to tell, no matter how much he finally wanted the cat out of the bag, if he were honest.

“Tell us, tell us!” Jungkook leaned across the table like a child begging for candy.

Jimin ducked his head and pressed his lips into a smile he knew couldn’t be hidden anymore. He didn’t need to say the words out loud for the boys to know something big was going on. They just knew him too well. They felt it in his softness lately, in the way he disappeared after practice only to return the next morning glowing despite yesterday’s exhaustion. They saw it in everything.

And when he told them, they all burst into a fit of cheers so loud it made him flinch before he laughed. Hoseok jumped up first, nothing short of Hoseok-like, and practically dragged Jimin up on his feet to shake his shoulders before pulling him into a crushing hug. Taehyung was right behind him, clapping so hard his palms must’ve stung. He couldn’t resist hugging his soulmate, his best friend, the first one in the group to get engaged and live a happy life with his partner.

Seokjin did the most elder brotherly thing and smacked Jimin lightly on the back. It was a very proud and partially teasing gesture which the younger man appreciated very much. Jugkook was still as wide-eyed as Jimin remembered him from their debut days. He shouted something incoherent, which might have been something with the few beers the maknae had during dinner, and then threw his arms around Jimin. And Namjoon, always so damn composed, couldn’t keep his cool this time. His dimples graced Jimin’s view as the older guy laughed and wrapped him in a hug that felt more like being anchored safely than just a hug. Namjoon had that effect on people.

It was overwhelming in the best way possible, Jimin thought. Shouts, whistles, congratulations coming from all sides of him, coming from people he cared about the most (with the exception of one girl that waited for him after this dinner). The group’s joy was so unfiltered that it filled every corner of the room, bouncing off the walls, vibrating in Jimin’s chest until it nearly burst from inside out.

For a long moment, he could only stand there and watch his best friends being so happy for him they could light up a whole city with how much energy they’ve got going on here. It wasn’t just that they were happy for him, actually, it was that they believed in him and in what he was about to do. But then again, this was them, and even if he was climbing the rock bottom, they’d believe in him.

And for the first time, he could see the full picture of that day: the moment he would kneel before her, the song filling the air between them as his confession in the way he knew to confess best (through music), and his heart open and bare for her to softly take into her hands and care for. And the boys somewhere nearby, watching, maybe even holding back tears of their own.

He smiled to himself, feeling that familiar tightness in his chest that had been following him for months now.

Soon.

~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅★⋅⋆ ~ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ~

The final notes of the song faded, leaving a silence that settled over the rooftop, broken only by the faint sounds of life all around the building. Your hands trembled and you desperately tried to steady yourself, but it just wasn't working. You were rooted to that one spot, while every single emotion crashed into you at once. Your breathing was uneven, and the tears on your cheeks felt warm despite the coolness of the night air. The tears weren't those of sadness, not even close. They were tears that came when the heart overflowed with emotion and the body couldn't contain the feeling.

Jimin watched you with an expression that held nothing back. His eyes caught the light from the fairy strands above, giving that already soft pair a glassy shimmer. Moments ago, he'd been lost in the song, listening to his own voice carry over the rooftop. You could tell that each note carried a piece of his soul with the wind. Now he stood completely still in front of you, as if scared to disturb the moment.

„That song...“ You managed, but your voice was barely above a whisper. „Jimin, I... that was incredible. I've never heard it. Was that... you recorded that?“

Needing your proximity, Jimin stepped closer to you. His smile bloomed softly, hiding his perfect eyes. It warmed his entire face instantly. When he reached up to touch your cheeks, his thumbs brushed over the wet trails of your tears with care that made your breath hitch all over again. He held you as if you might shatter from the weight of this night and specifically this moment. He knew he was at the edge as well. This was such an important moment.

„I did. For you. It's been finished for a week or two, waiting for the right moment.“ He paused brefly before adding. „Our moment.“ His voice showed his calmness, which contrasted with the full force storm that churned inside of you. He took a deep breath, preparing himself for the speech he's planned to deliver. No matter how many times he's rehearsed it, the speech never felt perfect enough in his opinion. But he had a feeling he won't mess it up. „The entire night, Y/N, it isn't just an anniversary dinner.“

He drew his hands away from your face even though he wasn't fond of breaking the physical contact with you. Jimin was the kind of clingy type of guy, but not in that overly clingy way, not really. He just needed reassurance that you're here by holding your hand. Just like now, when he laced your fingers together to gently guide you a few slow steps until you stood beneath the cluster of brightest light.

The pergola framed your two figures like you were on stage, even though nothing about this moment right now felt performative. Jimin had spent years mastering the art of the stage. He's given his everything, his blood, sweat and tears, to make something special for thousands and thousands of fans watching him. And he was brilliant at it. Together with his members, he was unstoppable, like a force that can conquer everything. But right here, where the two of you stood, none of it mattred. There was no audience or expectations to meet, just the two of you.

„I remember the first time I saw you,“ he finally spoke after giving you enough time to process the song and focus on the speech he was about to deliver. His voice dropped to a low note too, and you knew that you're not leaving this rooftop with dry eyes. „It was at that pop-up gallery opening, remember? The one near the river? I was supposed to be doing a quick appearance, get in and out. And there you were, not among the other people, but djusting the aperture on that vintage camera of yours, trying to capture the way the last rays of sun were hitting that single, overlooked sculpture in the corner.“

His voice carried you both back, and you could see the memory unfolding behind his eyes as the wind brushed the rose petals along the pergola. That faint scent of the flowers shifted around you two as the wind moved with a mind of its own. The only thing that kept you grounded right now and not floating around like this trail of flowers, was the feeling of his hands in yours. Then he let out a soft laugh, which sounded nostalgic while he relived your earliest memories.

„Everyone else focused on the obvous art, on all the flashy pieces,“ he continued speaking, and gave your fingers a gentle squeeze just because. The movement spoke more than his words alone did. „But you... you saw the subtle beauty in all the pieces. You were completely lost in your focus, oblivious to everything else around you. It was like watching a master painter, Y/N, except your canvas was the world, and your tool were your eyes.“

While he spoke, the lights above flickered softly. The light caught in the stray strands of hair that brushed over your cheek. And that endless city behind him faded away into a nightsky full of man made stars. And there he was: the center of those stars, delivering what seems to be the beginning of the most heartfel speech you've ever heard.

Jimin paused like he had all the time in the world to finish this night, or he just didn't want it to end so he was prolonging every moment he had. The silence stretched, but it was a perfectly calculated moment of nothingness. Jimin certainly knew how to deliver a speech, especially since he has experiences giving speeches. His eyes gazed upon you softly, which shouldn't be that special to you, since he always looked at you with these soft eyes. But in this moment, while you were uncertain what this all meant, the way his eyes shone with love, it took you off guard slightly. It made you feel seen, which unsettled you and grounded you both at once. Jimin finally spoke up. „That's what you do to my life, jagi.“

As if he wasn't already close to you, he made a point by stepping closer, bringing more warmth to you. The movement brought a fresh swirl of his cologne, which was citrusy tonight, into the air and the scent wrapped around you. „You teach me to stop looking at the stage lights and to focus on the soft light of the morning,“ He went on. „You taught me how to see myself, not just the image the world expects. You brought depth and color to a life that was honestly, sometimes, feeling a little too black and white.“ His words carried a kind of truth that, for a musician, was easier to say through a song, rather than speak them this openly.

„Our journey hasn't been easy, has it?“ he murmured, and this time his voice carried more weight and conviction than before. „We had to survive time differences and distances when I was on tours, the insane schedules of my life and constant secrecy. There were months where a ten minute video call felt like a miracle when I had pre-concert prep.“ With the remembrance of those nights when either you or he had to stay up late to greet each other even for ten minutes or less, he gave a small smile. „But every moment apart only solidified one thought for me: you are the place I want to return to, every single time. You are my home, Y/N. My peace.“

He lifted your joined hands with care, raising them between your bodies to plant a kiss on your skin. When his lips brushed the back of your hand, that kiss lingered. He didn't rush it because he didn't want just his words to present his love for you. Jimin, was a man of physical care, after all. He's done this so many times when the two of you had move nights, him laying between your arms because he loved the feeling of them wrapped around his body. He would raise your hand to his lips and paint butterfly kisses upon it. But this right here, oh it meant so much more. His warmth and the feeling of those soft lips against your skin tightened your throat and blurred the edges of your vision.

„That was my new song for you,“ he said. „It's called Serendipity, because that's what you are to me.“ He paused yet again, obviously loving this dramatic flair that came with the speech a little too much. He briefly let go of your hand and reached over to wipe the runaway tear on your cheek. You didn't even realize it fell, but you didn't care either.

„You are my Serendipity,“ he continued. „I didn't go looking for you, but the universe put you right in front of my lens, and suddenly everything clicked into perfect focus. Every memory we've made, every quiet moment in your apartment or mine, every ridiculous inside joke, every tear dried for the other... it all led to this rooftop tonight.“

Now he let one of your hands slip free for something that's going to take longer than wiping a tear, but kept the other tightly clasped in his. He ran his thumb once along your knuckles, either for his own peace of mind or yours, you weren't sure. But it didn't do much to help calm your nerves. Not when his now-free hand slid into the breast pocket of his suit jacket. For a brief moment, you noticed his hand shaking, and it hit you just how nervous he actually is.

When he pulled his hand from his pocket, he held a small velvet box of deep blue, nearly black, color. Jimin held it with a caution that spoke volumes and you knew exactly what it held. You had your suspicion since he brought you on this rooftop, but still a small part of you thought this wa sall just an anniversary gift and speech. But now you understood it a lot better: it WAS an anniversary gift, just a bigger one than you anticipated. Jimin's eyes lited to yours and in them you could now see the the hope burning so strong it rooted you in your place.

„I don't want a few days or a few weeks or a few months,“ Jimin said, voice carrying so many emotions at once that you couldn't keep up anymore. „I want forever. I want every single sunrise in every time zone, Y/N, as long as I get to see it with you. I want to spend the rest of my life showig you how much you are loved.“

He finally took a deep breath, the kind that was for him and him only: simply to steady him in what he's about to do next. Even the wind didn't blow anymore, as if it paused to listen too. Jimin released your other hand now as well, but his fingers trailed your skin for as long as they could before falling away. Then he lowered himself onto one knee. The movement was unhurried and it futher cemented your convinction about what this was.

The polished stone beneath him reflected faint glimmers of the string lights overhead in tiny little orbs which now trembled in your blurred vision. This time truly nothing else mattered. Not the city of Seoul, not the thousands of tiny lights that resembled stars on land, not the traffic below. Truly nothing could take your focus off this single moment: the man you loved on one knee in front of you.

Your breath caught when he opened the small blue velved box. Its hinge gave a soft click, barely audible really, but for you it echoed like a bell. It revealed a single diamond ring, bright enough to challenge every star on the skyline. It was so beautiful and so your style. But then again, this was Jimin who choose it. He was a man who knew you inside out, of couse he would choose the best for you.

The world shrank down, but not in that way that felt incredibly small, more in a way that felt focused. And focused it was: on the ring, the box, his fingers that still trembled but he tried not to let it show, and most importantly, on the hope that was printed so openly on his face. You felt your chest tighten even more, and heard your own heartbeat loud and clear in your ears.

It felt like an hour had passed, but in reality, you two have been stuck in this moment for half a minute max. Your hands lew up to cover your mouth, purely to silence a sob that sounded more like a gasp. This time, you felt your tears fall and didn't try stopping them, as if you could, even if you did try. Your vision blurred comletely with the neverending tears that just wouldn't stop, and those fairy lights above stretched into long, trembling streaks.

Down on his one knee, Jimin still looked impossibly handsome, yet achingly vulnerable. There was tension in his shoulders, as if every muscle held back a rush of fear and hope, both at once. His eyes were fixed on you, bright but filled with unshed tears. He was holding back from breaking a lot better than you were right now. „Y/N,“ he began again and his voice cracked slightly, because now it was an evident show of his anxiety and love. He swallowed and tilted his head up just enough to catch your gaze. You stood there frozen, unable to will yourself to move or to even say anything. The only movement came from your chest rising and falling unevenly.

„Don't stand there looking like you're about to faint on me, jagiya,“ Jimin chuckled nervously. The laugh wasn't enough to cut down on the tension though, but it eased it even if just by a little.

He took a deeper breath for what felt like a hundreath time this night, and the seriousness settled back over him once more. „I know this is sudden, even though we've built a life that feels like forever already. But I can't wait another day. Every morning I wake up, the first thought is you. Everytime I finish a grueling schedule, the only place I want to be is next to you, watching bad documentaties, or just talking about what photo you want to take next.“

For the first time in a while, the wind made its presence known again, brushing his jacket and carrying the faint scent of those roses again. Jimin lifted the box just a fraction higher and the light bounced off the surface of the ring in a single flash.

„They say that love is about finding the one who completes you, but that's not right,“ he continued, growing more and more confident in his own words as the speech went on. „You don't complete me, Y/N. You challenge me. You make me want to be better, softer, stronger. You are the only person outside the group who can look at me, at Park Jimin, and see just Jimin. Just the boy who loves dancing so much his feet hurt, the man who still gets nervous before every performance, the man who simply wants to share a quiet life with the most extraordinary person he's ever known.“

A single tear finally slipped from his eye and rolled silently down his cheek, cutting a clean line along his perfect skin. The tear moved slowly, catching on the curve of his jaw before falling. He didn't even think of brushing it away, even for a moment. He didn't look away either, instead he remained holding your gaze.

„I promised you a life of adventures, but our greatest ones are going to be the small, mundane things. It's going to be fighting over what takeaway to order on a Tuesday. It's going to be about holding your hand while we walk out dogs one day. It's going to be sharing our triumphs and shielding each other from the rest of the world's noise. It's going to be sitting on a porch one day, old and wrinkled, and still laughing at some silly jokes.“

The breeze drifted around again, this time it pushed a stray lock of his golden hair across his forehead. But Jimin didn't lift a hand to fix it. Instead, he was too focused on holding the velvet box as steadily as he imagined himself to be at this most vulnerable moment.

He still held your gaze even though you could barely see him through your tears. „I wrote Serendipity for you, because every day with you feels like fate smiling down on me. You are my beautigul, unexpected cosmic gift. I love your sharp mind, your incredible talent for seeing the beauty that everyone else misses, your kindness, your loyalty, and the way you can somehow always calm my anxieties with just your presence and silence.“

„Y/N, I need you to be my partner in everything. My confidante, my best friend, my future. I want to build a real home, a future, a forever with you. Please give me the privilege of calling you my wife.“

His voice deepened, dripped with hope, fear, love all in one as he finally asked the ultimate question:

„Y/N Y/L/N, will you marry me?“

There, that question was finally out in the open. This whole night led to this exact moment when he would ask the question that carried the weight of an entire lifetime waiting for you. The silence that followed his last words was agonizing. It stretched longer than any pause in Jimin's speech yet. And then you dropped your hands from your mouth since there was no point in hiding your cries any longer. Oh, how sweetly your chest ached with how much love for him it carried. Your shoulders shuddered when you began crying without a care anymore. Despite that, you smiled widely.

Jimin still watched you with tension that his whole body mirrored, and he waited for that answer that will change everything you two so far knew in your shared life. He even had to fight an urge to reach for you, even though he wanted to so badly. But he held himself back, just a little longer, giving you space and time to process everything.

You didn't speak, not because you couldn't voice anything out, but because your body moved before you COULD voice anything. First, a vigorous shake of head, not meaning 'no', it was the universal gesture of being overwhelmed, instead. And then, you threw yourself forward and sank down to the ground beside your boyfriend. The sudden movement almost knocked him over.

Your arms wrapped around him instantly, not even giving him a chance to steady himself. Your tears, which you still didn't care enough to stop, soaked into his shoulder, and he didn't care either. Not when he could finally wrap his own arms around you too. He felt relieved when he could finally pull you in, and rest his cheek on the top of your head.

Finally, you pull away enough to look at him and give him the answer he's been waiting for. „Yes! Oh God, yes, Jimin!“ The words sound choked, as you weren't done crying yet. Your arms tightened around his neck, fingers curling at the back of his jacket. „Yes! A thousand times yes!“

Jimin finally let out a huge sigh. It felt like he was holding his breath from the moment you two arrived at this rooftop. In the heat of the moment, he dropped the velvet box, which clattered softly to the ground. He didn't care about anything else more than wrapping his arms around your waist comfortably and pulling you closer, if that was even possible.

He tilted his head back and laughed. It was a sound of pure triumph over the worry he felt this whole time. All the weight of the last few months of planning and anxiety lifted instantly. In its stead came this intoxicating joy. And all the while, in his embrace, he held the most precious person in his life.

But then he was the one pulling back to look at you, and lifted his hands to frame your own tear-stained face. Your cheeks were wet, but your lips curved into a smile. This wasn't a combo he thought he would like to see on you, but he'd rather you cry of happiness than tragedy. „Are you sure? Say it again,“ he commanded softly, wondering if picking up the ring box off the ground was worth it.

„Yes, Jimin.“ You confirmed, widening your smile. „I will marry you.“

With those words in mind, his eyes fell to your left hand, which now seemed awfully bare, in his opinion. And he finally scooped up the box and opened it again. Up until now, he's been prolonging the moment with his speech, but there was nothing to prolong anymore. Jimin knew that he had to see this ring on your finger. And he needed it now. Which meant that he didn't waste time in picking it out of the box and sliding it onto your awaiting finger. It was a perfect fit, of course it was, he was a perfectionist when planning every tiny detail.

The metal felt foreign on your skin at first. It felt cool against the heat of your hand, but it belonged there. The stone glimmered in the overhead light with every small movement of your hand. Even the simplest lift of your hand to look at it better made the diamond flare. You wondered that if there was any life in space, could they see it shining from this rooftop?

„It's beautiful,“ you whispered, still turning it slowly to watch the light dance.

Jimin didn't wait anymore. He simply leaned in and captured your lips with his, something he hasn't done too long, in his opinion. It shocked you, at first, but you returned with equal need. The kiss wasn't neat, far from it, actually. The urgency in this simple act was possibly too much to handle, but neither of you were ready to pull away. Jimin needed the relief of finally feeling relief, and you needed him and nothing else. His fingers slid into your hair, deepening your physical connection.

And your hands moved up to cup his face, and to wipe the tear tracks off his face with your thumbs. Happy or sad, tears were something you did not want to see on Jimin. His body was warm against yours and he held you so close that there was no room for doubt or a change of mind. This man was your man, now officially.

The kiss stretched on until both of you couldn't breathe. But the longer it laster, the softer it became, until he pulled away when you both needed air. His eyes met yours and you knew, certainly, that you would never regret this decision.

[monkishe]

Devil Town | 01

pairing: ot7bts x reader

genre: mystery, haunted, ghost!au, historic, supernatural (read warnings)

summary: She eagerly stepped into her new home, filled with excitement and a sense of newfound independence. Unbeknownst to her, the house held a hidden secret, as seven ethereal beings lingered within its walls, trapped in a realm between the living and the dead. Their presence would soon intertwine with her life, revealing a haunting tale of mystery where she would be forced to free them, bringing them back to the land of the living.

warnings: mentions of ghosts&demons, mentions of death, murder, blood, haunted house, horror, smut, fluff, angst, jump scares, bts haunt y/n… (warnings will be at the start of each chapter)

authors note: this was meant to be a lot longer but i just needed to get something out... pls ignore how bad this is it’s just the start so it’s kind of like a filler? idk ? AND IM GETTING THERE SORRYYYYY 🥹🥹🥹 also don’t be a silent reader and lmk ur thoughts 💛

word count: 4.1k

tag list: ( open) @comicnerd557 @sanya823 @v4ksk4tz @uniquecutie-puffs @borahaetelevision @trouble-sistar @sathom013 @uniquetravelerone @cbtmeee @11thenightwemet11 @minimonimi8

series masterlist | teaser | 01

The moving truck groaned to a halt in front of the house, its engine rumbling as if reluctant to let go of the cargo inside. You stepped onto the cracked sidewalk, clutching your coat tightly as you looked up at the house that was now yours. It stood at the end of the quiet street, its weathered exterior bathed in the orange glow of the setting sun. The shutters sagged slightly, and ivy crept up one side, giving it a certain charm that had called to you the moment you saw it. It was a house with history - a place that felt alive.

The movers began hauling your furniture and boxes into the house, grunting under the weight of your belongings. You directed them inside, navigating the maze of boxes and half-assembled furniture.

It didn't take as long as you expected, and soon enough, all the boxes from the truck were now somewhat neatly placed inside your home, ready to be opened and emptied, a task you couldn't wait to begin.

The house was a huge catch, and you couldn't find the words to explain your gratitude to the universe for helping you come across it. It was perfect. Two stories with a basement and an attic. What more could you possibly ask for? The only downside was that it was a little old and uncared for, the grass at the front and even at the back was far past being overgrown, in desperate need of being cut and the inside of the house had an even more antique and rustic look to it. It would take a lot of work to bring it right to your standards.

A newfound surge of excitement and independence coursed through your bones as you basked in the glory of your home, skipping up the steps of the porch and looking out at the neighbourhood. Your eyes caught sight of your neighbours standing across the street.

A man and a woman stood on the curb, their faces unreadable as they watched you. The man whispered something to the woman, who frowned and shook her head. You waved, offering a polite smile, but they didn't wave back. Instead, they turned and walked away briskly, their murmured conversation carrying on the wind.

You didn't think anything of it, not everybody was friendly at the beginning. Shrugging, you made your way inside.

Your first few days in the house were a whirlwind of unpacking and organising. You carefully placed your favourite books on the shelves, hung up curtains that caught the light just right, and arranged cozy touches that turned each room into a small sanctuary. Boxes lay scattered, slowly dwindling in number as you added pieces of yourself to the space, arranging and rearranging until it felt less like an empty shell and more like a home.

By the time you were finished, you sighed in satisfaction, leaning against the worn wooden banister that framed the staircase. It was quiet--almost too quiet-but the kind of silence that felt peaceful, wrapping you in a sense of calm.

You didn't notice it at first, the faint sounds overhead, until you settled onto the couch with a cup of tea and heard a soft, rhythmic tapping drifting down from above, coming from the attic.

That first night, you dismissed the noise as nothing. "Old house, old noises," you reassured yourself, pulling a blanket tighter around your shoulders. But as the hours passed, the tapping continued. You could almost convince yourself it was just the wind, until you realised it had a pattern.

The second night, the noise returned, louder and more persistent. This time, curiosity overcame your unease.

Finally, with a deep breath, you set your cup aside and rose, casting a glance up the dim stairway. You grabbed a flashlight, though you weren't sure why; something about the attic's shadowy corners unsettled you in a way you couldn't quite explain. Still, you found yourself climbing the stairs, the air growing cooler with each step, a hint of something stale lingering in the air.

At the top, you hesitated before pushing open the attic door, half expecting dust and cobwebs, maybe a few forgotten boxes. But as your flashlight's beam swept across the room, you froze. Across from you, lined up along the far wall, was a row of portraits. Each one was framed in intricate, dark wood, perfectly preserved but muted in haunting gray tones.

Heart pounding, you stepped closer. Seven faces, frozen in time, gazed back at you—young men, each expression somber and strangely intense, as though they had secrets hidden just behind their eyes. The photographs were stunning in their detail, each capturing a distinct personality, a different mood. They wore vintage clothing that seemed pulled from another era, their gazes seeming to follow you, almost as if they were watching, waiting.

Chills prickled down your arms as you moved down the row, taking in the portraits one by one. A strange familiarity tugged at you, though you couldn't quite place it. You didn't know them, but something about them felt almost... known.

As you leaned in closer, the silence shattered. A whisper, barely audible, brushed past your ear. You spun around, flashlight trembling in your grip, but the attic was empty. The air seemed to thicken, the temperature plummeting as if an unseen presence lingered in the corners. Turning back to the portraits, your heart raced, the weight of their stares pressing down on you like a physical force.

And then, your eyes caught onto something else. Each portrait bore a small brass plate, each engraved with a single name, each name once again oddly familiar, but now feeling strange and haunting in this setting. Seokjin. Yoongi. Hoseok. Namjoon. Jimin. Taehyung. Jungkook.

Your breath caught as you stared into their eyes. For a split second, you thought you saw the faintest glimmer of movement—did they just blink? You stumbled back, heart pounding, questions swirling through your mind. Why were they here, preserved in this lonely attic? And what did it mean that you had found them? The whispers began again, soft as a breath, as if the walls themselves murmured secrets you weren't meant to hear.

Panicked, you turned and fled down the stairs, the lingering image of their eyes etched in your mind. Yet as you descended, the unnerving feeling wouldn't leave you. No matter how you tried to shake off the encounter, you couldn't help but feel you had disturbed something hidden, some mystery that lay just beyond reach, waiting for you to unravel it.

You could practically hear your heartbeat thumping against your chest, rapidly gaining speed and causing a rush of blood to run through your body. You held a hand to your heart in a futile attempt to calm it down, taking deep, laboured breaths and closing your eyes for a second.

Although you managed to calm your heart down, your mind continued to wonder, causing a throbbing ache to grow inside of it.

That night, sleep refused to come. You lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, tossing and turning as the weight of those portraits pressed onto your mind. Every time you closed your eyes, their faces hovered in the darkness.

At some point, exhaustion finally won, pulling you into uneasy dreams. Shadows slithered through your subconscious, whispers curling around your ears like tendrils of smoke. In the dream, you stood in the attic once more, but this time, the portraits were empty. The frames remained, perfectly aligned, but the faces; gone. You turned your head, and instead of them being frozen in time in the portraits, the seven of them stood with their unmoving eyes watching you, until a loud thud yanked you from your sleep.

You sat up, heart hammering against your ribs. The house was silent again, but the sound had been real. You knew it.

Swallowing your fear, you swung your legs over the bed and stepped into the dimly lit hallway. The floorboards creaked beneath your weight, the air colder than it should have been. You followed the unease settling in your bones, your feet carrying you forward before you could second-guess.

As you passed the staircase, something caught your eye. A shape—a figure—just at the edge of your vision.

You froze.

Someone was standing at the bottom of the stairs.

Your breath hitched. The shadows clung to them, obscuring their features, but you could make out the silhouette of a man. He stood completely still, head tilted slightly, as if observing you.

Your fingers loosened around the barrister, your voice caught in your throat. A scream threatened to rip out of you, but something was stopping you from doing so. Hesitantly, your feet pulled you towards the light switch, flicking it on without turning away from the figure before you.

And just like that, it was gone.

The air around you felt heavier now, pressing in on your lungs. You knew fear. You had felt it before, in the attic, in the dream, in the weight of those stares. But this? This was something else.

Gathering whatever courage you had left, you descended the stairs slowly, each step measured and careful. The wooden boards groaned beneath you, but the house was still, too still. The silence felt unnatural, charged with something unseen.

Then, from the living room, the record player clicked on.

A soft static hummed through the air before a hauntingly slow melody crackled to life, its sound eerily distorted. The hairs on your arms stood on end. You didn't own a record player.

Your pulse pounded in your ears as you turned toward the sound. The living room was empty, but the record player spun lazily, its needle gliding across the vinyl.

A voice spoke out.

Soft, low, and undeniably real.

"You're not supposed to be here."

It came from behind you.

Ice shot through your veins. You turned, pulse roaring, eyes darting across the dim space. There was nothing. No one. But the air was charged, as if something unseen had just been there.

The melody from the record player warbled, slowing, distorting into something unnatural before cutting out entirely.

The silence returned, deafening in its weight.

You took a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself, but deep down, you knew you were not alone in this house.

Millions of thoughts raced through your mind. Was this somehow connected to the paintings? It couldnt be, right? Your heartbeat pounded unnaturally fast, breath hitching as your entire body trembled. A violent sob tore from your throat before you could stop it.

Without thinking, you bolted up the stairs, desperate to reach the safety of your room. But just as you reached for the door, it slammed shut in your face.

Tears burned at the corners of your eyes, throat tight with unshed tears. Your gaze darted frantically around the dim hallway before you lunged for the handle, yanking it open.

A ghost? A spirit? No. That thought had long been buried. This wasn't some supernatural force—this was real. Someone had broken in.

You threw the door shut behind you, heart hammering as you stumbled towards the bed and snatched up your phone. Your fingers, trembling and slick with sweat, tapped out the first numbers that came to mind.

911.

Seconds dragged unbearably long as the ringing tone buzzed in your ear. You sank onto the bed, one leg bouncing uncontrollably, hands clenched into fists. Until, finally, a voice called out from the other side.

"911, what's your emergency?" A woman's voice. Soft. Steady.

You sucked in a shaky breath. "I— There's s-someone in my house. I think they broke in. I—I'm pretty sure they're still here." The words spilled out, tripping over themselves.

"Okay, miss. Take a deep breath for me. What's your name and address?"

You answered quickly, throat tightening as you waited.

"Stay on the line with me. Can you tell me what makes you think someone broke in?"

Your fingers clenched tighter around the phone. The memory surged back, ice-cold and unmistakable.

"I saw a man," you whispered. "They spoke to me."

The line crackled for a moment, filling the silence in your room with static. Then, the dispatcher's voice returned—calm, controlled, as if she hadn't just heard the most terrifying thing you've ever said.

"They spoke to you?"

You swallowed hard. "Yes."

"Can you tell me what they said?"

Your mind raced back to that moment—the voice, the way it seemed to slither into your ears like a whisper only meant for you. You could still hear it, low and deliberate, replaying over and over.

You're not supposed to be here.

You squeezed your eyes shut, as if that would make it go away.

"They said I—I shouldn't be here.," you managed, voice barely above a whisper.

A beat of silence. Then, "Y/N, are you somewhere safe?"

Safe.

Your eyes flickered toward the door, the flimsy lock on the knob. A thin piece of wood separating you from whoever, or whatever, was out there.

"I don't know," you admitted.

The dispatcher's voice softened. "Help is on the way, okay? I need you to stay quiet and listen carefully."

A rustling sound echoed from outside your room. Footsteps. Slow. Measured.

Your blood turned ice cold.

"They're still here," you whispered into the phone.

Another pause—this one heavier, more urgent. Then, the dispatcher spoke again, voice low and firm.

"Lock the door. Now."

You lunged for the knob, twisting it until you heard the soft click of the lock sliding into place. You barely had time to step back before a thud sounded from behind it.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Something had just pressed against the door.

The phone shook in your hands. The dispatcher's voice was still in your ear, but you could barely hear her over the blood rushing in your head.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

A slow, deliberate knocking.

Your stomach dropped.

The voice from the other side was familiar.

"Let me in."

It was the same one from earlier.

Your breath hitched.

Every fiber of your being screamed at you to move, to do something, but you were frozen in place, your body paralyzed by sheer terror.

"Let me in."

The words slithered through the door, slow and deliberate.

Your entire body went rigid. You knew that voice. That painstakingly low, guttural tone that had sent a chill down your spine the first time you heard it. The kind of voice that didn't just speak, it crawled under your skin, wrapping around your bones like something cold and suffocating.

It was him.

The man from earlier. The one you'd tried so hard to convince yourself wasn't real.

And now, he was standing just outside your door.

The phone nearly slipped from your grip. Your fingers clenched around it in a desperate attempt to hold on, but the tremors in your hands made it feel like you could drop it at any second. Your breath came in shallow, uneven gasps, chest rising and falling too fast, too erratic.

You opened your mouth to speak, but the words tangled themselves into knots at the back of your throat, choking you. Finally, you forced them out in a ragged whisper.

"T-There's—" Your voice faltered, barely audible over the pounding in your ears. You swallowed hard, forcing down the rising panic threatening to consume you. "There's someone outside my door."

The silence that followed was thick, almost unnatural.

"They're—" You sucked in a sharp breath, gripping the phone so tightly your knuckles turned white. "It's the same one from earlier."

The moment those words left your lips, the air in the room changed.

On the other end of the line, the dispatcher hesitated. It was barely a second, but you felt it. The carefully measured calm in her voice cracked, just slightly, but enough to tell you that she knew that something wasn't right.

"Y/N," she said, slow and deliberate. "Is there anyone else in the house with you?"

You shook your head instinctively before realising she couldn't see you. You swallowed again, throat dry and tight.

"No," you whispered.

Another pause. Another moment of silence.

Until the handle rattled.

Not violently. Not in an attempt to break in. It was slow. Controlled. Testing it.

Your breath hitched, a sharp, strangled sound catching in your throat. You staggered backward, nearly losing your balance as your legs collided with the edge of the bed.

And then it spoke.

"End the call."

The voice was different now, more soft. Too soft. It shouldn't have made your blood run cold, shouldn't have sent that horrible, skittering sensation crawling up your spine.

It sounded like a recording played back at the wrong speed, stretched and warped just enough to feel off. Just enough to make your body reject it, to tell you that whatever was on the other side of that door wasn't supposed to exist.

The dispatcher's voice was tighter now. Urgent. "Listen to me. Stay where you are. Do not open that door. Officers are on route. Can you find anything to barricade it?"

Your brain struggled to process her words, to latch onto them through the growing fog of terror. Your eyes darted around the room, searching desperately for anything to use as a barricade.

The desk. The dresser. The chair in the corner.

Could you move them in time? Would it even matter?

"You're not supposed to be here."

Your stomach twisted violently, nausea clawing its way up your throat.

The rattling of the door handle combined with the knocking managed to drown out the comforting voice on the other side of the phone. 

And then, silence.

The knocking stopped. The rattling ceased. The presence outside the door just... vanished.

The air in the room felt heavier now, thick and unmoving, pressing down on you from all sides. It was as if the walls themselves were holding their breath, waiting.

The dispatcher's voice crackled through the phone, but it felt distant, muffled beneath the deafening ring in your ears.

"Miss? Are you still there?"

You couldn't answer. You couldn't move.

Because your gaze had drifted—just slightly.

The door was still closed. Still locked. But, behind you, the closet was open, creaking slightly as it continued to open until finally, it slammed against the wall.

The closet door slammed against the wall with a force that sent vibrations through the floor, and your breath caught in your throat. The silence that followed was suffocating, a thick, unnatural quiet that pressed against your ears like cotton.

Your body refused to move at first, the sheer weight of the moment rooting you in place. Your eyes locked onto the darkness beyond the threshold of the closet. It wasn't just darkcit was void, an abyss that swallowed the faint glow of your bedside lamp before it could reach inside.

Then, something shifted.

A presence.

At first, it was subtle—a slow, creeping awareness that prickled at the back of your neck. The unmistakable sensation of being watched. A deep, bone-chilling cold seeped into the room, frosting over your skin and sinking into your muscles.

"You're not supposed to be here." The voice from the beginning called out, slithering through the air like an icy tendril, curling around your ear in a breath that wasn't entirely human. It was layered, distorted almost, as if spoken by multiple voices at once, each one slightly out of sync with the other.

Your body reacted before your brain could. You stumbled backward, a sharp gasp escaping your lips as your heel caught the edge of the rug. Your legs buckled, sending you crashing onto the floor.

The phone slipped from your grasp and landed beside you, the dispatcher's voice buzzing through the speaker in broken static.

"Officers... on their way... stay with me—"

You barely heard her.

Because something moved in the closet.

A figure.

It was impossible to make out, but it was there, a mass of shifting darkness that loomed just beyond the threshold. Not quite human, not entirely formless. It seethed in the black, pulsing with something unnatural, something wrong.

And then it stepped forward.

Your breath turned to ice in your lungs.

The air itself seemed to warp around it, bending and distorting like a heat mirage, but cold. Unfathomably cold. The shadows clung to its frame, shifting and unraveling, like the edges of its form couldn't quite stay together.

Then, the hand shot out; long, spindly fingers, impossibly thin yet unnervingly strong, clamped around your wrist. A chill unlike anything you had ever felt surged through you, locking your muscles in place. It wasn't just cold, it was absence, a void where warmth had never existed.

The grip tightened.

A sharp, excruciating pain shot through your arm, like icy needles burrowing beneath your skin. Your pulse thundered in your ears as you let out a strangled scream, instinctively yanking back.

It held firm.

The thing in the closet didn't move, didn't lurch or stagger. It simply existed, an unrelenting force beyond the grasp of reason.

Slowly, deliberately, it began to pull.

Your heels dug into the floor, desperate to find purchase, to fight against the inhuman strength dragging you toward the black maw of the closet. Your free hand flailed wildly, knocking over a lamp, sending glass shards scattering across the hardwood.

A scream tore out your throat, thrashing against the tightening grip.

But just as suddenly as it had grabbed you, it released.

You fell back hard, the impact rattling through your bones as you gasped for air, clutching your wrist. The skin there was ice cold, a deep, aching numbness settling beneath the surface.

The room was still.

Too still.

The figure had retreated.

But the closet door remained open.

The dispatcher's voice crackled through the phone, sharp and urgent.

"Y/N, are you safe? Are you safe?"

You couldn't answer. You couldn't breathe.

Because just as the sirens outside wailed closer, flashing red and blue against your window—

The closet door clicked shut.

And in the heavy silence that followed, you swore you heard it again.

That voice. A breath against the shell of your ear. It was hard to make out what it said, but you could feel its lingering presence all over your body—like hands roaming over you.

Another scream ripped from your throat, raw and unrelenting, as sobs shook your entire body. Your mind struggled to grasp the impossibility of the nightmare unfolding around you, but reality felt fractured, distorted beyond comprehension.

Somewhere in the distance, the dispatcher's voice crackled through the phone, urgent and persistent, The shrill noise of the sirens blended with the dispatcher's frantic calls, layering over the ringing in your ears. A flicker of red and blue light pulsed against the windowpane, flashing in rhythmic bursts, casting eerie shadows across the room.

But you couldn't form words, you could barely even breathe properly. The weight of fear pressed down on your chest like a vice, suffocating, paralyzing.

Your fingers dug into the cold wooden floor, grasping for any sense of stability. With trembling arms, you pushed yourself up, legs wobbling beneath you. Every movement felt sluggish, as if you were moving through water, but you forced yourself to stand.

Help was finally here, but you didn't feel any safer than you did before. What could they possibly do now? There was something much more deeper, darker happening here that the police would not be able to solve.

Deep voices, commanding shouts joined the chaos outside, overlapping with the howling sirens.

Short, rapid breathes left your throat in an attempt to calm yourself down as you slowly took steps towards your door which was still surprisingly locked. Your quivering hands reached out, clasping onto the metallic handle and twisting the door open. A violent banging sounded from downstairs, causing you to flinch in fear, before realising it was just the police outside. They continued to shout, and you managed to make out the sound of your name frantically being called by someone.

Your feet dragged you down the stairs, as you wiped your face, removing any trace of the former tears that had fell from your swollen eyes. Before you could open the door, it was already being pushed open and officers rushed inside. 

Two officers stood in front of you, the other two had taken on the task of exploring your house, checking if there truly was a burglar -- an invader -- lurking inside.

You carefully explained the previous events that had occurred before their arrival, and they listened intently, nodding along to everything you said. Soon enough, the other two joined in with a concerned look etched on their faces.

"There's.." one of them began, all eyes on him. "There's nobody here. We checked every room." He clasped his hands behind his back, glancing towards his colleague. 

"There wasn't a trace of anybody.. But you did leave the front door unlocked." the other added.

"Oh, it must've slipped my mind..." you trailed off, mentally facepalming at your stupidity. You never left the door unlocked. Ever.

Noticing your sullen expression, the female officer spoke up, "Hey, don't worry. We'll do one last check, right?" she looked over at her peers, causing them to nod along, followed by a chorus of 'yes'.

You muttered out a quick thank you, hands clenching into balls in your lap as you watched them make their way back up the stairs, in search of someone you were no longer sure had ever been real.