I’d Let the World Burn...

by Golden_Blossom

Chapter 2: Of fire and Ruins.

 

 

♛   

 

 Jimin takes a deep breath, forehead pressed against the cool wood of his chamber doors. The chill does little to soothe the heat simmering beneath his skin. 

When those doors open, he’ll have to face the Enigma. He’ll have to pretend that last night never happened, that there’s no smothering tension crackling between them, no unspoken thing risking the very throne he’s meant to inherit. 

His breath stirs the strands of his fringe. He’d left his hair natural today, allowing his bangs to fall like a curtain across his eyes. A shield. A weak one. It does little to hide the storm brewing behind them. And his scent...he’s certain it betrays every thought he tries to bury. 

He used to be good at masking his emotions. They called him the Ice Prince for a reason. But with Jungkook, everything is harder. His composure frays at the edges. His heart feels exposed, laid bare for the other to burn with a single glance. 

He can’t do this. 

It’s his duty to mate with an Omega. To provide heirs. To serve the kingdom, not himself. 

Jimin shakes his head and inhales again, deeper this time, forcing calm into his lungs before opening the doors. Each step feels heavier than the last as his gaze lands on Jungkook. 

He’s dressed in burgundy today. The color is rich against the dark waves of his slicked-back hair. It takes everything in Jimin’s power not to react to the glint of silver at his ear, the single earring swaying as he bows low. 

And not just a nod of the head, but a full bow. 

Jimin stops short, stunned by the absence of mockery, the lack of smirking defiance. Jungkook straightens with stoic eyes and a locked jaw, saying nothing as he falls into step behind Jimin, his scent muted. Distant. 

And somehow, that hurts more than it should. 

After weeks of proximity, of heated looks and sharper words, of teasing and fleeting touches, this absence feels like a hollow echo. As if all of it had been a dream, and Jimin has now woken up alone. 

The walk to the dining hall stretches longer than usual. Every step a weight. He fights the urge to glance back, to see if Jungkook is watching, waiting. But he doesn’t. He keeps his eyes forward, chest high, spine straight. He’s been trained to walk like a king. 

To hide like one. 

The concierge announces his entrance, and Jimin steps into the room to find his parents already seated. Their smiles are soft with welcome, though his mother’s eyes narrow just slightly with concern as they take him in. 

The table is far too large for just the three of them. It feels even emptier with Jihyun still absent, probably still asleep. The thought eases some of the tightness in Jimin’s chest. At least his younger brother can still live freely. As freely as royalty allows. 

“How did you find the ball last night?” his mother asks gently, her voice low but pointed. There’s a twinkle in her eyes, but also caution. She sees something in him...something not quite right. 

He hasn’t touched his food. His father notices too, gaze flicking to Jimin’s untouched plate. 

“I don’t understand,” Jimin says softly, his voice tired. “What do you look for in a mate for me?” 

His gaze moves to his father, searching. There’s only mild confusion there. 

“You never seem to approve of anyone I take a liking to.” His words are more bitter than intended, and his father frowns, setting down his spoon. 

“What do you mean?” 

Jimin’s brows furrow, a low growl rising in his throat before he can stop it. “You spent the entire night urging me to find better suitors. Even Ji-eun...she’s perfect. I don’t—” 

“Oh, Ji-eun,” his mother interrupts, her voice a soft melody. Either unaware of the tension sharpening between father and son, or trying to smooth it over. 

“She’s a fine young lady. Such marvelous manners,” she adds with a delicate smile. 

“I never disapproved of anyone, my son,” his father says firmly. “Yes, I liked some better than others, but I promised to let the choice be yours. I meant that.” 

Jimin stiffens. His eyes widen despite himself. 

He turns his head, gaze snapping to Jungkook, but the Enigma doesn’t look up. 

He stands by the door now, not beside him as he usually does. Not close enough for Jimin to catch his scent or hear the subtle shift in his breath when something unsettles him. Not close enough to graze fingers or whisper snide remarks beneath his breath when no one is looking. 

No. Jungkook stands apart. As if he’d never been near him at all. 

His hands are folded behind his back, posture straight, eyes fixed on the polished marble floor. Detached. Guarded. A soldier in the presence of royalty, and nothing more. 

“I actually really like Lee Ji-eun,” his father continues, his tone almost warm. “She’s ideal, should you choose her.” 

Ideal. 

The word echoes like a curse in Jimin’s ears. 

His chest twists, a sharp, unfamiliar ache blooming between his ribs. 

He turns back to his plate, the silver fork trembling slightly in his fingers as he stabs it into food he has no desire to eat. His appetite is gone—burned away by something hotter than anger. Something colder than betrayal. 

Jimin’s mind reels. 

It wasn’t his father.  

All this time, he’d believed it was his father pulling strings, subtly disapproving of every Omega he’d ever entertained. He believed the raised eyebrows and carefully worded critiques had come from the throne. From duty. From blood. 

But his father’s voice is steady, sincere. There’s no calculation in his eyes. No cold manipulation in his tone. 

He meant it. 

Which means— 

It was Jungkook.  

Jimin’s heart stutters, a slow and brutal realization settling in his bones. It was Jungkook who sowed the doubt. Jungkook who always lingered after every interaction with a sly remark or an arched brow. Jungkook who smirked when Jimin blushed and whispered warnings like they were jokes. Jungkook who made him second-guess himself with every touch that lingered too long, every glance that burned too hot. 

Jungkook who insisted, quietly, persistently, that his father wouldn’t approve.  

It had never been about the suitors. Never about duty. 

It had been about him. 

Jimin swallows hard, throat tight, and forces his hand to loosen its grip on the fork before it snaps in two. He risks another glance at the Enigma, but Jungkook remains as still as a statue, unmoved by the tension his silence has bred. 

Why? 

Why would he do this? Why would he— 

But he already knows. 

He sees it now—in the space between them. In the cold where there was once heat. In the absence of everything they had built between snide remarks and accidental touches, in the sudden silence where once there had been fire. 

Jungkook wanted him to stay unclaimed. He wanted him unattached. Unbound. 

But not because he cared about his future. Not because he was protecting the crown. 

Because he couldn’t bear to watch Jimin with someone else. 

And now...now that the distance has widened, now that they stand on opposite ends of a room once crackling with unsaid things, it’s too late. 

He lied. 

And worst of all… he left . 

He chose to become stone, to turn away, to bow instead of bite. And Jimin, left seated at a table far too large for his aching chest, suddenly feels the enormity of it all press down on him. 

The weight of expectations. 

The sting of deceit. 

The shattering bloom of something that could have been love ..now curdled into silence. 

He doesn’t speak again for the rest of breakfast. Doesn’t eat. Doesn’t lift his eyes. His parents exchange quiet looks, and still, Jungkook does not move. 

He remains at the door. 

Watching nothing. 

Holding everything. 

And Jimin wonders—not for the first time—what it would take to break the mask off the Enigma's face and find the man beneath it. 

Because if he looked up now, just once, Jimin fears everything might come undone. 

 

As Jimin rises to leave, his breath stutters in his throat. Jungkook is already there. Close. Too close. The familiar warmth of him curls around Jimin’s ribs like a snare, but the Enigma still won’t look at him. His gaze is fixed ahead, locked on the king. 

“Your Highness, if I may?” 

The request is crisp, respectful. But Jimin doesn’t miss the way his father’s face darkens with quiet disdain. 

For a man who preaches loyalty and love for his people, it never fails to stun Jimin how deeply he loathes being addressed by anyone beneath noble blood. His father doesn’t even try to mask it. 

Jimin’s jaw tightens. He has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from baring his teeth at his own father. The sheer anger rising in him—just from that condescending tilt of the king’s chin—is startling. 

“Quickly,” his father snaps, as though granting the request is a favor. 

Something flashes through Jimin’s vision—scarlet and sudden—like rose petals on fire. 

“For the past few weeks, I’ve been observing Prince Jimin train,” Jungkook begins, voice calm, emotionless. Too emotionless. Either he’s unaffected by the insult, or he’s learned to wear indifference like a second skin. 

Jimin almost snorts. Of course Jungkook’s been observing him. The man watches him like he was born to. Jimin’s certain if asked, Jungkook could recite how many times he breathes in a day. How often he blinks. How his scent shifts when he’s angry, or...other things. 

“He’s lacking. At best.” 

The words land like a slap. Jimin jerks his head toward him, stunned. 

He bares his teet. His wolf rises, outraged. 

That smug bastard.  

“It’s not always that he’ll have me near,” Jungkook adds, still not looking at Jimin, still facing the king as if the prince standing beside him is nothing more than an afterthought. “So I suggest I be allowed to train him. Personally.” 

Jimin goes still. 

He hadn’t even considered that Jungkook might leave. The thought sends something cold dripping down his spine. And yet...training? Proximity? That kind of closeness again? 

His breath hitches. 

“My son has been praised for his sparring skills by the best swordsmen in the kingdom,” his father cuts in, his tone clipped and defensive. 

Jimin blinks, startled again.

his father, defending him? 

But Jungkook’s voice remains flat. “Sparring, yes. But I’ve yet to see him fight with his claws, Your Highness. There won’t always be a sword in his hand. There’s no telling where the next threat might come from—or how.” 

“I can handle myself,” Jimin growls, voice low and dangerous. His fists clench, nails biting into skin. Still, Jungkook won’t meet his gaze. He stands like a knight before the crown, as though Jimin isn’t even there. 

Why won’t he look at him? 

“Your Highness,” Jungkook presses again. 

Jimin’s father clicks his tongue. “Very well. You may train him for two hours a day.” 

Two hours? 

Jimin nearly chokes. “Father!” 

He hates the edge in his voice, hates how it sounds like a plea and most of all, he hates the faint whiff of triumph now curling off Jungkook’s frame. The first emotion he’s shown all morning. 

“Son,” the king sighs, waving him off. “It’s for your own good. His request is perfectly reasonable.” 

Jimin turns to his mother for help but she won’t meet his eyes. She continues eating, silent as ever, her gaze downcast. 

Of course. 

Jimin exhales sharply, groans under his breath, and doesn’t even bother to bow before storming out of the room. Behind him, he hears the subtle rustle of fabric as Jungkook bows, then footsteps following after him. 

Of course he’s following. 

This is going to be a very, very long day. 

 

 

♛ 

Crazy right now-Slowed Down

♛ 

 

Jimin spends the day turning evasion into an art form. 

He slips out of corridors just before Jungkook enters them, ducks behind pillars with barely a breath to spare, and vanishes through narrow passageways even the guards have long forgotten. The palace is his playground, and today, he plays to win. 

By midday, he’s laughing under his breath, heart light with mischief. He knows it’s petty. Knows it’s childish. But after the breakfast ambush and Jungkook’s stony silence since, it feels like the only way to claw back some control. 

And it’s working. 

Every time their paths almost cross, he catches a flash of irritation in Jungkook’s eyes just before he pivots and disappears again. 

By the time the training hour approaches, he makes sure to arrive early. Not to the hall, but just outside it. 

There’s a narrow alcove beside the main archway—half-sheltered, cloaked in shadow. From there, he can see the empty sparring floor laid out in full sunlight, but no one can see him unless they know exactly where to look. 

And of course, Jungkook doesn’t. Not at first. 

The moment the Enigma steps into the sun-drenched hall, his shoulders stiffen. Jimin doesn’t miss the sharp turn of his head, the cold, assessing scan of the area. 

He’s looking for him. 

Jimin leans a shoulder against the wall, perfectly still. The breeze ruffles his shirt. The light filters just enough to kiss his cheeks, but not enough to give him away. He’s smug. Infuriatingly so. 

He waits until Jungkook takes a few more steps in. 

Then he clears his throat. 

Loudly. 

Jungkook freezes mid-step. 

Jimin watches as his shoulders tense— tense —and something in Jimin sings. He doesn’t bother hiding the slow smile that spreads across his lips. 

“Looking for someone?” he drawls, voice honeyed with mockery. 

Jungkook turns his head, and his gaze lands on Jimin like a stormcloud breaking. 

For a second, neither speaks. The wind shifts between them. Heat rises from the training floor, the scent of sun-warmed stone mingling with tension. 

Jimin lets the silence stretch. Then, with an elegant push from the wall, he steps out of the alcove and onto the threshold...still not inside, still not close enough. 

“I figured I’d come early,” he says, all innocence, though his grin is anything but. “Didn’t want to waste your time.” 

Jungkook’s jaw ticks. 

“You’re not inside.” 

“Oh?” Jimin feigns surprise, looking down at his feet, then back up at him. “Seems close enough.” 

“Get in.” 

Jimin raises a brow. “I don’t take orders.” 

“You do now .” 

That draws a genuine laugh from him. He doesn’t move. 

“I’m beginning to think you enjoy chasing me,” Jimin muses, gaze gleaming. “You could’ve let someone else train me. But no. You had to make it personal.” 

Jungkook crosses the distance between them with quiet, measured steps. He stops just shy of the doorway, close enough that Jimin can feel the shift in the air, the crackle of restrained power. 

“I don’t enjoy chasing you,” Jungkook says, voice low. “But I will catch you. And when I do—” 

“You’ll what?” Jimin cuts in, breath catching despite himself. 

Jungkook’s eyes darken. “I’ll remind you exactly who you’re playing with.” 

Something curls deep in Jimin’s gut. something hot, twisted, dangerous. 

For once, he doesn’t smile. 

But he does step inside. 

The second Jimin crosses the threshold, Jungkook spins him. 

One hand grabs his wrist, the other clamps firm on his shoulder, shoving him backwards until his spine hits the cold stone wall of the training hall. 

“You think this is a game?” Jungkook’s voice is low, rough with steel and smoke. “It won’t be when they come for your throat.” 

Jimin's heart kicks. His breath catches as Jungkook presses in, crowding his space without ever fully touching him. Their chests don’t meet—l, but the heat between them is scalding. 

“You want to act clever?” Jungkook murmurs, face inches from his. “Then learn to survive first.” 

His hand drops from Jimin’s shoulder to his waist, only to hook around and shove him into the center of the sparring floor. Jimin stumbles a step but doesn’t fall—doesn’t dare fall. Not with the way Jungkook stalks toward him, eyes dark and unblinking, like a wolf mid-hunt. 

“Rule one,” Jungkook says as he circles, slow and precise, like he’s drawing lines around prey. “Never look away from the threat.” 

Suddenly he lunges. 

Jimin startles—instinctive, unguarded—and in that heartbeat of distraction, Jungkook’s hand locks around the back of his neck, forcing him to turn and face him. 

“Again,” he snaps, not loosening his grip. “Look at me.” 

Jimin does. Barely. His gaze skitters over Jungkook’s mouth, the faint curve of a fang beneath his upper lip, the unrelenting intensity in his eyes. It burns. 

“Rule two,” Jungkook breathes, dipping his head close enough that Jimin feels the whisper of his words against his throat. “Never expose your neck.” 

Jimin doesn’t move. 

He can’t . 

Jungkook’s lips barely graze the skin beneath his jaw, no kiss, no bite, just a breath. His canines trail deliberately over the soft, vulnerable spot of his pulse. Not piercing...warning . 

Jimin shudders. His knees nearly buckle. 

“Do you feel that?” Jungkook murmurs, still against his neck. “How fast your heart’s beating?” 

He pulls back just enough to meet Jimin’s eyes, holding them locked. 

“That's fear,” he says. “That’s instinct. You want to fight like a wolf?” He shoves Jimin lightly in the chest, not enough to hurt—but enough to sting . “Then use it.” 

Jimin’s breathing is ragged. Every part of him thrums like struck glass. He tries to speak, to retort, but no words come. His body is humming, flushed, dizzy. 

Jungkook circles him again. This time, slower. Closer. 

“Your instincts,” he says softly, behind him now. “They’re the only thing that’ll save you when you're outnumbered. Not the sword. Not your titles. Not me.” 

He stops directly behind Jimin, so close their backs almost brush. 

“Close your eyes.” 

Jimin hesitates. 

“I said. close . them.” 

He does. 

A beat passes. Then another. 

A shift in the air. 

Jimin pivots fast—just as Jungkook strikes—and their limbs clash in a blur of motion. It’s pure reaction. No thought. Just the bite of instinct, the echo of Jungkook’s words in his bones. 

Their bodies lock. Jungkook’s hand catches his wrist again, the other pressing over his stomach, pulling him in tight. Their breathing is wild. Jimin doesn’t know if it’s anger or arousal searing through him like fire. 

But Jungkook’s voice is low when he says, “Good.” 

Jimin swallows, throat dry. “Are you training me to fight,” he whispers, “or to fall?” 

For you , is left unspoken 

Jungkook leans in. His breath ghosts over Jimin’s ear. 

“What’s the difference?” 

The words are velvet and blade, and Jimin nearly trembles from the weight of them. But Jungkook doesn’t wait for an answer, doesn’t give him space to speak, even if he could. His hand slides from Jimin’s stomach to his ribs, holding him steady, like he senses the way Jimin’s body has started to unravel. 

“You’re too soft,” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Too slow to act. Too trusting. That gets people killed.” 

Jimin doesn’t breathe. 

“Again,” Jungkook says, pulling back and letting him go. “Close your eyes.” 

“No.” 

The word escapes before he can stop it. Jungkook stills. Their gazes clash, electric. 

“I’m not taking my eyes off you.” 

A flicker. That’s all Jungkook gives. The faintest twitch of something behind his expression...respect, maybe, or warning. 

He moves fast. 

Jimin reacts faster. 

They collide, limbs tangling, sweat slicking their skin. Jimin grabs him by the arm, twists—Jungkook counters—Jimin ducks low and sweeps a foot out, but Jungkook catches him mid-motion and slams him down flat against the mat with a grunt that punches out of his chest. 

But he doesn't let go. 

He hovers instead, crouched above, one knee pressed between Jimin’s thighs, a hand braced beside his head. His face is shadowed—his hair falls slightly over his eyes—but there’s no mistaking the tension that knots in his jaw. The line of his throat shifts when he swallows. 

Jimin's breath is ragged. 

So is Jungkook’s. 

“Good instincts,” he rasps, eyes dropping for just a second too long. “But you’re distracted.” 

Jimin’s fingers curl into the fabric of Jungkook’s shirt. His pulse stammers. “You’re the one distracting me.” 

Silence. 

The air is thick. Dense. Not a single movement, not even a breath. 

Jungkook leans closer. 

Not touching. But close enough for Jimin to feel the heat pouring off him in waves. 

His voice is quiet when he speaks again. “Then learn to fight through it.” 

Jimin closes his eyes, chest rising in a shallow breath. 

Jimin doesn’t dare move. 

He’s caged beneath Jungkook, the phantom weight of the other’s body pressing into him in all the wrong places. Or maybe all the right ones. The scent of him is dizzying—sharp, dark-- laced with something that hums in Jimin’s veins like wildfire. 

He wants to blame the training. The proximity. The way Jungkook’s thigh is slotted so perfectly between his own. 

But it’s more than that. 

It’s the way Jungkook’s voice settles into his bones. The way his gaze cuts through flesh and soul alike. The way his body hovers like a command waiting to be followed. 

And suddenly ...Jimin feels it. 

His blood goes ice-cold. His breath stutters. 

No

Jungkook stiffens above him. 

Everything stops. 

His eyes—already dark—widen just slightly, and for one heartbeat, just one, Jimin sees it. a silver flicker blooming in his irises like moonlight bleeding into ink. 

Oh gods. 

Jimin’s stomach plummets. 

Heat crashes through him, shame coiling hot and fast up his throat. 

No, no, no. 

He surges up so abruptly that their foreheads nearly collide. Jungkook barely moves in time as Jimin scrambles back, pulse pounding in his ears, cheeks blazing like fire. He doesn’t say a word, just bolts upright, avoiding Jungkook’s gaze as if it might turn him to ash. 

“I— I need to go,” he chokes. 

His voice is hoarse, almost broken. 

Slick. 

He produced slick. 

Him. An Alpha. For the Enigma. 

It’s possible. Not unheard of. But it’s not done . 

Heavily frowned upon. A disgrace whispered about in the shadows of court. 

And Jimin—he’s the Crown Prince. The heir. The symbol of everything tradition demands. 

He’s expected to mate an Omega. To lead, to sire strong heirs, to uphold bloodlines carved in ancient stone. 

But the scent is there. Sweet and damning. Clinging to his skin like guilt. Thick in the air like smoke before a fire. 

Jimin doesn’t look back as he flees, doesn’t stay to see the way Jungkook’s fingers curl tight into the mat, or the muscle in his jaw twitch with something sharp and unreadable.

The silver in his eyes lingers, glowing faintly beneath the dim light, long after Jimin has vanished. 

 

 

♛ 

 

 

 

The next day, something shifts. It’s subtle at first—just the way Jungkook grips Jimin’s arm when correcting his form, the way his gaze lingers a little too long on the slope of Jimin’s neck, the flex of his spine, the bare skin exposed beneath his tunic. 

There’s a new purpose to him. Possessive. Quietly feral. 

And Jimin feels it. Gods, he feels it. 

Every movement in their sessions becomes a statement. His touch is different. Intentional. Each session becomes its own kind of war—one Jimin doesn’t remember agreeing to but finds himself losing, day after day. 

Jungkook no longer teaches with patience...he dominates. He no longer guides...he claims . 

Where Jungkook once stood at a respectful distance, he now closes the space between them without hesitation. When he corrects Jimin’s stance, it’s with his body, not his words, his hands sliding over Jimin’s ribs, down his arms, curling around his thighs to adjust the spread of his legs. 
“Wider,” he murmurs one afternoon, voice low, breath brushing the shell of Jimin’s ear. 
Jimin chokes on air. 

Every time Jimin is thrown to the mat, it’s deliberate. A test. Hand clenching into the fabric of Jimin’s tunic as if daring him to react. His gaze burns. Unapologetic. Fixed. 

Sometimes, his thigh slots between Jimin’s.

Sometimes, their noses almost touch.  

Always, Jungkook waits. Watches. 

 

“Lower,” Jungkook murmurs one afternoon, pressing down on Jimin’s shoulders until he drops to his knees, chest heaving, arms trembling from restraint more than fatigue. 

“Never show your throat,” he reminds him, fingers dragging over the column of Jimin’s neck, slow, deliberate, almost reverent. 

Jimin doesn’t dare look up. He knows what he’ll find in those eyes. He feels it instead—the weight of Jungkook’s stare like fire across his skin, like a promise his body is too eager to answer. 

Jimin never gives him the satisfaction. But gods, it’s getting harder. 

The training sessions become harder. Jungkook roughens, pushing Jimin to the edge every day, fingers curling around his wrists, thighs, hips, gripping too hard, too long, always in places that make Jimin gasp despite himself. 

 
And when Jimin ends up flat on his back, pinned beneath the Enigma’s body, thighs spread, breath shallow, he has to bite the inside of his cheek just to stay grounded. 
  

At court, it’s no better. The Enigma is seeping into every corner of his life. 

Jungkook is always behind him now during Choosing events—always. A shadow too close, a heat at his back, his presence coiled around Jimin’s scent like a warning. 

When a suitor reaches for Jimin’s hand, Jungkook steps forward just enough. His fingers brush Jimin’s waist. His scent sharpens, thick and spiced like storm-slick earth. 

One courtier tries to flirt, subtle, poised, teasing fingers trailing along Jimin’s sleeve. Jimin doesn’t even get a chance to respond. Jungkook steps in—doesn’t touch the suitor, doesn’t say a word—but something in his scent lashes through the room like a whip.

Sharp. Burning. Undeniably territorial. 

Jimin doesn’t speak of it. Can’t. Not when his knees go weak from the smallest graze of Jungkook’s skin on his. Not when his body starts to crave it.  

He stumbles through conversations, forgets names, can barely remember which noble house he’s addressing.  

Jimin doesn’t need to speak of it though. 

Because the next day, the training is rougher. 

Jungkook pins him quicker, grunts when Jimin fights back harder, teeth bared with something too close to hunger. 

“You hesitate,” he growls into Jimin’s ear as their bodies collide, sweat slick between them. “You think too much.” 

“I’m trying—” 

“Don’t think.” His hands wrap around Jimin’s wrists, pinning them above his head. “ Feel. ” 

Jimin’s back arches before he can stop it. His breath comes in short, shallow bursts, hips twitching with every shift of Jungkook’s weight over him. His mind starts to go blank. His instincts scream. 

Jimin doesn’t trust himself anymore. 

He can’t look at Jungkook without remembering the slick, the shame, the silver that flashed in his eyes like lightning. Can’t sleep without dreaming of the grip on his throat, the way those canines skimmed just shy of piercing skin. 

He can’t focus during court. Not when his skin still smells faintly of Jungkook’s hands. 

Even now, during formal assemblies, Jungkook takes liberties no guard should. His hand might press between Jimin’s shoulder blades under the guise of guiding him. Might brush along his waist as they pass through crowds.  

The contact is always fleeting. Always deniable. But Jimin feels each one like a brand. 

He tries to resist. Gods, he tries . 

He volunteers for extra lessons. Attends more matchmaking teas. Studies his statecraft with dogged intensity. But every thought turns to heat. Every heat turns to him . 

To the Enigma. 

To the scent that haunts his pillows. 

Jimin can’t breathe in the same room anymore without wanting. Without needing.  

And Jungkook knows it. Jimin sees it in the way he watches him during training—like he’s waiting. Hunting. Daring Jimin to slick for him again. 

And Jimin’s body is traitorous. It wants to. 

Each night, he leaves aching. Each night, he stumbles to the hidden baths in the north wing—never the royal garderobe, never under the watchful eye of his servants—and locks the door behind him with shaking hands. 

He sinks to his knees on the stone floor, the only thing in his mind is Jungkook’s voice. 
 

Feel. 
  

Don’t think.  

 

Lower.  

 

Wider.  

 

Jimin releases on his fingers, chest heaving against the cold marble floor. 

It’s only a matter of time before he knows he succumbs. 

 

 

♛

House of Cards - BTS

♛

 

 

The Midnight Waltz begins in the hush between two bells, when time itself seems to draw breath and hold it. 

The grand ballroom is bathed in candlelight, each flame mirrored in the polished marble floor, making it seem as though stars have fallen from the heavens to gather at Jimin’s feet. Gold-leaf vines curl up the columns. Musicians play a waltz spun from silk and yearning, the strings trembling as if  with magic old as the blood in their veins. 

Only those chosen may step into the circle at the stroke of midnight. Only those invited may dance. 

Jimin is, of course, at the center. 

The crown gleams on his brow, though he does not wear it tonight. Instead, it is forged into the embroidery at his collar, stitched in shimmering threads the color of sunlit honey. His gloves are pearl-white. His lips are red from wine. His eyes flicker only once across the room. 

Jungkook.  

The Enigma stands near the marble dais. Not moving. Not blinking. Watching. 

Always watching. 

Jimin burns beneath his gaze. 

His limbs are fluid, his steps perfect, but his chest is tight. Every turn in the dance tugs him like a thread in a too-tight seam, unraveling. The other alphas, omegas and betas are oblivious. The nobles smile, curtsy. Their perfumes try to mask the longing that laces the air...but they fail.

Because Jungkook is still staring. Because Jimin is still burning.  

And then—Ji-eun. 

Her hand slips into his like sunlight through a curtain. Her scent is kind, steady. Her smile is the same one from their youth. 

He should be grateful. He should be composed. 

But the moment her hand presses lightly to his chest, Jimin’s eyes dart again...and Jungkook is gone. 

A breath later, he’s behind him. 

Jimin doesn’t hear what he says to Jieun. Only catches the curve of her brow, the amused purse of her lips, the slight curtsy she gives as she releases Jimin’s hand. 

“Apologies, Your Highness,” Jungkook murmurs, the heat of his breath brushing Jimin’s ear. “You’ve been called to the Sun Court” 

By whom, he does not say. 

Jimin doesn’t ask. 

He excuses himself with a bow, ignoring the eyes that follow him as he crosses the ballroom, heart tripping like a horse in full gallop. 

 

 

♛

 

 

The Sun Court is silent. Not sunlit now, of course. It is well past midnight. The only light comes from the lanterns strung through the trees, casting a silver glow on marble statues, moon-bright fountains, and hedges so tall they eclipse the sky. 

It is a maze of stone and roses. 

And Jimin knows— he knows —what this place means. 

Lovers come here. 

And only lovers. 

His breath stutters. The scent of blooming night-flowers thickens the air, heady and ripe. Somewhere, water trickles. The path beneath his shoes is a mosaic, stars and suns and wolves beneath his feet. 

He hears Jungkook before he sees him. Boots on gravel. Breath controlled. Body tense.  

Jimin turns the corner, and freezes. Jungkook stands beside the lion fountain, his shoulders stiff, fists clenched. 

His scent is sharp, precise. Wild. 

He doesn’t speak. Just looks at Jimin like he’s already undressing him with his eyes. Like he knows.  

And Jimin? 

Jimin is done pretending. Not with the way his hands tremble at his sides, not with the way his breath hitches when Jungkook so much as looks at him. 

He wants. 

Wants to be touched, to be ruined. Wants to give in, to yield completely. To lose himself in the hands of the man who’s made a prison of every glance, every word, every barely restrained breath. 

“Why did you bring me here?” he asks, voice frayed, too thin to be anything but honest. 

Jungkook takes a single step forward. 

Just one. Enough to close the space between them. Enough to say everything he won’t out loud. 

“You know why.” 

Jimin’s lashes flutter as he sucks in air like he’s drowning. It’s thick with scent, his own, Jungkook’s and the blooming garden soaked in night. 

He’s losing the battle. The heat pooling between his thighs is unrelenting, the scent growing richer, slick already threatening to spill. This is not diplomacy. Not duty. Not a calculated game played beneath chandeliers and watchful eyes. 

This is need. Bare and aching. Raw and clawing. 

And tonight, he knows he will not leave the Sun Court whole. 

“Jungk—” 

But the name doesn’t get the chance to leave his lips. 

Jungkook strikes like a predator, all grace and violence and possession. Clawed hands frame Jimin’s face, firm and final, as he backs them both into the nearest wall of the maze, where the shadows bloom thick and tall, where no one will see unless they wander too far. 

Their breaths collide. Jimin dares a glance into those violet-ringed eyes, glowing with something far too hungry. 

The tension snaps like a pulled string. 

Jimin moans into the kiss, broken and breathless as Jungkook all but devours him, mouths slanting, tongues tangling, teeth grazing. Jungkook kisses like he’s starving, like he’s waited a thousand lives for this. 

Jimin is melting, burning, clinging. 

Slick comes in waves, hot and wet and mortifying. 

He knows Jungkook feels it. Smells it. 

Jungkook deepens the kiss, groaning low in his throat as if it’s driving him mad. One of his hands trails lower—possessive, heavy—leaving fire over Jimin’s waist, over the curve of his hips, down to his ass where he grabs, kneads, like he owns it. 

Jungkook breaks the kiss with a shudder, eyes locked on Jimin’s lips, saliva slick and glistening between them. 

The question is silent. But it’s there. 

Let me touch. 

Let me feel it— you —without anything between us. 

And Jimin...Jimin should say no. He should. This is reckless. Irrevocable. There's no going back from offering himself to the Enigma like this. 

But all sense of consequence is lost as his gaze flicks from those violet eyes to the hand on his body and back again. 

He nods. 

A soft, shaky thing. But enough. 

Jungkook groans, drops his head for a heartbeat, then sinks to claim Jimin’s mouth again—slower now, filthier—tongue licking into the slick of his lips as his hand slips beneath his trousers. 

And Jimin arches with a strangled moan. 

Fingers slide through wetness. So much. Jungkook stills for just a breath, and when he exhales, it’s a snarl pressed against Jimin’s mouth. 

“Do you want to get caught, little prince?” he murmurs, voice hoarse and half-ruined, fingers slipping lower, circling. 

Jimin gasps, head tipping back, his grip fisting the folds of Jungkook’s tunic, his whole body alight. 

Every touch is too much. Every second, a plea. 

And yet still—not enough. 

Jimin’s knees nearly give out when Jungkook presses closer, their hips aligning too perfectly, the heat between them smoldering like a secret flame. 

“I asked you a question,” Jungkook murmurs, voice like silk dragged over flame. “Do you want them to see you like this?” 

His hand moves deliberately, slow and sure, fingers dipping into Jimin’s slick, spreading it with obscene ease. Jimin chokes on a moan, his head thudding lightly against the hedge wall as he tries—and fails—to stay quiet. 

“See their Crown Prince begging?” Jungkook’s lips graze his ear, breath hot. “Dripping?” A pause. “ Needy? ” 

“Stop,” Jimin gasps, except it comes out wrong. Not like a command. Not even close. It's breathless. Fractured. Wanting.  

Jungkook growls—low, satisfied—and his free hand grabs Jimin’s thigh, hoisting it around his hip, pressing in further. Jimin gasps, body exposed, half-shielded only by the winding foliage and carved stone. 

“Say it,” Jungkook whispers, mouth trailing down the column of Jimin’s neck. “Say you want this.” 

“I—” Jimin tries, but the words shatter in his throat. His body pulses with need, overwhelmed by heat and shame and the sweet, aching high of being wanted so fully, so brutally, he feels like he might come apart just from being held like this. 

He doesn't say it. He doesn't have to. 

Jungkook drags his fingers back up, coats them in Jimin’s slick again, then, slowly, pushes one past the tight ring of muscle, watching him closely. 

Jimin gasps. Whines.  

Eyes fluttering shut, lashes damp. Mouth parted. He can't hide how much he loves it, how his body opens up, greedy and soft around Jungkook's fingers. 

Jungkook moans, rutting against him once, barely contained. “You’re already so open. So wet. What do you expect me to do, little prince? Walk away? Let someone else have this?” 

His voice breaks on the last word, guttural and feral. And Jimin feels it, feels the control slipping like sand through fingers. 

“I can’t,” Jimin whispers. “Not when you touch me like this. Not when you look at me like this.” 

Their foreheads touch. Jungkook’s chest rises and falls against his, sharp and uneven. 

“You don’t understand what you do to me,” Jungkook breathes. “You don’t know what I’ll become for you. What I already am. ” 

Another finger slides in beside the first. Jimin sobs, hips bucking, helpless to it now. 

The slick sound of it, the scent, the pressure. it’s too much. 

And yet still not enough. 

He clutches at Jungkook’s shoulders, fingers trembling as his thighs begin to shake. 

He’s going to fall apart. He wants to fall apart. Right here. Right now. 

“Please,” he whispers, not even sure what he’s asking for. 

Jungkook grits his teeth, biting back a groan as he drives his fingers deeper. “You’ll come like this, won’t you?” he pants. “On my hand. Around my fingers. You’ll soak me before I’ve even had the chance to take you.” 

Jimin’s whole body convulses at the words. 

And Jungkook sees it. 

Smiles. 

Predatory.  

“Good,” he murmurs. 

Jimin is burning. No, he’s unraveling. Pulled apart by every thrust of Jungkook’s fingers, by the way his mouth stays so close, whispering filth and reverence in the same breath. 

“Such a good prince,” Jungkook growls. “So pretty like this. Slicking up my fingers just from being touched.” 

His thumb grazes just right and Jimin breaks. 

The moan rips from his throat, guttural and desperate, and he clamps a hand over his mouth, eyes wide as his body convulses. 

He’s coming—he knows he is—but it feels endless. Raw and high and unholy, nothing like the lonely touches in the north wing, nothing like the nights he whimpered into his own palm. 

Jungkook murmurs something against his throat, something possessive and low, something like mine , as Jimin’s climax soaks his fingers, slick gushing with every wave of release. 

And Jimin can’t breathe. 

He’s panting, clinging to Jungkook, trembling from head to toe, when...

Voices...Close. 

Too close. 

Jimin goes rigid. A sharp inhale. His entire body stiffens as though speared by lightning. 

“Someone’s here,” he gasps, pushing at Jungkook’s chest, terror bleeding into his scent. 

Jungkook freezes—hand still wet between Jimin’s thighs—before he grabs Jimin’s face again, gaze dark and wild. 

“Don’t move,” he breathes. “They won’t come this way.” 

But Jimin shakes his head, panic rising fast. “They’ll smell it,” he hisses. “They’ll smell me. ” 

And they will. 

There’s no hiding this scent. no perfume can cover slick, and Jimin’s dripping, wrecked, thoroughly claimed in every way that matters.  

He twists away, nearly stumbles, grabs the edge of the hedge wall with one hand and grips his own coat with the other, trying to fix himself, lift his trousers, hide himself, erase what’s just happened from the air. 

But he can’t. 

Jungkook is right there, hands still reaching, but Jimin’s already backing away, fear flashing sharp in his eyes. 

“I have to go,” he breathes. 

“You can’t,” Jungkook growls, low and feral. “Not like this. You’ll be—” 

“I have to.” 

Because if anyone sees him like this—if anyone smells him—there will be no more pretending. 

No more excuses. 

No more crown. 

So he runs. 

Shaking. Ruined. Slick still sliding down his thighs as he disappears into the maze, trying to find the exit, trying to hold onto what little of himself is left before it all comes crashing down. 

And Jungkook? 

He stays rooted in the shadows, chest heaving, hands drenched, jaw clenched so tight it aches. 

The Moon Court’s bells ring out in the distance, but the only thing that echoes in Jimin’s ears is the sound of Jungkook's growls and the one word he kept murmuring in shell of his ears. 

Mine.  

 

 

 

♛ 

 

 

 

The morning is cruel. 

Sunlight spills through the windows like judgment, far too bright, far too aware. Jimin sits still as Namjoon buttons the final piece of his tunic, but his thoughts are anything but composed. 

He flinches at the gentle tug of fabric, heat blooming across his cheeks unbidden. 

Namjoon pauses. “Your Highness?” 

Jimin blinks. “Hmm?” 

“You’re trembling,” his valet says softly. “Are you unwell?” 

Jimin exhales through his nose, eyes flicking to the closed doors of his chamber. He doesn’t say the Enigma is behind those doors, stationed just outside as always. He doesn’t say he touched me, doesn’t whisper he broke me.  

He only shakes his head. “Didn’t sleep well.” 

Namjoon gives him a wary look, but says nothing else. 

And Jimin...Jimin tries. 

Tries to focus as he’s led through halls, as he’s seated through council meetings and diplomatic introductions, as foreign omegas bat their lashes across ballroom floors and whisper veiled compliments beneath silk fans. 

But Jungkook is everywhere. 

Always a step behind. Always close. Closer than he needs to be. 

His scent clouds Jimin’s senses.

sharp and rich and utterly maddening. It sinks into Jimin’s skin like a second layer of clothing, clinging... staining. 

And Jungkook’s gaze… gods, that gaze burns. Smoldering. Possessive. Almost daring . 

Each brush of their shoulders feels intentional. Each tilt of Jungkook’s head, each deep inhale behind Jimin’s ear, makes it harder to breathe. The tension coils like a storm, winding tighter with every passing hour until Jimin feels bruised by it. 

By the time training comes, he’s fraying at the edges. 

He doesn’t even make it to the center of the ring before Jungkook pushes him— gently, firmly, ruthlessly —into the nearest wall. 

“Jungkook—” Jimin chokes, but it’s too late. 

His body betrays him at once. 

His back hits the stone, his hands scramble uselessly at the Enigma's chest, and Jungkook’s mouth is on him , tongue tasting his gasp, lips hungry and rough as his thigh wedges between Jimin’s legs. 

“You’ve been teasing me all day,” Jungkook growls against his lips, breath hot and ragged. “So perfect in your little robes. Smelling like you want me to take you again.” 

Jimin’s head falls back. “I wasn’t—” 

But the lie dies on his tongue. 

Because Jungkook’s hand is already sliding beneath his layers, fingers breaching him with cruel precision, slipping into soaked heat like they belong there. 

Jimin moans, eyes fluttering shut. 

“Just this once,” he whispers. “Just this once.” 

Just this once as he wraps his arms around Jungkook’s neck, desperate for something to hold.

Just this once as he spreads wider, needing more. 

Just this once as his legs go weak and his body is coaxed toward the edge he’s been dangling over all day. 

Jungkook kisses him like a man possessed, like he’s trying to crawl inside Jimin’s soul. His free hand fists in Jimin’s hair, tugging gently, guiding him to take what he’s given. 

When Jimin finally breaks, he does so with a cry, slick gushing, hips jerking, mouth still locked to Jungkook’s as if to hide the sound. 

His legs tremble. His lungs burn. 

And all he can think, even as he’s being held against the wall by the man who’s undoing him, is how he’s already ruined for anyone else. 

 

 

♛

 

 

It doesn’t stop. 

It should. It needs to. But it doesn’t. 

Days pass like dreams. Hot, flushed, and fleeting. Stolen moments stitched together in shadows and behind doors that should never close. 

They become reckless.  

Jimin lets him in. 

Into his chambers. Into his body. Into his mind.  

Everywhere. 

He finds himself pressed to the wall in the training quarters, legs spread beneath the guise of instruction. His arms tremble from the strain of holding himself upright, not from the sword in his hands but from the fingers teasing just out of sight, sliding lower beneath his tunic with every whispered correction. 

Later that same day, they’re in the hall— the hall —where anyone could come, and Jimin is backed into an alcove thick with shadows, lips bitten red as Jungkook kisses the breath from him. A hand snakes beneath his sash while the other braces them, the hard line of Jungkook’s thigh keeping Jimin aloft. 

He bites down on his knuckles to keep quiet. 

It doesn’t help. 

His scent betrays him—always. Thick and heavy with want. He’s slick all the time now, drenching his silks, clinging to his skin. 

The servants know. They have to know. But no one says anything. 

No one dares. 

Even the garderobe becomes unsafe. 

Jimin’s back hits the tiled wall as Jungkook kneels before him, hands greedy, lips worshipful. There are voices just outside—maids. Attendants. Court members. Any one of them could step through the door. 

But Jimin doesn’t tell him to stop. 

He can’t. 

Not when his body aches, not when the phantom of Jungkook’s mouth lingers on his skin even when they’re apart. Not when every breath of air tastes like the man who’s undoing him. 

He pants, legs spread and trembling, hand tangled in black curls as Jungkook’s tongue drives him wild. 

The door creaks. 

Jungkook clamps a hand over Jimin’s mouth, his other still buried between his thighs, fingers working relentlessly. 

Jimin’s eyes roll back.  

His hips jerk. 

His voice breaks around the hand muffling him. 

They leave in silence, flushed and breathless, scent clinging like sin. 

And it goes on like that. 

Every hallway. Every corner. Every breath. 

Until Jimin is raw and ruined, until his body trembles at a mere glance, until even the brush of silk over his skin feels unbearable, too delicate, too much, too him. 

It is dangerous, reckless beyond reason. Everything he was raised to fear, everything he was told would ruin him. 

But he cannot stop. Not with how ravenous Jungkook is. Not when he’s touched like he’s sacred, like he’s the most beautiful wolf to ever walk the earth. Not when Jungkook pleasures him with the reverence of worship, fingers working him open from behind, mouth stretching around him from the front, devoted and unrelenting. 

Not when the Enigma never reaches for his own release, as if watching Jimin come undone is offering enough, as if Jimin’s pleasure is the only prize worth claiming. 

Not when the ache settles deep in his bones, clawing at him with every breath. 

Not when he knows—knows with a bone-deep, terrifying certainty—that he’s already been claimed. 

Every piece of him. Every inch of his skin. Every gasp ever stolen from his throat. 

And so the throne can wait. His crown, his duties, even his carefully kept composure can wait. 

Because his heart—fragile, reckless, newly awakened—has begun to beat for the very first time. 

 

 

 

♛ 

 

 

 

The stables are quieter than Jimin expects, the faint smell of hay and horses settling around them like a blanket. Moonlight spills in through the open windows, casting long shadows on the floor, and the only sounds are the soft snuffles of the horses, the rustle of straw beneath their feet. 

Jungkook’s hand brushes Jimin’s as they walk deeper into the space, the soft glow of lanterns illuminating their path. Jimin’s heart hammers in his chest, not from fear, but from the pull between them that’s grown even more intense since the last time they’d stolen a moment like this. The dangerous game they’re playing has only escalated. 

Jungkook’s touch is different here, almost tender, like he’s aware of the vulnerability between them. His eyes are dark but soft, a question lingering there, one that’s been hanging in the air for days, unspoken, but present. 

"Why here?" Jimin asks, voice low, barely more than a whisper. 

Jungkook doesn’t answer at first. He stops, turning to face Jimin fully, his hands finding Jimin’s waist, pulling him close. The heat between them is immediate, sharp, like it’s always been there, simmering beneath the surface. 

“Because here,” Jungkook murmurs, voice rough, “I can touch you without worrying about who’s watching.” 

Jimin breathes in sharply, heart fluttering at the rawness in Jungkook’s words. He should protest, pull away. But instead, his hands rise to Jungkook’s chest, fingers brushing over the hard planes of muscle beneath his tunic. 

“This is dangerous,” Jimin whispers, but even as he says it, he doesn’t want to leave. Doesn’t want to pull away. He’s already too far gone. 

Jungkook’s lips curl into a small, dangerous smile. “We’ve been playing dangerous games, little prince.” 

And then, before Jimin can process the words, Jungkook’s lips are on his, claiming him with a ferocity that takes his breath away. Jimin’s hands slide up to Jungkook’s neck, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss, losing himself in the taste of him...the heat, the power, the desire. 

Jungkook’s hands are everywhere—sliding under Jimin’s tunic, gripping his waist, his back, pulling him in as if he wants to fuse them together. Jimin’s body responds without hesitation, heart pounding as his senses go into overload. The brush of Jungkook’s lips, the press of his body, the heat building between them. It’s almost unbearable. 

“Jungkook,” Jimin gasps, pulling away just enough to breathe. His voice is shaky, but his eyes burn with the same need that mirrors Jungkook’s. “We can’t... we can’t keep doing this.” 

But Jungkook only chuckles, the sound deep and almost predatory, as his fingers glide over Jimin’s skin, tracing the outline of his jaw before dipping lower. “Who says we can’t?” 

Jimin trembles at the question, his breath hitching as Jungkook’s touch burns into his skin. His hands are shaking now, the tension winding tighter and tighter in his chest. He knows they can’t—knows the consequences. But the way Jungkook touches him, like he’s the only thing in the world worth having, makes it impossible to think clearly. 

“Please...” Jimin breathes out, his words coming out strained. “Just... stop. For a moment. I need to—” 

But Jungkook doesn’t stop. His lips press against Jimin’s throat, trailing down with a feverish hunger, and Jimin can do nothing but close his eyes and give in. 

“I need you,” Jungkook mutters against his skin, the words like a promise, a curse. “More than you know.” 

Jimin gasps as Jungkook’s hand moves lower, pulling at the waistband of his trousers, fingers brushing so dangerously close to where Jimin can’t resist. “Don’t,” Jimin says, but it’s a plea, not a command. And he doesn’t move away. He can’t. 

They’re too far gone. 

And when Jungkook’s lips return to his—deep and slow, like he has all the time in the world to taste him—the world outside the stables vanishes. There is no wind, no moonlight, no looming crown or consequences. There is only the hush of their breath, the heat between their bodies, and the reckless rhythm they’ve fallen into like it’s the only thing keeping them alive. The game is dangerous, maddening, but they no longer care who sees, who knows. All pretense has long since burned away. 

Jimin finds himself aching--not just for release, not just for the familiar swell of pressure Jungkook draws from him with practiced hands—but for more. More of Jungkook. More than kisses and half-breathed gasps, more than the way he’s stroked and stretched and undone until he’s left shaking. His hands snap to Jungkook’s trousers, desperate to feel the weight of him, the thickness, the proof of his wanting. 

Jungkook has touched every inch of him, kissed and licked and worshipped as if Jimin were made of starlight and flame—yet Jimin has never been allowed the same. He has never tasted, never stroked or taken, never felt Jungkook tremble the way he does, undone by longing. It isn’t fair, and it gnaws at him in the quiet moments after the haze clears, when he’s left bare and breathless while Jungkook remains composed, untouched, distant in all the ways that matter. 

Despite the hunger, despite the countless stolen moments and the near-feral way Jungkook ruts against him, despite how he fingers Jimin until he’s crying out into the crook of his neck or licks him open with something close to reverence...despite all of that, it never goes further. Never deeper. Never whole. 

And Jimin would be lying if he said it didn’t hurt. That it didn’t leave a hollow ache in his chest, a soft voice in his mind whispering that perhaps he isn’t wanted in the same way. That perhaps he’s not enough. 

His fingers barely graze the waistband before Jungkook’s hand closes around his wrists, firm and unyielding. Jimin whines in frustration, the sound raw and needy, but Jungkook swallows it with his mouth, tongue slick and possessive, cutting off the protest like it wounds him to hear it. He kisses Jimin harder, deeper, as if trying to say what he cannot with words—something desperate and frightened, something fiercely tender beneath all the restraint. 

Jimin’s teeth catch on his lower lip, and Jungkook hisses, not in pain, but something that sounds perilously close to a growl. 

And still, he doesn’t let go. 

 

 

 

♛ 

Let the world Burn- Chris Grey

♛

 

 

Jimin doesn’t expect it when it happens. He flinches despite himself, every nerve on edge. 

A low growl rumbles from somewhere near the towering wooden doors, guttural and dangerous, and Jimin silently prays to every god he’s ever known that Jungkook restrains himself. 

“Your Majesty,” his mother says, her voice thin and brittle, laced with a tremble she tries to suppress. 

But Jimin can’t focus on her. Not now. Not when his own hands are shaking, his spine stiff with dread. The last time his father’s voice turned this sharp, this vicious, Jimin had been a trembling teenager. Years had passed, and yet somehow, in this moment, he feels just as small. Just as frightened. Just as powerless. 

“Do you plan to wait until my death?” his father demands, voice rising with fury, his eyes glowing crimson, the same shade that lives in Jimin’s own. “I’ve given you time. More than enough time. And you mean to tell me you still haven’t found a mate?!” 

“I—” Jimin starts, but the word dies on his tongue. 

“What kind of Alpha are you,” the King spits, “if you can’t even complete something as simple as choosing?” 

The words land harder than they should. Harder than he expects. They strike deep, cracking something inside him. His eyes sting, throat thickening with the threat of tears he refuses to shed. His chest caves around the ache. 

“Father!” Jihyun snaps, voice sharp with heat. He’s always been bolder than Jimin, more willing to speak out even in the face of danger. Jihyun would go to war for him—Jimin knows that—but he still growls at his brother, low and warning, silently begging him to stand down. 

Jihyun does. If it's for Jimin he always does. 

“If you don’t choose by the next ball, I’ll choose for you,” the King announces, slamming a hand against the table. The force echoes through the hall, making the silverware jumper and clatter. Jimin jolts, breath caught in his throat. 

Silence follows, suffocating and still. 

And all Jimin can think about—all he aches for—is to be wrapped in the arms that have held him so tenderly these past weeks. To be somewhere else, anywhere else. Somewhere quiet, somewhere warm. Somewhere safe. 

His chair creaks loudly as he rises, still trembling, his voice barely steady as he excuses himself. But the moment he steps into the corridor, the moment Jungkook’s scent brushes his senses—dark, grounding, familiar—his breath eases. His pulse slows. The air becomes bearable again. 

Except Jungkook doesn’t move. 

Jimin’s steps falter when he sees him, jaw clenched, silver eyes fixed on the King’sfigure with a glint too sharp, too dangerous. 

No. 

No. Not here. Not now. 

If his father sees that look—if he senses even the barest hint of rebellion—it won’t end with a scolding. He’ll have Jungkook’s head. 

Jimin reacts on instinct, reaching out with trembling fingers, clutching Jungkook’s arm with enough force to bruise. He pulls him away as discreetly as he can, practically dragging him through the corridors, every step a prayer that no one saw them. That no one felt the shift. That no one heard the low growl that nearly erupted in defiance. 

That no one noticed that the Enigma almost challenged the King. 

When they reach chambers, doors shutting tight behind them, Jimin whirls around, breath shallow and rage trembling just beneath his skin. 

“Are you insane?” he hisses, voice barely louder than a whisper, but burning with panic. “Do you want to die?” 

Jungkook doesn’t answer immediately, his chest heaving with restrained fury. The silver in his eyes still simmers, glowing faint beneath the candlelight, too close to the surface for comfort. 

“You heard him,” he says finally, voice low and tight, like it takes everything in him to speak instead of snarl. “He has no right to speak to you like that.” 

“He’s the King,” Jimin snaps, pacing now, hands raking through his hair. “He has every right.” 

“No,” Jungkook growls, stepping forward, “he doesn’t. Not like that. Not when you were barely breathing.” 

“You think I want this?” Jimin spins around, eyes wide, fury crackling just beneath his grief. “You think I don’t feel like a failure every damn time I look at him? You think I wished for any of this?” 

Jungkook’s expression falters, the fight in him dimming just enough to let the worry through. 

“You were shaking,” he murmurs, softer now. “You were hurting.” 

“I am hurting,” Jimin breathes, chest rising unevenly, “and you almost made it worse.” 

Jungkook’s jaw clenches again, silver eyes narrowing. “I would’ve protected you.” 

“I don’t need protecting!” Jimin explodes, voice echoing off the stone. “I need you to stay alive. I need you not to lose your mind every time anyone breathes near me. You think he wouldn’t have you executed for even looking at him like that?” 

Jungkook doesn’t speak, but the silence says everything. He would’ve risked it. He almost did. 

Jimin exhales a bitter laugh, the sound shaky. “And what then? What would I do if I lost you, too?” 

He doesn’t mean to sound so bare, doesn’t mean to let the truth of it spill like that, but the words land between them, hot and aching, and suddenly the tension shifts. 

Jungkook moves closer, cautiously, like Jimin might shatter if he steps too fast. 

“You wouldn’t lose me,” he says, voice rough. “I’m yours.” 

The words punch the air from Jimin’s lungs. 

He wants to scream. He wants to cry. He wants to kiss him until the walls fall and the ache in his chest disappears for good. But instead, his hands shake, curling into fists as he says, “Then act like it.” 

Jungkook stills. 

“I let you touch me,” Jimin whispers, voice cracking. “I let you see every part of me, bare and desperate and still, you pull away. Still, you hold back. I’m begging for scraps while you pretend this doesn’t mean more.” 

“It does mean more,” Jungkook says fiercely. “You think I don’t want you? That I don’t wake up burning for you every night?” 

“Then why won’t you have me?” Jimin nearly shouts, pain twisting through him. “You stop every time. You never let it go further.” 

Jungkook’s face darkens, and for a moment, Jimin thinks he won’t answer. 

“Because I can’t” Jungkook says, breathing hard, “I won’t be able to stop. I won’t be able to let you go. if I have you, if I get a mere taste of you I don’t...” 

Jimin’s lips part, his heart stuttering. 

Jungkook’s voice drops to a whisper, trembling now. “I don’t trust myself not to claim you, not to ruin you.” 

Silence wraps around them, heavy and raw. 

And Jimin—so proud, so carefully contained—breaks just a little. His voice wavers when he whispers, “Maybe I want you to claim me” 

Jungkook’s breath hitches, as if Jimin’s words strike him square in the chest. 

The silence that follows is no longer still, it hums, alive with tension, vibrating between their bodies like a live wire. 

“Say it again,” Jungkook murmurs, voice hoarse, like he needs to hear it to believe. 

Jimin doesn’t hesitate. 

"I want to be claimed... if its by you” 

“Don’t say things you don’t mean” 

“I’ve never meant anything more Jungkook” 

And it’s all it takes. 

Jungkook surges forward, catching Jimin’s face in both hands and kissing him like he’s starved, like he’s been fighting the urge for too long and finally, finally lets it destroy him. Jimin gasps against his mouth, clinging to him as they stumble back against the chamber wall, knocking into the shelves, the low table, anything in their way. 

The kiss is all teeth and heat, but beneath it—under the wild hunger—is a tremble. A kind of control slipping. Like Jungkook doesn’t know whether to devour him or fall at his feet. 

Jimin breaks away only long enough to yank Jungkook’s tunic over his head, tossing it aside without thought, hands roaming over the stretch of golden skin and taut muscle he’s barely been allowed to touch before. He moans at the feel of him, at the warmth, at the soft huff of breath Jungkook lets out when Jimin presses his palms flat to his chest. 

“You always take,” Jimin pants, breath hot against his jaw. “Now, let me feel you.” 

“You can have anything,” Jungkook says, dragging kisses down the curve of his throat, hands already undoing Jimin’s robe with frantic, reverent fingers. “Anything, Jimin. Just tell me how.” 

But Jimin’s too far gone to explain, too strung tight with months of aching. His robe falls, silk pooling at his feet, and Jungkook groans at the sight of him bare, flushed, wanting. 

Their mouths meet again, filthier now, wetter. Jungkook pressing him into the wall, one hand bracing Jimin’s hip while the other drags down between them. Jimin cries out when fingers wrap around him, when Jungkook strokes him with maddening slowness, the drag of his palm slick and precise. 

“Please,” Jimin whispers, breath stuttering. “More.” 

And this time, Jungkook doesn’t hesitate. 

He lifts him effortlessly, mouth never leaving his skin as he carries him to the bed, lays him down like he’s precious, like he’s sacred. They fumble together in the sheets, hands hungry, gasps swallowed into kisses as Jungkook finally— finally —lets Jimin reach beneath his waistband, lets him wrap his fingers around him, thick and hot and heavy in his palm. 

Jimin whimpers at the feel of him — needy, unfiltered — and Jungkook groans into his neck like he’s unraveling. 

“Jimin… gods, you don’t know what you’re doing to me.” 

They’re slick with sweat now, hips grinding together, mutual pleasure mounting fast and dizzying between them. But just when Jimin thinks Jungkook will finally—finally—take him, claim what’s already his, he stops. Forehead pressed to Jimin’s, breath trembling. 

“I want you,” Jungkook rasps, voice raw like gravel, “but not like this. Not in fear. Not after what just happened.” 

Jimin shakes his head, eyes blown wide, wild with need. “This isn’t fear. It isn’t—” 

Jungkook’s jaw clenches, as if resisting is agony. “Darling…” 

Jimin nearly screams into the pillow, frustration sharp and hot in his throat. He doesn’t know how to say it, how to make Jungkook understand . So he lets the Alpha rise in him.

Crimson bleeds into his gaze as he grabs Jungkook’s jaw with trembling fingers and growls, “If you don’t fuck me right now, I’ll find someone who will.” 

Something in Jungkook snaps. 

Canines flash. A low, guttural sound tears from his throat as he grabs Jimin, bares his neck, and sinks his teeth in, not deep enough to pierce, but hard enough to shake them both, definitely leaving a mark. His mouth trembles at the curve of Jimin’s throat, like he’s fighting the urge to sink deeper, to make him his forever. 

Jimin arches into him, eyes rolling back, grinding shamelessly against the hard press of Jungkook’s cock. 

Then he’s dragged up by the hair, hauled to his knees, the Enigma kneeling behind him. In the mirror across the room, their eyes meet—silver locked with fading crimson—and Jimin moans helplessly at the sight. 

Jungkook is still half-dressed, disheveled, feral. Jimin, pale and lean, is dwarfed by him, naked body swallowed by his frame. He looks undone, open, throat bared like a vow. 

The Alpha in him flickers out, crimson fading, but the silver remains, bright and vicious as three fingers push into him at once. No preamble. No mercy. 

Jimin jerks, stiffens with a strangled moan, body trembling. He should be used to the intrusion, but these fingers are merciless—scissoring him wide, fucking him open, the hold in his hair grounding him as his cock twitches helplessly. 

Jungkook doesn’t look away. Not even for a second. 

“Keep your eyes on me,” he growls. “Don’t you fucking look away. Do you understand?” 

Jimin moans, lashes fluttering but the sound earns him a crueler tug, and a fourth finger slams in without warning. 

“I said...do you understand?” 

Jimin’s body shudders. 

The Alpha in him wants to fight. But the man—the boy beaten down by titles, by rules, by kings and crowns—wants to submit. 

Wants to choose this. 

If only to spite his father.

If only to silence the scorn in his voice...If only to reclaim this moment as his own. 

Jimin lifts his chin, breath shaking. 

“Yes,” he whispers. “I understand.” 

And this time, he means it. 

Jungkook exhales like he’s just been given permission to breathe. 

His hand trembles in Jimin’s hair, but his fingers stay steady inside him, soaked, ruthless, knuckle-deep. Jimin shudders again, mouth falling open as he arches his back, offering more. His body is stretched, aching, but it’s nothing compared to the way his chest twists, the way something inside him begins to unfurl...wild and wrecked and willing . 

Jungkook leans in, lips brushing his ear. “You look so breathtaking like this,” he murmurs, voice dark velvet. “On your knees. Eyes on mine. Letting the whole world burn just to feel me.” 

Jimin lets out a noise that barely sounds human. A sob and a moan tangled together, filthy and sacred. 

“I’m going to ruin you,” Jungkook breathes, pressing a kiss just beneath Jimin’s ear. “And you’re going to let me.” 

He pulls his fingers out—slow, cruel—and Jimin keens at the loss, thighs trembling, knees quivering. 

Before he can beg, Jungkook thrusts four fingers back in at once, sharp and sudden, like a punch. They drive into him, relentless, hitting his prostate again and again until Jimin’s eyes flutter closed, mouth falling open in a silent scream. But the response seems to displease the Enigma. 

This time, when the fingers leave him with a loud, wet squelch, they return only to slap his cheek—hot, sharp, startling. Jimin chokes on a gasp, breath catching, dazed eyes locking with Jungkook’s in the glass. 

“Did I tell you to close your eyes?” he snarls, landing another slap with perfect precision. The sound cracks through the room, and a full-body shiver rolls down Jimin’s spine. 

He shakes his head—pathetic, pliant—and Jungkook clicks his tongue, gaze dropping to Jimin’s leaking cock. 

A dark smile curls his lips. “You said you wanted to feel me. Then feel me , my prince.” 

In a blink, Jimin’s flipped onto his back, head hanging over the foot of the bed. His legs are parted, stretched wide, the blood rushing to his face in this vulnerable position. He catches their reflection--his flushed cheeks, Jungkook’s thick thighs framing his head—and moans, undone by the sheer visual of it. 

Hands glide down his torso, skimming past his aching cock with infuriating purpose. Jungkook’s thumbs press into the creases of his thighs, trailing toward his rim, teasing, asserting. 

“ Enigma ,” Jimin moans, gaze drawn to the hardness between Jungkook’s legs. So thick, so delicious. He wants. He needs — 

“Eyes on the mirror,” Jungkook growls. 

Jimin obeys instantly, spine arching with need. 

The stretch of Jungkook’s cock pushing into his throat is obscene, overwhelming, perfect . Jimin’s eyes roll back, but a warning growl above him snaps him into focus. He watches the mirror. Watches Jungkook’s hips roll, slow and deep, until his balls kiss Jimin’s nose and the sound that tears from Jimin’s chest is pure, sinful pleasure. 

He’s choking, gagging, but he doesn’t care. Not when he sees the way Jungkook touches him in the reflection. Not when every thrust feels like a claim. 

The prince. The heir. Reduced to this. 

And loving every second of it. 

Jungkook loses rhythm fast, movements devolving into something rough, ragged, desperate. His claws dig into Jimin’s thighs, into the strands of Jimin's hair, as if to anchor him, to keep him still as he fucks deep, curses spilling from his mouth. 

The mirror blurs with motion and sweat and heat—but Jimin sees it. Sees them . Sees his saliva drip down to his hair, precum tainting the frothy color, a stark contrast to his reddish skin. The Enigma, unhinged. And himself, ruined.

Claws dig into the sensitive skin of his thigh, the other hand still holding his scalp as Jungkook pushes the limits. And the Alpha takes it all. Every thrust, every sound, every command. 

Because he chose this. Because he wants this. Because Jungkook is the only one he’d ever let break him like this. 

Jungkook flips him over. 

The shift is dizzying. Sudden. Jimin’s back hits the sheets in a fit of coughs, the sudden emptiness giving him whiplash, legs spread wide, hair a halo of sweat and white streaked strands. Jungkook rises above him like a storm, bare-chested now, flushed, eyes glowing. 

He doesn’t ask again. He doesn't have to. 

He pushes inside in one deep, agonizing thrust. 

Jimin cries out, head snapping back, eyes rolling. The stretch is brutal, nearly too much...but it’s right . It’s real . It’s exactly what he asked for. What he chose. 

And gods, the sound Jungkook makes, it’s feral. Broken. Like having Jimin wrapped around him is too much, too good, too dangerous to survive. 

“Mine,” he growls, thrusting again, harder. “Say it.” 

Jimin gasps, nails digging into Jungkook’s back, holding on like he’ll fall apart if he lets go. “Yours,” he breathes. “I’m yours.” 

The rhythm they find is desperate. Unrelenting. Like they’re trying to destroy each other just to feel whole again. Jimin clings, cries out, kisses with his teeth, his nails, his hips. 

There is no fear. 

Only fire. 

Only surrender. 

Only the sound of Jungkook groaning his name, like a prayer, like a promise, like he’ll never let him go again. Like he’s lost all semblance of control. 

Jungkook fucks him like an animal. 

He rolls Jimin onto his side, hooks a thigh over his forearm, and drives back in. The room fills with the sound of slick, of skin, of breathless moans and snarled growls. Silver eyes bore into him—unblinking, wild—as Jungkook sets a punishing pace, each thrust slamming into his prostate, each bite and drag of teeth stoking the fire curling low in Jimin’s belly. 

Before he can come, he’s flipped onto his stomach, legs pressed tightly together. Jungkook growls low in his throat as he spreads Jimin’s cheeks, appreciating the mess between them, fingers pressing at his rim to gather more slick, only to massage it into the tender flesh of his thighs. It’s reverent. Possessive. Maddening. 

Then—without warning—he thrusts back in. 

Jimin cries out, the friction unbearable now, the pressure devastating. Jungkook’s thick thighs cage his smaller ones, his chest crashing into Jimin’s slick back with every thrust, every claim, until they move as one violent, panting creature. 

The Enigma is beyond words. Beyond reason. 

Just need. Just power. Just Jimin . 

 

 

At some point, Jimin’s breath fogs the mirror in front of him, blurry and trembling, as Jungkook takes him from behind. One thigh held high, stretched open for more access, more depth. His cock swings helplessly beneath him, flushed and dripping, as Jungkook uses him, plays with him, owns him. 

And still—he watches. 

He always watches. 

Even as Jungkook manhandles his body, bends him to will and whim, Jimin’s eyes never leave the glass. Never leave the truth of what they are. 

When he hits his third high of the night, body wrung out and twitching, Jungkook only chuckles...low, dangerous, possessive . 

His eyes gleam, the brightest silver Jimin’s ever seen. 

“We’re not done yet, Alpha. If I'm going to claim you, I'll be doing it right.” 

 

  

  

♛  

Chemtrails Over The Country Club- Lana Del Ray

♛  

  

   

  

The room smells of sweat and silk, of pinewood and something faintly sweet, something wholly them. The lanterns flicker low, casting golden light over tangled sheets and tangled limbs. It’s quiet now, save for the sound of their breathing and the steady beat of Jimin’s heart beneath Jungkook’s cheek. 

Neither of them speaks for a long time. 

Jimin runs his fingers through Jungkook’s damp hair, slow and tender, letting his own breath settle, his pulse steady. He’s still catching up to what just happened, to the way the ache inside him has eased just enough to let him feel soft again, safe again. With Jungkook’s weight resting warm against him, he feels… held . Not just in body, but in soul. 

Jungkook’s eyes flutter open, a soft smile playing at the corners of his lips. 

“How are you feeling?” he murmurs, voice rough with use and thick with something gentler now. Something that sounds a lot like worry. 

Jimin hums, nodding slowly. “I’m more than well.” He exhales, thumb stroking the damp edge of Jungkook’s temple. “You?” 

A beat. Then a whispered “Better than I've ever felt.” 

Jungkook shifts, just enough to press a kiss to the center of Jimin’s chest, right where his heartbeat thrums. “You’re dangerous when you beg,” he adds with a crooked grin, though his voice is still soft, reverent. 

Jimin laughs, breath hitching around the sound. “And you’re dangerous, period.” 

“I’d say that’s fair.” 

They fall quiet again, the kind of silence that feels like a blanket rather than a gap. Jungkook’s fingers trace lazy shapes against Jimin’s waist, and Jimin watches the flicker of the lantern light dance in his hair. 

“I meant it, you know,” Jungkook says at last. 

Jimin blinks. “Meant what?” 

“That I’m never letting you go.” 

There’s no teasing in his voice now. Just truth. 

Jimin swallows around the emotion in his throat and reaches down to guide Jungkook’s hand to his chest once more. “Good,” he whispers. “Because I wouldn’t let you.” 

 

 

 

♛ 

 

 

 

They sneak away before the sun has properly set, boots left behind at the edge of the creek, breathless from running, from living . Jimin laughs as he slips on the mossy stone, Jungkook catching him at the last moment with both arms and a triumphant grin. 

“I said slow down,” Jungkook teases, voice rich with amusement. 

“You also said this was shallow.” Jimin glares at him, ankle deep in icy water. “You liar.” 

“Only a little,” Jungkook grins, tugging him closer, water splashing up their legs. “Besides, I had to get you to loosen up somehow. You’ve been frowning since breakfast.” 

“That’s because my father threatened to wed me to a duchess with no teeth.” 

“I thought it was the one with twelve cats.” 

Jimin snorts, pressing a hand to his face, shoulders shaking with laughter. “I can’t believe you remember that.” 

“I remember everything, every word and glance people throw at you” Jungkook says, softer now, eyes glinting in the dusk light. 

Jimin rolls his eyes to hide the flush creeping up his neck and flicks water at him. Jungkook gasps, dramatically, like he’s been struck by a blade, and retaliates with a splash that soaks Jimin’s tunic. 

“ You— ” Jimin yells through a grin, lunging for him, and they fall together, laughing, into the shallows. He ends up on top, straddling Jungkook’s hips, both of them drenched and breathless, their clothes clinging to skin. 

Jungkook looks up at him, soaked curls clinging to his forehead, hands resting lazily at Jimin’s thighs. “Are we fighting or kissing now?” 

Jimin pretends to consider it. “Both.” 

He leans down and kisses him, open-mouthed and smiling into it, their laughter tangled between their breaths. The forest muffles the rest of the world, the trees leaning in like curious bystanders, the sky above them streaked in lavender and gold. 

Jungkook pulls away just enough to whisper, “Don’t go back tonight. Stay with me.” 

“And risk a royal manhunt?” 

“We’ll hide in the hills,” Jungkook says, grinning again. “You can be the mysterious prince in exile. I’ll bring you wild berries and sing to you every morning.” 

“Oh gods, spare me the singing.” 

“You wound me.” 

Jimin chuckles again, low and bright, and leans in close enough to bump their noses. “You make it easy to forget everything else.” 

“That’s the idea,” Jungkook says, brushing his fingers across Jimin’s jaw. “Just you and me. No crowns. No duty. Just this .” 

And for a while, that's exactly what it is.

Laughter in their lungs, riverwater in their boots, and the weight of the world left far behind them. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

♛ 

 

 

 

 

The fire crackles low, casting soft amber light across the stone walls, and Jimin shivers as he pulls the thick blanket higher over his shoulders. The hour is far too late for company, but Jungkook isn’t company, he’s a secret, a comfort, a constant hum beneath Jimin’s ribs that never truly quiets. 

They’re curled on the rug like children, sprawled side by side on their stomachs, a stolen tray of sweets between them...half-gone, shamefully devoured, and messily so. 

“Did you seriously eat all the honey figs?” Jimin asks, scandalized, mouth still full of a rose-petal biscuit. 

“I was starving,” Jungkook replies with zero remorse, licking sugar from his thumb. “You kept whimpering so prettily, fucking you is energy consuming” 

“Don't use suck vulgar words ” jimin hisses with a slap to his shoulder.

“You didn't seem to mind when I was buried in your throat.” 

“I am the prince, talk to me with respect...peasant” jimin adds as an afterthought, muffling a giggle at Jungkook's fake offended face.

Jungkook gasps. “Your requests are my commands my prince, do you want me to fuck you in respect as well? ” 

Jimin snorts and nearly chokes on his biscuit, and Jungkook reaches out to smack his back, laughing too hard to be helpful. The sound echoes in the quiet room, rich and free, and Jimin collapses sideways, limbs tangled in the blanket. 

“You’re ridiculous,” he mutters, cheeks flushed and eyes bright. 

“Maybe,” Jungkook says, propping himself on one elbow, eyes dragging over Jimin’s face, “but I made you laugh.” 

Jimin’s smile softens, fond and tired, and without thinking, he brushes a crumb from the corner of Jungkook’s lips. His fingers linger there, tracing the shape of his mouth, and Jungkook catches his hand gently, thumb stroking over Jimin’s knuckles. 

“I like when you laugh,” Jungkook murmurs. 

“I like when you serve me.” Jimin counters, a teasing lilt to his voice. 

“I like when you look at me like this.” 

Jimin’s heart stumbles. He tries to be clever, tries to tease—but the room is too warm, Jungkook too close, and the truth presses against his ribs like a tide. 

“Stay here,” he says instead, quietly. “Tonight. Just... don’t go.” 

Jungkook leans in, forehead brushing Jimin’s. “What about the morning” 

Jimin shakes his head “I don’t care” 

It's reckless, risky. But Jimin doesn't want to wake up without the warmth kf his lover any more. So they settle down under the covers—blanket and limbs tangled, breath warm against skin—and the night passes with no more stolen sweets, no more clever words. Just the sound of steady breathing, of hearts beating in rhythm, of two men forgetting everything but each other. 

Jungkook slips away before dawn, his face a mask of indifference as he greets Jimin in the morning, Jimin’s chest puffed and strides uncaring. 

Until Jungkook manages to steal Jimin the moment the chances allow, and all their facades fall apart along their bodies. 

 

 

 

 

♛

Black Swan-BTS-Instrumental

♛   

 

 

 

The Petal Offering is held once every spring, when the moon is high and full, casting silver ribbons over the glade that blooms only during this one night of the year. Man made magic breathes through the trees, coaxing petals to unfurl from  branches, blossoms tumbling gently through the air like rain. 

The grove glows, lanterns hung in crescent arcs between flowering trees, soft light dancing on the silken streamers that flutter overhead. Flowers—roses, camellias, orchids—float across the surface of the crystal lake in thousands, shimmering faintly as if with stardust as offerings to the spirits of harmony and love. Music plays, soft and winding at first, then rising with laughter and drumbeats as couples take to the grass in fluid, spiraling dances. 

The nobles are dressed in every hue of spring, delicate greens, golds, blushes and creams, petals stitched into sleeves, blossoms tangled in braids. Dancers spin, skirts swirling, adorned in embroidered silks and chiffon light enough to catch the breeze. 

But none of them glow like Jimin. 

He arrives just after moonrise, the crowd parting on instinct—silent, awed—as he descends the carved steps. His robe is the deepest indigo, layered in sheer gossamer silvers, trimmed in threads of rose-gold that catch the light with every movement. Blossoms—real ones—bloom along his shoulders and sleeves, trailing faint perfume as he walks. A sash of white silk crosses his chest, fastened by a single opal rose that gleams at his heart. 

His hair is slicked back with woven threads of pearl and moonvine, a few soft strands falling over his eybrows, and his skin glows like porcelain beneath the moonlight. No crown, no armor—just elegance, just divinity. 

He looks nothing short of celestial. 

Whispers ripple through the gathering like wind through grass, jaws slackening, eyes following his every step. Some bow instinctively. Some simply forget to breathe. 

But Jimin doesn’t notice. 

Because while the grove pulses with joy, while lovers twine fingers and toss petals into the lake, while others marvel at his radiance as if he stepped from a myth...Jimin’s heart is beating hollow. 

His father had cornered him just hours before, voice sharp beneath the velvet calm. 

“You will choose a mate before the moon wanes. Or I will choose one for you.”  

The words rot inside him now, spoiling the sweetness of the night. 

So he doesn’t see the way eyes follow him. He doesn’t hear the poetry whispered under breath about the prince who walks like a prayer. He doesn’t feel beautiful. 

He feels caged. Trapped in silk, weighed down by petals that do not belong to him. 

Jungkook watches him from the shadow of the trees, fists clenched in restraint. He aches to reach out, to touch the prince who owns the moonlight, to pull him close and tell him he belongs to no one—not even to duty. 

But he waits and watches as Jimin smiles to nameless faces, as he dances fluidly, a picture of elegant and grace. 

Jimin moves to the rhythm like it lives in his veins, each step graceful, each spin as if he’s wind-kissed. His sleeves flutter like wings as he turns, silver threads catching the moonlight, and the blossoms stitched into his robe scatter petals with every motion, as if enchanted to bloom and fall in soft bursts around him. 

Laughter swirls among the dancers, music rising in lilting crescendos, but none of it touches Jimin’s ears, not when he feels it again. 

That look. 

Jungkook stands at the edge, half-shadowed by a blooming archway, sipping lazily from a carved crystal glass like he’s unbothered—like he’s merely enjoying the festivities—but Jimin knows better. There’s a sharpness behind his smirk, something molten glowing just beneath the surface, something hungry . 

Their eyes lock across the grove, and Jimin falters. Only just. A flicker in his steps that no one but Jungkook would notice. It scorches through him—the heat of that gaze, the knowledge of how those hands feel on his skin, how that mouth sounds when whispering into his ear. 

Jimin spins again, desperate to hide the flush spreading across his throat. But it’s useless. The longer Jungkook looks, the harder it is to breathe. The air around him seems thinner, like every beat of the drum thuds against his chest, echoing the low thrum of want rising inside him. 

He shouldn't feel it here. Not with music and magic and too many eyes. Not with the weight of silk on his skin and petals curling between his fingers. 

Not when it’s him watching. 

And yet...he does. 

He burns. 

But just as he slows, turning toward the edge of the clearing, drawn to Jungkook as if pulled by something unseen...

“My prince” 

A warm voice breaks through the haze. 

Ji-eun. 

She steps into view with a smile that glows soft and lovely under the lanternlight, her gown a cascade of dusky pinks and spring violets, her arms adorned with delicate cuffs made of pearl blossom vines. Her hair is woven with tiny roses, and her eyes shine with delight as she takes Jimin’s hands in hers and spins him with a bright laugh. 

And suddenly, everything shifts. 

Because the music is still playing, the people are still dancing, the petals are still falling but Jimin can feel his father's voice echoing again in the pit of his stomach. 

You will choose a mate before the moon wanes.   

Ji-eun, sweet and graceful, the perfect candidate. Familiar. Noble. Approved. 

His steps falter again, but for an entirely different reason this time. 

From across the grove, Jungkook straightens slightly, the teasing curve of his lips vanishing. 

Jimin doesn't laugh. Doesn’t glow. Doesn’t melt beneath Ji-eun’s hands the way everyone expects him to. He just looks back, over her shoulder, past the streamers and petals and flickering lights...toward the man with silver eyes. 

And he wishes he could run to him instead. 

 

 

 

♛ 

 

 

 

 

“You’re going to choose her.” 

The words fall quietly, but there’s no mistaking the weight behind them, nor the ache woven through the silk of Jungkook’s voice. Jimin stiffens where he stands, his back still turned, the silence of the stables wrapping around him like mist, thick and stifling. He doesn’t look. He can’t. Because if he turns, if he sees the expression on Jungkook’s face, he’s afraid he won’t be able to lie. 

He had come here to be invisible, to escape the ornate halls and sharp eyes, to bury himself in the scent of hay and dusk and leather, to think without feeling everything. But even here, in the hush of night, he can’t outrun this.

Can’t outrun him . 

Ji-eun is the right choice. The safe choice. Almost a friend, clever and loyal, someone his people already admire. In another life, in another version of himself, Jimin wouldn’t have hesitated. But it isn’t another life. It’s this one—this tangled, aching, unbearable present—and the moment he touched Jungkook, the moment he let himself fall, everything else ceased to make sense. 

“You’ve ruined me.” 

The admission falls from his lips like a wound, raw and shaking, thick with everything he’s tried to bury. It’s too much. And not enough. Because it’s true, because Jimin has never known want like this before, never known the kind of longing that turns to suffering in its absence. He forgets how to breathe when Jungkook’s not near, forgets how to smile when his hands are empty, forgets how to pretend this isn’t love. 

There’s a stillness behind him, a silence that crackles with unspoken things. And then, in a voice that sounds as if it’s been torn from the deepest part of his soul, Jungkook murmurs, “You ruined me first.” 

Jimin turns. Slowly. The moment he meets Jungkook’s gaze, everything in him stutters. The other man isn’t angry, not exactly—he looks unguarded, eyes silver and wet beneath the dim lights, as if speaking hurts him, as if holding it in would hurt more. 

“Three years ago,” Jungkook says with a soft, aching smile, the kind that makes Jimin’s chest tighten. “That’s when I saw you for the first time, when I was brought to this court. You were walking through the gardens, dressed in white, laughing at something I couldn’t hear. I remember thinking no one should look like that, no one should exist like that. You enchanted me before I even knew your name. I couldn’t stop thinking about you… your grace, your kindness, the way everything around you seemed to bloom just by being near.” 

“I don’t…” Jimin tries, but the words won’t come. 

“You didn’t even see me,” Jungkook continues, eyes never leaving his. “But I saw you . I saw you every day. Wanted you every day. And when you looked at me in that hall for the very first time— really looked at me—when you said my name, I knew I was already lost. You ruined me before I ever had a chance.” 

Jimin’s breath hitches, the weight of it all crashing down on him like thunder. He steps back without meaning to, retreating until the cold wood of the stable wall meets his spine. And still Jungkook moves closer, stalking him like something primal, something undone, his expression burning with emotion too big to name. 

“When you danced tonight,” Jungkook says, voice low and reverent, “when every eye followed you… I only wanted to touch you. To steal you. To hide you where no one else could see.” 

Jimin is trembling now, heart a live wire beneath his ribs. “You shouldn’t say that.” 

“And I shouldn’t be falling in love with you,” Jungkook answers as he closes the space between them, watching the way Jimin's breath catches in his throat. “But we do foolish things when we’re ruined.” 

Their mouths collide with heat and reverence, fire blooming in the hollow between them as Jimin clutches at him, desperate and burning and barely holding on. And for a moment, nothing else exists. Not Ji-eun. Not the crown. Not the aching threat of what comes next. Only this. Only them. 

The kiss deepens like a breaking tide, urgent, hungry, a desperate claiming of everything they’ve kept buried for far too long. Jimin fists his hands in the thick collar of Jungkook’s tunic, pulling him closer, tasting heat and longing and years of unsaid things. Jungkook groans softly, one hand gripping Jimin’s waist, the other curling around the back of his neck like he’s trying to memorize the feel of him. 

They burn. 

They breathe each other. 

They fall, endlessly, into the spaces where nothing else matters. 

But the spell shatters. 

A sharp gasp cracks through the still air like lightning, and both of them freeze—lips still barely touching, breath still mingling—before they break apart as if scorched. 

Jimin spins, chest heaving, and finds Namjoon standing at the threshold of the stable, mouth parted in disbelief, eyes wide and wounded like something sacred had just been broken. There’s no rage on his face—not yet—but something far worse. Shock. Hurt. Betrayal . 

“Namjoon—” Jimin starts, voice trembling. 

But the Enigma beside him moves first. 

“Get out,” Jungkook snarls, stepping forward like a threat carved in flesh. His silver eyes blaze, wild and sharp, and for a moment it looks like he might lunge, might sink his teeth into the silence and the witness who doesn’t belong here. 

Namjoon’s gaze flicks to him with stunned fury, but it’s Jimin he reaches for. Roughly. Without ceremony. His hand clamps around Jimin’s wrist, not enough to bruise, but enough to startle. 

“You’re out of your mind,” Namjoon breathes, eyes cutting into him.  

“Let him go,” Jungkook snarls as Jimin whimpers, heart hammering so loudly it rings in his ears. 

“You think you can just—” 

“Jungkook , please .” 

His voice cracks on the last word, and it’s that...not the command in his tone, not the desperation in his eyes, but the break that makes Jungkook falter. His hand loosens slightly, and something crumbles in his expression. He turns his back to Jimin. 

none of them speak again. Not as Namjoon leads Jimin away from the stables, not as they move through the quiet paths behind the eastern wing, not even when Jimin stops before his own chamber doors, the warmth of Jungkook’s kiss still burning on his lips. 

Namjoon storms in first, his footsteps heavy against the marble, dragging Jimin behind him by the wrist like he’s a child caught misbehaving. The door slams shut with a violent thud, and the room jolts with it, paintings rattling, firelight trembling in the sconces. Jimin flinches at the sound, already breathless, chest rising and falling too fast as he tugs his hand free. 

“What were you thinking?” Namjoon hisses, rounding on him with eyes wide and blazing. “Are you mad? Anyone could’ve seen you!” 

Jimin staggers back a step, guilt rising like bile, shame climbing hot and fast up his throat. But it’s Namjoon’s tone—not angry in the way of scolding a friend, but angry in the way of someone watching a future unravel—that cuts deepest. 

“You are going to be king, Jimin. Don’t you understand that? You’re meant to rule. You were born to fix this blood-stained line. And you’re throwing it all away...for what? A secret fuck in the stables?” 

“Don’t say it like that,” Jimin gasps, horrified, voice breaking like splintered glass. “It’s not...he’s not—” 

“He’s not what? A wolf with the power to ruin you?” Namjoon scoffs, pacing now, dragging his hands through his hair, half out of frustration, half because he doesn’t know what else to do with them. “You think they’ll let it go? You think your father won’t smell it on you? He’ll kill him, Jimin. He’ll have his head on a pike.” 

“I know!” Jimin shouts, voice rising with him, the pressure boiling over. “Do you think I don’t know that? Every day I wake up and I know what’s waiting for me. The crown. The duties. The burden. But I can’t—” His voice cracks. “I... I love him!” 

Namjoon stares, stunned by the sheer vulnerability in Jimin’s voice. 

“He’s not just a passing craving,” Jimin whispers, chest heaving. “He’s not lust, he’s not weakness—he’s everything. Everything I ever wanted, wished for.” 

“You don’t love him.” Namjoon’s voice is quieter now. Desperate. “You can’t.” 

But Jimin’s gaze flares with something fierce. Shining. Devastating. 

“I do,” he breathes, as if admitting it tears something from his chest. “I love him.” 

The room stills. Even the fire seems to freeze. 

Namjoon reels back, lips parting like the air’s been knocked out of him. He stares at Jimin as if he’s seeing him for the first time. And Jimin, trembling, slowly sinks to his knees, robes pooling around him like a fallen crown. 

“Please,” he says, voice so soft it’s almost a prayer. “Don’t tell anyone. Please, Namjoon. Don’t take this from me.” 

Namjoon looks away, jaw tight, throat working as he swallows whatever storm is brewing behind his teeth. For a long moment, he says nothing, just stares at the floor like it might hold a version of the world that doesn’t hurt so much. 

“I won’t say anything,” he finally murmurs, his voice brimming with gravel and grief. “Not when I know the consequences. Consequences you should be thinking about Jimin!” 

He turns without another word, the weight of his silence louder than any scream, and leaves Jimin there on the floor...shaking, breathless, broken. The door closes with a soft click this time, and it’s somehow worse than a slam. 

Jimin stays kneeling, lips parted, but no sound comes. Only tears. Hot, quiet, helpless. 

The kind that come when it’s all too much, and not enough. 

 

 

 

♛ 

 

 

 

Jungkook is not there. 

Not in the corridor, not at the foot of the stairs where he always lingers with a jest, not at the breakfast table where he would, without fail, sneak a sugared berry onto Jimin’s plate with a teasing wink. He is not there. 

Not there. Not there. Not there. 

The absence blooms in Jimin's chest like a sickness. Slow at first, then sharp and swallowing, until even the air tastes wrong without him. Every clatter of cutlery makes him flinch, every shifting footstep fools him into hope, until the weight of disappointment settles again like a stone beneath his ribs. 

He stirs the cream into his tea three times and never drinks it. His fingers tremble faintly as he folds his napkin, places it upon the table as though he is not unraveling entirely. 

“Jimin.” 

His father’s voice strikes through the haze like a blade. Jimin startles, eyes snapping up to meet the King’s gaze, cool and expectant, heavy with the weight of generations. 

“You are not with us this morning,” the King remarks coolly, no affection in his tone, only the weight of expectation. “Distracted minds make poor rulers.” 

Jimin winces.  

“I hear you’ve made a decision regarding Ji-eun.” 

A pause. Jimin’s heart thuds, slow and thunderous. 

“She is a fine choice,” the King continues, lifting his cup. “You’ll announce the match at the next ball.” 

The room tilts. Jimin sways where he sits, vision momentarily blurring as though the air itself rejects the words. His fingers dig into the edge of the tablecloth, clutching it like it might anchor him, though nothing could stop the way the world spins now. The floor seems to yawn beneath him, wide and unforgiving. 

Announce the match. 

Announce it. 

As if his heart were not elsewhere. As if he had not tasted ruin and called it love. 

His father says nothing more. He does not need to.

The decision, it seems, has already been made—no matter the hollow ringing in Jimin’s ears, no matter that the very idea steals the breath from his lungs. 

The walls close in. His chest tightens. He cannot think, cannot speak, cannot breathe..

And Jungkook is still not there. 

 

 

 

♛ 

 

 

Jimin bursts through the doors of his chambers, heart galloping wildly, breath shallow as if he has run for miles rather than mere corridors. The moment he sees Namjoon, his valet, folding linen near the hearth, he nearly crumbles with the weight of dread. 

“Please—” he gasps, voice already frayed, the rims of his eyes flushed with unshed panic. “Tell me… tell me where he is. Did something happen? Is he hurt? Did someone—?” 

Namjoon turns slowly, confusion first shadowing his expression, then worry as he takes in the prince’s disheveled state, robes hastily belted, hair mussed, hands trembling where they clutch the edge of a table as though it alone is keeping him upright. 

“My prince,” Namjoon says carefully, his tone steady and low, like one soothing a startled colt, “I heard nothing of harm. They said… he was sent on an errand. South, perhaps, toward the lakes. Something to do with the trade envoy.” 

Jimin stares at him, blinking rapidly, his lips parting but no sound coming out. His lungs begin to function again only once the words settle— he was sent , he is well , he is safe . A shuddering breath escapes him, and he leans forward, bracing both palms against his vanity, shoulders bowing beneath an invisible weight. 

Safe. Jungkook is safe. 

“I thought—” he swallows thickly, “I thought they had done something to him. I thought…” He doesn't finish, because he can’t. Because the thought alone feels like death pressing its mouth to his ear. 

Namjoon hesitates before stepping forward, his brows drawing into a stern line. “You need to compose yourself,” he says, not unkindly, but firm, unflinching in a way only Namjoon can be. “You’re slipping, Jimin. Too involved. Anyone with eyes can see it now. Look at you, the way your hands shake, the way your smile vanishes when he's not near. You’re a prince. He is your shadow, not your sun.” 

But Jimin isn’t listening. 

He hears only the pounding in his chest beginning to soften, the spinning world righting itself with every beat, because Jungkook is safe. Jungkook is whole. Jungkook, wherever he is, still walks the earth. 

And that is all that matters. 

 

 

 

♛ 

 

 

 

The days stretch like shadows, long and cold and starved of warmth. 

It has been almost two weeks since Jimin last saw him. 

Two weeks since the scent of Jungkook lingered in a room longer than a heartbeat. Two week since Jimin's name was spoken in that low, steady murmur that always made it sound sacred. Two weeks since his gaze—fierce, unflinching—met Jimin's across a hall,, before vanishing like a ghost swallowed by duty. 

Jimin cannot think. Cannot breathe. 

He walks the palace like a phantom, smiles when he must, speaks only when spoken to. His hands tremble when he writes. His lips ache from silence. Each moment without Jungkook is a shallow breath held too long. 

He does not know when it happened, when Jungkook became the center of his gravity. When he began to anchor Jimin to himself, holding him upright with nothing more than presence and quiet devotion. 

He does not know why anyone would send him away. 

And he cannot ask. For to ask is to admit. 

And to admit is to destroy everything. 

He is curled by the window this morning, cheek pressed to the pane, watching the spring rains trace rivers against the glass when the door opens, and Namjoon enters without ceremony. 

“My Prince,” the valet says, voice firmer than it's been in days. 

Jimin doesn’t move. 

“Regent Prince,” Namjoon tries again, softer now but no less steady.

The words do not register at first, not properly, not past the numbness that clouds Jimin’s thoughts. But when they do, they strike like lightning, sudden and splitting. 

"You must come. Now. The King has taken ill"

He rises so quickly the chair nearly topples. “Where...where is he?” 

“His chambers. The physicians are with him. Your mother... your brother...” Namjoon trails off, his expression finally cracking. “You must go.” 

Jimin does not wait. 

He runs. Down corridors he has known since childhood, past attendants who bow but dare not stop him, through doors held open just fast enough to catch him mid-stride. The sound of his heart is thunder in his ears. 

When he enters the King’s chambers, the world slows. 

The scent of illness hangs like a veil, bitter and cloying. The windows are shuttered, the room dim, and yet nothing is hidden. Not the hunch of his mother’s shoulders as she prays in silence. Not the grief-stricken stillness of his brother, seated at the bedside with wide, glassy eyes. 

And not the King...pale and fevered, breath shallow, chest rising like it resents the weight. 

Jimin stares. 

And for the first time in weeks, his thoughts are no longer of Jungkook. 

They are of duty. Of lineage. Of legacy. 

Of what it means to be the son of a King and what it means to become more. 

He steps forward slowly, as though the floor itself has changed beneath his feet. 

This is no longer a life he moves through. 

It is a life he must now lead. 

He reaches the bedside. His brother looks up at him, helpless and lost, and Jimin realizes, with sudden clarity, that they have all been waiting for him. 

Waiting for him to rise. 

Waiting for him to become what he was born to be. 

The Regent Prince, the future king. 

And so, with a breath that steadies the storm inside him, Jimin straightens his spine, lifts his chin, and for the first time in his life, prepares to rule. 

 

 

 

♛ 

The Way (feat. Rose Cousins)

♛ 

 

 

The grand hall is alight with gold and spring, adorned in celebration for a moment the kingdom has long awaited. Petals spill from the balconies, soft and fragrant as they rain upon noble shoulders, and violins swell beneath the vaulted ceilings, their song lilting with expectation. Everywhere there is beauty, gowns like garden blooms, laughter polished to perfection, eyes gleaming like glass in the candlelight. 

And at the center of it all, Prince Jimin. 

He stands a little too still. 

Wrapped in ivory and brushed gold, his garments drape like water down his frame, regal and devastatingly composed. His hair is swept back by careful hands, his lips touched with rose. Yet beneath it all, beneath the embroidered silk and delicate opal clasped at his throat, his heart threatens to beat through his ribs. 

Ji-eun stands beside him, radiant and deserving in every sense, her gown a delicate mauve that catches the light with every breath she takes. She smiles up at him, soft and trusting, not knowing that within his chest, a war rages. 

The King rises from his seat...a shadow of the man he once was, thinned by illness and time, yet his voice rings across the hall with a pride that bruises, unyielding even as his body trembles beneath the weight of his crown. 

“My son,” he declares, arm raised high, “has chosen a mate worthy of our crown. Ji-eun of House Lee, light of the court, beauty of spring. Their union shall be announced at the next full moon.” 

Applause swells. Ji-eun’s smile trembles with joy. 

Jimin’s fingers twitch. 

He turns slowly to her, reaches to take her hand—cold now, trembling slightly—and it is at that precise, cursed moment that a scent hits him like thunder beneath silk. 

Smoke. Rain. Pine and warm musk. 

The Enigma. 

His entire body jolts as though pulled by strings. His eyes sweep the crowd, wild, desperate, no longer the poised prince but a man on the verge of ruin. And then...he sees him. 

Jungkook stands near the back, shadowed in the alcove by the musicians, hair windswept from travel, dark garments dusted with road and ash, as though he flew here on winged fury alone. 

His eyes are silver. And broken. 

Jimin almost moves. Almost tears down the steps and rushes to him, almost forgets duty and name and crown just to fall into the arms of the one who makes his world whole. 

But he stops. 

Stops because Ji-eun’s hand is in his, warm now, trusting. Because hundreds of eyes are watching. Because his father is watching. 

Because it is already too late. 

And Jungkook...Jungkook sees all of it. 

The outstretched hand, the tremble in Jimin’s jaw, the betrayal not spoken but seared between them like a scar. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t move. He simply watches, gaze burning, lips pressed in a line of grief too deep for words. 

And Jimin, frozen beneath the weight of a hundred promises he never meant to make, feels himself begin to drown. 

 

 

 

 

♛ 

 

 

 

Jimin leads now. 

He stands where his father once did, shoulders squared beneath the weight of velvet and lineage. They call him Your Majesty. They bow, they listen, they obey. And still, he feels as though he is merely borrowing the crown, wearing its coldness like a borrowed cloak that does not fit quite right. 

He rules well, kindly, wisely, as they all hoped he would. He makes the decisions his father would no longer rise to make, attends the councils that stretch endlessly into evening, and signs the scrolls with ink that smears when his hands tremble too much. He smiles when he must. He learns to hide the hollowing. 

He and Jungkook never speak. 

Not of what passed between them, not of the night that left them both burning and broken. The Enigma is reassigned—sent quietly to serve his father, though Jimin never asked who gave the order, nor why. He only knows that when he enters his father’s quarters, Jungkook is sometimes there, silent in the shadows near the windows, where the wind parts the curtains and brings in the cold. 

Each time, Jimin pauses at the threshold—not long, only a heartbeat—because it is there, only there, that he can breathe the scent he aches for. That familiar blend of warmth and wildness, of something unnameable that once made him feel alive. And then he walks out. Leaves the warmth behind. Welcomes the cold. 

Ji-eun visits often now. 

She glides through the palace like spring made flesh, smiling, thoughtful, every gesture gracious. She sits beside him in meetings, brings him tea, laughs softly when he forgets to eat. She is everything he should want, and Jimin tries...he tries to let her in. But his heart belongs elsewhere. It always has. 

And the guilt gnaws at him, quiet and constant. 

Days bleed into weeks, and still Jimin carries on, perfect and untouchable in the eyes of his court. Until one morning, as sunlight crawls slow and pale across the carpet, Namjoon stands behind him, fingers adjusting his collar with the familiarity of years. 

But this time, he does not say Jimin looks beautiful. Does not murmur that the crown suits him. 

This time, his voice is low, almost trembling. 

"You look like a wilted flower, Jimin. A shell of the boy who used to dance when no one watched." 

Jimin meets his gaze in the mirror, the silence between them weighted and still. 

He says nothing. 

He nods once, barely perceptible, and turns away. 

 

But the tears come later...quietly, as he presses his forehead to the polished wood of the door behind which no one can see. Just for a moment. Only one. 

 

 

 

♛ 

I love you - Bilie Eilish

♛

 

 

 

The Frost Gala arrives draped in silver and snow. 

Outside, winter claims the palace gardens in sheets of white, ice lacing the fountains in delicate art. Inside, the ballroom glows like a frozen fairytale—crystal chandeliers glittering above heads bowed in laughter, silks brushing marble floors, and white roses blooming from frosted garlands that hang along the columns. All of it is as it should be. As it always is. 

The Queen, regal and composed in frost-blue brocade, greets her guests with a smile carved in tradition. Jimin stands at the foot of the dais, draped in a tailored coat of pale grey, fur-lined and studded with icy pearls, a silver circlet nestled in his dark hair. The winter has entered him quietly, and he welcomes it now into the chambers of his heart, where it settles with ease. It numbs so well. 

His brother stands at his side, nervous and fidgeting, his eyes flicking toward Jimin again and again, as though he might say something brave. 

"Brother," he begins softly. 

But the words are lost as Ji-eun appears, radiant in a gown of glacial blue, her smile as practiced as his own. She reaches for him gently, and he lets her draw him onto the floor where violins sing beneath the snow-glass chandeliers. 

They dance. 

It is the kind of dance he has done a hundred times, one step after the next, the rhythm trained into his bones. His hands hold hers with the politeness of strangers. He says the expected things. Smiles on cue. But his body knows he is being watched. Still. 

Even through the cold, Jungkook’s gaze burns. 

He doesn’t dare look. Doesn’t dare let their eyes meet. Not here. Not now. Not when he knows the look he’d find might shatter the fragile stillness he’s fought so hard to keep. Not when one glimpse might make him run..past the silks and frost, past duty and tradition, right into the arms of the man he cannot have. 

When the music ends, Ji-eun steps back, her smile faltering. 

"You’ve lost a great deal of weight, Regent Prince," she says quietly, eyes flicking over his frame with a tenderness that nearly cuts. 

Jimin nods, lips curving in a weary, soft smile. He has, though he hadn’t noticed until she said it. 

“I suppose I’ve lost more than that,” he murmurs, voice almost too low to be heard. 

She watches him a moment longer, something dimmer now in her gaze, less cheer, more knowing. She looks behind him then, to the place just over his shoulder. Jimin stiffens, breath catching, heart thrumming wild beneath velvet and bone.

For one dreadful second, he thinks she must have sensed it...the weight of longing. The heat that has never left. 

But when her eyes return to his, she only smiles. Kindly. Almost sadly. 

Then she curtsies, turns, and walks away, her silks trailing like mist behind her. 

Jimin exhales a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. 

The cold rushes back in. 

 

 

♛ 

 

 

 

For a fleeting moment, Jimin is invisible. 

No courtiers approach with polished smiles, no ministers bow with scrolls in hand. Even Ji-eun has vanished into the crowd, her laughter ringing somewhere beyond the snow-laced pillars. Around him, the wolves dance and drink, spinning in silken circles, golden goblets raised in careless delight. They do not see the way his shoulders droop. The way his colors fade. 

The winter presses in. 

He stands at the edge of the great marble floor, where the moonlight seeps in cold through stained-glass windows and frost coils up from the ledge. His fingers tremble at his sides, knuckles white where they curl inwards, and his breath comes too quick...shallow, sharp. 

He is a prince made of porcelain, and the cracks are showing. 

Just as the edge nears—just as the darkness begins to crawl up the walls of his ribs—he feels it. 

A presence. 

It is not loud, not grand, not heralded by music or voice. It is warmth. Deep, familiar, dangerous. The kind that seeps into his marrow, stirs something ancient within his chest, and roots his feet where they stand. It renders him breathless. 

Jimin doesn’t need to look. He knows. 

The Enigma has returned. 

He wants to run. Gods, he wants to run...to flee this fire before it devours him whole. But his body won’t obey. His soul clings to the proximity like it needs it more than air. 

And then it happens. 

A touch. Rough yet careful. Jungkook’s hand, long fingers brushing delicately against his. The touch is so soft, so reverent, as though Jimin is no longer a prince, no longer a man, but ...something sacred. Something cherished. His breath stutters. 

Jungkook stands beside him, silent, composed, his face unreadable. The mask is firm. But the hand...that hand nearly slips into his. 

It is the gentlest thing Jimin has ever known. 

His lashes lower, the breath in his lungs growing heavy with heat. His heart beats like a bird behind his ribs. He is seconds away from leaning in, from surrendering to the safety he finds in that familiar touch. Seconds away from— 

No. 

He cannot. 

He pulls back. 

His fingers slip from Jungkook’s, his hand falling to his side like something wounded. The distance between them returns like a blade, cruel and cold. He does not look at the man he loves. Cannot. 

But his heart—his foolish, desperate heart—shatters just the same. 

 

 

 

 

 

♛ 

 

 

 

Jimin slips away. 

Through the shadowed archways of the grand hall, down the corridor veiled in frost light, he walks. Fast, aimless, breath catching in his throat as though the very air claws at his lungs. His fingers still thrum from Jungkook’s touch, the ghost of it branded across his skin, and his chest aches with a wound too deep to name. 

He doesn’t know where he’s going. He only knows he needs to breathe. 

But as he turns the corner toward the gallery—toward silence, toward solitude—he finds himself met with a figure already waiting. 

His brother. 

Crown askew, hair tousled, expression drawn in something twisted between guilt and sorrow. He takes one look at Jimin and flinches. As if the sight of him hurts. 

“Hyung,” he breathes, stepping forward. 

Jimin doesn’t speak. 

“I didn’t mean for it to happen like this,” the boy rushes on, voice cracking, “I—I didn’t think they would—” 

“What are you talking about?” Jimin’s voice is hoarse, raw at the edges. 

“I know,” his brother whispers, tears brimming. “About Jungkook. I know everything.” 

The silence slams between them like a bell. 

“I saw,” he admits. “That night after the hunt, when he followed you into the gardens. I—I didn’t mean to spy, I just... I told Mother. I thought she could help. I did not expect she would-” his voice fractures, and he sinks to his knees, grasping at Jimin’s sleeve like a child. 

“They sent him away because of me,” he weeps. “Because of me. I thought I was protecting you—protecting our name—but I see now what I’ve done. I see it. And I’m so sorry, hyung. Please, please forgive me.” 

Jimin’s heart pounds. He cannot breathe. He cannot move. 

The puzzle pieces crash into place.

Jungkook’s sudden reassignment, the cool avoidance in his eyes, the silence. The weeks of emptiness. The unbearable weight of absence. 

His brother did this. 

Not out of malice, but fear. Out of love, perhaps, but still ...it shattered everything. 

Jimin stares down at him, his own limbs trembling, his mouth dry. There are words he should say. He thinks of fury, of betrayal, of demanding how he could do this to him, to Jungkook. But nothing comes. Nothing fits. 

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move. 

He doesn’t know how. 

Because now the ache inside him has a name. And it is heavier than before. 

“What do you want me to do with this confession, Jihyun?” Jimin's voice cuts through the dim corridor, not cold, not cruel, just ...hollow. Vacant in a way that silences even the chandeliers. 

Jihyun flinches. Tears stain his cheeks, his lips parted in helplessness before he stumbles to his feet. “Take back your life,” he begs, voice cracking. “Take it back, please.” 

Jimin scoffs, a sound void of humor. He turns, arms folding over his chest like armor. “I never had a life to begin with,” he replies, tone distant, sharp with something long buried. “Don’t delude yourself.” 

“You never demanded one!” Jihyun’s cry echoes down the marble hall, desperate and raw. “You never demanded anything, hyung! You keep letting them—Mother, Father, the court—control everything you do!” 

His voice breaks again, pleading. “Brother, please...wake up.” 

But Jimin only stares at him. At the boy still clutching the remnants of innocence, believing that power is something one can simply reach out and take, that hearts mend with effort and truth alone. 

“You think it’s that simple?” Jimin murmurs. “That I haven’t wanted? That I haven’t dreamt of a world where I was allowed even a sliver of myself?” 

Jihyun steps forward, frantic. “Then take it! Tear it from their hands, scream if you must. Fight. For him, for you—just do something before they strip you completely bare.” 

Jimin’s gaze softens for a flicker of a moment. But it is quickly sealed away, hidden beneath years of composure and practiced silence. 

“I am the Regent Prince,” he says quietly. “And that is all I am allowed to be.” 

And with that, he turns, walking away down the gilded corridor that has always led to everything but freedom. 

His shadow long, his footsteps soundless. 

Behind him, his brother weeps. 

 

 

 

♛ 

Alex Warren - Ordinary

♛ 

 

 

The sun falls soft across the marbled floor, pouring golden light through the tall windows of the eastern chamber. It is quiet, eerily so.

No counsel, no servants bustling in and out, no Jihyun at his heels. For once, the palace breathes, and Jimin feels almost alone. 

Almost. 

Ji-eun stands by the hearth, her silhouette cast long by the fire that crackles low. She wears soft blues today, like ice melted to silk, her hands folded neatly before her. When she speaks, her voice doesn’t carry like it usually does, not bright, not lilting. 

It is careful. 

“I’ve asked them to give us a moment,” she says, eyes not meeting his. “No guards. No watchful ears. Just… truth.” 

Jimin turns from the window, instinctively straightening, expression schooled into composure. “Of course,” he murmurs, always polite. 

Ji-eun exhales. It’s a long, slow thing, as though gathering herself not to weep. 

“I have waited for you,” she begins. “Patiently. Kindly, I hope.” 

“You’ve been more than kind,” Jimin says, too quickly. Too guiltily. 

She smiles at that, but there’s no light in it. “Kindness isn’t what I want, Jimin.” 

There’s a pause. 

“I want to be seen. To be chosen.” Her voice falters, just for a moment. “To be loved. And I know now… you cannot love me.” 

Jimin’s breath catches. His eyes sting. He decides to be candor. 

“You deserve better,” he manages, but it’s hoarse, uncertain. 

“I do,” she agrees, with no cruelty in it. Only truth. “And you deserve something too, though I think you’ve forgotten.” 

He lifts his gaze to her then, surprised. But she holds it. Strong. Steady. 

“You deserve to live freely. To want without shame. To stand without trembling beneath everyone’s expectations.” 

Jimin’s throat constricts. It’s too much. Too exposed. He almost turns away. 

But her next words still him completely. 

“You do not only hurt yourself with this silence,” she whispers. “You are hurting everyone who loves you. Especially him.” 

Jimin freezes. 

She steps closer, her hand ghosting over his arm but never settling. “I don’t need to hear you say it. The entire palace knows. Perhaps even the stars know. He loves you. And you—” her voice shivers on the edge of a plea— “you cannot spend your life pretending you don’t love him back.” 

Silence swells between them. And Jimin, for the first time in moons, feels it. 

The hollow. The ache. 

The deep, gnawing emptiness where his joy used to live. 

Ji-eun smiles faintly, her grace untarnished even as her heart cracks open. “If I had any hope that your love might turn toward me, I would stay, I would fight. But I will not live a life waiting for scraps of affection.” 

She moves past him then. Stops by the door. 

“I am not angry,” she says, her voice a fading murmur. “I’m simply free. I hope, one day, you’ll choose to be too.” 

And she’s gone. 

The room is still. 

Jimin presses a hand to his chest. The tears come quietly this time, not in a storm but in a slow, sinking tide. 

Because for the first time, he sees himself clearly—not as a ruler, not as a son, not even as a lover—but as a man so deeply buried beneath duty he forgot he ever had a heart to give. 

And he wants— desperately —to take it back. 

 

 

 

♛ 

 

 

 

The palace is quieter than it’s ever been. Or perhaps, for the first time, Jimin is hearing it clearly—the groaning of old stone, the distant flutter of tapestries stirred by winter wind. His footsteps echo as he walks, not with royal precision but with something rawer.

He doesn't ask for attendants. He doesn’t summon Namjoon to dress him. He simply moves, still in the soft, rumpled layers Ji-eun left him in. No crown. No adornment. 

Just himself. 

The guards at the inner gates hesitate as he passes, unsure whether to stop him, his presence is out of place, unannounced, unescorted. But he gives them a single look. Not sharp. Not cruel. Only final. 

They let him through. 

He walks toward the west wing, where the healers are quartered. His father's chambers are just beyond, and he doesn't know if that’s where Jungkook is now, or if he’ll be gone again—called away, reassigned, hidden like a wound too visible to bear. 

But still he walks. 

Through another hallway. 

Down the stone steps that are colder than they used to be. 

And there, at the foot of the arch, he sees him. 

Jungkook. 

Clad in ceremonial black and steel, standing guard by the door of the King’s room, still as a statue carved by grief. There’s a sword at his hip, a silence around him so profound it makes the air feel thinner. He doesn’t look up at first. Not until Jimin stops. 

Jimin says nothing. Just stands there. 

And Jungkook—perhaps sensing it in the shift of breath, the quiet collapse of distance—raises his eyes. 

They stare at each other. 

One heartbeat. Then another. And another. 

Jimin walks forward. 

Slowly. Uncertain. As if one wrong step might send the entire palace crumbling into dust. 

“May I speak to you?” Jimin’s voice is low. Strained. Frayed. 

Jungkook doesn’t answer. But he opens the side door to the chamber behind him, a spare sitting room used by waiting courtiers. He doesn’t gesture. Doesn’t speak. Just walks inside. 

Jimin follows. 

The room is bare. Cold. He closes the door behind him. 

Stillness. 

Jimin exhales. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, turning to face him fully. “For everything.” 

Jungkook doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t fold into him. He stands like stone. But Jimin goes on. 

“I hurt you. I betrayed you. I stood on a balcony, smiling beside someone I didn’t love, while you stood in the shadows and burned for me.” His voice trembles. “And I let you burn.” 

He swallows. 

“I thought if I stayed quiet, no one would bleed. But I was wrong. You bled. Ji-eun bled. I—I bled.” 

Jungkook’s jaw ticks. 

“I thought I was doing what was best for the kingdom. But what good is a kingdom if I lose every piece of myself inside it?” 

Finally, finally, Jungkook speaks. 

“And what now, Your Highness?” he says softly. “What is it you want from me?” 

The formality slices deep. But Jimin doesn’t flinch. 

“I don’t want to hide anymore.” 

He steps forward. 

“I don’t want to live as a shadow of who I was. I don’t want to look in the mirror and not recognize myself. I don’t want to pretend I was born to serve, when all I ever wanted was to be free.” 

He takes one more step. 

“I want to be yours.” 

Silence. 

Then, like spring cracking beneath the snow, Jungkook’s voice comes, hoarse. 

“And what of your kingdom?” 

Jimin’s answer is quiet. But certain. 

“They will have a king who tells the truth.” 

For a moment, Jungkook doesn’t move. 

He stares at Jimin like he’s a dream stitched together from pain and longing. A lie he’d taught himself to stop believing in. His breath comes slowly, ragged. His hands stay clenched at his sides. 

“You don’t get to do this,” he finally says, and his voice is not calm now, it is cracked open, raw. “You don’t get to stand here and say the things I spent months wishing to hear. Not after—” 

“I know,” Jimin breathes. “I know.” 

Jungkook’s eyes shine, he takes a step back. 

Jimin takes another step forward. “I love you, I realized in those lonely night that I never said it to you out loud, never spoke my truth” 

Jungkook blinks, chest rising with an unsteady breath, like he's trying to steady himself on ground that won't hold still anymore. 

“I love you so much” Jimin whispers, voice breaking. And something inside Jungkook crumbles. 

It shows in the way his breath hitches. In the way he blinks too hard. In the way his composure finally fails him, and the storm he’s kept inside breaks free. 

The Enigma strides forward, closing the distance in a heartbeat. 

And then he kisses him. 

Desperately. 

Furiously. 

As if months of agony and longing and restrained devotion have all condensed into this one impossible second. 

It is not gentle. 

It is not careful. 

It is a collision—of mouths, of hands, of everything they weren’t allowed to feel. 

Jimin gasps into it, and Jungkook drinks the sound like it’s the only thing that’s ever nourished him. One hand fists in Jimin’s collar, the other at his jaw, thumb trembling against his skin. 

Jimin clutches at his coat, kisses back with something like surrender, like survival. 

They lose themselves. 

In the warmth. 

In the taste. 

In the grief and the hope and the breathless ache of being wanted after so long in the cold. 

And when they part, just barely, foreheads pressed together, Jimin is shaking. 

“I missed you,” he says, voice wrecked. 

Jungkook closes his eyes. “I love you too, little prince. Even when you keep ruining me” 

“I know,” Jimin breathes, brushing his fingers down the side of Jungkook’s face. “But if there’s still anything left of you… anything at all—I’ll spend every day trying to put you back together.” 

 

 

 

 

♛ 

 

 

 

The ballroom hushes as Jimin rises from his place at the head of the dais, his crown a glint of ice and silver in the candlelight. Every gaze turns to him--regent, prince, heir to a throne now trembling in winter's breath—and for a moment, the silence is a living thing. 

He does not waver. 

“I wish to speak,” he says, his voice clear, ringing through the stillness like a bell. “There has been much speculation. Whispers of union, of alliances, of duty.” 

He lets the words settle. Lets them weigh heavy. 

“But I will not be mating Lady Ji-eun.” 

A ripple courses through the room—shock, confusion, the sharp inhale of scandal—but Jimin stands firm, spine like carved marble, eyes steady. 

“She is a woman of grace, of warmth, and I owe her more than hollow affection. I owe her honesty. I owe myself the same.” 

He pauses, inhales. 

“I will rule, yes. With both strength and clarity. But I shall do so unbound , until the day my heart chooses not what is expected, but what is true.” 

He steps down, slow and measured, his robe trailing like smoke behind him. Ji-eun watches with glistening eyes, and when his gaze meets hers, she offers the faintest nod. understanding, forgiving and free. 

Then Jimin turns...to him . 

To the man standing at the edge of the crowd, posture rigid, eyes dark with everything unspoken. 

And Jimin walks—each step deliberate, each breath heavy with risk and longing—until he reaches Jungkook, the Enigma who had once vanished with the snow. 

He holds out a hand. 

“May I have this dance?” he asks. 

And the world holds its breath. 

The music does not begin again. 

The room is too still. Too stunned. Too afraid to move, to breathe, to blink in case the spell shatters. 

But Jungkook, he moves. 

Slowly. 

As if the weight of every moment that led to this has coiled around his limbs, dared him not to reach. But he does. He lifts his hand. Fingers wrap around Jimin’s with the reverence of someone touching divinity. 

And then he steps forward. 

The frost beneath their feet doesn’t crack, not like the world does. 

Because the prince does not lead the noble daughter of a favored house. He does not take a queen’s hand. He does not choose the path carved in bloodlines and treaties and cold tradition. 

He chooses him . 

And when their bodies align, when their hands come together and Jungkook’s other arm finds Jimin’s waist like he’s done it a thousand times in dreams...

Jimin breathes again. 

And the music dares return. 

Soft. Stirring. The strings quiver to life. 

They move like snowflakes caught in gravity’s mercy. Like warmth pressed between fingers after months of cold. Jimin’s gaze never leaves Jungkook’s, and Jungkook never once looks away. 

All around them, the crowd murmurs and parts. Some scandalized. Some stunned. Some with tears in their eyes. 

But Jimin doesn't care. 

Let the whispers rise like smoke. Let alliances crumble. Let generations gnash their teeth. 

Let the world burn into Ostara.

Because for the first time in his life, the fire is his. 

And he chooses this . 

He chooses love . 

He chooses to live  

 

 

 

 

♛ 

 

 

_ Blossom

Notes:

I really hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it!!! Now I honestly need a break <3 Thank you for all the beautiful comments <3

Notes:

Warnings:

 

#Jimin with others but not sexually and not detailed.

 

let me know what you think <3